around faster and faster in a circle and his arms are like propellers about to carry him off like a helicopter. He is doing the same movements I’ve seen him do so many times before, but this time his face is not funny and I am not laughing.
After our short rest and meal, we get back on the truck and remain there all through the night. I wake up in Pa’s lap in the morning to see that we have arrived at a “truck stop.” There are people everywhere. Some are cooking breakfast, others are just waking up, and many are still asleep on the side of the road or in the grass. Sitting in the back of the truck, we dare not move until the soldiers instruct us to.
“We are in Pursat province. You are to wait here until the base people come to take you to live in their village,” a soldier tells us and walks away.
“Why did we have to leave last night?” I ask Pa.
“Some of the new arrivals in Krang Truop are from Phnom Penh. Even though they are friends, it is dangerous to live there because they know who I am.”
“Pa, they’re our friends. They wouldn’t tell on us and get us in trouble!”
“Friendship does not matter; they may not have a choice.” Pa is very solemn as he speaks to me. I do not understand what he means but decide not to pursue this line of questioning.
“Are we going to Battambang on these trucks?” I ask quietly.
“No, this is not the route to Battambang. The soldiers have taken us to a different place.”
“Can’t we tell them we have to go to Battambang? That they have taken us to the wrong place?”
“No, we cannot argue with them. We will go wherever they choose to take us.” Pa sounds fatigued as he puts me on the ground. He tells Kim to look after me while he tries to find out when we will be leaving. As he walks away into the crowd of people, I watch until his figure disappears.
Kim tells me that from now on I have to watch out for myself. Not only am I never to talk to anyone about our former lives, but I’m never to trust anyone either. It is best if I just stop talking completely so I won’t unintentionally disclose information about our family. To talk is to bring danger to the family. At five years old, I am beginning to know what loneliness feels like, silent and alone and suspecting that everyone wants to hurt me.
“I am going to go look around,” I tell Kim, bored.
“Don’t go far and don’t talk to anyone. We might have to leave very soon and I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
I want to obey my brother’s warnings not to go far, but I’m curious. When my family is looking elsewhere I sneak away from under their watchful eyes to explore the “waiting station.” The farther I walk, the more I see of the hundreds of people at the camp. They talk, sit, or sleep anywhere they can. Many tents have wet clothes hanging all over their lines, piles of wood by the crackling fire, and homemade wooden benches. Looking as if they have been waiting for a long time, some lie so motionless I wonder if they are alive. I stop to look at one old woman. Dressed in a brown shirt and maroon sarong, she lies on the ground with her arms at her side and her head propped up by a small bundle. Her eyes are half closed, white hair strewn in all directions, and skin yellow and wrinkled. The young woman next to her spoon-feeds the old woman rice gruel.
“She looks dead to me,” I say to the young woman. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Gram’s half dead, can’t you tell?” she says to me in annoyance.
The longer I stare at her, the more my skin sweats. I have never seen anyone who is half dead before. Ignoring me, the young woman continues to feed her grandmother. One side of her mouth swallows the rice gruel while the other side drools and spits the food back out. I never thought this was possible. I just thought you were eithercompletely dead or alive. I feel sorry for the old woman but am fascinated at the prospect of being caught between the two worlds. My
After our short rest and meal, we get back on the truck and remain there all through the night. I wake up in Pa’s lap in the morning to see that we have arrived at a “truck stop.” There are people everywhere. Some are cooking breakfast, others are just waking up, and many are still asleep on the side of the road or in the grass. Sitting in the back of the truck, we dare not move until the soldiers instruct us to.
“We are in Pursat province. You are to wait here until the base people come to take you to live in their village,” a soldier tells us and walks away.
“Why did we have to leave last night?” I ask Pa.
“Some of the new arrivals in Krang Truop are from Phnom Penh. Even though they are friends, it is dangerous to live there because they know who I am.”
“Pa, they’re our friends. They wouldn’t tell on us and get us in trouble!”
“Friendship does not matter; they may not have a choice.” Pa is very solemn as he speaks to me. I do not understand what he means but decide not to pursue this line of questioning.
“Are we going to Battambang on these trucks?” I ask quietly.
“No, this is not the route to Battambang. The soldiers have taken us to a different place.”
“Can’t we tell them we have to go to Battambang? That they have taken us to the wrong place?”
“No, we cannot argue with them. We will go wherever they choose to take us.” Pa sounds fatigued as he puts me on the ground. He tells Kim to look after me while he tries to find out when we will be leaving. As he walks away into the crowd of people, I watch until his figure disappears.
Kim tells me that from now on I have to watch out for myself. Not only am I never to talk to anyone about our former lives, but I’m never to trust anyone either. It is best if I just stop talking completely so I won’t unintentionally disclose information about our family. To talk is to bring danger to the family. At five years old, I am beginning to know what loneliness feels like, silent and alone and suspecting that everyone wants to hurt me.
“I am going to go look around,” I tell Kim, bored.
“Don’t go far and don’t talk to anyone. We might have to leave very soon and I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
I want to obey my brother’s warnings not to go far, but I’m curious. When my family is looking elsewhere I sneak away from under their watchful eyes to explore the “waiting station.” The farther I walk, the more I see of the hundreds of people at the camp. They talk, sit, or sleep anywhere they can. Many tents have wet clothes hanging all over their lines, piles of wood by the crackling fire, and homemade wooden benches. Looking as if they have been waiting for a long time, some lie so motionless I wonder if they are alive. I stop to look at one old woman. Dressed in a brown shirt and maroon sarong, she lies on the ground with her arms at her side and her head propped up by a small bundle. Her eyes are half closed, white hair strewn in all directions, and skin yellow and wrinkled. The young woman next to her spoon-feeds the old woman rice gruel.
“She looks dead to me,” I say to the young woman. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Gram’s half dead, can’t you tell?” she says to me in annoyance.
The longer I stare at her, the more my skin sweats. I have never seen anyone who is half dead before. Ignoring me, the young woman continues to feed her grandmother. One side of her mouth swallows the rice gruel while the other side drools and spits the food back out. I never thought this was possible. I just thought you were eithercompletely dead or alive. I feel sorry for the old woman but am fascinated at the prospect of being caught between the two worlds. My
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