ORGANIZATION WILL FIND YOU SHELTER! GO!” Hundreds, maybe thousands of people skirted the sandy shore. Khmer Rouge soldiers kept guard everywhere. When a boat appeared, a family would rush to board it, dragging with them what they could of their belongings—pots and pans, pallets and pillows. Bigger items—stuffed mattresses, tables, chairs, paintings—lay abandoned on the bank. I watched as boats returned emptied of passengers and as many more, loaded with people and belongings, headed across the river. Ants floating on leaves, I thought. As they moved farther away, they merged with the blue-black backdrop of the forest at dusk. I wondered what was on the other side of the forest. A new world? Maybe the edge of this one? I didn’t know.
Papa came out and stood next to me on the balcony. I turned to him and asked, “Where are they going?” I feared that we too would have to leave, that the soldiers would come storming in and order us back on the road.
Papa didn’t answer, staring instead at the river in silence, his eyes following the flow of people. He stood like this for a minute or two. Then a shadow crossed his face, and he finally turned to me with a look that mirrored my own confusion. “The Mekong is a powerful river,” he said solemnly. “So powerful that every rainy season it changes the course of another river”—he pointed in the direction of the city—“the Tonle Sap.”
I knew the Tonle Sap River well, as did every child who lived inPhnom Penh. It stretched along the eastern edge of the city in front of the Royal Palace. The riverfront was a wonderful place for bike rides, kite flying, or an evening stroll. During the Water Festival in November, people would come from all over the country to watch the boat race and above all, to pay respect to the spirits of the water.
“In the next several months,” Papa continued, “when the monsoon arrives, the Mekong will rise so high that the water will flow upstream through the Tonle Sap River into the Tonle Sap Lake in the northwest. Over there.” Again he pointed, this time in the direction far beyond the city.
I paid close attention, expecting him to weave me a tale of the Underwater Kingdom where the mythical naga serpents lived.
“Then near the end of the rainy season, the level of the Mekong begins to fall and the built-up water of the Tonle Sap Lake drains back into the Tonle Sap River, reversing its course.”
I knew the Tonle Sap River reversed course. That was part of its magic. But I’d always thought it had to do with the direction in which the naga serpents were swimming. At least, that’s what Milk Mother had told me.
“Life is like that.” Papa turned once again to the Mekong. “Everything is connected, and sometimes we, like little fishes, are swept up in these big and powerful currents. Carried far from home . . .”
“If the river brought us here,” I ventured tentatively, “then when it reverses course, it’ll carry us back.”
Papa gazed at me. Finally he smiled and said, “You are right. Of course it will.”
I nodded, relieved.
He lifted me up, and even though I didn’t like to be carried as if still a small and helpless child, I let him do it this time, too tired to resist. I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder, the sound of that gunshot echoing through my mind, like a thought beating against my skull. A question no one could answer. Why? Again and again, I saw the old man drop to the ground.
• • •
Inside we found respite from the heat and turmoil. It was cool and clean, thanks to the caretaker’s wife, who swept and dusted and aired out the house every day, always keeping it ready for us. She had brought out the silk cushions from the tall Chinese camphor chest by the living room entrance and placed them on the chairs and settees. I felt safe and protected among these brilliant colors. They reminded me of home and our courtyard with its profusion of flowers. I grabbed a cushion
Papa came out and stood next to me on the balcony. I turned to him and asked, “Where are they going?” I feared that we too would have to leave, that the soldiers would come storming in and order us back on the road.
Papa didn’t answer, staring instead at the river in silence, his eyes following the flow of people. He stood like this for a minute or two. Then a shadow crossed his face, and he finally turned to me with a look that mirrored my own confusion. “The Mekong is a powerful river,” he said solemnly. “So powerful that every rainy season it changes the course of another river”—he pointed in the direction of the city—“the Tonle Sap.”
I knew the Tonle Sap River well, as did every child who lived inPhnom Penh. It stretched along the eastern edge of the city in front of the Royal Palace. The riverfront was a wonderful place for bike rides, kite flying, or an evening stroll. During the Water Festival in November, people would come from all over the country to watch the boat race and above all, to pay respect to the spirits of the water.
“In the next several months,” Papa continued, “when the monsoon arrives, the Mekong will rise so high that the water will flow upstream through the Tonle Sap River into the Tonle Sap Lake in the northwest. Over there.” Again he pointed, this time in the direction far beyond the city.
I paid close attention, expecting him to weave me a tale of the Underwater Kingdom where the mythical naga serpents lived.
“Then near the end of the rainy season, the level of the Mekong begins to fall and the built-up water of the Tonle Sap Lake drains back into the Tonle Sap River, reversing its course.”
I knew the Tonle Sap River reversed course. That was part of its magic. But I’d always thought it had to do with the direction in which the naga serpents were swimming. At least, that’s what Milk Mother had told me.
“Life is like that.” Papa turned once again to the Mekong. “Everything is connected, and sometimes we, like little fishes, are swept up in these big and powerful currents. Carried far from home . . .”
“If the river brought us here,” I ventured tentatively, “then when it reverses course, it’ll carry us back.”
Papa gazed at me. Finally he smiled and said, “You are right. Of course it will.”
I nodded, relieved.
He lifted me up, and even though I didn’t like to be carried as if still a small and helpless child, I let him do it this time, too tired to resist. I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder, the sound of that gunshot echoing through my mind, like a thought beating against my skull. A question no one could answer. Why? Again and again, I saw the old man drop to the ground.
• • •
Inside we found respite from the heat and turmoil. It was cool and clean, thanks to the caretaker’s wife, who swept and dusted and aired out the house every day, always keeping it ready for us. She had brought out the silk cushions from the tall Chinese camphor chest by the living room entrance and placed them on the chairs and settees. I felt safe and protected among these brilliant colors. They reminded me of home and our courtyard with its profusion of flowers. I grabbed a cushion
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