Across the Mekong River by Elaine Russell Page A

denouncing the Americans and their puppets the Royal Lao ministers.
    Pao did not move . His face was slack, without emotion. The woman next to me listened with wide eyes as she bit her lower lip. Her husband dug the dirt from beneath his nails, never looking up. Another man lit a cigarette and stared at the ground, his neck muscles twitching, his face growing red. We shared the humiliation of the speaker’s angry harangue. A Mynah bird landed on the roof nearby and cocked its head to one side, watching with a wary yellow eye.
    A second man, this one Lao, delivered a speech as the first s peaker translated into Hmong. He hurled denouncements of the Americans and those who fought with them. He repeated the words over and over. The late afternoon heat and stale air of so many people crowded together made me faint. My legs had cramped and my bottom hurt from sitting on the hard ground. I longed for a drink of water.
    Finally, a Vietnamese soldier rose to the platform. The Hmong man translated his halting Lao words. “In our great new socialist society everyone will work together, sharing the land and the fruits of our labor. You can be part of this. But first you must give up your weapons and confess your mistakes, renounce the wrong ways of the past. Self-criticism is the path to forgiveness and freedom.” The man paused and slowly scanned the faces before him. “Who among you is ready to renounce your wrong doing and make a new start? Step up now.”
    A great silence followed. People stared at the ground or eyed the soldiers surrounding us. A man to Pao’s right took a deep breath and stood up. Then two other men rose and three more and another two until eight men stepped forward. They bowed their heads and offered apologies in soft, quivering voices. The speaker praised them for making the right choice. Four soldiers stepped forward and led the men away.
    “There is nothing to fear. Are there not mo re of you?” the soldier asked. Somewhere in the crowd a man gave a sharp laugh, but no one answered. The speaker waited a very long time, the silence more terrifying than his words. He focused his gaze on several men near the front as if weighing their guilt. They shifted positions as one wiped the sweat from his hands onto his pants. One Hmong soldier studied Pao’s face.
    At last the speaker smiled. “Think about what you have heard today and make a fresh start.” His voice was like cold metal, gliding over skin.
    After close to three hours, the speeche s ended, and we stood to leave. I was stiff and shaky. The Vietnamese soldier who had brought us to the meeting appeared again. My breath caught in my throat. He reminded Pao to bring the others from our village the next day.
    As we headed toward the edge of town, Pao saw his friend Chai. He walked with us and whispered hurriedly to Pao. The soldiers had arrived in Muang Chai the week before he said. Many fled that day. Only the night before in the early hours, soldiers had dragged away five men who had been in the Special Forces. Two school teachers, a nurse, and three shop owners had disappeared as well. The Pathet Lao said they had been sent to special seminar camps to learn new ways. One man had been found in the woods near town, a bullet through his head.
    As we climbed the path into the forest, I kept looking back, expecting to find soldiers coming after us. A few times I thought I heard footsteps or the snap of a twig. We hardly spoke on the long walk home. I tried to fill my mind with the tasks I must complete, the last minute packing. Morning could not come quickly enough.
    It turned dark before we reached the village, but a full moon peeked through scattered clouds to guide us. Pao went immediately to tell the others what had happened in Muang Cha. We must be out of the village as early as possible.
    I took a flashlight to the small garden behind t he house and picked long beans and yams for the journey. Tears filled my eyes as I pulled a few stray weeds from