In remembrance of April 17, 1975

“And blood will be spilled so high as to reach the elephant’s belly…And there will be roads, but they will be emptied of people…And people will chase after dogs for a single grain of rice that’s stuck to the dogs’ tail…” So it was prophesized.

And dusk fell upon a civilization as rapaciously as the guillotine blade fell upon a hapless victim. Then darkness settled in and the people who dwelled in the land of the smiling faces were silenced.

My friends and I were having coffee one evening at my house and for some reason the following discussions came up…

Friend 1:
“My family was in a jewelry business in PP. When they came, we managed to hide some of our jewelry and we would use them to barter for food, salt, sugar, etc. One ounce of gold would fetch us a can of uncooked rice. Or one diamond bracelet would be exchanged for a sarong. Such were the values of precious metals and stones. We were relocated to Battambang, away from our home. I was very young, but I remember that fateful day when they surround our house (if you could call it that). My father was trying to burry the jewelries in the ground behind our shack. Someone caught sight of him digging and the whole village was roused. They took him to “reeducate” that very same night. We prayed that he would not be killed. Miraculously, they did not kill him. They released him soon afterward. My father became sick after the incident. I guess the whole ordeal must have traumatized him so badly that his health was deteriorating by the hours. I remember his final words to my mother as she cradled him in her arms, “…do not worry about the jewelries they took from us. One day when things change again, I will make more and we will sell more. As long as we have our lives, things will be alright…” He passed on in my mother’s embrace.

I learned how to survive and to fend for ourselves. I became a good, little thief that the word ever knew. I stole rice from the sack, still stacked up in the oxen cart. I would get my little shirt pocket by the rice sack and gape a hole in the sack and let the grain trickled in my pocket about half way full. Then I would run home to empty the pocket. If opportunity presented itself, I would repeat again and again.”

Friend 2:
“We were relocated in Kampot province somewhere near Touk Meas district. My parents were sent off to work in the field far from home. There were rumored that my father would be taken to “reeducate.” He did not really believe it at first, but then when he heard it from the “old people” (those who took part in the revolutionary struggle prior to 1975) mentioned that he would be next, he made a plan to escape. The night of his escape, he planned on taking my youngest brother with him, but then changed his mind for fear of my brother’s safety. He planned to escape to Siam. We did not know why Siam since Vietnam was much closer. He was caught not too far away from the village and was executed shortly after. Soon, my mother was sent off to work away from us again as a punishment. Now there were only three of us children, left alone to care for ourselves. I was the oldest and I was seven year old.”
Friend 3:
“There I was in a commune somewhere in Praneth Preah, Battambang. Hunger and fatigue was my companion. I was 16 0r 17 year old, in my prime, or, should I say in this circumstance, lack thereof. I was sent off to work in a district “mobile unit. The unit moved from commune to commune as worked dictated. In my unit, there was a guy who was always absent from work duty. One afternoon during our regular “criticism and self-criticism” meeting, the leader of the unit called on the guy’s name to come forward so that “Angkar” could conduct a criticism session. After several minutes into the session, a few strong “old people” rushed forward and pinned him down to the ground, face down. They bound his hand behind his back. The leader came forward with a bayonet and declared that “this man incurs no gain to Angkar if we were to keep him nor would he be a loss if we eliminated him.” With that, he planted his foot firmly on the man’s neck and plunged the bayonet into the man’s back. The man screamed, agonizing scream. The time seemed to have stood still for I closed my eyes and I heard the screaming. I wanted to close my ears so as to shut off the cry, but I was afraid to.”


Friend 4:
“The area where I was relocated to was relatively safe, as far as the killing goes. They did not kill the “new” people outright. No, but, there was another way they killed us…by starvation. By 1976, you could see skeletons walking the fields. Literary, people were starving to death. The number of people in my commune was decimated to a just a few families. Soon there were words going around of cannibalism. Family members would be sitting around their dying loved one, crying and so on, but at the same time waiting for the dying to pass on so they could “eat” the body instead of burying the corps. I never thought anything of it until one day as I entered my hut, I noticed that my two children were cowering in the corner of the hut. I thought they were sick, so I went closer. The closer I went the more I saw fear in their faces. I asked if they did something wrong they shook their heads no. Then like a flash of lightning that hit me, I understood their fear. I broke down and cried. I gently told my children that I would never resort to eating them, no matter what. Several months after this incidence, my older child passed away in her sleep. Her younger sister followed her a few weeks afterward. I buried both of them.”