A Boy Named Rindy, page 9
“Hey, Rindy. Want to join?”
I shielded my face from the sun and tried to see who had called to me and was surprised to find one of the older boys, his hair wild and drenched in sweat, staring in my direction.
“Sure,” I squeaked, trying to ignore the sudden dryness in my mouth. I had never been good at soccer or any sport really, but I knew I would be foolish to pass up the rare opportunity of being accepted into the older boys’ game. Every head wagged in my direction as they waited for me to cross the small, dirt field. I could feel sweat sticking to the hairs around my neck. I wanted to run and hide, to pour over my characters, but my six-year-old pride wouldn’t let me, so I walked toward the boys. Vuthy clapped his hands from where he sat on the tree roots.
“Go, Rindy.” He beamed at me.
“Come over here, by me,” one of the biggest boys shouted, and I picked up my pace, breaking into a jog.
The game started in a frenzy of bare feet and a cloud of dust. The boys shouted and shoved, their bodies contorting with their quick reflexes. I had enjoyed watching, but it was even better to be right there in the middle, in the dance of the game, tasting the dust and feeling the adrenaline. I caught glimpses of the uneven silhouette of the ball lumbering between their feet as a seam in the leather had long come undone. It cut through the air like a jagged knife. I tried to keep my eye on it, but it was going fast.
Feeling a jab on my shoulder, I rocketed face first into the finely sifted dirt. Through the dust stinging my eyes, I could see the boys draw away from me. It was rhythmic; it was too deliberate, but I couldn’t get up fast enough. A foot launched the ball, catapulting it toward my face. I braced for the shock, my eyes pinching closed, my hands hugging the back of my head, but it was too late. It hit me, hard and true. All went black.
I awoke to someone shaking my shoulder and calling my name. I blinked my eyes, trying to chase away the white dots that filled them. Mr. Thach bent, looking into my face. My back was leaning against the schoolhouse wall. I searched my face with shaking fingers, trying to locate my numb features. The grime tasted metalic on my teeth, but the point of my nose and the indentation of my eyes felt normal. But something strange and hot oozed around my left eyebrow, and a wet thickness licked at my fingers when I touched it. Tracing its path, I felt a gash across my forehead, my flesh split and open. My head felt strangely weightless, yet surprisingly large.
“You ok, Rindy? You got cut.” Vuthy crouched beside me too, his hand on my shoulder. Sov stood bent over with his hands on his knee as he inspected me.
The bigger boy, who had invited me to play, stood just past them. His face was smeared with the grime of satisfaction and triumph, but there was also a crack in his expression, which looked a little like regret. I wondered which would win the tug-of-war inside him. If I had been bigger, I would have punched him in the nose to help him decide.
“Bad karma will get you for this,” I called out. “I bet you’ll be born with a missing leg in the next life.”
The bigger boys laughed but turned aside.
Mr. Thach brought something in a little bottle.
“This may sting a little.” He poured dark liquid over my forehead and mopped up the excess with a rag, then cut a piece of white tape and cloth and stuck it over the wound. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”
I rubbed my forehead and smiled up at him.
“I know it’s hard when the bigger boys pick on you, but don’t hate them, Rindy. Don’t allow kum to grow in your heart.”
“What is kum?”
“It’s like a sickness that gets into your heart. As it grows, it takes over a person with plans to destroy the person who caused them pain. Revenge. Hatred. Bitterness. Kum hurts you worse though. It’ll eat away at you until you become sick with it. It’s a sickness that runs rampant through the streets of Cambodia, like it’s a part of her soul—” Mr. Thach’s voice trailed off, as if he were no longer thinking about the boys who had kicked the ball at my face. Shaking his head, he looked me in the eyes again.
“Want to know how to get rid of kum?"
I nodded.
“Loving even when you don’t want to. It’s like this iodine; it washes away the yuck so you don’t get sick.”
I nodded, but not fully understanding.
“We’d better get back inside and to our studies.”
With unsteady legs, I retrieved my new writing pad from beneath the tree before the bigger boys could steal it.
A few weeks later, I pulled my cart behind me on the way to sell water to the noodle shops. Both jugs were filled to the brim, and I struggled against the weight, pausing to take a break. Sov was already up ahead, trying to gain customers for the day.
“Hi.”
I looked up. A boy walked toward me, leaving a small group of boys in their early teens, who were congregated near the noodle shop I was hoping to sell water to. I recognized them from school but hadn’t ever talked to them before. They usually studied or talked to Mr. Thach while the rest of us played soccer. Distrust twisted in my stomach, my fingers going to the scar on my forehead.
“Your name is Rindy, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I remember you from school. Mr. Thach told a group of us who meet with him on Sundays that we should pray for you and your heart.”
Pray for me? Mr. Thach?
“He often prays for all his students.”
I was puzzled.
“Except he doesn’t pray to Buddha.” The boy leaned closer. His brown eyes grew wide. “He prays to a God—named Jesus. He’s told us all about him.”
What did this mean? I had only heard of Buddha and the way to enlightenment, and I didn’t know people could possibly worship someone else. Was there another path?
“Jesus is alive, Rindy. He’s alive!”
The boy’s eyes glowed with passion, and he acted like he had just let me in on the biggest secret. I didn’t understand who this Jesus was because I had never seen him like I had seen Buddha, sitting tall and frightful in the temple.
“I’ve never seen or heard of Jesus from the monks.” I turned again to face him, balancing my cart handles against my waist.
“Here, Mr. Thach gave me this.”
He shuffled through his pocket and handed me a tiny pamphlet picturing a man descending from the sky, wearing a white robe surrounded by clouds. Sunlight shone around him, and he was smiling with his arms extended outwards. As if he were extending his arms to me. It was a pleasant picture to look at. It didn’t look like any of the gods I had seen at the temple. Taking the pamphlet from the boy’s outstretched hand, I scrunched it in my hand against the wooden handle of my cart and continued to the next noodle shop.
16
The Coup
“The CIA was trying to counter the communist party; a tug of war.” — Rindy
March 1970
“What’s going on?” I looked at Sov, but he looked as confused as I felt. There was a commotion on the streets. Men and boys shouted and yelled. This was unlike anything I’d ever seen, where stray dogs lingered and old women sat chewing betel—an addictive red root—in the afternoon shade. As we approached a group congregating in the middle of the road, one boy threw a piece of red cloth with a yellow star in the middle onto the ground. The flag of North Vietnam.
“They’re going to burn it,” Sov said, leaning close to my ear. The group began shouting, “Vietnamese, stay out of Cambodia” and “down with the Vietnamese” until the air rang with the cry and the flag curled in flames.
I had always heard people making fun of the Vietnamese and making crude jokes, but I’d never seen anything like this. Sov looked confused too. His head swiveled from side to side, taking it all in. Then he grabbed my arm and said, “let’s join in.”
I followed him and a group of the older boys into the center of the mob.
“Why does everyone hate the Vietnamese?”
“What?”
I leaned closer to Sov’s ear and shouted, “why does everyone hate the Vietnamese?”
“Many reasons. Have you ever heard the stories of the cooking stones?”
I shook my head.
“Vietnamese soldiers took three Cambodians captive many years ago. You see, Cambodia and Vietnam have fought many wars over the years. Anyway, these soldiers took the Cambodians and buried them alive up to their necks with just their heads sticking out of the ground. Then the Vietnamese built a fire between their heads and set a pot on top, to use them as cooking stones.”
I stood dumbfounded. Could this be true? The idea of being burned alive as the Vietnamese ate their dinner on my head was horrifying. I shuddered and began to chant with the crowd.
A few days later, while Mr. Thach was teaching calculations on the blackboard, an older boy ran up to the open window, shouting all the way from the road, “There is an important announcement on the radio. Down with the Vietnamese! Stay out of Cambodia!”
We crowded onto the porch of the school next to the principal’s open window and listened to the crackling of the radio, until the news broadcast from Phnom Penh became clear.
“The National Assembly has passed a vote of no confidence against Norodom Sihanouk, while he was away in France. They have closed the borders and all means of travel.”
The radio crackled; everyone drew a breath.
“Prime Minister Lon Nol has assumed emergency powers, in his efforts to remove North Vietnamese troops from Cambodia. Queen Kossamak is now being forced to leave the royal palace by the new government under Lon Nol and will remain at her villa under house arrest. I repeat, Lon Nol is the new head of state and has overthrown the longstanding rule of Norodom Sihanouk.”
The radio clicked off. No one breathed. A fly buzzed through the air, then landed. I looked around, searching each face. Mr. Thach slumped against a wall, no smile softening his features. He looked ten years older than he had moments ago. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The principal sat in his chair at his desk, his back to us.
One of the senior boys began to speak, his words coming halting and unclear. “How could this be? Sihanouk was the good Aupouk King of Cambodia. The one who fought so hard for her independence from the French. He is responsible for the island of peace Cambodia has become. How could they do this to him?”
The principal turned in his chair, coming to stand before the open window.
“I’ve been hearing talk. Lon Nol probably had help from the CIA. Norodom Sihanouk has been neutral in the war, not siding with the United States, and there are Viet Cong soldiers on the border of Cambodia. I think the CIA helped Lon Nol take power because Sihanouk is so loved by the people—" his voice broke, and he stared out into the blue, cloudless sky.
Mr. Thach put his glasses back on. “Let’s all go back to class, children.”
As the weeks progressed, the streets rattled with endless chatter about Lon Nol and what he would do for Cambodia. Radios and televisions played on overturned crates, and people gathered around, listening to the voice of Lon Nol—a new voice— as he accused Sihanouk of turning a blind eye to corruption in his own government and letting incompetent people run Cambodia. He said Sihanouk cared more about “play acting” and traveling the world than protecting Cambodia. People shouted and fights erupted, as some said Lon Nol was spreading propaganda and others said it was the truth.
Lon Nol was the opposite of Sihanouk, the radio claimed. He was a dark-skinned man who was proud of his pure Khmer heritage and who had a military background, unlike Sihanouk’s theatrical one. He’d risen in power, becoming the Minister of Defense, before being elected as the Prime Minister of Cambodia twice. He was known as “Black Papa” by his followers. Yet, his hatred for the Vietnamese was the bridge he climbed across to connect with the people. He promised to rid Cambodia of the Vietnamese communists, and the Viet Cong soldiers who had retreated into Cambodia.
Soon after, things began changing for us at school in the grip of this new government. When arriving one day, I saw Mr. Thach’s face sad, with deep shadows beneath his eyes. Some of the kids didn’t seem to notice as they laughed and joked, pulling the small wooden chairs from beneath the person sitting down beside them.
“Quiet down, children,” Mr. Thach raised his hands as he stood. The classroom fell silent, surprised to hear Mr. Thach raise his voice. Every eye turned to the school teacher we all dearly loved.
“I’ve been instructed to give you a brief," he swallowed, "talk on behalf of our new leader.” That's when I noticed the principle standing in the doorway as he walked over and handed Mr Thach a piece of paper.
Mr. Thach sat down again, shaking his head, looking to a piece of paper in front of him.
“Many of you have loved Sihanouk as do your parents, but much of what you have heard is not true. He’s been a traitor since the beginning, looking out for his own interests and not the good of all. He has not been the good ‘aupouk king’ that we all thought him to be. We expect you children—who are bright and young— to receive this news more easily than your parents.” Mr. Thach swallowed. “Your parents may be more resistant to this change, but please enlighten them that Sihanouk is in his rightful place—out of Cambodia.”
I looked from side to side; confusion was written on everyone’s face. What did this mean? I wished I could talk it over with Aupouk, who I hadn’t seen in over a year. He had always respected Norodom Sihanouk. What would he say to believe now?
Over the next week, when walking to class, I noticed several of the older boys limping in pain and some even had long welts across their backs. They weren’t temple boys, so I wondered about their beatings.
“What happened to you?” I asked one boy, as we shuffled into the classroom.
“My aupouk beat me.”
I asked two more and received the same response.
I shrugged. It was common for boys to be beaten by their aupouks, but I didn’t understand why so many were beaten at once.
“What did you do?”
“I told my parents what we talked about at school, as we were told to by Mr. Thach. Everyone is talking about it. How we are supposed to spit on the name of Norodom Sihanouk and call him a traitor. My aupouk beat me and told me he would teach me respect.”
Another boy leaned in, “Mine said the children of this generation are being taught to disrespect their elders and forget their place. To spit on the name of Sihanouk who has been our ‘Aupouk King,’ is spitting in the face of the authority of my own father. It’s about saving face.”
I sat down in my chair and looked ahead, understanding the price of Mr. Thach’s words. Saving face was very important to Cambodians, as their dignity and good name depended on their public appearance and how they were respected. Lon Nol—with all his insults and accusations—had broken the Sihanouk's good name, like punching him in the nose. I knew the boys had been punished because they had trampled on the tradition of saving face in Cambodia, especially for one so loved as the Aupouk King.
Mr. Thach knew what his words had cost too. But what choice had he had with the principle making sure he supported the new Lon Nol government? Mr Thach stood slowly from his chair and looked over his class, sadness staring from his eyes as he looked at the battered boys. Slowly he lowered himself back down to his chair. He looked worse than any of my classmates, but I suspected his welts couldn’t be seen on the surface of his skin.
17
The Glasses
“There are certain things in life that you never forget.” — Rindy
January-December 1971
I watched the specks of trapped dust whirl inside a slice of sunlight. I had just completed cleaning the abbot’s house—the largest of the monks’ quarters, as he was the chief of the temple. Glancing around, I mentally checked off all the things I had cleaned. I had beaten the rug, scrubbed the floor and dusted the spacious, yet simply adorned, room. I had even taken down the cobwebs that clung to the corners with a stick for good measure. Feeling accomplished, I allowed myself time to admire the flying dust lingering in the air, captivated by the warm sun invading the dungeon of a room.
“Boy.”
I jerked into reality, having no idea how long I had been standing transfixed.
“Boy.”
The abbot emerged into view, filling the doorway, wrapped in a yellow robe. I spun to face him, head bowed slightly as a sign of respect and submission.
“You should have been done here hours ago.” He stalked across the room and grabbed me by the ear, thrusting me out of the door and into the sunlight. My ear throbbed, but the abbot had a reputation of brutality. I had gotten off easy.
Hearing a commotion from the street, I stole through the courtyard, happy to be leaving. Several radios were cranked up, tuned to the same station. A familiar voice spilled from the speakers. Norodom Sihanouk. How could it be? His voice swelled with passion and rage.
“How’s Lon Nol allowing this?” a lady asked, approaching where I stood.
“He’s broadcasting from a radio station in Peking, China.”
Sihanouk’s voice was shrill. “Lon Nol and Sirik Matak have shown their gratitude by insulting and humiliating me, overthrowing and condemning me as a man who has sold out his country. Such accusations by these ungrateful, ambitious, power-hungry, money-hungry cowards who didn’t hesitate to stab me in the back, are unimportant.” His voice pulsed with rage. “My personal indignation cannot be compared with the magnitude of my concern for the sad fate of our country. These traitors have thrown the country, which had a good reputation as an island of peace, into the furnace of the Americans’ war.”
People pressed in around me.
“I am setting up a government-in-exile. I call on all my children, both military and civilian, who cannot stand to remain under the traitors’ power and who are courageous and determined to liberate the fatherland, to fight our enemy. If the children already have weapons, I will bring the ammunition and new weapons to strengthen them. I will take measures to help them leave for the military school, deep in the jungle, to avoid enemy detection. Long live Cambodia!” His voice crackled to a stop.
