That part of the past, which people lived in persecutory fears, the histories of a nation, translated…
Those who’d endured through that part of the past didn’t want to just follow the streams downward, to pick the past back up, and they couldn’t disregard what had happened completely and move upstream. And so, most had, chosen, to stay still, watching the memories that burned the skin started losing its colors, becoming rusty, waited for it to heal back up, to get returned, to its, original colors………
After a while, memories do become rusty.
Five years ago, I was at the borders of Thailand, Burma, and Laos, commonly known as the “Three Golden Triangle”, just strolling, I saw a grocery store with the pictures of Buddha in frames, so I walked in, and after the seems-to-be forty-years-old shop owner took a look at me, he’d fallen silent, continued, sorting through the groceries.
a photo of the survivors, giving final respects to those who’d died in the events…
Through the translator, Chih, I’d learned that the owner of the shop, Long wasn’t from Thailand, Burma, or Laos, that he was a Cambodian, making a living here. Because I was curious, I’d pulled Chih and Long along, and started carrying on in conversation underneath the gray-colored, leaking rain roof. The sunlight passed through the holes in the rain roof, reflected onto Long’s face, making it dark and glowing at times.
It was, close to ninety degrees Fahrenheit, very uncomfortably hot, I’d already, become drenched in sweat, and Long’s black vest with a dark red elephant printed, his khaki colored work pants, his muddied flip flops, looked cooler to me. But, maybe, because the vest was drenched in his sweat, the elephant on his shirt became the color of the blood from the veins, slow-flowing, and dark. His complexion glowed of the ripened wheat, very even, there was a wooden string of beads on his right wrist, with the colors, just a bit lighter than his own complexion, looking extremely peaceful.
Long is the only Cambodian in the entire marketplace, he’d sold here for five years now, no wife, no child, a single man, who’d come from Siem Reap and through passages in Thailand, and ended here. I’d asked why he was here? Why he’d wanted to set up shop here? Or maybe, it’s because how awkward it’d seemed, to ask him about the past, he’d not answered, just kept working hard, dug out that Cambodian flag, underneath a pile of elephant statues, Buddhist statues, and dug up the pin with the Cambodian flag, sold it to me, it had the pictures of Angkor Wat on it, very delicate, after I took the pin from him, I’d asked “What, is Cambodia like? I really want to visit it next time.”
a painting of what was happening in the camps from back when…
Long became a bit shy, smiled then pointed at the pin in my hand, said, “Good, good”, he knew, that whenever Cambodia was mentioned, the ancient sights are thought of first.
Only Those Without Identities are Allowed to Go Back Home
During the ruling of Khmaey Krahom, they’d retreated two million Cambodians, and sent them to the countryside to labor, forced them to become uneducated, power, identities, and pasts, that they’d needed to become a new breed of people. And, under the new regime, all the professors, doctors, teachers, or anybody with levels of education, were all led to the road to hell by the militia. To this day, whether it be in dreams, on in the hippocampus, a lot of the Cambodians still didn’t DARE recall the past sparingly, or tell of stories of history and past, perhaps, they’d wanted all those memories, to just, become naught, or dissolve in the ground of the concentration camps.
…
Three years eight months later, the regime of Khmaey Krahom dissolved, the Cambodian population was reduced by a quarter. And, what faced the Cambodians, were not the joys of leaving the pains and trials behind, but, they were, all forced, to enter into a kind of psychological warfare. And, this war lasted a total of thirty-six years, until 2014, the leaders of Khmaey Krahom, Khieu Samphan and Nuon Chea were sentenced to life in prison, bringing an end, to what the scholars called as the massacre of countrymen. During the time where the Khmaey Krahom rule, this group of people who were born on the same lands, by the next second, used the weapons against the unarmed individuals’ face or cheeks, with the barrels of the rifles on their heads, demanded, “take out everything you have.”, the key of death being, giving the identities one has in the past, to the red regimes as well.
And, some had not yet able to tell of the stories of the past, and, those who were kept in the concentration camps, S-21 in Phnom Penh, don’t even want to own that part of the past. Back then, 20,000 were taken captive and only seven survived.
………
………
After awhile, I don’t think that any of this would be important, those who couldn’t think about the past of Cambodia are all diagnosed with the Khmaey Krahom Syndrome, but they’d all gotten better slowly by the day. As Phnom Penh was occupied by the group of red soldiers, Long was just born, his memories of that period must not have been clear at all. During noon that day, he was still willing, to smile as he shared the goings on of his hometown, even if it’s just a small part of it, he belonged to a small group of Cambodians with a past now, and I’m sure, that more will start gaining their pasts too.
The Cambodians’ memories of the Khmaey Krahom rule was like being in the Tonle Sap River, trekking upstream, you could reach Cambodia, seeking the peace, the quiet in life; going downstream, although the rule of Red Khmer was over, but the past filled with pain all spanned out from Phnom Penh. Those who’d weathered through that part of the histories don’t want to flow downhill, to pick the past back up again, and they couldn’t totally, discard the past and swim upstream either. And so, many chose to, stay still, watching the burning memories slowly lose color from redness, becoming, the rusty-colored steel, waiting for it to get better, to heal back up.
a painting of torturing the victims in the camps…
So, this, is how hard a part of the shared history of a people can impact the generations, and even though this awful part of the history is over, but, we still read about it in the books, and, although we weren’t a part of that, we can still feel the shocks the people must’ve felt going through the times…and this, is something, that even TIME can’t erase!
Life, the Obstacle Course 