"Ma, I am going to go and get us some corn tonight." With a determined look, Kim has made his decision.

"Be careful," Ma says to him and turns away.

Chou and I do not try to stop him from going either, even though we know it is dangerous. Pol Pot has many soldiers with guns and rifles guarding the cornfields every night. The soldiers have the right to punish thieves any way they see fit, killing them if they choose. Their power is so omnipotent that no one dares question their actions. However fearful I am, my hunger makes me want to go myself, but I do not have the strength or courage to actually do it. I hear tales that the soldiers rape the girls they catch stealing, no matter how young they are.

When the sky grows dark, Kim picks up two bags, straightens his twelve-year-old body, and leaves. Part of me is glad Kim is doing this and my mouth salivates at the thought of the food he will bring back. I can almost taste it already! I cannot wait until he gets back. My stomach moans for sweet, juicy corn. Yet I also fear for Kim's safety; we have already lost Pa and Keav. I do not want to bury another member of our family.

It is getting late and Kim is not back yet. What could take him so long? I look at Ma, who is holding onto Geak for comfort. Chou sits by herself in the corner of the room, staring out into her own world.

"G.o.ds, this cannot happen to me again! If you let my brother die, I will never forgive you. You can just go to h.e.l.l-for I know there are no G.o.ds in the world now," I scream to the spirits in my mind. As if answering my call, Kim suddenly climbs into our hut. He is smiling and carrying two bags of fresh corn. I rush up to him and help him carry them into the house. Seeing Kim, Ma smiles and puts Geak down so that she can greet him.

"What happened? You took so long, we were worried to death," Ma says as she ushers him in with her arm around his shoulders.

"Ma, it is so easy! I never knew stealing could be so easy! There is so much corn and no one can guard all the fields at once. I must have eaten at least five ears raw!" As Kim begins to tell Ma what he did, I edge myself closer and closer to the bags of corn. My nose inhales the aroma and my eyes fixate on the yellow ears. I cannot wait to sink my teeth into it.

"Can I go with him next time, Ma?" I am getting greedier and greedier with the thought that two of us can bring home more corn than Kim can by himself.

"No, you are not to go with him, and that is final!" With those words, Ma goes outside to cook our corn on a fire we started earlier in the evening. She digs a hole for the corn under the fire and spreads the fire over the makeshift stove. With Pa and many of the fathers in the village gone, the soldiers patrol our huts less and less, so it is relatively safe. For the next couple of weeks, Kim continues to steal corn for us whenever we run out. Each time he leaves, we wait with fear and guilt for his return. Each night, it seems to take him longer and longer.

Kim slings two empty bags over his shoulders and climbs down the steps of the hut. His knees buckle when he reaches the ground. Quickly, he straightens himself before anyone notices. He knows Ma and the girls are depending on him so he has to be very strong for them. There is no need to make them any more frightened than they already are by letting us know how scared he really is. He tries to show them he is fearless, but each time he goes out on this mission, he is always afraid of losing his nerve. He wants to run back to the hut and never carry out this dangerous task again. But he has to, he has to take care of his family. He looks up at the sky and sees no stars. The clouds are moving furiously fast, blocking any moonbeams from touching the earth.

"Okay," he says under his breath, "it's time to be brave." With that, he forces his feet to carry him away into the darkness. He knows Ma and the girls' eyes are still upon him, baring down on his back, but he must not turn to look at them lest his courage fail him.

He jogs in quick, little steps. He knows that not to be seen he has to dart and hide from one bush to another. "Like the foxes hiding from humans during a hunt." The thought almost makes him smile. The sky is very dark now, and the moisture in the air is turning into a thick fog. It is good luck for him. Pa must be watching over him. The thought of Pa almost brings his adrenaline down. All the kids think they are Pa's favorite, but he knows he is. After all, Pa always told the story about his birth and the dragon to everyone.

Thinking of Pa takes his breath away. There is such pain in his heart and the burden is too heavy to handle. He cannot run away from it. His pining for our father is unbearable, but he is the man of the house now and cannot speak openly of his suffering. Something wet and salty drips into his mouth, focusing him again on his mission. He realizes it is his own tears and he lifts up his shirt to quickly wipe his eyes. He misses Pa so much, but he cannot allow himself to think of this now. He has to take care of the family.

He is twelve years old and only stands as tall as Ma's shoulders, but he knows he is strong. He has to be; he has no choice. Geak's face floats into his mind and he fears for her. He sees her hollow eyes and her protruding stomach as she loses more and more strength each day. He hears her cries when she begs Ma to give her food. He sees Ma tell Geak time and time again that there is no food. He doesn't know how long she will live if he doesn't do this. This little bit of food he's able to bring to her prolongs her life just a little more, keeping her with us just a little longer. The images fuel his anger, pushing him nearer and nearer to the cornfields.

The clouds grow darker and bigger in the sky and seconds later he feels droplets of rain on his arms. Suddenly it seems as though the whole sky has opened up and pours down the tears of every Cambodian, drenching him to the skin. In some ways the rain is a blessing, as it lightens the humidity in the air. He remembers how he used to read that in some countries, the rain is cold and makes you sick, forcing people to stay indoors. Not so in Cambodia. Here the rain is warm, and in Phnom Penh, it meant it was time to go outside and play. The rain was, and still remains, our friend, even under the Khmer Rouge.

Then he sees the field ahead of him. It is thick with stalks of corn, each with three or four ears, standing twice the size of the small boy. His eyes scan the area all around him. His heart beats faster, this time out of anger. Why are the killers starving us when all this is available? His adrenaline is pumping now, and with forced courage, he runs from his hiding place into the cornfield. Raindrops splatter on the leaves of the stalks all around him, splashing into his eyes, but he does not care. He picks the first ear off the stalk, hurriedly shucks it, and buries his teeth into it. Hmmm, the sweet, nourishing juices flow out of the corner of his mouth onto his shirt. After he fills his stomach, his fingers work busily to fill the bags.

He is so busy that he does not hear the footsteps running in his direction. His heart stops when two hands grab him from behind and throw him to the ground. The rain has made the ground all muddy and he slips as he tries to get back on his feet. Through his wet eyelashes, he sees two Khmer Rouge soldiers, their rifles slung across their backs. One soldier grabs him by the arm and pulls him off the ground, but his knees buckle. His head spins. He is shivering with cold and an ever increasing terror. A hand slaps him hard on the face, making his ears ring. The pain is sharp and cutting, but he bites his jaws together to stop its hurt. "Please, Pa," the voice in his mind screams, "please help me. Don't let them kill me."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" they yell at him. "How dare you steal from the Angkar! You worthless s.h.i.t!" They scream other obscenities at him, but he is too stunned to hear them. More hands push him down. "Get up!" They continue to yell. He is on all fours now and following their orders when a hard-booted foot kicks him in the stomach, knocking his breath away. He is in the mud again, gasping for breath. Another foot stomps on his back and pushes his face into the mud. He opens his mouth, gasping for air, but instead chokes on a mouthful of mud. He is sick with terror, and he does not know what to do next. A hand pulls him up by the hair and a soldier is staring at him. "Are you ever going to come back and steal anything ever again from the Angkar?" he asks Kim.

"No, comrade," Kim whimpers as blood drips out of his mouth. But that isn't enough for them. More hands and more legs continue their a.s.sault on him. The same questions are asked of him and the same answer is given.

Then one soldier takes his rifle off his shoulder and points it at him. Kim cries then, tears pouring out faster than the rain can wash away. "Please, comrade, spare my life, don't kill me," he begs them, his body trembling. One soldier laughs at him. He is no longer a boy trying to be the man of the house, trying to be brave, wanting to take care of his family. He is just a twelve-year-old boy now, looking into the barrel of a rifle. "Please comrade, don't kill me. I know I've done a bad thing, I will never do it again." The soldier stands there, his rifle rigid in his hand. Then he turns the rifle around and smashes its b.u.t.t into Kim's skull. White pain flashes everywhere in his body as he falls down but dares not cry. "Please comrade, don't-"

"Just go," the soldier interrupts him. "Take your bags and go. Don't ever come back because next time I will shoot your brains out." Kim rises unsteadily to his feet and limps home.

At home, Chou, Ma, Geak, and I sit quietly waiting for Kim to return. "Chou, Kim's really late tonight. I'm worried about him," I say to her.

"It's hard to see out there. He's probably lost his way. It's raining pretty hard." Upon hearing me, the night turns black with evil as the wind howls and a thunderstorm cracks its lightning whips above us. Ma quietly tries to calm Geak, who is afraid of the storm. I turn and see Ma put her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream. My gaze turns to the direction where Ma is looking. Against the backdrop of the dark, I see Kim's twelve-year-old body leaning against the door. In his hand are two empty rain-soaked bags. He is drenched from the rain, but I see the unmistakable color of blood on his clothes and marks on his muddy face. His eyes are half closed, he is shaken, but he does not cry. Ma rushes over to him and gently touches his wounded face. She cries over his cut swollen lips and cringes as she touches the blood dripping from his skull.

"My poor little monkey, my poor little monkey. Look what they have done to you. They have hurt you, my poor little monkey."

Kim is quiet and does not resist Ma's help taking off his wet shirt. I bite my lip at seeing my brother's body so badly beaten. Raw, red marks and painful bruises are everywhere on his rib cage and back. I want to rush over to him to take away his pain, but instead I stand numb in the corner of the room. I see the pain in his face and feel the heaviness in his heart at not being able to bring us food. I stand in my corner with more conviction than ever to kill these soldiers, to avenge the blood that drips from my brother's skull. Someday, I will kill them all. My hatred for them is boundless.

"It was raining too hard and I did not hear them coming."

"My poor monkey, they hurt you."

"They hit me on the head with the b.u.t.t of their rifles." Kim finishes telling us his story and still he does not cry. He flinches when Ma puts a wet rag on his bruised and bleeding head. "I am sorry I didn't get us any corn tonight," he says to all of us as he lays down, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

Fearing he might die and I will not know about it, I walk over to him every few minutes and put my hand under his nose to feel his breath. "Pa," I call quietly. "Pa, don't let Kim die. Pa, I feel so bad, all this for corn to feed us. Pa, I am bad because I am also sad that we have no corn." Crouching beside Kim, I squeeze my stomach with my hands, trying to chase the pain away. "Pa, I am going to kill them all. I am going to make them suffer." My head hurts and I press my index fingers against my temples to try and stop the explosion. The stronger my anger, the more I am overcome with feelings of sadness and despair. "I can't die, Pa. There's nothing we can do but go on living. But, one day, they will all suffer as we are suffering now."

After that night, Kim never stole again. These days he is quieter and more withdrawn. With Pa gone and my older brothers at their camp, Kim is the man of the house. But in reality his is only a little boy, a little boy who feels helpless and unable to protect his own family.

leaving home

May 1977

One month has gone by since Kim was caught stealing corn. The Angkar has increased our food ration and as a result, fewer and fewer people are dying from starvation. Those who have survived the famine are slowly getting stronger. It seems as if every three months the Khmer Rouge has either increased or decreased our food ration without warning or explanation. For two or three months we have food to eat, just enough to keep us alive, then nothing to eat for another few months, then we have a little bit of food again. Kim speculates that it has to do with the rumors of the Youns-the Vietnamese-attacking the borders. Every time the Angkar thinks the Youns will invade Cambodia, the soldiers stock up on food and supplies and ship more rice to China in exchange for guns. When it turns out the Youns are not attacking us, the Angkar stops buying arms and our rations increase.

Even without the pressure to find food for us, Kim is different now and not like the brother I remember from Phnom Penh. He is quieter and rarely says more than a few words. We are all different now: Chou and I have stopped fighting, and Geak, who also has become more and more withdrawn, has stopped asking for Pa. Ma, though, still sits many nights at the door waiting for Pa to return.

Though I am sad and many days wish I am dead, my heart continues to beat with life. My eyes well up at the thought of Pa. "I miss you so much, Pa," I whisper to him. "It is so hard to live without you. I am so sick of missing you." It is hopeless because no amount of tears will bring him back. I know Pa does not want me to give up, and as hard as it is to endure life here day to day, there is nothing for me to do but go on.

Strange things are going on in the village as entire families disappear overnight. Kim says the Khmer Rouge terror has taken a new toll. The soldiers are executing the entire families of those whom they've taken away, including young children. The Angkar fears the survivors and children of the men they have killed will rise up one day and take their revenge. To eliminate this threat, they kill the entire family. We believe this to be the fate of another one of our neighbors, the Sarrin family.

The Sarrin family lived a few huts down from ours. Like our family, the soldiers also took the father, leaving behind the mother and their three young kids. The kids are our age, ranging from five to ten years old. A few nights back we heard loud cries coming from their direction. Their cries continued for many minutes, then all was quiet again. In the morning I walked to their hut and saw that they were no longer there. Everything they owned was still in the hut: the small pile of black clothes in the corner of the room, the red checked scarves, and their wooden food bowls. It has been maybe three days now and still the hut stands empty. It is as if the family magically disappeared and no one dares to question their whereabouts. We all pretend not to notice their disappearance.

When she returns from work one evening Ma hurriedly gathers Kim, Chou, Geak, and me together, saying she has something to tell us. With all of us sitting in a circle waiting for her, Ma nervously walks around the hut outside to make sure no one can hear us. When she joins us, her eyes are filled with tears.

"If we stay together, we will die together," she says quietly, "but if they cannot find us, they cannot kill us." Her voice shakes when she speaks. "You three have to leave and go far away. Geak is four and too young to go. She will stay with me." Her words stab my heart like a thousand daggers. "You three will each go in different directions. Kim, you go to the south; Chou will head to the north; and Loung to the east. Walk until you come to a work camp. Tell them you are orphans and they will take you in. Change your name; don't even tell each other your new names. Don't let people know who you are." Ma's voice grows stronger with determination as the words pour out. "This way if they catch one of you, they cannot get to the rest because you will have no information to give them. You will have to leave tomorrow morning before anyone else is up." Her mouth says many more words to us, but I cannot hear them. Fear creeps its way into my body, making it tremble. I want to be strong and fearless, to show Ma she does not have to worry about me. "I don't want to go!" I blurt the words out. Ma looks at me firmly. "You have no choice," she says.

The next morning Ma comes to wake me, but I am already up. Chou and Kim are dressed and ready to go. Ma packs my one pair of clothes, wraps my food bowl in a scarf, and ties it diagonally around my back. Slowly I climb down the steps to where Chou and Kim are waiting for me.

"Remember," Ma whispers, "don't go together and don't come back." My heart sinks as I realize Ma really is sending us away.

"Ma, I'm not going!" I plant my feet to the ground, refusing to move.

"Yes, you are!" Ma says sternly. "Your Pa is gone now, and I just cannot take care of you kids. I don't want you here! You are too much work for me! I want you to leave!" Ma's eyes stare at us blankly.

"Ma," my arms reach out to her, pleading with her to take me into her arms and tell me I can stay. But she swats them back with a quick slap.

"Now go!" She turns me around by the shoulders and bends down to give me a hard swat on the b.u.t.t, pushing me away.

Kim is already walking away from us with his eyes looking ahead and his back rigid. Chou follows slowly behind him, her sleeves continuously wiping her eyes. Reluctantly, I drag myself away from Ma and catch up with them. After a few steps, I turn around and see that Ma has already gone back into the hut. Geak sits at the door, watching us leave. She lifts her hand and waves to me silently. We have all learned to be silent with our emotions.

The farther I am away from the village, the more my anger overtakes my sadness. Instead of missing Ma, my blood boils with resentment toward her. Ma doesn't want me around anymore. Pa took care of us and kept us together. Ma cannot do this because she is weak, like the Angkar says. The Angkar says women are weak and dispensable. I was Pa's favorite. Pa would have kept me home. Ma has Geak. She has always had Geak. She loves Geak. It is true that Geak is too young to leave, but I am not yet eight. I have n.o.body. I am completely alone.

The sun climbs to the backs of our heads, scorching them. The gravel path burns and digs into the soles of my feet and breaks through the hard calluses. I move off the gravel to walk on the gra.s.s. June is only the beginning of the rainy season so the gra.s.s is still plump and green. In November, the gra.s.s will shrivel up and become sharp like pins. The soles of my feet are so thick and callused that not even the pin gra.s.s can cut through them. However, when the gra.s.s is tall like it is now, the blades cut my skin like paper. It has been a long time since I have worn shoes. I don't remember when I stopped. I think it was when we arrived in Ro Leap that they burned my red dress. In Phnom Penh, I had black buckle shoes that went with my school uniform; the soldiers burned those too.

Soon it is time for Kim to go off on his own path. He stops us and again repeats Ma's instructions without emotion. Although he is only twelve his eyes have the look of an old man. Without words of goodbye or good luck, he turns and walks away from us. I want to run to him and put my arms around him, hold him the way I held Pa and Keav in my mind. I don't know if or when I will ever see him again. I don't want to bear the sadness of missing him. With my hands clenched into fists by my sides, I stand there and my eyes follow his body until I can no longer see him.

Though it goes against Ma's warnings, Chou and I cannot separate ourselves so we head off in the same direction. With no food or water, we walk in silence all through the morning as the sun beats down on us. Our eyes look everywhere for signs of human life but find none. All around us, the trees are brown, their green leaves, wilted in the heat of the white sky, hang quietly on the branches. The only sound comes from our feet and the pebbles that roll away from our toes. As the sun climbs above our head, our stomachs grumble in unison, asking for food which of course we don't have. In silence, Chou and I follow the red dirt trail winding and stretching before us. As our bodies grow tired and weak, we long to sit and rest in the shade, but we force ourselves on; we do not know where or when our trail will end. It is afternoon when we finally see a camp.

The camp consists of six straw-roofed huts, very much like ours, except they are longer and wider. Opposite them are two open huts that are used as the communal kitchen and three smaller huts where the supervisors live. The camp is surrounded by huge vegetable gardens on all sides. In one, about fifty young children squat in a row, pulling weeds and planting vegetables. Another fifty children lined up at the wells are in the process of watering the gardens. Buckets of water are pa.s.sed from one person to another, the last person with the bucket pours the water onto the garden and runs the bucket back to the well.

Standing at the gate, we are greeted by the camp supervisor. She is as tall as Ma but much bigger and more intimidating. Her black hair is cut chin-length and square, the same style as the rest of us. From her large, round face, her black eyes peer at us. "What are you doing here?"

"Met Bong, my sister and I are looking for a place to live." In Khmer I address the supervisor as comrade elder sister" with as much strength in my voice as I can muster.

"This is a children's work camp. Why are you not living with your parents?"

"Met Bong, our parents died a long time ago. We are orphans and have been living with different families, but they no longer want us." My heart races with guilt as the lies spill out of my mouth. In the Chinese culture it is believed that if you speak of someone's death out loud, it will come true. By telling the comrade sister my parents are dead, I have put a marker on Ma's grave.

"Did they die at the reeducation camp?" Met Bong asks. I hear Chou's gasp for breath and warn her not to say anything with my eyes.

"No, Met Bong. We were farmers living in the countryside. I was too young to remember, but I know they died fighting for the Civil War." I am amazed how easily the lies come out of my mouth. Met Bong seems to believe the lies, or maybe she simply does not care. She is in charge of a hundred kids and does not care if her workforce is increased by two more.

"How old are you and your sister."

"I am seven, and she is ten."

"All right, come in."

This is a girls' camp for those who are considered too weak to work in the rice fields. We are considered useless because we cannot help out the war effort directly. Yet from morning till night we work in the scorching sun, growing food for the army. From sunrise to sunset, we plant crops and vegetables in the garden, stopping for only dinner and lunch. Each night we fall into an exhausted sleep, wedged closely together on a wooden bamboo plank with fifty other girls, the other fifty in another hut.

Nothing at the camp is wasted, especially water. The well water is strictly for the gardens and cooking; to wash ourselves and our clothes we must walk a mile to the pond. After a long day of roasting in the sun, no one is thrilled about the walk for a wash, so we rarely bathe. Everything is collected and reused: old clothes become scarves, old food is dried and saved, and human waste is remixed as topsoil.

After our first evening meal, Chou and I are told to gather around the bonfire for nightly lessons. When we get there we see that all the other children are already there. We squat on the ground waiting for the Met Bong to read the latest news or propaganda from the Angkar. In a voice full of fury and adulation, Met Bong yells out, "Angkar is all-powerful! Angkar is the savior and liberator of the Khmer people!" Then one hundred children erupt into four fast claps, their fisted arms raised to the sky, and scream "Angkar! Angkar! Angkar!" Chou and I follow suit, though we do not understand the propaganda of what Met Bong is saying. "Today the Angkar's soldiers drove away our enemy, the hated Youn, out of our country!"

"Angkar! Angkar! Angkar!"

"Though there are many more Youns than Khmer soldiers, our soldiers are stronger fighters and will defeat the Youns! Thanks to the Angkar!"

"Angkar! Angkar! Angkar!"

"You are the children of the Angkar! Though you are weak, the Angkar still loves you. Many people have hurt you, but from now on the Angkar will protect you!"

Every night we gather to hear such news and propaganda, and are told of how the Angkar loves us and will protect us. Every night I sit there and imitate their movements while hatred incubates inside me, growing larger and larger. Their Angkar may have protected them, but it never protected me-it killed Keav and Pa. Their Angkar does not protect me when the other children bully Chou and me.

The children despise me and consider me inferior because of my light skin. When I walk by them, my ears ring from their cruel words and their spit eats through my skin like acid. They throw mud at me, claiming it will darken my ugly white skin. Other times, they stick their legs out and trip me, causing me to fall and sc.r.a.pe my knees. Met Bong always turns the other way. At first, I do nothing and take their abuse silently, not wanting to attract any attention to myself. Each time I fall, I dream of breaking their bones. I have not survived this much to be defeated by them.

While washing up for dinner one evening, one of the bullies, Rarnie, walks up and pinches my arm. "Stupid Chinese-Youn!" She hisses at me. My face burns and my blood boils with hatred. As if possessed by a will of their own, my arms reach for her neck and my hands close around her throat, squeezing hard. Her face turns white with confusion. She gasps for air, chokes under the pressure of my fingers. She grabs my arms, her nails scratching my skin. I refuse to let go. Sharp pain explodes on my shin as she kicks me. My anger makes me feel six feet tall, and I lunge at her with my body, knocking her to the ground. Sitting on her chest, my eyes pierce hers. My hands slap her face. I yell "Die! Die!" Ramie's eyes widen with fear as blood pours out of her nose and stains my hands. Still I cannot stop. I want to see her dead. "Die! I hate you! I am going to kill you!" My small fingers wrap themselves around her throat again, trying to squeeze out her life. I hate her. I hate them all.

Two hands grab me by my arms, twisting them painfully back. Another set of hands grabs my hair, pulling it back, dragging me off Rarnie. Still I struggle to free myself, my feet kicking dust in her face. "I'm going to kill you!" I scream at her as a large hand slaps my cheek, sending me to the ground. "Enough!" Met Bong screams. "There will be no killing tonight!"

"She attacked me first!" Rarnie, sitting up, points at me.

"I don't care who started it." She points to Rarnie, "Go and wash up." She then turns to me: her eyes bore into me, she leans toward me, and yells, "You are so strong to get into a fight? You have to water this whole garden tonight. You cannot sleep until you finish. And no food for you tonight!" Before leaving, Met Bong instructs another girl to guard me and make sure I do as I am told.

As I struggle to get up, the crowd around me slowly dissipates. Chou comes over and offers her hand, but I refuse it. I grab the water pail and start to water the garden. I work while the girls eat their dinner, recite propaganda at the nightly lessons, and get ready to go to bed. I do not cry, scream, or beg for mercy. I occupy my mind with thoughts of revenge and ma.s.sacre. In my head, I make a list of all the wrongs done to me. I will make them suffer twice the blows I've suffered by their hands. Many hours into the night, Met Bong approaches and tells me to go to sleep. Without looking at her, I drop my pail and walk in my hut to fall into an exhausted sleep.

The girls stop abusing me after the fight with Rarnie. But they continue to pick on Chou because she looks weak and shows her fear. It has been three weeks since Chou and I arrived at the camp. Trailing behind a group of girls, carrying our spare set of black pajama clothes in our hands, we walk to the river for our first wash.

"Chou, don't let them beat you up! Don't let them think they can get away with it," I tell her.

"But they can beat me and get away with it. I cannot win against them."

"So what? I can take any one of them, but if they gang up on me, they can beat me. I don't let them know that. I don't care if I win, but I will draw blood. I will get in my punches.

"Chou, I dream of the day when we have power again. I will come back for them. I will get them back and beat them until I am tired. I won't forget, not ever."

"Why would you want to remember? I dream of the day when things are nice again, and I can leave all this behind."

Chou does not understand. I need the new memories that make me angry to replace the old ones that make me sad. My rage makes me want to live just to come back and take my revenge. At the pond, the girls run into the water still fully dressed, splashing and laughing at each other's attempt to swim. While Chou scrubs the grime off her clothes, I float face up in the water. Thinking of Keav, I allow myself to sink as the water laps over my cheeks, eyes, and nose. Rising above the surface again, I feel the weeks' mud dissolve and slide off my skin, my nails, the creases in my neck and toes. The water washes away the dirt, but it will never put out the fire of hate I have for the Khmer Rouge.

child soldiers

August 1977

The months pa.s.s and the government continues to increase our food ration, allowing me to grow a little stronger. It has been three months since we left Ro Leap and last saw Kim, Ma, and Geak. I think about them every day and wonder how they are. At night when all the other children are fast asleep, Chou and I whisper to each other about Ma and Geak. I hope that Meng, Khouy, and Kim are able to visit Ma and make sure she is well. My heart lifts a little knowing that Ma has Geak to keep her from being too lonely.

The other children have stopped picking on me because I am a fighter. While I have also improved my reputation as a worker, because she is weak, Chou has been taken out of the garden and demoted to a cook. She actually likes it better because she no longer has to a.s.sociate with the other children.

But since I am strong, it was only after three months of being at the camp when Met Bong told me she had some "good news."

"You are the youngest girl here, but you work harder than everyone else. The Angkar needs people like you," she says and smiles. "It's really too bad you are not a boy," she adds. When she sees that I am not jumping with joy at the news, her face scowls. "Your number one duty is to the Angkar and no one else. You should be happy with yourself. This camp is for the weaklings. The camp you are going to is for the bigger, stronger children. There you will be trained as a soldier so you can soon help fight the war. You will learn many more things there than the children here." Her face beams with pride when she finishes.

"Yes, Met Bong, I am happy to go," I lie. I don't understand Met Bong's elation. I do not want to sacrifice for the country that killed my pa.

At the break of dawn, I pack my clothes and my food bowl. Chou stands beside me with her head down. I do not want to leave Chou behind, but I cannot refuse the rea.s.signment. Hooking our elbows together, we walk to the gate to meet Met Bong.

"Chou, you're older than me, stop being so weak," I whisper as we hug, our arms wrapped tightly around each other. "We will always be sisters even though you were found in a trashcan." Chou cries harder, her tears wetting my hair. Met Bong breaks our bond and tells me it's time to go. Chou refuses to let go of my hand. With all my strength, I pull it from her grasp and run away. Though my heart aches, I do not look back.

Met Bong leads me to another camp an hour's walk away. I do not know what to expect of the new camp, but when Met Bong says it is a child soldier training camp, I presume it will be a big place with many weapons and soldiers living there. But the new camp is almost identical to the old one. It is supervised by another Met Bong with similar features and characteristics, who is just as zealous a believer in the Angkar as my previous supervisor. While they talk, I am left alone to contemplate my new home.

The new work camp sits at the edge of a rice field and is surrounded by forest. All around the huts, tall palm trees sway lightly in the wind. In one, a young boy is cutting down a cl.u.s.ter of palm fruits with a silver cleaver. He looks about twelve or fourteen years old, has a round face, black wavy hair, and a small, dark sinewy body. I marvel at how his toes and fingers grip the tree like a monkey. While one hand holds on to a few st.u.r.dy leaves, the other wields the cleaver, separating the fruit from the tree. As if sensing my stare, the boy stops his work and turns to me. Our eyes meet and hold for a few seconds. He smiles and waves to me, but the cleaver is still in his hand. This familiar gesture of human friendship that I have become so unused to is made all the more unfamiliar as he chops the air with the knife. I smile back at him before turning my attention back to the camp.

The camp houses about eighty girls, their ages ranging from ten to fifteen. I have yet to turn eight. Unlike the other camp, not all the girls are orphans. Many have families living in nearby villages. All have been selected by either their village chief or work supervisor to live here. There is a similarly operated boys' camp not far from us on the other side of the rice field, with approximately another eighty boys supervised by their comrade brother, or Met Bong Preuf. I am told that occasionally the two camps gather together for lessons on the Angkar, and afterward, they celebrate the Angkar's victories with dances and songs.