Never

Fall
Down
A novel

Pat rici a M cCo rm ick

 This is a work of fiction based on a true story.

Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

Never Fall Down

Copyright © 2012 by Patricia McCormick
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information
address HarperCollins Children’s Books, a division of HarperCollins
Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.
www.epicreads.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

McCormick, Patricia.
Never fall down : a boy soldier’s story of survival / Patricia
McCormick. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Cambodian child soldier Arn Chorn-Pond defied the
odds and used all of his courage and wits to survive the murderous
regime of the Khmer Rouge.
ISBN 978-0-06-173093-1 (trade bdg.)
ISBN 978-0-06-173094-8 (lib. bdg.)
1. Cambodia—History—1975–1979—Juvenile fiction.
[1. Cambodia—History—1975–1979—Fiction. 2. Party of
Democratic Kampuchea—Fiction. 3. Soldiers—Fiction.
4. Genocide—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M13679Nev 2012 2011052211
[Fic]—dc23 CIP
AC

Typography by Michelle Taormina

12 13 14 15 16 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
❖
First Edition
When Arn Chorn-Pond was eleven, the Khmer Rouge,
a radical Communist regime, came to power in Cam-
bodia, herding the entire population to work camps in
the countryside. Families were separated, and everyone,
including children, was forced to work long, grueling
hours digging ditches and growing rice.
Tens of thousands of people died from starvation,
overwork, and sickness. Many more were tortured,
forced to swear they were traitors, then killed and
buried in mass graves that have come to be called the
Killing Fields.
Nearly two million people died—one quarter of the
population. It is the worst genocide ever inflicted by a
country on its own people.
 CHAPTER ONE
Battambang, Cambodia
April 1975

At night in our town, it’s music everywhere. Rich house.

Poor house. Doesn’t matter. Everyone has music. Radio.
Record player. Eight-track cassette. Even the guys who
pedal the rickshaw cycle, they tie a tiny radio to the handle-
bar and sing for the passenger. In my town, music is like
air, always there.
All the men, all the ladies stroll the park to catch the
newest song. Cambodian love song. French love song.
American rock ’n’ roll. Like the Beatle. Like Elvis. Like
Chubby Checker. Ladies in sarong walk so soft like float-
ing on the street. Men in trouser, hair slick back, smoking
Lucky Strike. Old men playing card. Old lady selling
mangoes, selling noodle, selling wristwatch. Kid flying
kite, eating ice cream. The whole town is out at night.
My little brother and me, we stand in front of the
movie palace and sing for them. We do the twist also.
“Let’s Twist Again, Like We Did Last Summer.” Two
skinny kid, no shoe, torn pants, they like it if we sing for
them; they even give us a few coin.
Tonight I study the crowd, find a lady—fat one,
fat like milk fruit—and slowly, slowly, very sneaky, my
brother and I, we hide behind her skirt, hold on so light
she doesn’t know, and pretend she’s our mom. Kid with
parent can see the movie for free. Kid like us, we pretend.
Inside the movie palace we watch America, black and
white, with airplane, shiny car, and women in skirt so
short they show the knee. War movie, lotta shooting, and
a little bit kissing. For the shooting, my brother and me,
we clap; for the kissing, we hide our face in our shirt.
After the show, it’s the best part—when we do the
movie ourselves. Outside in the park, we fly the plane,
shoot the gun, be the hero. Just like the real soldier fight-
ing right now in the jungle outside of our town. We shoot
probably a hundred bullet, die a hundred time. Then we
hear a whistle, and the sky far away flash white. The palm
tree shiver, and the ground shake. And all of a sudden the
war is real.
I grab my little brother hand and run and run till we get

4
to a little pond near our house. We jump in, water up to our
nose, and hide there. Where nothing bad can find us.

Next day, the music is back and the war is gone. Some-
time the war come close, but never into our city. Most
of the fighting, the radio says, it’s far away, in the jungle.
Government soldiers, they fight for the prince. The bad
guys, I don’t know what they fighting for, but I do know
the prince is a great man. A great man, with important
friend like the widow of the young American president.
And beautiful daughter I saw in the newspaper when she
and the prince go to China. So pretty, I cut the picture
for my wall.
I worry about those two in China. The Chinese eat
bad-smelling food. Where they gonna eat? How they
gonna get home with all this fighting?
But one soldier at the market, high-ranking guy, he
brag about the government fighters. He’s a big, bull-neck
man, this guy who says he know the prince. He says the
war only gonna last one week.
He says the soldiers in the jungle, they not real sol-
diers. Only peasant in black pajama. Not even with real
boot. Sandal made from old tire. We gonna win, he says.
We gonna squish them like cockroach.
So I try not to worry about the prince and princess
and worry instead about how I can make a little money.

5
Sometime I sell ice cream. To sell, you have to have a bell.
A small bell, it sound when you walk so people hear you
coming. But poor kid like me, I buy a cheap one. Old bell
for buffalo. Big. Not good sound. Like old gong around
my neck.
At first nobody buy. Nobody buy my ice cream
because I look like poor kid. So I eat all the ice cream
before it melt. Make myself almost sick. I learn a lesson
then: sell fast before the ice cream melt. Sell fast. Also,
go far. All over town. I walk so much I know this town
like my pocket.
A lot of time kid throw stone at me. Rich kid. Kid
who go to real school, with desk and a hoop for basket-
ball. Not like temple school for poor kid like me, where
you have to do chore, serve the monk, then maybe get a
little teaching. Rich kid, they make a face at me, throw
stones. Sometime I run. Sometime I make a face at them,
too. Then run.
But soon I learn another lesson: you want to sell, you
sneak out from the temple and sell when those kid in
school.

My number one big sister, Chantou, she find out I’m not
at the temple; she get mad. Very mad. “Arn,” she say to
me, “you should be doing chore for the monk, learning

6
the chant, doing schoolwork. Selling ice cream, that’s low
class.”
I don’t tell her the monk sometime are very mean.
I don’t tell her they make us work all the time and that
temple is not like real school. I don’t tell her they get
angry, they hit and say, “You stupid boy.”
Also, I don’t tell her we are low class. She still think
like the old days, when our family owned the opera. My
dad the star, my mom also the star. In our house, big
house on the main road, before the show it was all singer
and musician staying with us, getting ready. Forty people,
maybe. A show every Saturday. Packed. So crowded some
people have to sit on the grass. Our family a little bit rich,
a little bit famous.
Then my father has a motorcycle accident. Hit his
head on the road. At the hospital he yell like it’s still the
opera, like still onstage. Then he die and my mom, she
can’t run the opera anymore. She try. But no leading man,
no opera. So she has to go far away, to Phnom Penh, to
sing and make a little money, and we live with our aunt.
Me and my brother and four sister. My aunt, she have no
kid, so she love us like her own, but not enough money.
That why I go stay at the temple sometime, why I also try
to make money on my own.
I don’t say any of this to my sister. I let her say that it’s
low class what I’m doing.

7
 I want money, but also I want to have fun. Maybe it’s
low class. But it’s okay for me.

Sometime, I steal coconuts. Sometime, the lady next

door, she let me pick the flower to sell. And sometime
I play a game for money. You can say it’s gambling. But
maybe you can say it’s sport, also. Doesn’t matter.
I give the head monk a little money so I can sneak out
of the temple to play. You can say maybe I bribe him. Or
you can say maybe I give him a little gift.
This game, it’s easy for me. You draw a circle on the
ground and put money there. You throw your shoe. You
hit the money, you take it. I lose sometime, but most the
time I win. I play not only with kid, I get so good, many
time I play with the men, the cyclo driver. I tease them.
I say, “You so fat, you can’t see over your belly, man,” and
they get mad and they throw the shoe like crazy and I win.
No other little kid has money like me. This mean I can
buy things for my family. Good food. Grill banana. Coco-
nut cake. Mung bean pudding. Always I give the best thing
to Munny, my little brother. Palm sugar, very sweet, wrap
in palm tree leaf. But one time when I give a treat to my
aunt and my sister, they cry. I don’t know what’s going on
with them. I say, “Why you cry?”
They ask where I got this money. “A little boy like
you, how you get so much money?” They keep pinching

8
me, pinching me, and say maybe I steal it. I tell them the
truth, that I win it. But they don’t believe.
They go see the head monk. They take me, too, pinch-
ing my ear all down the street. “Arn got a lot of money,”
they say. “Where he got it from?”
The monk shake his head like this is very sad news for
him. He tell them the truth, about the shoe game. And
he says, “Arn try to give me some money too, but I don’t
take it.”
I rub my ear and think: next time, no money for that
guy.

In our town is a tree that make hard little seed ball.

Buffalo toe tree. You shake it, the seed, they fall on the
sidewalk. You cut down a reed, you stick the seed inside,
you make a blow gun.
My little brother, he says tonight he’s gonna shoot
our sister in the butt for telling our aunt we sneak in
the movie. This sister, Sophea, she’s in the middle of
us. Younger than me. Older than him. Our favorite for
shooting at. Also she swear and says curse word when we
hit her, and our aunt get mad at her instead of us.
I hug this tree, shake it hard and hear, far off, sound
like thunder. I look at the cloud and wait for rain to fall
like curtain, for the umbrella to pop up like mushroom.
For the hot season to end and the rainy time to start.

9
But no rain is coming. Only truck.
All kinda truck. Mostly jeep and tank, but also Coca-
Cola truck and bus and garbage truck. All full of soldiers.
Young guys. Dark skin and tough, all in black. Black
pajama, black cap. Only with red-and-white scarf tied
around the head.
Most are kid, teenagers. Some of them only a little bit
older than me. Kid with sandal made from car tire. Kid
with gun. And lotta bullet across the chest. And pistol.
And grenade. Some soldier are even girl. Girl with short
hair, angry face.
Now people coming out of all the house. Cheering,
waving white flag. Handkerchief, bedsheet maybe, scarf,
everything white. They run up to the truck and try to
touch the soldier.
Next to me, a guy in blue jean, hair and sideburn like
Elvis, he wave at the truck. I ask him what’s going on.
He says the war is over.
Up and down the street people cheer and yell and
wave the flag. One guy, a cook, he wave a big spoon, also
his apron. The guy who cut the hair, he shake a white
towel. One old lady, no teeth, pink gum like a baby, she
try to kiss one soldier.
Horn honking. Little kid, they run around in circles.
Dog, even, they chase their tail. So I run around, losing
myself, too. I don’t know who are these guy with gun

10
and truck, but I don’t care. No more war. Maybe now the
princess can come home.

All quiet now. The parade is finish, and all the people
inside making food. On the radio it says, “Give the sol-
diers whatever you can. Show that you support them.”
Everyone inside now, except me. Near our house is a
school, a rich-kid school, the one with the basketball
game. Sometime I lean against the wall, look in the win-
dow, and try to learn like the other kid. The letter. The
number. Sometime the teacher, he says scram, and I act
like I don’t care, like maybe I’m just passing by. But today
is no school, so I kick the soccer ball in the yard.
At the corner, five black-pajama soldier stand, smok-
ing cigarette, on a lookout. They’re young, these guys, so
I say, “Wanna play?”
They take the ball like they don’t know what to do.
They kick like they never saw this game before, and I
think maybe I can make a little money off them. But also
they play with a frown face, no fun, always keeping the
gun on the shoulder, so I think maybe not such a good
idea to gamble with these guys after all.
One soldier, the biggest one, he see a kid come by on
a motorcycle, and he yell at this kid to stop. He walk to
the road to talk to the kid and I go too.
He tell the kid, “Give me a turn on your moto.”

11
 You can’t do that. You can’t just ask someone to ride
his moto. So the kid says, “No, I have to go home.”
No warning, the soldier, he hit the kid in the head
with the rifle. And the kid, he sag to the ground, like
his leg go dead, and then fall in the curb. He twitch, and
bubble come from his mouth. Then he stop moving.
I run away, very scared, very fast. I tell my aunt about
this, but she doesn’t believe me. She give me an orange
and says to go celebrate like everyone else. But I keep that
soldier in my mind.

Next day, early in the morning, no temple gong for waking

up, no monk chanting. Strange sound. Voice like machine
and very loud. Truck full of soldier ride down the street.
Shouting in a bullhorn. “We are Khmer Rouge,” they
say. “We are Red Cambodia.” Also, they say the prince
is coming back, that all government soldier should come
meet him at the airport. “All soldier of this town,” they
say. “Come join us.” And the government soldier, they
come out of the house one by one, wearing the uniform
in green. Uniform, hat, boot. Even white glove, some of
them. Medal also. Very fancy. Very proud. And they join
the young guy in the black pajama.
One government soldier, old guy, very high ranking,
living in a big house, his wife grab his sleeve so tight, he
almost can’t go. Another soldier’s wife, young, pregnant,

12
she wave a white handkerchief and cry a little bit. I look
for the bull-neck guy, the one who says he know the
prince, but no sign of him.
I follow these guys into town and run to my friend
house, and throw a stone up at his window. Hong is a rich
boy, and Chinese. His parents own a store, and they have
a pet bird in a gold cage. He have a bike, and sometime
he give me a ride on his handlebar. We go frogging in the
countryside sometime, and sometime we play war. So I
think maybe Hong will want to follow the soldier and
maybe see the prince. Also I think maybe Hong can give
me a ride on his bike.
Now Hong mother come to the window. “Get out of
here,” she says. “Go home.” Hong stick his head out and
give me a sad face. He says his family is going away. Then
his mom shut the window.
They come down, carry the whole house: cooking
pot, blanket, lamp, sausage on a string, record player,
suitcase, rug, sewing machine, and cage with the bird
inside.
“Can Arn come with us?” Hong says to his mom.
“You say everyone has to leave now.”
Hong’s mother, she’s a little bit crazy. Maybe she
doesn’t understand that the war now is over. But Hong’s
family, they also have a television, so sometime her crazy
stories not so crazy.

13
 She look at me. She look at the sausage on a string. I
know this face. My aunt make this face sometime, too,
when maybe not enough food for everyone.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I want to be here when the prince
come.” And in her eye I see Hong mother feel maybe a
little bit relieve.
Hong hold my hand all the way to the train, then his
mother push some money in my pocket. I watch the train
till nothing is left but smoke in the air. Then I look to see
how much money she give me. More money than from
two month selling ice cream.

With no friend, no bike, I follow the soldiers anyhow.

Dusty road out of town, very far, out in the country, near
the frogging pond. Most the time Hong, he a little scared
of frog, so I do it. I tie a little frog to the stick and wait
for a bigger frog to come along and eat him. I always feel
sorry for the little guy, but I tell myself that’s how you
catch your dinner.
But all this walking, all this dust, I get tired, so I lie
down under the banana tree and take a nap. Perfect place
to see the parade when the prince come to our town. Per-
fect place for the princess to notice me.
I think maybe I dream the war is still happening, bul-
let popping, ten, maybe twenty time. But when I open
my eye, no noise. Only the frog in the ditch, calling his

14
friend. And I think: let this guy go. Tonight I have money
for a real supper.

Now the Khmer Rouge march back to town. But no

prince. No princess. No soldier in the green uniforms
either. Only Khmer Rouge. The people in town, they
whisper to each other and run inside. The old wife of
the high-ranking man, she fall on her knee. The pregnant
wife, she hide her face in the handkerchief.
I run home to tell my aunt all of what I see, but when
I get there, I see the bull-neck man; he’s digging in the
ground. He have on too-small peasant clothes, and he dig
with his hand. And bury his uniform under our house.

The next morning, more bullhorn. Outside our house,

on the main road it seem like the whole city is walking
by. Thousand and thousand. Never ever I saw this many
people. Everyone walking. Men, women, little children,
old lady, old men. Everyone carrying rice. And blanket.
And suitcase. One man, like a buffalo, with two heavy
can of water on a stick across his back. Another one,
whole family on his bike. Big parade. Everyone leaving
town like Hong.
They go slow, the sun already hot. And I think: too
bad I got no ice cream. Good day for selling.
Another bullhorn truck, driving crazy. “All people!”

15
the guy yell. “The Americans are coming to bomb the
city!” The people on the highway, they all hectic now,
running. “Prepare to leave city for three days. Go twelve
miles in the country,” he shouts. “In three days you will
be allowed back.” The soldier, he drive wild, like never he
seen a truck before—this way, that way, almost into the
people. “Don’t be chaotic,” he yell. “The Americans are
coming!”
I don’t understand. The American war, in Vietnam,
finish a while ago. But I don’t care. Today, I think, this the
most exciting thing ever to happen here. Real American
coming. Real airplane. I think of Hong on the train with
his mother and her sausage and think: too bad he’s miss-
ing all the excitement.

16
 CHAPTER TWO

I stop, before I run to tell my aunt about the Americans,

and stand in front of the neighbor house. They’re a rich
family with a Mercedes and five girl. Girl always doing
homework. Every night I see them in the window work-
ing hard, so sometime I climb up the mango tree in our
yard and make a face at them.
My number one big sister, Chantou, always says to
quit joking around. Rich people don’t pay attention to
poor people like us.
But one girl in the window, the one same age as me,
the one with eyeglass, sometime she stick her tongue at
me. And now I think maybe I love her a little bit. I don’t
know for sure about this feeling, but I think maybe she
like me a little bit, too.
The father of the rich girl, he stand next to the Mer-
cedes, and argue with a young Khmer Rouge girl.
“No car,” she says. “Bicycle, okay. But no car.”
The father, he has a fat wallet, and he open it. But the
Khmer Rouge girl give him only a frown face and cut his
tire with the knife on the end of her gun.

My aunt, she smack my bottom when I come inside.

“Where you been?” she says. “We need to go. Right now.”
She tell me, carry this and carry that, and she point all
over like crazy. My number one big sister, Chantou, she
has all her college book and a sack of rice. My other big
sisters—Maly and Jorami—they each carry some blanket
and also food, dried fish and small banana. My aunt has a
sack of charcoal and also one can of sardine. My little sis-
ter, Sophea, has a bucket of egg; and my brother, Munny,
has his thumb in his mouth. I take a washtub and my
picture of the princess and my peashooter, and then all of
us, we all run out.
All of Cambodia is on the road. A hundred thousand
people with a hundred thousand thing. Mostly rice. But
all kinda crazy thing, too. One little girl, still in the white
shirt and blue skirt school uniform, she carry a stuff
rabbit, pink, almost big as herself. One man, he wear a

18
suit, like in America or maybe France, and carry just one
baguette, tin of sardine, bottle of wine. An old lady, she
tie a rope around her stomach and pull a pony cart, her
whole house in that cart. One guy has a baby pig tie to a
piece of string. One old lady, she has a gold frame wed-
ding picture and also lotta teacup.
One boy, from the school with the basketball game,
he yell to me from far back in the crowd. “Arn!” he shout.
“Wait up!” This guy a pest. All the time I beat him at the
shoe game, and all the time he want his money back. So I
pretend like maybe I can’t hear him.
He grab my elbow anyhow. “My father, he went to the
airport with the Khmer Rouge,” he says.
This kid’s father is high ranking, so probably he wanna
brag now about seeing the princess or something.
“They shoot my dad,” he says.
Both of us, we stop walking, even though the crowd
push by us.
“How do you know?”
“My big brother, he was hiding in the bush and he
saw.” This kid, his eye blank, he talk in a strange voice,
not like sad, like robot. “They kill him,” he says. “The
Khmer Rouge, they kill them all.”
I understand now. Those bullet I hear in my sleep by
the side of the road, they not a dream. They real.

19
Black smoke is up ahead. We pass through the center
of town, by the movie palace, and see a big fire in the
park. Where the fancy lady and man come out to stroll at
night, where my brother and I do the twist, now a big pile
of thing on fire: radio, television, record player, record,
book—all burning.
We pass the hospital, and the sick people come out,
squinty eye from not seeing the sun in so many day. All
of them in blue nightgown, some of them attach to pole
with liquid in a bag. One old man, his family carry him.
One baby in the middle of the road, no pants, cry like
crazy, but no people stop for him. The crowd, now it’s
like jungle, a jungle of elbow for a short kid like me.
Everyone jab and push. I try to grab onto my aunt skirt,
but the crowd, it sweep her away, swallow my whole fam-
ily up. Then it carry me over the bridge, like my feet not
even touching, and it spit me out on the side of the road.
I look back at the town, palm tree like crown on the
main road, and all the flower, red and gold, like jewel, and
wonder what will be left after the Americans come.

The sun is a white flame in the sky and the road all dust.
Dirt in your nose, in your teeth. The boy with the dead
father, he has dust in his hair, his eyebrow, so he look like
an old man. I carry the washtub on my head so maybe it
will make me taller, make my aunt see me better. Some-
time I try to run to the front of the crowd where maybe

20
my aunt is, but the pot so big and I’m so small, it slow me
down even more. I go so slow I even lose the boy with the
dead father, and now I’m with all stranger.
Next to me is a young guy with a pretty wife, long
braid down her back, big pregnant belly. I walk with
them and pretend that maybe I’m her son. Soon I feel the
woman lean on me. She too weak even to ask, she just
grab on. And so I act tough, like a strong son who can
carry a washtub and also help his mother. After a while,
I feel her arm lift away from me, and she slip to the way-
side. The husband, he call out to the Khmer Rouge. “My
wife!” he says. “She need water.”
The Khmer Rouge, he only grunt. And point with
his gun to go forward. The young guy open his mouth to
say something more, and the Khmer Rouge hit his cheek
with the gun. The guy fall over backward, and the crowd
swallow him up. Him and also his pregnant wife, both
are in the belly of the crowd now, and everyone just walk-
ing forward.
I learn a lesson already. Be invisible around these
Khmer Rouge guys.

All the time now, people fall behind. Very slow, no noise,
they drop at the side of the road. I see this and think
maybe I might do this, too. I can pretend, play sick, and
hide in the grass until everyone gone by. Then I can run
home and maybe see the Americans and their plane.

21
Everybody come back to town in three day, then I’m a
hero.
A ditch is next to the road. Perfect place to hide. But
in the ditch, in the place I pick to hide, is an old lady
lying down, like resting. Her eyes are open, but no life in
them, like dead fish at the market. Everyone pass by, pre-
tend not to see. I feel kinda scare, but I do like the other
people. Inside I say to myself: so this what a dead person
look like.

Hour and hour of marching and still I don’t see my aunt.

Along the road, lotta thing people dropped. Lotta shoe,
all with no match. A suitcase split open, clothes spill-
ing out. Sewing machine, bike, one lace sock. I drop my
peashooter already, I don’t remember when. Also more
bodies now all the time. Some just die while they walk-
ing. Some with blood on the shirt, from the bullet or
maybe the knife at the front of the Khmer Rouge gun,
I think. The baguette man now is under a tree, sitting,
look like taking a nap, except for blood coming out of his
mouth. A little girl in a yellow dress, dirt on her dress,
like people step on her. One whole family dead: a man
hug his baby under him, his wife, her mouth wide-open,
like still screaming.
In just one day a person can get use to seeing dead
body.

22
Finally, at dark, the soldiers say to stop. Some people
just lie down right where they stand, right on the road.
Some go to the side of the road; they set up cook pot and
blanket. I wander all around—sleeping mat and people
everywhere, the good smell of dinner cooking here and
there—until finally I see my aunt. My sister and brother
all close around her, like hen and chick. Never ever in
my life I’m so glad to see them. My aunt give me a little
spank, like she mad, but really she trying not to cry, she
so happy to see me. Then she let me sip sweet milk,
Nestlé milk in the can, my head in her lap, too tired
even to finish.

The next day more walking. We see more body—one, a

baby wrap up, old red sarong around it, not even in the
ground, just put by the side of the road. A big sack of
rice on the shoulder of one fat guy, it split a little and rice
spill out. He can’t see, so people grab some rice from the
ground. Even me. I pick some grain from the dirt, keep
walking.
Now is deep country. Farther than ever I been before.
Farther even than the frogging pond I go with Hong. Very
beautiful here—all gold rice fields, many blue fish pond,
all square, like in checker cloth, very neat, very pretty.
No people in these village. Only dog eating trash.

23
 We get to one empty field and the Khmer Rouge in
charge, he says some people, maybe a thousand, can stop
here, make a camp. The rest of us, he says, keep going.
Another field, maybe another one thousand, can stop.
This one guy, he pick who can stay and who keep walk-
ing. At the next field, he pick a man with an accordion,
the kid with the baby pig. Also, he let in the boy with no
father. I feel sad for this kid, no dad now, just like me, but
also a little bit jealous. He can stop marching now. Also
maybe he can hear this accordion sometime.
Finally, the Khmer Rouge says we can stop. He says to
make a hut. “Cut down the tree, use the branch, the leaf,”
he says. “Eat the fruit, anything you can find. This rich
guy, he own the land, he can give it to the Revolution.”
I don’t know what this is, this Revolution. But I think
maybe this guy not too smart. The rich, they chase you
if you steal their things. Poor people, they the one who
share.

Three day. The Khmer Rouge say we go back to town in

three day. Now it’s already one week. Already New Year’s
passed, time for fun, for big meal, for gambling.
My little brother, Munny, he run up to a soldier
and ask when we can go home. I think maybe this guy
gonna get mad, but he just says the same thing as before:
three day.

24
 Munny, he wait three day, then he ask the solider
again. Three day, he say. Always the same answer, even
after three day already pass.
All this time and still no Americans, still no bomb.

One night, two Khmer Rouge with a little book, they

come to our hut. We make it nice, a sheet on a banyan
tree, big branch, soft ground, blanket all over, even one
pillow.
“Give us the name in this family,” they say.
My number one big sister, Chantou, she says all the
name fast, so fast the guy with the pencil, he hang his
mouth open, catching flies. Then he grip the pencil, like
squeezing a chicken neck, like never he seen a pencil
before, and make mark in his book. Mark like little kid
make. Clumsy.
“Give us your background,” they say. “Tell us what job
you have.”
My aunt says only that we sell in the market. She
doesn’t tell about the old days, about my family having
the opera. Always she brag about this before; today she
doesn’t say it, I don’t know why. And the Khmer Rouge,
they write everything down.
“Now you grow rice,” they say. “We all the same now.
No more elite. Even city people have to grow rice.”
They don’t explain, just go to the next hut.

25
I follow these guy. My little sister, Sophea, she come, too.
She says she gonna tell our aunt if I don’t let her. Also she
says she can protect me, make sure I don’t get in trouble.
She’s skinny and a girl, but also she’s brave and climb tree
and know how to swear, so I say okay. We hide in the
bush behind the two Khmer Rouge when they go hut
to hut. Same thing each time. “Give all the name,” they
say. “Tell us what you do.” And they write it down in the
book.
Sometime they ask about other people in the camp.
“The man next to you. He a teacher? A doctor? He a
soldier?” they say. “Give us the names of all professional
people, all high-ranking people.”
Also they take people’s belonging. Flashlight, pencil,
toy, photograph, money, and wristwatch, always wrist-
watch. One Khmer Rouge guy, he take so many watch
he have six or seven on one arm. One old man, I see him
throw his watch in the bush before the Khmer Rouge can
take it. One lady, she bury her ring in the dirt.
When the Khmer Rouge get to the hut of the bull-
neck guy, this guy, he look at the ground. He give them
a strange name, not his real name, and says he is farmer.
One soldier, the guy who strangle the pencil, he start to
write down this answer. But another guy, this guy with
lotta bullet strap on his chest, he put the tip of his gun

26
under the bull-neck man’s chin. He lift his head.
“But your skin so pale, comrade,” he says.
The bull-neck man, he’s quiet.
The soldier with the bullet, he pretend like he now
talking to the other soldier, but really he says this loud,
for everyone to hear. “This is not a man who spend his
days in the sun. This is a man who lie.”
The two Khmer Rouge tie this guy by the hand and
take him away.

The Khmer Rouge, they want the name, the background

of everyone here. But the Khmer Rouge themself, they
all the same. All black uniform. All grim face. All name
“Comrade.” Comrade Soldier. Comrade Elder. Comrade
Cook.
In my mind, I give them names. The one who steal is
Comrade Wristwatch. And the one who all day clean his
nails I call Comrade Lazy.
But they only say “Comrade” this and “Comrade”
that. Because they don’t want us to know the real name.

Every day now, we all work in the field. Planting, digging

ditch, hard work and in the sun. Everyone. Children, old
people, everyone work together. Only time for rest is to
use the latrine, maybe to get water from the stream. One
time, when I take Munny to the bush to pee, I see, in the

27
wood, big pile of dirt. A pile tall as a house. Fresh, like
just dug. And not a good smell. Sweet and also like rot.
Like nothing I ever smell before.

The Khmer Rouge measure rice for each family with can.
Nestlé can. Half can for each family. Maybe some salt
also. Our family rice almost gone. Only a little left. Like
maybe twenty grain.
So my aunt, she dig a little in the earth. I think maybe
for mushrooms. Maybe for herb. Maybe wild plant. Some-
thing for the soup. She come back, just a little dirt in her
hand.
Only way to make it thick, she says.

The Khmer Rouge come to the hut next to us, check the
little book, then tell the father to come out. They say an
oxcart is stuck in the mud. “You,” they say to the father.
“Come help us move it.”
This man is teacher, mathematic teacher at the rich-
kid school. Skinny guy, thick eyeglass, no muscle, soft
hand. Why the Khmer Rouge not choose a strong guy? A
farmer, maybe, or a guy from the river barge?
His wife, she’s crying now, but the man says to hush.
Very slow, like maybe he’s going somewhere important,
like maybe to business meeting, he tuck in the shirt,
brush the wrinkle out of his pant, comb his hair. Then he

28
kiss each kid on the head very slow. His wife, he kiss her
last. Then he leave with the soldier.
Three day go by and this guy never come back. The
dirt pile in the woods, every day it get bigger. They don’t
explain, but I figure what they doing. They kill everyone
who used to be rich or high ranking. Anyone with educa-
tion. All the soldier, the teacher, the doctor, the musician.
Anyone poor, no problem. World is upside down. Being
rich now is no good. Being poor, this can save your life.
The list in the black book, that’s how they decide who
live, who die.

All the time now we hear girl screaming, girl running, girl
crying. At night but also sometime in the daytime. All
the time, the Khmer Rouge they chase the girl, cut the
hair. Sometime with scissor, sometime with knife. Chop
short, to the chin, like boy. The girl, they cry and some-
time they run. They run, it’s no good. The Khmer Rouge
maybe shoot them, maybe take them to the bushes, do
whatever they want. A lot of the girl afterward, they pull
on their hair, pull like maybe they can stretch it, make it
long, make it beautiful again.
My number two big sister, Maly, her hair like silk.
Most proud thing about her, her hair. Shiny black, like
blue, like a crow has. Every night she brush her hair, every
morning. Sometime even she brush her hair not thinking,

29
just dreaming maybe about the boy she love. One morn-
ing I wake up before everyone and see her making the
rice. Her neck, it’s bare now, her skin there is pale, never
saw the sun, her long hair gone. Last night while I was
asleep, the soldier, they cut her beauty. So now when she
give me a bowl of rice soup, her eyes stay on the ground.

The Khmer Rouge, today they make us go in two group.

One group men, one group women. And they tell us: strip
bare. My brother and me, we cover ourself, put our hand
in front. One man near me, he unzip his trouser, dark
blue, straight line down the front; he take them off very
neat and fold them into a square. Very slow. Very scare.
Then I see wetness next to his foot, small puddle of pee.
The Khmer Rouge, they take all the clothes, they
check the pocket for anything they can take, then put
all pant and shirt in a pile. They hand out black pajama
for everyone and say get back to work. We go back to the
camp and see all the women, all the girls, now also in
black pajama. A thousand people all the same.
We go to work then, a thousand black ant in the rice
field, and we smell the burning. All the old clothes, our
old life, one big pile, is on fire now. And gone.

Many time at night the Khmer Rouge make us come to

meeting. All day we work, at night we have meeting.

30
“Brothers, sisters,” says the megaphone man. His cheeks
fat like plum, his voice kindly and cheerful. Like a grand-
father maybe. “Comrade, today we begin a new era of
happiness. Now all of us, we live as equal, no rich, no
poor.”
He says all of us, we have to give away what we own.
“Everything belong to Angka now,” he says. Every pot
and pan and bowl and spoon. “Do not be afraid,” he says.
“Angka will provide all that you need.”
I don’t know this word, Angka, but I know not to ask.
Then the soldier come and take everything. Pot. Pan.
Blanket. Pillow. Bucket. Toy. Fishing net. Cart. Lantern.
Everything. My number one big sister, Chantou, she give
her college book, tear running down her face; and my
number two sister, Maly, she give her hair brush. I give
my picture of the princess.
Our hut is bare now. No thing in it. Only people.

That night, a big feast. Rice and fish, soup with lemon-
grass and morning glory. All of us, we eat together. Long
table in a long hut. Plenty of food. All for sharing. The
grandfather guy, he smile, like Buddha. But the soldier,
they keep the gun point at us.

Next day, they wake us up to work at 4 a.m. We work

until dark. Dinner is rice soup and salt.

31
No water buffalo at this camp, so the kid, we have to
walk on the rice husk, back and forth, back and forth, till
it split open and the grain come out. We pound it with
our feet. Hard work. And boring. And hot. Also, tough
on the feet.
One girl, short hair like all of them, she notice the
guard not looking; she stick her tongue at me. I know
this girl. She’s from the next-door family, the family
with the Mercedes. The young one. I stick my tongue
back. We work longer, pounding the rice, then one time,
I brush my arm on her. She pinch me next. And I think:
okay, this is love.
Then, from nowhere, a guard yells, “Stop!” And we
see a guy running, very fast, away from the men’s group,
the group that dig the canal. I know this guy. Back in the
city, he flirt all the time with my number three sister,
Jorami, and one time give us a free ride on his cyclo. This
guy, I watch him now; he run this way and that way, and
the guard shoot, but the bullet go into the air. And then
he disappear into the jungle.
The rich girl, she squint like she can’t see so far.
“Where your glasses?” I ask.
She make a mad face and tell me to shut up. She
whisper then. “The Khmer Rouge, they kill people with
glasses,” she says. “Anyone with glasses must be high

32
ranking and go to a real school.” She squint at me. “The
Khmer Rouge, they ask you about my family, you tell
them we poor, okay?”
I look at her. Weak eye from so much book reading at
night. Round tummy. Soft hand. And I think no one ever
will believe that. But I say okay.

That night, everyone whisper about the runaway guy. My

sister Jorami, she sit outside our tent all night, looking
to the jungle, like waiting to see him. In my dream I see
him. No bullet can catch him. All day he hide in the
jungle; and now, at dark, he sneak out to the main road.
And very slow, very quiet, he run back home.

One day the Khmer Rouge come for the father of the
rich girl. They say he has special skill; they need him. We
don’t see him that night. The next day the whole family
is gone, the soup still cooking on the fire.

My little brother, his stomach now getting bloat, full of

air from no food. He cry at night, he beg me, he says,
“Arn, remember the palm sugar candy you buy with your
gambling money? Tell me again, what it look, how it
taste.” I tell him no; I tell him remembering this good
food only will make us miss it more. But one time when
Comrade Lazy clean his nail, I pick a little mint leaf from

33
the field and sneak it to my pocket. That night my brother
and me, we fall asleep chewing this little leaf, but in our
mind is candy.

My sister Jorami, every night she sit outside and look to

the jungle for the runaway man; and in the daytime she
look up from the field a hundred times, always waiting in
her eyes.

One old man digging a ditch, he fall down. He cry and

says he’s too old for this hard work. A Khmer Rouge come
to him, says, “You tired of working? Okay. We take you
someplace you can rest.”
Never again we see that old guy. But the dirt pile, it
get bigger all the time. Bigger and worse smell. Like rot.
And also like some kinda gas. And flies all over. That pile,
now it’s like mountain.

Tonight it’s another meeting. These meeting, some-

time they last four hour. Always, someone talking about
Angka. Sometime, you so tire, you fall asleep. But you
too afraid the Khmer Rouge will see, so you sleep, your
eyes open.
This night one Khmer Rouge, a high-ranking guy, he
take money from his pocket and rip it into shred. I wake
up for this, to see someone so crazy he tear up money.

34
“No need for money now,” he says. “No school, no store,
no mail, no religion. No thing from the American, from
the imperialist. In Cambodia, now it’s Year Zero.”
No one can talk at these meetings. No one allowed.
But one old lady, she mutter. “This guy is not the prince.
The prince, he’s the only one who can decide; only he can
say this.”
I think the Khmer Rouge gonna kill her, but the man,
again, he make a Buddha face. “Angka,” he says, “sees what
inside your heart. The prince, he has two eyes. Angka, as
many as a pineapple.”

Angka. We hear this word all the time now. Angka will
end corruption. Angka will double the rice crop. Angka
will cut out what is infected. Angka will make Cambodia
great again. The Khmer Rouge, they don’t explain this
word, only tell us Angka now is in charge of our country,
and new rule is we have to clap when we hear this word.
Not regular clapping. Everyone start at one time. Every-
one stop at one time.

Three month at this place and my sister Jorami, her beau-

tiful face now is old, her eyes not waiting anymore. The
Khmer Rouge, they make people disappear all the time.
My sister, she disappear little by little every day.

35
The Khmer Rouge, they organize everything. Then they
organize it again. They make two group: base people and
new people. Base people are the good one, peasants from
the rural area, the Khmer Rouge say, hard and dug out of
the earth like diamond. New people, city people, are bad,
not pure, lazy like imperialist, like America, like lackey.
Bad from soft living.
Base people get two can of rice soup, new people only
one. Base people are strong. New people are weak. But
in the rice field, new people do the work; base people
watch.
We work this way for another month, maybe more,
then the Khmer Rouge organize us again. New work unit,
they say, will be men with the men, women with the
women, children with the children. Each work unit will
go to a different farm. Men to one, women to another.
Kid like my age will go to one, kid my little sister Sophea
age will go to another. Kid who are almost adult, like my
three big sister, they go somewhere else. Kid who are too
little to work, like my brother, they will go to school. All
families now will be split; parents must give their chil-
dren to Angka.
“Bring only the clothes on your back,” they tell us.
“Angka will provide everything you need.”
Also, they say, we only will be gone for three day.

36
We all keep a stone face at the meeting. But back at our
hut, all my sister, they start to cry. “No crying,” my aunt
says, very strict. “You cry only in your mind.”
Then she hold us all in her arm. “Do whatever they
say,” she whisper. “Be like the grass. Bend low, bend low,
then bend lower. The wind blow one way, you bow that
way. It blow the other way, you do, too. That is the way
to survive.”
But later, when everyone else asleep, I hear my aunt,
her tears, they fall like rain.

37