The boys looked at one another, and then at their distraught father, who continued. “Pedalling frantically, I veered off the road, and headed across fields, and into the jungle. I rode until the track became too rugged for the bicycle, and ran into thick undergrowth and hid behind a clump of trees. I waited for what seemed like ages. After not seeing any sign of the Khmer Rouge, I retraced my steps, picked up my bicycle, and rode home.”
“What’s the Khmer Rouge? Ravuth asked.
Tu shook his head. Unaware of events happening in Cambodia, he only knew they should be afraid and make themselves scarce, so replied, “I don’t know son, but we need to stay hidden until we could find out what’s happened. We will be safer deeper in the jungle and tonight we can organise our belongings and find a new site. In the morning we will break down our dwellings and rebuild elsewhere,” said Tu. The boys could see how concerned, confused, and afraid their father appeared.
“What’s this?” interrupted Rotha, holding up the plant that Ravuth had placed on top of the tror bek.
“I don’t know mother. We found it along the track and thought you would know. Maybe we could eat it, right Oun?” said Ravuth, looking at his brother for backup.
“Yes,” said Oun paying scant attention and looking inside the camera bag.
“I’ve seen nothing like this before,” said Rotha, who held the strange plant and inspected it.
Rotha went ignored; the two youngsters seemed more interested in the instruction and demonstration their father was giving on the Polaroid camera.
Rotha went over to their clay rainwater trap, filled a bowl of water, and placed it alongside a bubbling pot containing vegetables and a small broiling chicken. She studied the plant and knew by the leaves shape and colour that the plant was edible, so she plucked a leaf, tasted it, winced, and put the rest into the boiling pot. She pierced the gold seed pod and it oozed a milky white sap which she tasted. Rotha couldn’t understand why it tasted sweet and delicious with the leaf tasting so bitter, but she would experiment with it later. Rotha noticed that the round seedpod had a strange sheen and its gold colour appeared as a lustrous mosaic of vivid shades; the effect created with motor oil on water.
Disturbed by a sudden bright flash, she looked up to see the smiling faces of her two mischievous sons and her even more mischievous husband holding the Polaroid after taking a flash photograph of her. The camera’s machinery whirred as a film popped out of the front. Tu removed the photograph, peeled away the first layer of film, and put the picture on the table to develop.
Rotha glowered at her husband as he once again focused, pressed the button, and took another snapshot of her, and repeated the development process. Tu then motioned them all to get together to take a picture of the three of them. They alternated and took turns at taking pictures until they finished the six remaining films in the camera’s cartridge.
They watched the photographs developing under their solitary light bulb and looked amazed as the images appeared. The family gazed at the first photographs they had ever seen, forgetting for a moment about the tragedy that had befallen the village. Rotha removed a banana leaf woven box from a shelf and placed it onto the table. Everyone in the village had several of these boxes. These interwoven strips of dried banana leaf, coated with a resin from the sap of palm oil bark, gave the box a hard-wearing varnished sheen. The small shoe size boxes, apart from selling to tourists, the villagers used them to store knick-knacks and anything unusual. She opened the box and placed the photographs inside.
“You can look at these again after we have eaten. Ravuth, get the dishes ready and I will serve supper,” she said.
Rotha was about to close the box’s lid when she saw the plant on the table. She cut away most of the stem and put the golden-brown pod into the box, closing the lid.
The family sat down to eat. Rotha served the strange plants leaves in a broth and they all agreed it tasted horrible, it was too bitter. Fortunately, the chicken and tror bek went down well, and after supper, they packed away their meagre belongings for the next day’s move. The village’s noisy two-stroke generator went off at 8:00 pm., whereupon they went to bed.
Shouting and gunfire abruptly woke the family at sunrise.
Panic ensued, Tu, Rotha, and the boys went onto the balcony and saw a group of young Khmer Rouge soldiers marching through the village, firing AK-47s into the air and hollering at the villagers. They stomped to the dwellings, whose residents now stood either on their balconies or at the foot of their steps.
A girl, about the same age as Ravuth, came to the foot of their steps and yelled for them to come down and go to the village’s communal hut. She pointed her rifle at Tu.
“Immediately!” she screamed.
The family did as ordered and went to the communal hut along with the other frightened villagers, and commanded to kneel. A Khmer Rouge soldier, who looked around 18-years-old, walked to the front. The villagers gasped. Dragged along on a rope leash was Dara, a middle-aged villager who had gone into Koh Kong along with Tu and the others to sell trinkets the previous day.
“Dara’s alive, Rotha,” whispered Tu. “I thought they’d all been killed.”
With swollen cheeks and eyes, dried blood staining her lips and nose, Dara looked badly beaten. The villagers watched as the Khmer Rouge commander tugged her like a dog. The other Khmer Rouge paced back and forth behind the audience as their commander spoke.
He explained about Pol Pot: Brother Number One, their leader, and how the Khmer Rouge now controlled Cambodia, saying, “Every *Khmer citizen now belonged to Angka, (The Organisation.) You are our property and if you want to live, you must prove your value.”
He told them about their children’s role within this new order and would be trained and taught by Angka to become soldiers for the organisation and honoured by all. They would no longer need parents, as adults were menial workers, therefore beneath them. Angka would now be their family. The commander continued for over an hour with his well-rehearsed speech.
The terrified villagers listened but felt bewildered by this indoctrinated youth. Dara swayed as she struggled to stand up in front of him. Occasionally, the boy tugged at her rope, and she snapped back to attention.
Once the commander finished, he focused his attention on Dara and said to the villagers.
“This woman led us to you. She is weak and we do not accept weak.” He tightened the noose around Dara’s neck and dragged her towards him. Taking hold of the knot, he lifted her chin to extend her throat and sliced it open with a small sharp knife. Dara was too weak to put up any fight, and as sputum, blood, and air gurgled from her throat, she went limp. The commander threw her body to the ground, bent over, and wiped his knife on her clothing before sheathing it. He shouted orders to his soldiers, pointed to Dara’s corpse, and issued a stark warning to the villagers,
“Obey Angka or die!”
The villagers stared in horror as the other Khmer Rouge screamed at them to get their belongings and to meet back there.
The stunned villagers left the communal hut and went to their respective residences to pack, with the Khmer Rouge buzzing around the terrified families, hurrying them along.
Rotha, Tu, Ravuth, and Oun went into their hut. Tu spoke to Rotha, who, although shaken by the events, agreed with him. Tu, his voice quaking, told the boys
“You two need to escape and hide in the jungle. When we’ve gone, come back, and stay here. When we find out what is going on and when it’s safe, we can return for you,”
The boys, although frightened, agreed, and hoped it would only be for a short while.
Rotha