with crumbling walls.
A thin man sat on a chair in the centre of the room with a desk full of files, papers and journals in front of him. He looked up on seeing me enter, and squinted.
He said something to me in Khmer.
I tried to decipher if it was a greeting, a command or a question but his tone was flat and expressionless.I bowed my head to indicate my respect. He walked over to me, and I tried not to look down at him -which wasn’t difficult as I seemed to have shrunk to half my size.
He said something again.
‘English?’ I said tentatively.
‘Confession,’ he said in a sharp, high-pitched tone, and rattled off a string of Khmer.
‘What confession?’ I said, confused.
He raised his eyebrows and one of the men stepped in front of me. Before I could react, he hit me in the face - not hard, a mere tap - but I was so weak that I crashed to the floor. I heard bone crushing against bone but felt no pain.
‘Confession,’ he screamed again, followed by another string of Khmer.
I tried to sit up. For the first time in months, I saw my body in daylight. I had been reduced to a skeleton, the skin hanging from my bones like a loose coat on a hanger. Scabs, bruises and cuts covered every inch.
‘What should I confess to?’ I cried out.
He raised his eyebrows again, and the second man kicked me in the ribs. This time I felt a hollow pain spread through my body, magnifying as it went up, and almost exploding in my chest. I took a second to catch my breath. I knew I wouldn’t last much longer if this continued.
I was about to plead with them to stop whenIshmael’s words flashed through my mind. ‘Just tell them something.’
This was what he had meant.
Like me, he must have been asked to confess and had been beaten to death because he didn’t know what to confess to.
‘I’m a spy,’ I said suddenly. ‘American spy,’ I added.
If I was a foreigner, I was probably expected to have plotted against the Khmer Rouge, I reasoned quite astutely for someone as fucked up as I was. Ishmael had said they hated Americans, so being an American spy was probably the most shocking confession I could make.
I looked tentatively at my interrogator, wondering if I had overstepped my boundaries.
He went back to his chair and the men came towards me.
I cowered in fear, but they picked me up and placed me on the chair opposite him.
‘Confession,’ he said again with a new gleam in his eyes.
‘I work for the CIA,’ I said with renewed confidence. ‘CIA,’ I emphasized.
His eyes widened. With luck, I thought, I could convince him I was the biggest traitor Cambodia had ever seen. And then what? He would probably execute me swiftly, without torture. I cheered silently at the prospect. He probably knew only a few wordsof English, so I decided to choose the ones with the maximum impact.
‘Kill Cambodian farmers,’ I said. ‘End communism. Kill them all.’
His face lit up. Perhaps this was the first confession he had heard; the other hapless prisoners must have denied their involvement vehemently, as I too, would have done if I hadn’t been warned by Ishmael.
‘Fuck Pol Pot,’ I said.
His eyes widened.
‘Fuck Pol Pot,’ I repeated, feeling faint from the exertion of speaking after so long. ‘Kill that bastard.’
I had run out of things to say, given my limited knowledge of Cambodian history and the dizziness that had overcome me.
‘Down with the Khmer Rouge. Motherfucking dog fuckers,’ I said with all my remnant energy.
I seemed to have done my job. He barked out an order to his men.
Finally, I thought, escape to a hopefully kinder afterworld.
I prayed for it to be swift. A shot in the back of the head, perhaps, or a sudden twist of the neck.
Instead, they grabbed me by my arms and dragged me outside.
I blinked in the harsh daylight as they took me through an open courtyard and into a jeep with logs of wood piled high in the back.
They gestured for me to get in.
I knew better than to ask, and
A thin man sat on a chair in the centre of the room with a desk full of files, papers and journals in front of him. He looked up on seeing me enter, and squinted.
He said something to me in Khmer.
I tried to decipher if it was a greeting, a command or a question but his tone was flat and expressionless.I bowed my head to indicate my respect. He walked over to me, and I tried not to look down at him -which wasn’t difficult as I seemed to have shrunk to half my size.
He said something again.
‘English?’ I said tentatively.
‘Confession,’ he said in a sharp, high-pitched tone, and rattled off a string of Khmer.
‘What confession?’ I said, confused.
He raised his eyebrows and one of the men stepped in front of me. Before I could react, he hit me in the face - not hard, a mere tap - but I was so weak that I crashed to the floor. I heard bone crushing against bone but felt no pain.
‘Confession,’ he screamed again, followed by another string of Khmer.
I tried to sit up. For the first time in months, I saw my body in daylight. I had been reduced to a skeleton, the skin hanging from my bones like a loose coat on a hanger. Scabs, bruises and cuts covered every inch.
‘What should I confess to?’ I cried out.
He raised his eyebrows again, and the second man kicked me in the ribs. This time I felt a hollow pain spread through my body, magnifying as it went up, and almost exploding in my chest. I took a second to catch my breath. I knew I wouldn’t last much longer if this continued.
I was about to plead with them to stop whenIshmael’s words flashed through my mind. ‘Just tell them something.’
This was what he had meant.
Like me, he must have been asked to confess and had been beaten to death because he didn’t know what to confess to.
‘I’m a spy,’ I said suddenly. ‘American spy,’ I added.
If I was a foreigner, I was probably expected to have plotted against the Khmer Rouge, I reasoned quite astutely for someone as fucked up as I was. Ishmael had said they hated Americans, so being an American spy was probably the most shocking confession I could make.
I looked tentatively at my interrogator, wondering if I had overstepped my boundaries.
He went back to his chair and the men came towards me.
I cowered in fear, but they picked me up and placed me on the chair opposite him.
‘Confession,’ he said again with a new gleam in his eyes.
‘I work for the CIA,’ I said with renewed confidence. ‘CIA,’ I emphasized.
His eyes widened. With luck, I thought, I could convince him I was the biggest traitor Cambodia had ever seen. And then what? He would probably execute me swiftly, without torture. I cheered silently at the prospect. He probably knew only a few wordsof English, so I decided to choose the ones with the maximum impact.
‘Kill Cambodian farmers,’ I said. ‘End communism. Kill them all.’
His face lit up. Perhaps this was the first confession he had heard; the other hapless prisoners must have denied their involvement vehemently, as I too, would have done if I hadn’t been warned by Ishmael.
‘Fuck Pol Pot,’ I said.
His eyes widened.
‘Fuck Pol Pot,’ I repeated, feeling faint from the exertion of speaking after so long. ‘Kill that bastard.’
I had run out of things to say, given my limited knowledge of Cambodian history and the dizziness that had overcome me.
‘Down with the Khmer Rouge. Motherfucking dog fuckers,’ I said with all my remnant energy.
I seemed to have done my job. He barked out an order to his men.
Finally, I thought, escape to a hopefully kinder afterworld.
I prayed for it to be swift. A shot in the back of the head, perhaps, or a sudden twist of the neck.
Instead, they grabbed me by my arms and dragged me outside.
I blinked in the harsh daylight as they took me through an open courtyard and into a jeep with logs of wood piled high in the back.
They gestured for me to get in.
I knew better than to ask, and
Similar Books
