INTRODUCTION:
After Khmer Rouge, led by Pol Pot, ousted the democratic Lon Nol’s government and took complete control of Cambodia on April 17th, 1975, the jubilation lasted for less than 12 hours. That afternoon at 3:00 P.M. Khmer Rouge started to empty the city of Phnom Penh and the city went into chaos. The Khmer Rouge announced, “Everyone must leave the city immediately for three days so that we can clean up the city. Then you would be allowed to return to your home.” Once all the people who had no political ties with the communist Khmer Rouge arrived at the countrysides; the farm, they turned everyone into farmers and peasants. Then the killing began. ?
Salt Seeker is a vivid and poignant personal account of my survival of the Cambodian genocide under dictator Pol Pot. Salt Seeker is a story of my journey through hell on earth and back from April 17, 1975 to January 7, 1979. Hope and strength of will kept me alive as I watched others including many relatives die or more often just "disappear."
Excerpt:
“Why do you have to keep those fighting fish outside our room? Why don’t you get rid of them? The mosquitoes are eating me alive again – look at my arms! Why don’t you spend your time reading or trying to learn something new?” I almost fell off the chair as I was trying to dodge the blow.
“Ouch, why do you always slap my head? I don’t think that all of these mosquitoes came from my fish jars. I saw many mosquito larvae in the neighbor’s house and in the puddles in front of the house. My fish usually eat all the larvae that I put in the jars. You shouldn’t give me a hard time about my fish all the time. You know quite well that I don’t spend all day playing with fish,” I replied without looking at his face.
“I’m going to hit you even harder if you don’t stop talking back to me.” He raised his hand but decided to walk away shaking his head.
My other brother, Sithon, sister, Manny, and Tavith were always complaining about my collection of Beta fish. They yelled and threatened me with a bamboo stick. Sometimes they whipped me a little, and I just wanted to move away from them. They preferred to see me reading books, learning Khmer, and solving math problems. Since I usually fed my Beta fish with mosquito larvae, the leftover larvae became mosquitoes and then they did the eating – of us! This was one of my favorite hobbies, and even though I was attacked verbally and physically, I was not about to give up the joy of raising fish and pitting them against each other just because we got a few bumps on our arms.
My father poked his head into the kitchen and interrupted the exchange before heading out to work. He said to me, “When you are finished with your studies today, stick close to the house. The radio reports have warned that the Khmer Rouge is moving closer to Phnom Penh. I want you close to the bunker. I don’t want you to play with your friends in the street for the next few days. I mean it. I know that you like to play with your friends on the street.”
He gingerly tapped my head. Then he picked up his briefcase, got on his motorcycle, and rode away from Tuol Kork toward his job in Phnom Penh city center, less than five miles away. Prior to the war, Tuol Kouk was a peaceful place to live. The property belonged to my maternal grandparents. My family was grateful that they had allowed us to live with them for the last twelve months; before we moved in with them, my family lived in a rented home in another part of Tuol Kork.
There were many ponds filled with vegetation for humans and animals around that area. People built their wooden houses on pilings far apart from each other. They were roofed mostly with tin. When my family moved into my grandparents’ home, we built living quarters under the house within the pilings. It was a small living space, but we dealt with it until the war between the Lon Nol’s regime and the Khmer Rouge was over.
My family did not have to pay rent; we only had to pay for electricity. Since we only used about three forty-Watt lights at night, it was quite affordable. We had neither gas nor electric stove. By using a wood-burning stove, we saved extra money to buy food, clothes, and gasoline for my father’s motorcycle. We did have the luxury of running water. Moreover, we collected rain and stored it in three big cement pots for drinking and cooking. We had an outdoor toilet and a place to shower. There was no hot water boiler because the temperature never dropped below 70 degrees Fahrenheit.
We were frugal. Often, I wished that my parents would have the money to rent or to buy a bigger place. As a nine-year-old, I was incapable of helping my parents financially. Since we had a large family of eight, my parents could not afford to have a car. However, we had a motorcycle and three bicycles. My father rode the motorcycle to work Monday through Friday and the rest of us shared the bicycles. I often dreamt that I would have my own bicycle because I did not get to use them much; my older brothers and sister seemed to always need the bikes. I was a bit young to fight with them about bicycles. Besides, I did not usually win the argument. And so I did a great deal of walking every time I needed to go to the market to buy groceries, rent books, catch frogs or fish, or to find Beta fish in the swamp. My goal was to save gift money to buy a bike.
After my family moved from Kompot province to live in Tuol Kork, Phnom Penh, in January 1970, my father supervised government employees whose main job was to repair and to maintain the sports facilities in Phnom Penh. From 1949 to 1970 my father taught French, Khmer language, math, and history in the elementary and middle school in Tani and Prey Noup.
My father worked ten to twelve hours a day in the city. As for my mother, she worked about the same amount of hours at Tuol Kork flea market, located about three miles from our house. She sold either rice or other types of grain or pork or oranges so they had enough money to buy food, clothes, school supplies and medicine for their children. In addition to their work outside of the house, my parents washed our clothes by hand and planted lettuce, tomatoes, eggplant, cucumbers, chili peppers, and many kinds of herbs such as basil, mint, and lemongrass. Since I loved gardening, I helped plant and maintain vegetable and herb beds. They also raised pigs and chickens.
My family could not afford to have a car, refrigerator, gold, or diamonds. However, if I compared my family’s financial situation to millions of other Cambodians, we were doing well. I often thought that once I became educated and had a career, I would help my family with money. I would also buy new things for them because they deserved it.
Despite all the things my father did, he still found time to teach his children French, reading and writing the Khmer language, math, morality, and ethics. They were extraordinary parents because they did not complain about their daily responsibilities or about not getting enough help from all their children. Whenever I had the opportunity, I went to the flea market to help my mother with her business, running errands for her. Even though my parents had to work about 60 to 70 hours each week, they did not argue among themselves or become intolerant with the children. They were also patient, caring, and loving. I wanted to be like them.
I had four brothers, Pakda was 26, Tavith was 20, Sithon was 15, and Davin was 12. I also had three sisters, Lyvon was 24, Manny was 18, and Rasy was six years old. I had a younger brother, but he died from a high fever when he was less than a year old. Pakda was in the marines with two stripes and living on the military base about twenty miles away from the city with his pregnant wife, Vanny, and his one-year-old daughter, Ka-Chrip. Everyone else in the family was a student except Rasy.
With so many things to do each day, no one had time to be bored. We knew what we had to do as a family so we could live peacefully and happily together. Lyvon was married to a university professor. She lived with her husband and their year-old son, Sopheavon, in the capital city, Phnom Penh. However, in February 1975, she was fortunate to have the opportunity to go to France to continue her studies; her husband was expected to join her later. For some reason unknown to me, she could not take her husband and son to France with her at the time.
On April 14th, 1975, the Khmer Rouge, a group of revolutionary soldiers who were trying to overthrow our democratic government led by Lon Nol, had increased its attacks on populated areas in and around the city. According to the Khmer Rouge’s account, Lon Nol was running a corrupt government and cared nothing for the poor people and farmers. The Khmer Rouge detested the rich, who became richer while the poor had no place to live or food to eat. Certainly, I was too young to understand the political issues facing the country and the different ideologies. Still, I hated the idea that Cambodians had to kill each other in order to change the behaviors and ideology of the current government.
In the first week of January, Khmer Rouge launched rockets into a small community in Tuol Kork. As a result, many huts, homes, and businesses were burned to the ground. Moreover, hundreds of people, old and young, were burned beyond recognition. The smell of burned bamboo, wood, tires, and gas irritated my nostrils and throat. After seeing and smelling the burned bodies, I could hardly eat or sleep. My heartbeat much faster. A cold chill ran through me every time the horrible images flashed through my mind. I was not supposed to investigate crime scenes of destruction, but I was curious about the damage and about how many innocent lives the Khmer Rouge had taken. I became angry with both the current government and the Khmer Rouge, who had put me through this frightening and nerve-wracking experience. I felt devastated for the people who lost their loved ones and who lost their huts, homes, and businesses. I believed that this would be the last time I would ever have to witness such devastating inhumanity. I longed and wished for the Khmer Rouge to stop launching rockets into populated areas, destroying property and killing innocent people.
To protect us from the rockets, my father, brothers, and uncle built an underground bunker. It was about seven feet deep including the height of the sandbags stacked on four sides and the top. At least once a week, my family had to seek shelter in the bunker. In order to see, we burned kerosene lamps every time we went into the bunker. There was little ventilation and the earthen bottom of the shelter was always damp. The black fumes irritated my throat and eyes. The smell reminded me of old wet cloth. I normally became weak and nauseous each time we climbed into that tight, dim and damp pit. Yet, as a wiry thin young boy, I managed to squeeze into the tight space. In addition to my feelings of claustrophobia, the noise of the exploding rockets terrified my very soul.
With each explosion, no matter how far away, my body trembled uncontrollably. I could not eat, drink, or sleep. I detested even the thought of having to enter that dark place, but my father’s warning had to be heeded for my own protection.
About one o’clock on April 14, after I had finished my reading assignment from school, reviewed the first chapter of the French book, and read a few chapters of my favorite Chinese Kung Fu novel, I became bored and restless. My attention began to wander to the noises made by other children who were playing a game of marbles in the dirt of the street nearby. I loved playing marbles, but I remembered my father warning against playing in the street or wandering the neighborhood. I had not heard any explosions in the past few hours. I thought it might be safe for me to play for just a short while. Yet I feared the consequences if my father found out that I had left the house. While I was debating my decision for almost half an hour, I gathered my marbles and put them near the fish containers. I thought of game strategies to increase my chances of winning more marbles at the end of the game. While I was contemplating whether I could get away with disobeying my father, I started to feel bad for not helping my mother with business at the flea market. Finally, temptation overwhelmed me and I chose to disobey my father’s command.
It was a beautiful clear day. Puffs of white cloud drifted lazily across the vast blue sky and Tuol Kouk seemed to be asleep. Occasionally, a few motorcycles passed by, breaking the silence of the streets. When I arrived at the place where I usually played marbles, a game was already in progress. Four kids were playing cheerfully with their shirts off. No one seemed to be worried about a rocket attack. I joined them. I was having a good time, especially when I was winning. Our constant cheering stole away the stillness of the neighborhood. The neighbors were resting contentedly in their homes and courtyards, but I certainly knew that they were afraid of the rockets even if we, the children, were not.
While I was moving around under the shade of a tree in front of my friend’s house, sweat was dripping from my dirty face. I took off my T-shirt with the print of the temples at Angkor Wat on the front, wiped the sweat off my face, neck, and hands with it and cast the soaked shirt onto the nearby bushes. I felt a brief twinge of guilt that my mother would be upset at how dirty my clothes had become while playing in the street; every few days, she hand-washed her children’s clothes and hung them to dry on the clotheslines. However, I continued to play marbles with my friends. Winning was my only motivation and I concentrated hard on knocking the marbles off the line drawn in the dirt. As I was kneeling down to collect my marbles from the dirt, I heard soft sirens in the distance. Initially, I stood trying to figure out what direction the noise was coming from. It was common for me to hear the sirens of emergency vehicles, so I ignored it. Only seconds later, as I turned my attention back to the game, KERBOOM! The rocket landed a hundred meters from where I was squatting.
The explosion reminded me of lightning striking a tall tree. I could hear the rocket fragments scatter and land on the tin roofs of my friends’ houses. I felt like my eardrums were shattered. Instinctively, I put my hands over my ears just as small children often do when they hear loud noises. This unforgettable moment signaled the beginning of a long hard road of oppression...
Daravann Yi would donate 25% of the book sale proceeds to the SALTSEEKERFOUNDATION, INC.-a charitable nonprofit organization established and dedicated to improving the quality of life and the future of orphans in Cambodia
The money will be used to support orphans in Cambodia.