I hear Eang playing with Maria in the living room, so I hold my breath to calm myself down. Part of me wants to go to Eang, but my fear of her seeing me so upset prevents me from getting out of the tub.
“Kgo, is that you?” Maria’s voice from outside the bathroom shocks me out of my paralysis.
“Yes, honey. I’ll be out in a few minutes. Go play with Mommy, okay?” I control my voice to make it sound calm for her.
“Okay,” she agrees and off she trounces into her happy world.
My moment of weakness fades, and slowly I begin to feel the flickering of a warm fire in my stomach again. Then, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remember the sex education class about menstruation and puberty. I clean myself up and hide all evidence of my blood and weakness from my family.
the ung family
My mother, Ung, Ay Chourng.
My father, Ung, Seng Im.
NOTE: All photos courtesy of the author unless otherwise identified.
My family with our car—the only picture we have of all the seven siblings together. (From left to right) Khouy, me, Ma (holding Geak), Chou, Keaw, Meng, and Kim (1974).
Chou and me (right) (1975)
Meng, me, and my sister-in-law Eang Tan on our first day at the refugee camp in Thailand (1980). We had just gotten off the boat at Lam Sing.
Meng, Eang, and me on our last day at the camp (1980). Even eighteen months after the Khmer Rouge’s defeat, my stomach, swollen from malnutrition, still carried memories of the war.
Meng, me, and Eang when we arrived at Burlington International Airport, Vermont. I was so excited, I buttoned my shirt wrong (1980).
Eang was twenty-four and Meng was only twenty-three in 1980, when they became my protectors and parents. As an adult, I’m grateful they raised me the way they did.
Me in my Tom cat costume going trick-or-treating on my first Halloween (1980)
Kim and Chou wore their best clothes to pose for this picture to send to Meng when we reconnected again in 1984.
This is how I always remember Chou—gentle, soulful, and kind (1985).
Chou and Pheng on their wedding day (1985).
Their arranged marriage blossomed into love (1990).
My little angels, Maria and Tori (1990).
Hong and Chou remain great friends (2000).
Kim and me in Cannes, France, in 1991. It was the first time we’d seen each other since I left Cambodia in 1980.
Kim and Huy Eng were married in Cambodia and France in 1994.
That little backpack was all I packed for my six-week solo trip to China, Thailand, and Cambodia in 1995! (Heidi Randall)
Meng, in the center, with friends and family during his 1995 trip to Cambodia.
In my twenty-plus trips back to Cambodia since 1995, I never cease to get excited when I see these sights:
Wat Byron is my favorite because it reminds me of Pa. (Heidi Randall)
A cyclo ride around the city still makes me smile with memories of Ma. (Heidi Randall)
Phnom Penh is now a busy, vibrant city. (Heidi Randall)
I love Cambodia’s country landscapes.
Khouy’s house in the village (1995).
The red dirt road to Chou’s village. This is what I see every time I return. (Heidi Randall)
At ninety-four, Amah is the matriarch V of four generations of Ungs (1999).
Meng, Khouy, Kim, Chou, and me. This was the first time in nineteen years we were all together (1999).
When I arrive at Chou’s house, the first thing I do is eat. (Left to right) Morm, me, Mum, Chou, Aunt Keang, Aunt Hearng, and Moi (2001).
After we eat, we look at the pictures Meng sends of our families in America.
Kim, Huy Eng, Nancy, and Nick (2001).
A family visit to Angkor Wat.
Khouy and his family (2002).
Chou and her family (2002).
Meng, Tori, Eang, and Maria. Maria, Tori, and I all wore the same Cambodian dress on our graduation day (2002).
A wonderful mother—Chou with her daughters.
Mark and me on our wedding day (2002).
Sisters are forever. Chou and me at a wedding (2003).
17 betrothed
October 1985
Chou wakes up to a red sky outside and wonders if the gods are angry today. Usually in October, the gods thunder relentlessly, turn the clouds black, and blow wind so powerful that brown coconut fruits drop from the trees. Then the skies open and heavy rains soak the ground and flood the lower land. Lately, the gods have been merciful and only wet the land with the morning dew. In the dry season, Chou can rise with the sun to cook the family meals and do her chores. But during the monsoon season, Chou has to get up when the moon is still bright to build a fire out of damp wood. Usually before the family rouses from their sleep, Chou has cooked rice soup and dried everyone’s damp clothes by fanning them over the fire. Sometimes she is so tired that she takes a quick nap in her squatting position next to the fire, but never for too long so she has time to send her family off in warm, dry clothes smelling of smoke.
But the rain gods did not drench the land this night so Chou has been able to sleep in. The red sky is crimson orange when she finally makes her way to the kitchen. Aunt Keang has already made their rice soup. After each member of the family eats a hearty bowl, Kim and all the male cousins leave for school and the elders head for the rice paddies to grow their rice and for the ponds to catch their fish. From her spot leaning over the dirty dishes, Chou watches wistfully as Kim’s figure disappears around the bend in the road.
“Chou,” Aunt Keang says softly, “today is your school day.” Chou’s smile spreads widely.
“Yes,” she says. “I’ll get all my work done before I leave for school.”
Since the school opened three years ago, Chou has dreamed of attending. But eight months before, Aunt Keang gave birth to her seventh healthy child, a baby boy she named Nam. Though the family rejoiced, Chou was not smiling very widely that day because she knew there was yet another baby she’d have to take care of. With her oldest cousin Cheung married with a family of her own, and the next oldest, Hong, busy looking after Amah, Chou is left to take care of the small children and do the chores. However, in Nam’s first few days of life, Chou quickly fell in love with his sweet disposition and neediness. As the children’s caregiver, Chou has to bring Nam everywhere with her while Aunt Keang works on the farm. As much as she loves him, having him attached to her has slowed down her work, leaving her no time to attend school. Then unexpectedly, Aunt Keang decided that Chou could go to school if she took baby Nam with her. Chou has been brimming with happiness ever since.
“No need to worry about washing the clothes today. I’ll do it when I return from the fields. Why don’t you go get our water while I look after the children,” Aunt Keang tells her.
“Thank you, Second Aunt.” Chou watches Aunt Keang with amazement as she scoops her infant son up with one arm while grabbing the hand of another small child running beside her like a baby chick.
Quickly, Chou ties the cows to the wagon and heads off to the pond to collect water. When she returns, Aunt Keang leaves Nam with her and returns to the fields. For the next hour while Nam sleeps, Chou washes the big pile of the family’s dirty clothes and the baby’s diapers. Afterward, she lets him cry in his hammock as she splits the wood for the fire. By the time Kim and the cousins return at half past eleven, Chou has cooked rice and stir-fried leeks and bamboo shoots with fish ready for lunch. After the meal, Aunt Keang and Uncle Lang rest in their hammocks while the young people continue with the housework. When her shadow is directly scrunched under her feet, Chou watches Nam while she scrubs the black pots and dishes and waits excitedly for her turn to go to school. Because there are many more students than teachers or schools, Khmer classes run two times a day; the morning session runs from seven A.M. to eleven A.M., and the afternoon session lasts from one P.M. to five P.M.
“Stop!” Chou screams suddenly from the kitchen, st
artling the family. “Stop wasting my water!” Chou runs up to Kim, who stands dumbly next to a muddy old bicycle. “Stop wasting my water!” Chou grabs the water container from his hand and tosses it back into the jug.
“Are you crazy? What are you doing?” Kim flinches from Chou’s raised fists.
“Don’t use my water to wash your bicycle! Take it down to the pond! I’m going to school today and I don’t have time to collect more water!” Chou glares at him, her eyes bulging.
“Fine, fine!” Kim is red-faced with embarrassment and quickly wheels his bike away. As her blood pressure returns to normal, Chou grabs a washcloth and runs to Kim.
Like many other Cambodians, Chou’s education was halted the four years under the Khmer Rouge regime. After the Khmer Rouge, there were very few teachers available to teach because Pol Pot had killed so many of them. The teachers who survived opted to teach in the big cities like Phnom Penh and Siem Reap. Here in the village, there is only one school in Chou’s province to serve all the children from the surrounding villages. And in families like hers where there are many children, it is usually the boys who are allowed to attend school while the girls stay behind to work and look after the other children.
“Kim, take this to wash your bike.” Chou hands him the rag as a way to apologize.
“Learn well in school,” Kim replies with a smile as he takes it from her.
As he walks away, Chou remembers the many times Kim has been there for her. When they have free time, Kim and the male cousins frequently roam watering holes and fields to pick morning glory, green tamarinds, mangos, and other plants and fruits to sell for extra money. But before they can take it to the market, the boys hide their goods under the plank. Sometimes, when they’re not looking, Chou will steal from the stash and sell it back to the boys for cheap. Chou smirks while doing this, thinking she is very clever and mischievous. When the boys place the money in her hands, her fingers quickly clamp over the bills like iron claws before they can take it back. As she runs away, her smile widens because she knows that Kim knows she stole from them and that he will never say anything about it.
In addition to keeping Chou’s secret, Kim also helps her learn to read and write. At night, after the boys finish with their chores, Kim and the cousins are usually allowed to burn one candle in order to study and do their homework. As the candle flickers on and off their faces, Chou rocks the baby in a hammock next to them and joins in when the boys sing the Khmer alphabet songs. As the boys learn to put the vowels and consonants together to form words, Chou repeats after them. Sometimes Kim becomes so focused on his work that he doesn’t realize Chou’s been standing behind him for several minutes, peering over his shoulder. When he’s not too busy, Kim will take the time to teach her what he’s learned. Other times, he waves Chou away in annoyance, the way he would a fly. But today, Chou will go to school to learn her own lessons.
“Aunt Keang, I’m going to school now!” Chou hollers and picks Nam up.
“Go ahead,” Aunt Keang replies from inside. Hurriedly, Chou grabs a few kramas, a ball of rice wrapped in a banana leaf, and her blue cloth bag, then rushes off before her shadow becomes too long.
On the short walk, Chou switches Nam from one hip to another. Her free hand clutches at the faded bag containing the few sheets of paper Kim spent his hard-earned money to buy. Nestled in between the clean pages are the boys’ used and discarded exams. To study, Chou would often take these used exams and copy the questions on a clean sheet of paper so she’d be able to take the same tests. When she’d get an answer wrong, she’d reprimand herself like a real teacher and study even harder. And when her marks had been good, she’d proudly show them to Kim and he’d shower her with more old papers and lessons.
Walking with a brisk stride, Chou stays on the path and avoids the roadside crowded with thick, reddish green, leafy shrubs covered in fine orange dust. Above them, green tamarind trees hanging heavy with fruit provide shade from the hot sun. In the distance, the wind blows lightly and swirls dust into the air. Chou imagines Pa smiling proudly at her from afar while Ma applauds her bravery.
“Ma, Pa,” she calls out softly to them, “I am a good girl. I know how to work hard. Kim is a very good student. Second Brother is happy with his new family. And Eldest Brother and Loung are safe and well. You don’t have to worry about us anymore.”
As she speaks, she sees Ma and Pa’s faces darken and wrinkle with worry every time they look at her. Wherever their spirits are, she wants desperately to ease their concerns. “Ma, Pa, I miss you every day very much. But you don’t have to worry about me.” She crinkles her nose, wipes her forearm against her eyes, and continues on.
When she finally arrives at the school, Chou walks to the back corner of the wall-less thatch-roofed building and takes a seat on one of the wooden benches. Chou places her bag on the rough wooden table, then quietly unwraps Nam and lets him loose on the dirt floor.
Around her, students of ages ranging from sixteen to eighteen sit quietly. Chou looks around the room and sees that she’s the only one who has brought a baby with her to class. As the others take out their pencils and paper, Chou can hardly contain her excitement because, at seventeen, this is the first formal school she’s attended since the Khmer Rouge takeover. When the teacher enters the room, Chou is surprised to see a handsome man in his twenties. Though he is not much older than she, his clean white shirt, blue slacks, and teacher status give him the authority of one who is much older. She sits primly in her seat but feels like she’s a caged alligator who’s just been released in the water.
“I see we have a new student today,” the teacher announces. “Miss, tell the class your name.”
“My name is Chou Ung,” Chou stands up.
“Have you been to school before?”
“Yes, lork kru.” Chou calls him lork kru, which means “lord teacher” in Khmer, and neglects to tell him it’s been ten years since she last went to school.
“Do you know basic reading and writing?” lork kru asks.
“Yes, lork kru,” Chou replies, and hopes he doesn’t ask her to write something on the blackboard as a test.
“Good.” Lork kru accepts her answer. Then he stares directly at Nam next to her and asks, “Is he yours?”
“No, lork kru. My apologies, lork kru. He is my nephew. My aunt is busy with work every day and there’s no one else but me to look after the baby. I want very much to go to school, lork kru. I—”
“Enough.” Lork kru stops her and turns to the blackboard to write down the lesson for the day.
For the next few hours, Chou scribbles the day’s words excitedly on the sheet of paper Kim gave her, and Nam quietly plays by himself. When the baby begins to fuss, Chou picks him up and bounces him on her lap.
“Shhhh. Shhhh,” she shushes him when he starts to cry.
“Chou,” lork kru calls. Chou closes her eyes briefly and mumbles a silent prayer.
“I’m sorry, lork kru,” Chou speaks, raising her eyes to meet the teacher’s.
“Keep the baby quiet,” he warns.
“Yes, thank you,” Chou answers. For the next few minutes, Chou tries to hush the baby, to no avail. The boy is awake and gurgling, and moments later Chou notices that her sleeves and lap are wet. In his body hammock, Nam laughs contently Lork kru glares at Chou from his desk.
“Sorry, lork kru.” Chou bows her head and walks outside with her back bent low to the ground to show the teacher respect. While the other students continue, Chou sets Nam on the floor, then wrings out his wet scarf and hangs it on a tree branch to dry. With one eye on the teacher and one on Nam, Chou chews the rice in her mouth to make it into paste and feeds it to the baby. After he’s fed, Chou cradles him in a krama and ties it diagonally across her chest. Full and sleepy, Nam yawns and wriggles in his little hammock as Chou lightly pats his bottom. When he struggles against her chest, Chou calms him by putting a finger in his mouth. Nam holds on to her finger and suckles it like a nipple, until finally, sl
owly, he falls asleep.
Chou and Nam come home from school in time to witness Hong’s viewing party.
“They’re here already?” Chou asks Kim, who sits alone outside under a tree.
“Yes, they’ve been here for about half an hour.”
Chou knows this is difficult for Kim to watch and that’s why he’s sitting outside by himself. A viewing party is when the prospective groom and the elder members of his family pay a formal visit to the prospective bride and her family to find out if a marriage can be arranged between them. For many families, it is also a time for the two families to get to know each other, to see if they like each other, and if their children like each other. When all that is assured, they then discuss the dowry, the wedding parties, and where their children will live once they’ve married.
“Have you been inside?” Chou asks Kim gently.
“For a few minutes, but it’s very hot inside, so I came out here for some air.”
Chou knows that this is not entirely true; even though he no longer talks about Huy Eng, Chou knows Kim still thinks about her. It’s been one year since Kim first saw Huy Eng climb a mango tree. While the other boys teased her for acting like a boy, Kim was impressed with her speed and skill as she balanced herself on the swaying branches to reach the fruit. He was then eighteen and Huy Eng was a petite and pretty sixteen-year-old girl. In the months that followed, he never spoke of his feelings for Huy Eng, but Chou could see how his face bloomed like an opened lotus flower whenever she was near. Huy Eng’s family runs a small stall selling soy sauce and spices in the market, so every day after school and work, Kim could be found loitering around her family’s stall, making friends and small talk with her eleven older siblings.