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Each of us carried a bag prepared by my mother, with her innate practical sense, and we left in the car. Before long we were lost in the human flood. There were women and children pushing wheelbarrows, men carrying insanely heavy loads, people half-crazed—and everywhere the fifteen-year-old fighters, with their cold eyes, their black uniforms, and the cartridges in their bandoliers. In the course of a few days. There was no overall plan. No organization. No dispositions had been made to guide, feed, care for, or lodge those thousands and thousands of people. Gradually we began to see sick people on the roads, old folks, serious invalids, stretchers. We sensed that the evacuation was turning bad.

Fear was palpable. Or hardly ever. Is he afraid it will see inside him? Duch talks to heaven, which in this case is a white ceiling. He explains his position to me. He makes phrases. I catch him lying. I offer precise information. He hesitates. When in a difficult situation, Duch rubs his face with his damaged hand. He breathes loudly. He massages his forehead and his eyelids, and then he examines the neon lighting. I stare at his irritated, bristling flesh. And he needs to talk to me. To continue the discussion. To win me over. A man who stalks his humanity. A disturbing man. Should we go on? A soldier walked up and, without a word, signaled that we should get moving again.

The losers would do. Vann Bbe and my favor crew stood beside me. A check trapped up and, without a level, signaled that we should get real again.

My father sighed and clenched his fists. The scene was repeated twice more. The Khmer Rouge spoke a rather odd language, using words I knew little or not at all. We set out on foot, and then the sun sank behind the rice fields. He reflected upon them. Observed them carefully. What theory? My father disappeared into the forest, ties in hand, and came back after hiding his former life. Under the white-hot sky, sweating and suffering, they excavated a ditch. How many of them were there? They were executed. Nothing remains of those mass graves, some of which may have been immense. As the years passed, the Khmer Rouge planted cassava root and coconut palms, which have since consumed bodies and Bbw party salt in kampong cham.

Duch Bbw party salt in kampong cham Phnom Penh with his entire crew: Some of these men were also former professors. Mam Nay had been in prison with Duch, his friend, his double. They both spoke French fluently, and they had an almost intuitive mutual understanding. The new history had begun; the murderers were waiting in the outskirts of the capital. Later I show Duch a photograph of Bophana before she was tortured. Black eyes, black hair. She seems impassive. Already elsewhere. He holds the photo a long time. He seems moved. Is it compassion? Is it memory? Is it his own emotion that touches him? Most necessities were unobtainable: Prices skyrocketed. For my thirteenth birthday on April 18, my mother had bought a ham on the sly and had it caramelized.

It must have cost tens of thousands of riels. Vendors started refusing to take banknotes. The effect was devastating. How could we eat, how could we drink, how could we live without money? Bartering had sprung up again as soon as the evacuation began, and now it was widespread. The rich became poorer; the poor stripped themselves bare. My provident mother had brought away with us a quantity of sheets, which she exchanged for food. Those big pieces of fabric were very useful. My mother was able to obtain some mess tins, some American army spoons, a bucket, a pan, and a boiling kettle so that we could drink, risk-free, water from the Bassak River.

We came to realize that this trend was irreversible. Years later I looked at some extraordinary archival photographs; they show the Central Bank of Cambodia right after the revolutionaries blew it up. Only the corners of the building remain, sad pieces of metal-reinforced lace-work standing over rubble. The message is clear. Is it the money that disgusts them? Or the desire to consume that it reveals? Exchange is supposed to have unrecognized capabilities. Free exchange, which is the term used for barter. A gift is something else. I lived for four years in a society without currency, and I never felt that the absence of money made injustice easier to bear.

Nothing could be estimated, or esteemed, anymore—not human life or anything else. Nothing could be assessed anymore? Well not exactly nothing, because throughout that whole period, gold never stopped discreetly circulating. It had extraordinary power. With gold you could cause what had disappeared to appear again—penicillin, for example. Rice, sugar, tobacco. The Khmer Rouge were full participants in such trafficking. Other archival images: Nailed wooden crates, discovered in a warehouse. Inside, under sheets of transparent plastic, the official banknotes of the new country. So it seems that Democratic Kampuchea had its currency ready to circulate after all.

What happened? Logistical problems? Further doctrinal radicalization? The new currency was never used. We bartered what we could—in the beginning, exchanges of that sort were tolerated—but very soon, we had nothing left to exchange. What to call it? Organized exodus? Forced march? Or that the American bombers were already circling over the capital. Those centers of commerce, of corruption, of debauchery, of every sort of trafficking were to be emptied. Hospitals and clinics were to be emptied too. The evacuation of the capital prefigured the overall plan that we now know was in place. The first political decision of the new order was to shake up the society: The forced evacuations took place at the same time all over the country, and no cities were excepted.

And so the complete overthrow of society began. Very quickly, as one may imagine, there were thousands of deaths and a great many sick and starving people. The hypothesis is, unfortunately, absurd. Why would the revolutionaries protect members of the class they hated? And they got what they wanted: I called her Aunt Tha. She and her husband, Uch Ven, had studied in France and then returned to Cambodia. He died of malaria, Duch informed me. His wife lived in Phnom Penh with their children. I liked to go to visit her because they had an electric train.

The police had her under constant surveillance. Nothing in her past or present seemed to trouble my father. He appreciated the woman—her intelligence, her life story, her courage—and she was a frequent guest in our home. She was like one of the family. And then he told me this story: The important man and his son left, no doubt gratified by the thought of what awaited the other pupil. Now run on home. I knew about it. Moreover there was nothing left in the capital but the government, the administration, a few embassies whose personnel were sequestered, a few rare factories, and S prison. Nothing could approach that vast, secret complex.

Duch continues: She knew everybody. Duch, everybody knew you! By mentioning this report, Duch affirms his humanity and his solidarity with his suffering fellow Cambodians. The famine spared no one. It comes in a murmur that requires careful attention on the part of the listener. I put his last sentence into logical form: And we believed our lie. They are not him. The revolutionary is the other guy. My family on the road: He was a poor orphan whom my parents, in accordance with Cambodian tradition, had taken in; they were feeding him, clothing him, and giving him a proper upbringing.

Phal did his share of the household chores. We all took turns collecting eggs, feeding the ducks and the dogs, washing the floor, and doing the laundry. This was only to be expected in a house where some fifteen people lived. We stopped for two days in a pagoda at Koh Thom, not far from an immense automobile graveyard where displaced persons had abandoned their vehicles. We were shut up inside the pagoda, and it was there that the first count was made. After that the counts never stopped. How many of us were there? Where did our family come from? The Khmer Rouge were insistent, almost aggressive. Then—together with our luggage, which seemed to be getting heavier and heavier—we were put on a boat at night, and we approached the Vietnamese frontier.

Phnom Penh was far away. Everything was mysterious. Up until then the idea of Buddhist monks engaged in rice production would have been unthinkable, but bonzes from that pagoda were hard at work in the paddies. Others were being consulted by all sorts of people. We learned that a general was under house arrest. We could barely make out his silhouette. He seemed immobile. One evening the Khmer Rouge demand that we unpack our baggage. Without a word we spread out all our things, flat on the ground and spaced well apart. The Khmer Rouge want to know who we are. They find no document, no sign of collaboration with the enemy.

The fifteen-year-old child soldiers were like men. And we were, so to speak, naked. One of them took apart a little notebook in which my sister had glued various souvenirs and removed an old visiting card. He showed it to us without a word: We were terrified. Nothing at all. I discovered a harsh world where you had to plunge into cold water bristling with reeds, feel around the muddy bottom, and empty the fish traps. We planted rice, corn, and cassava root. Phal suffered from terrible attacks of diarrhea, one of which nearly killed him in the course of a few hours.

I can still remember my eldest sister washing his soiled pants in the river several times a day. We were close, the two of us, and I was very sad, but he finally recovered. Phal was familiar with peasant life, and so he gained a sort of ascendancy. Topics of discussion: In a month Phal changed. He became bitter. His consciousness had been raised. Or was it his resentment? The man jotted down everything in his notebook. And the way everyone takes care of you! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Its flooding waters, muddy and lugubrious, reached the edge of the forest.

That river was the center of our existence. The school year was lost, but my father was apparently the only one of us who still gave any thought to that. Because I was only thirteen, I was allowed to remain with my parents. The old man entrusted his oxen to me.

Those enormous beasts, which would breathe down my neck and come to sudden stops for no reason at all, made me uncomfortable. They would disregard me like divinities gazing dry-eyed upon the earth. A child told me I should partty behind them and strike them with a stick. I ate my meals, for example, Bbw party salt in kampong cham my praty parents and my niece and chaam no one else. When a pig was slaughtered each family in attendance would be called by name and given a bit of fat. Food distribution always took place in two stages: Money was still refusing to disappear, and some among us were dreaming of on millionaires.

Then everything stopped. The atmosphere of those first months, as I perceived it, was characterized more by distrust than by fear. Everything surprised me. Around the same time, we received some sacks of hard corn, an official gift paarty our Chinese comrades. The kernels were huge, pale, and infested by insects. In the old days, ;arty corn was usually fed to pigs, but we picked over those kernels, one by one. A peasant who saw how hungry I was offered me some dog. A man eats a dog, I thought. What an idea. Two friends and I spotted a peninsula, and I swam out to it. I found fish and shellfish there: I tied my catch around my partu and swam back, nearly drowning from sheer fatigue in the process.

The river was ferrying along parts of trees, great blocks of earth, exhausted animals … Why deny it? It was an adventure. I discovered peasant life in all its harshness and power. When I describe how I caught fish with my bare hands? Soon the prohibitions and vexations began to multiply. Communal living grew harder. One morning I saw a harrowing sight: I thought about the famine and all the fighting. Weeks passed. More bodies appeared in the river. Some of them got caught on steel-hard roots near the bank. We went closer. There was no blood, but the bodies had large purple bruises and deep cuts. Those men and women had been executed.

Revolutions are hungry. The prospect of telling my great adventure story began to fade in my mind, as did the hope of returning to my former life. Militiamen hid under the bamboo floor to listen in on our conversations. They heard my father wondering about Ieng Sary. Where was he now? Was he aware of the turn the revolution was taking? Would the two of them meet again? That celebrated name petrified the Khmer Rouge, who spared my parents. The cold season came, heralded by the north wind and the subsidence of the big river. I went home in tears, trembling with fever and staggering in the clayey mud. The rice ripened, the cassava matured, and all the plants gave their fruits.

But the Angkar decided that we had to leave. So we went on foot from Koh Tauch to where a motor boat was waiting for us, and we were taken to the other bank of the Bassac. Frequently these were invented words based on existing ones; they mixed up sounds and meanings in disconcerting ways. Everything seemed to glide. To slip. Why did they use santebal, not the traditional wordnokorbal, to designate the police? Another new word I discovered was kamaphibal. The Khmer Rouge made many families, including mine, climb into these vehicles. We drove into the suburbs of Phnom Penh.

Everything looked empty. But many of the passengers in the trucks rejoiced, thinking they were going to return to their homes and—why not? The convoy of trucks made a sudden turn. We were hungry and thirsty. The truck we rode in rattled along a dirt road that seemed to have no end. It stopped at last in the middle of the rice fields. The trucks discharged their passengers—the air was heavy with dust and gasoline vapors—and the convoy drove off. I tried to make out a village or some kind of shelter, but in vain. The old people, the women, and we children sat down on the road.

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You could hear people murmuring and sighing. Nobody dared to speak. From time to time a Khmer Rouge came out of nowhere, made sure we were all there, and left without a word. I remember the night was starry. Rustling, hissing, croaking sounds rose up from all around us.

The countryside seemed to be in heat. Then the terrible sun began to climb the sky. A soldier brought us some bread and left us there in the middle of the immense rice field. A few days later, we got into some cattle cars in a rail yard. She also harbors a secret, known only to her and her faithful companions. Will her everlasting quest for love ever come to an end? The elections represented a special milestone for Afghan women, who had endured secondclass citizenry their entire lives. Numerous links between past venues in Long Beach, Californiaand Phnom Penh and its artists continues.

For more information please visit: Admittedly, not every vista cries out for a photo op-most rides, at some point, run up against gritty construction sites, dilapidated housing blocks, or traffice. But all that makes you appreciate the better scenery ahead. So grab a good road map from any bike rental shop, quiz your concierge, limber up, and get ready to experience a side of Cambodia that most visitors miss. There are plenty of routes to choose from. Return to the city with a new view on Phnom Penh and on Cambodia. Cross the river by boat and take in this relaxing 30km ride through Cham Muslim communities on quiet back roads to reach the Mekong Islands.

On the islands, cycle through orchards and market gardens. Enjoy the peaceful farmland and learn about the lives of the people who live here. Among projects planned for the country, the re-development of the railway in the not too distant future will mean more disruption to the lifestyles of the people who call this area home. This is the reality of a swiftly developing country. Our ride gives you an opportunity to witness all this and to see the contrast of dense city life and spacious and simple country life. The distance is approximately 60km on mainly flat tracks and small roads.

Your ride starts along the railway tracks out of the city. If we are lucky, we may see a great Cambodian invention, the Bamboo Train.


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