know, with the patients and all the work at the hospital and the lectures. Please excuse me, I have a lot to do.’
Huoy held up her hand as if taking an oath. ‘Believe me. I have no boyfriend.’
I said, ‘I believe it.’
‘If you believe it why don’t you go to my house? Come tonight. Don’t let my mother be sad.’
When I went to her apartment that night the food was ready on the table. Huoy gave me a hurt smile. I pretended that everything was normal. When Huoy’s mother asked me why I had stayed
away, I said I had been busy. She pretended to believe me but she gave me a wise, sidelong look.
She left the two of us to eat together and went into the kitchen as usual. Huoy and I sat down and began to eat. I kept my eyes on the food, not meeting Huoy’s gaze.
We had rice with the usual side dishes. As always, excellent home-style Cambodian cooking.
Halfway through the meal, Huoy said, ‘Sweet, are you still angry at me?’
I helped myself to another piece of fish and put it on my plate next to the rice.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Then please, look at me.’
‘I know what you look like.’ I was still looking at the plate.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ she said. I still looked down at the plate.
Startled, I felt the touch of her fingers on my cheek. I glanced at her arm reaching across the table and then into her enormous brown eyes. ‘No, I wouldn’t hurt you,’ I said
nervously. ‘I just asked you – ‘
‘Hush,’ she said, and the gaze that answered mine held a depth of sadness and wisdom that I had never seen in anyone before. ‘Don’t bring back bad memories.’
I reached over to stroke her hair.
Huoy had shown she cared for me. The rock had tried to work loose, but the paper wrapped it even tighter than before.
She went to her classes, I went to medical school and we saw each other in the evenings. We were heading on converging courses, ones that in normal times would bring us eventually to marriage.
Engrossed in our daily lives, we could not imagine that an event was about to happen that would set off a chain reaction, push Cambodia into tragedy and affect us to the core of our beings.
In early March 1970 Cambodia was still an island of peace. Politically it was neutral. But all around it was war, or the equipment of war. To the east and southeast was South
Vietnam, where the North Vietnamese and the Americans were mired in a struggle that neither seemed able to win. To the north was Laos, mountainous and landlocked, where the communists and royalists
waged a smaller war backed by the same outside powers. To the west and northwest was Thailand, where the Americans based B-52s and other warplanes. In the middle of all this was Cambodia, a small
country, roughly the size of the state of Washington or one third the size of France.
By Western standards Cambodia was poor and primitive. Most of our people were peasants living off the land. We waited passively for the rains to fill up our rice paddies. We caught tiny fish and
foraged for wild foods. Even our wealthiest class, made up of merchants and corrupt government officials in Phnom Penh, wasn’t really rich. For all its charm, for all its flower beds and wide
boulevards, Phnom Penh was a quiet place where not much happened beyond the morning bustle in the markets and the long lunchtime siestas. And yet how lucky we were, compared to our neighbours!
Cambodia was at peace. Nobody had to live in ‘strategic hamlets’ surrounded by barbed wire. We could live where we wanted and do what we wanted. Few were oppressed, beyond the level of
oppression and corruption normal for Asian societies. Life ran on in its age-old patterns. In the midmorning, the monks made their silent rounds collecting alms. In the middle of the day, the
farmers came in from their fields to rest in the shade under their houses, and old women chewed betel nut and wove their own cloth on looms. At night the villages resounded with the music of
homemade instruments and
Huoy held up her hand as if taking an oath. ‘Believe me. I have no boyfriend.’
I said, ‘I believe it.’
‘If you believe it why don’t you go to my house? Come tonight. Don’t let my mother be sad.’
When I went to her apartment that night the food was ready on the table. Huoy gave me a hurt smile. I pretended that everything was normal. When Huoy’s mother asked me why I had stayed
away, I said I had been busy. She pretended to believe me but she gave me a wise, sidelong look.
She left the two of us to eat together and went into the kitchen as usual. Huoy and I sat down and began to eat. I kept my eyes on the food, not meeting Huoy’s gaze.
We had rice with the usual side dishes. As always, excellent home-style Cambodian cooking.
Halfway through the meal, Huoy said, ‘Sweet, are you still angry at me?’
I helped myself to another piece of fish and put it on my plate next to the rice.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Then please, look at me.’
‘I know what you look like.’ I was still looking at the plate.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ she said. I still looked down at the plate.
Startled, I felt the touch of her fingers on my cheek. I glanced at her arm reaching across the table and then into her enormous brown eyes. ‘No, I wouldn’t hurt you,’ I said
nervously. ‘I just asked you – ‘
‘Hush,’ she said, and the gaze that answered mine held a depth of sadness and wisdom that I had never seen in anyone before. ‘Don’t bring back bad memories.’
I reached over to stroke her hair.
Huoy had shown she cared for me. The rock had tried to work loose, but the paper wrapped it even tighter than before.
She went to her classes, I went to medical school and we saw each other in the evenings. We were heading on converging courses, ones that in normal times would bring us eventually to marriage.
Engrossed in our daily lives, we could not imagine that an event was about to happen that would set off a chain reaction, push Cambodia into tragedy and affect us to the core of our beings.
In early March 1970 Cambodia was still an island of peace. Politically it was neutral. But all around it was war, or the equipment of war. To the east and southeast was South
Vietnam, where the North Vietnamese and the Americans were mired in a struggle that neither seemed able to win. To the north was Laos, mountainous and landlocked, where the communists and royalists
waged a smaller war backed by the same outside powers. To the west and northwest was Thailand, where the Americans based B-52s and other warplanes. In the middle of all this was Cambodia, a small
country, roughly the size of the state of Washington or one third the size of France.
By Western standards Cambodia was poor and primitive. Most of our people were peasants living off the land. We waited passively for the rains to fill up our rice paddies. We caught tiny fish and
foraged for wild foods. Even our wealthiest class, made up of merchants and corrupt government officials in Phnom Penh, wasn’t really rich. For all its charm, for all its flower beds and wide
boulevards, Phnom Penh was a quiet place where not much happened beyond the morning bustle in the markets and the long lunchtime siestas. And yet how lucky we were, compared to our neighbours!
Cambodia was at peace. Nobody had to live in ‘strategic hamlets’ surrounded by barbed wire. We could live where we wanted and do what we wanted. Few were oppressed, beyond the level of
oppression and corruption normal for Asian societies. Life ran on in its age-old patterns. In the midmorning, the monks made their silent rounds collecting alms. In the middle of the day, the
farmers came in from their fields to rest in the shade under their houses, and old women chewed betel nut and wove their own cloth on looms. At night the villages resounded with the music of
homemade instruments and
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