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MY FAMILY UNDER THE KHMER ROUGE
Samondara Vuthi Ros
The main objective
of people around the whole world is to live happy and prosperous lives with
their families and loved ones. Unfortunately, my family experienced suffering
and bereavement so deep that I cannot put it into words. The bereavement
occurred under the regime of the Khmer Rouge between 1975 and 1979. At that time
I was about 10. I am the youngest son in the family. I had one elder brother and
one sister. My father’s name was Ruos Samondrak, a civil servant in the Ministry
of Land Survey of Khmer Republic. My mother’s name was Chhim Tong, a stone
seller. My brother’s name was Ruos Samondrak Rung Roeung, a student at the 18
May High School. My sister’s name was Ruos Samondrak Botumroath, a student at
Bak Touk High School.
My father was one
of the Sisowath relatives. My mother was half Chinese. Despite having been a
civil servant of the Khmer Republic, my father served the Khmer Serei as an
agent of “Sihanoukism”, in charge of supplying food, money and medicines to its
forces in the jungle. As a result of his activities, after the liberation, he
and my mother were killed by the Khmer Rouge. My brother and sister died of
starvation.
April 17,
1975
Many neighbors
were very happy and a cheerful howl of laughter was heard, because they thought
that the war had ended. At about 9:30 A.M., while sitting on the steps of my
house, I heard the gunfire and saw the smoke of the guns. Suddenly, I rushed in
and asked my father: “What’s the noise? “ He replied, “The sound of explosions,
my son. But there’s no problem. It is our side who has fired. Our country is
peaceful. There is no more war, and prosperity is coming.” Still I wondered, if
so, why were there still explosions? A moment later, I saw three armed men in
black, with their pants rolled up, standing in front of a residence of a
military officer of the Khmer Rupublic. Then they fired three times at the front
gate of the residence, shouting, “This house belongs to puppets of Americans,
who betray the nation and the people! Where are you all? Come out to meet us for
a moment!” After hearing and witnessing the acts of the Khmer Rouge, I felt
somewhat cold, because I had never seen people fire guns and use such rubbish
words before. I rushed into our house, locked the gate door and approached my
father, who was busy repairing a car on the side of the house. I asked him:
“From which side do the soldiers come. Why are they so vicious?” He replied
quickly: “Oh dear, don’t speak so loudly. They are Liberation soldiers of the
King [Sihanouk]. They are very good. Don’t worry. They will not do any harm to
us. They will just search for those who have betrayed them.” At that moment, the
three soldiers walked towards our house and shouted: “Open the door! Let us
enter!” Then my father rushed and opened the gate door quickly and invited them
to sit in front of the house. One of the three asked my father: “Uncle, don’t
you turn on your radio?” My father replied: “No. Because I’m repairing my car.”
Then my father asked my brother to bring out a radio. A man in black said: “Are
you a Lol Nol soldier?” My father replied, “No. I work in the Ministry of Land
Survey”. The man continued: What is the Ministry of Land Survey?” They glanced
sharply at my father from head to toe. “Please drink some iced water,” said my
father. “The Ministry of Land Survey is one section in charge of examining land,
houses for standard construction. Honestly, my family actively joined the
movement for national liberation although I have never carried weapons and
struggled in the jungle like you. However, I have contributed money, food, and
medicines every month for our forces in the jungle.” At the moment my father
spoke, the oldest of the three men glanced at my father and quickly asked him,
“Has our side ever issued any letter of confirmation for you?” My father
replied, “Yes. I had one, but now it has disappeared. The last time they came to
check my house, my wife tried to hide it, and now she cannot remember exactly
where she hid it. But no matter what happens, if they consider us as men of
merit, they will not forget us. Especially since I want nothing but to see our
country in peace and prosperity.”
During the
conversation, my brother had brought the radio out and turned it on just as an
announcement began in a soft and slow voice (I didn’t recognized the announcer,
as I was so young). The announcement focused on the victory of the liberation of
Phnom Penh and all places throughout the country. It stated that the victory
stemmed from the reconciliation between Khmer and Khmer. My father smiled, but
the three soldiers didn’t. In the meantime, there was an announcement
interrupting the first in a strong voice: “This triumph has not resulted from
negotiation or reconciliation, but is the result of the struggle between gun
point and gun point.” After hearing this announcement, the look on my father’s
face changed. My mother, my brother and my sister all looked at my father in
doubt and fear, and my father seemed to be on the verge of despair. A moment
later, the three soldiers in black stood up while two of them took the guns and
walked out. The other one walked up to the car that my father was repairing,
twisted the cover of car’s radiator, and said: “Your family as well as some
other people will be asked to leave home, and we don’t know when they will be
allowed to return. What I am saying is true. Please remember my words. What has
been said about the people leaving for two or three days is not true.” The three
soldiers then left my home without further words. After walking about 50 meters,
the youngest soldier fired his handgun into the air four or five times,
shouting, “You must all be out of your houses by tomorrow!” Merriment turned to
despair. My neighbors, who had been cheering, now became quiet. That part of the
sky northwest of Phnom Penh was full of sparks. In the house, my mother was on
the brink of tears as she packed clothes, plates, dishes, pots, and food into
sacks in preparation for leaving the following day.
Life as a Parasite of Society
My family was
evacuated from Phnom Penh with a car full of sacks of clothes, plates, dishes,
pots and food. Along National Road 2, hundreds of thousands of people were
walking with no real direction. Some families, who had political trends and were
not allowed to go to their home towns, were trying to find other ways. Some
other families, whose members were policemen or government soldiers known to the
Khmer Rouge, were killed along the way. Pregnant women gave birth to babies
along the way.
After one week on
this journey, my family decided to stay temporarily in Kiri Vong District, Ta
Keo Province. I didn’t know in which village and sub-district we were staying.
The village chief brought my family to live with base people. [Editor’s note:
“Base people” was the term generally used by the Khmer Rouge to refer to the
peasant farmers of Cambodia.] A
month later, the Khmer Rouge’s Angkar in the sub-district proposed to take our
car and use it as communal property, removing the wheels, tires and inner tubes
for use as sandals. My father was assigned to cut bamboo for making fishing
instruments and lattice for flooring. My mother was assigned by the women’s
chief of the village to transplant rice seedlings and clear forests for growing
vegetables.
My brother and
sister were assigned to build dams and dig canals in mobile work sites. My
family members were separated from each other from dawn to dusk. At the outset,
my family had never known hardship or starvation. My mother tried to pick tree
fruits and vegetables for sustenance. My brother and sister had never learned
how to forage for crabs or snails. But with circumstances being what they were,
they tried to copy from those around them, even though there were rubbish words
from some of the “base people” who said mockingly, “You are Phnom Penh dwellers.
You know only how to eat, but not how to grow things.” I remember every night my
father would sit alone by the light of a lamp in the leaf-roofed house with its
bamboo floor, which was about two meters high. My mother slept next to us. She
fondled my head with tears, saying softly, “My son, I am very, very tired. From
now on you will have to take care of yourself. We will be separated, and we
don’t know for sure when bereavement will take place.” After hearing these
words, it seemed to me that I was very light and flying far away from my family.
I thought: “If I am separated from my parents, how can I survive?”. Then I fell
to sleep leaving my mother talking alone.
After living in
the village for two months, my family and another ten families were moved to Wat
Angkor Thum Loap. Because of the lack of food and medicine, and the forced
labor, my father came down with fever. My mother’s feet swelled. My sister
suffered a kind of disease characterized by a swollen belly, while my brother
became emaciated. In order to cure my sister’s illness, my mother collected her
odds and ends to trade for the medicine and the rice of the base people who
lived in Wat Angkor Thum Loap Village. My father never let anyone know that he
was enduring hardship or pains. After taking the medicines and eating the rice
my mother obtained from trade, both my father and sister seemed to improve.
Later, I heard the village chief, who had gathered villagers to join a meeting,
say, “Angkar has directed that those living here be transferred to another
place. This is just a temporary place. You won’t need to bring along with you so
many things, because Angkar has already prepared everything for you. Especially,
those who once served the Khmer Republic must report to Angkar. Angkar will
allow you to work in your original positions and places.”
Prison without walls
My family and
hundreds of others were sent by train to Battambang Province, where we were
taken by tractor to Phum Tra Laok, located in Rum Duol Village, Preah Net Preah
District. Along the foot of the mountains, there were about ten families of base
and new people living together. The people were assigned to clear forests for
growing potatoes, yam, and other vegetables. As for the base people, they were
assigned to monitor the “new people” and to rear silkworms for the weaving
section. [Editor’s note: “New people” was a term generally used by the Khmer
Rouge to refer to people who had been transported from the towns and cities to
work in the countryside.] As time went by, we realized that we had been sent to
this place for punishment. My father was ordered into the jungle, where he had
to walk to the top of a mountain in
search of rattan and Rum Peak (a kind of vine) for weaving baskets for moving
earth. My mother was assigned to clear forests and dig out huge tree trunks. My
brother and sister were sent to build dams and dig canals in a mobile front
unit. As for me, I was assigned to look after cattle and cut Tun Trean Khet, a
common kind of small plant, to chop and mix with cow dung for the making of
compost fertilizer. From then on, my family members were separated. My father
and mother were gone from home from dawn to dusk. My brother and sister were
sent away to the mobile front unit. We didn’t know where it was. We were
provided with a bowl of thin porridge as a daily ration. At night, we were not
allowed to talk. Lamps and lanterns were not allowed to operate. Any one who
broke the rules would be “sent to cut bamboo”. Those who had been sent to do
such work had little chance of returning; they were ‘sent to be killed. The
place we were living was as quiet as a graveyard throughout the day.
My family spent
almost a year there in pain and starvation. My father came down with malaria. My
mother’s illness gradually became worse. I myself had scabies covering my entire
body and was emaciated. Still worse, my mother was told that my sister had died.
Then my father was executed on the grounds of having been a puppet of the
contemptible Lon Nol’s traitorous administration. I still remember that until he
was brought away to be killed, and even though he was made to do hard work
without sufficient food or rest, my father had never complained, nor told his
wife how exhausted he was. He seemed aware of his impending death, and told me
before he was taken away, “When I am gone, you will have to look after your
mother and elders. We all face the same fate-death. It is just a matter of time,
sooner or later.” He used to tell me that he was so sorry. He expressed his
regret for his elder brother, an army chief for the Khmer Republic, and his
youngest brother, a pilot for the Khmer Republic.
My father
expressed his regret that he didn’t believe his elder brother, who was a
soldier, and his youngest brother, who was a pilot, in the Lon Nol regime.
His youngest
brother died during a bombing mission at the Vihea Sour battlefield in 1974. My
uncle used to say to my father, “What benefit will you gain from the Khmer Rouge
when they win the war. Why do you support them?” Since then my family has
endured much suffering and separation, and only I and my mother together have
survived. As for my brother, we don’t know what happened to him. He disappeared.
In the blink of an eye, my mother lost her husband and two of her children. That
night, my mother and I were told to go to the district office for new place
assignments. Yet, they told us not to bring along so many things as some people
had already arranged matters for us. I and my mother were taken by ox-cart to
the district office. I didn’t recognize the way we went because it was so dark.
At the district office, a man told my mother: “You have to spend a night here.
At dawn you will be taken”. In the morning, the district office appeared to be
vacant, with no one present except my mother, myself, and three or four Khmer
Rouge. A man approached my mother and said in a belligerent tone: “Go to your
village! People here are very busy. They won’t have time to take you until
later”. Then we left the office and returned to our homestead on foot. We walked
from dawn to dusk. That night, my mother remained awake. She sat with her knees
upward in the bamboo-lattice hall. When the morning came, she carried a hoe and
a long-handled knife to the farm, saying to me: “My son, take my rationed
porridge to eat when they deliver. I will not return until the evening”. As she
had promised, in the evening she returned home. She was so sad and said nothing.
She had only two or three cans of rice to cook. After cooking, she asked me to
eat rice with her. While eating, she glanced at me very often. Suddenly, a
village militiaman came to ask my mother to attend a meeting in the Village
Office. My mother told me: “Son, sleep after eating. I will be back soon.” I
spent one night waiting for my mother. I seemed to have no soul in my body. I
thought my mother might have been taken to be killed. In the morning, I went to
the house of the village chief to ask for information about my mother. The
village chief said: “Your mother is being held at Tuol Kok Kor. If you want to
meet her, you can ask people around there. They will tell you.”
Tuol Kok Kor was a
hill, surrounded with small rivers, used to detain middle-age women who had
broken their regulations, like my mother. They accused my mother and the other
people being detained there of secretly digging potatoes, stripping rice and of
having the spirit of previous regimes, especially in their relations with their
husbands.
I was left to the
vast field alone. A week later, I received information about her. Villagers next
to my house told me that my mother still survived and she really wanted to see
me. It took me half a day to walk from the village to the place where my mother
was being kept. I had to swim across rivers to reach Tuol Kok Kor. There, I saw
hundreds of middle-age women clearing forests, digging out tree-stumps, and
carrying tree branches to burn down. There was no sound of singing. For nearly
an hour, my eyes searched for my mother. Unable to find her, I felt despair and
uncertainty. I cried as I ran away. Fortunately, I met a woman of about the same
age as my mother, sitting under a tree along the way. She asked me: “Where are
you running to, child? Who are you looking for?” I replied: “I want to find my
mother”. She went on: “What’s her name? From which village?” After describing my
mother to her, I learned that on the previous day, my mother had been sent to
work site where they were digging canals. Returning to the field, I felt a great
relief.
Escape for survival
During this period
of my childhood, I did not receive the care of parents. I lived alone in a
leaf-roofed cottage at the foot of some mountains. Often I would ask myself how
long I would be alone, and wondered if I would live such a life forever. One
day, when I was walking back from cutting Tun Trean Khet (kind of plant used to
make compost) and collecting cattle dung, an aged woman, who was a “base
person”, told me that she had met my mother at the dam work-site east of the
mountain. But, she didn’t tell me where it was. She just instructed me to walk
eastward.
After receiving
this information, I left that morning, walking eastward as instructed. I spent a
whole day reaching the work site, where I found hundreds of middle-aged men and
women. There was a long hall being built on the top of a tall dam. In the hall,
the people were taking a rest, sitting in rows along the edge of the low roof.
The gap from the ground to the edge of the roof was approximately one-third of a
meter. The people had to crawl to enter the hall. I spent many hours bent over,
walking the length of the enormous hall in search of my mother. Suddenly, I saw
a pair of feet which seemed to belong to my mother. Then I walked straight
toward those feet and found myself looking into my mother’s face. She was
patching some torn clothes, and when I called out, “Mum, Mum, Mum”, she looked
up and her tears started flowing. She hugged me and fondled my head as she
cried. That night, my mother asked a chief of the mobile unit for permission to
have me stay for the whole night. I remember her painful words to me that night.
“From now on it will be hard for you to find me! We will be separated with no
idea when our family will be reunited.” Looking back, I know that my mother had
been warning me not to stay with her. I felt doubtful and asked her why I could
not stay with her. Instead of answering my question, she only cried and told me
to escape from the village, to go away, and not to worry about her, because she
could take care of herself. I could not think, but cried out and hugged my
mother, pleading to live with her. I hugged her close that night until I fell
asleep. At dawn, I heard the shrill sound of a whistle, calling the people to
their work. Then my mother asked me to return home and prepare things for
escape. She kissed my forehead three times and uttered softly: “From now on you
have to know how to lead your life, and we don’t know when we could meet again!
If you have free time, please come to visit me”. Then she walked away with
tears. I stared at her with tears until she was out of my sight.
About two days
after my return, I met an adolescent who was also categorized as a ‘new person’.
He was assigned to a ‘front mobile unit’ constructing a dam at a place called
“Tum Nup Daem Kor Bei”, located in Phnom Chunh Chaing District, Battambang
Province. I asked him if there were any children working in the unit. He said
there were about ten but that they didn’t allow many children to work there. I
asked if I could go with him, and, one morning shortly after waking, we left.
As a child, I
lived a vagrant life, like that of a plant floating in the ocean. My life was
the same as the other ten children in the mobile unit “Daem Kor Bei”. I had only
two shirts, a rice spoon, and a small pan left to me by my mother. I used them
to receive my rationed food every afternoon and evening. All of us children were
assigned to build fifty meters of dike or three cubic meters of dam each day per
three children. If anyone failed to fulfill their assignment, their food ration
would be reduced, or they would be punished. To live for one day in this dark
era seemed like one hundred years. I always remembered my mother’s words: “You
have to learn how to live without me.” I never received any information about
her after she left. I always thought that she was living in the village like the
others. One time, I and few friends were asking each other about our families:
“When can we see our parents?” Suddenly, an adolescent about the same age as my
brother told me that my mother had already been taken to be killed. Although he
lived with our group, this boy had just secretly visited his parents in their
village. His news brought tears to my eyes. I felt I had nothing. I wondered if
I would survive or not. It is only now that I realize the aim of my mother had
been for me to escape the extermination of our family. If I had failed to escape
to the mobile unit, our entire family would have been killed. For fear of death,
even though I had been told that my mother was killed, I dared not return to the
village to learn if my mother had been killed or not. To this day, some twenty
years later, no word from my mother has been had.
This story of pain
and bitterness is a real story of one of the hundreds of thousands of Khmer orphans in Cambodia, who
experienced the dark era between 1975-1979. The memory of pain and separation is
everlasting in my mind.
On behalf of the
orphans, I strongly support any catalyst for an international tribunal to bring
to justice those Khmer Rouge leaders who were involved in the Cambodian genocide
between 1975-1979, in order to find real justice for innocent Cambodians who
died unjust deaths during that most barbarous regime.
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