Bamboo Promise

1 ENDLESS TRAUMA Unforgettable Youth “Dukkha Anicca vata Sankhara …” -- the Pali chanting from the Theravada monks sounded throughout my home in Phnom-Penh, Cambodia. It was 1959. A child of eight ran into the room where the chanting originated, then stopped as she saw her mother (Mak in Khmer) lying very still covered with a white sheet. Confused and frightened, the tiny girl moved slowly to her mother’s side. That tiny girl was me and my journey to PTSD was beginning. Mak’s eyes were closed. I touched her in case she only pretended to sleep while waiting for me. My Papa had just come to me and said, “Mak’s dead” but what exactly did that mean? I was confused. The word ‘dead’ became clearer when she didn’t breathe or respond to me as I tugged at her and called her name. A year ago, before my Mak became paralyzed and unable to speak, Mak always smiled in secret when she heard me memorizing my lessons aloud, but I always caught her smile. I had favorite places to study, either outside in the garden or on the balcony. Mak didn’t know that in my silliness, I raised my voice not only to impress her, but somebody else…the boys of the neighborhood who were hanging out on their balconies. As Mak’s illness worsened, I came to study the lessons more quietly beside her bed. She sometimes heard my voice and turned to me. I knew she was still impressed, although she could no longer smile or speak. Now she lay totally still, totally quiet and a feeling of dread and confusion overcame me. As I stood beside her, a family member looked at me and said, “You have no more mother and she won’t be back.” That was the last time I saw my beloved mother and I carried the heartbreak silently because no one reached out to me in sympathy. .................................... My father was an inconsistent and ineffective parent without my mother’s calming influence. He alternately indulged and terrorized me. I lived in a state of constant anxiety. This behavior, combined with the introduction of a jealous stepmother three months after my Mak’s death, made for a very traumatic childhood. Unforgettable Adulthood When I finished secondary school, my Papa convinced me to enroll in the School of Pharmacy at the University of Phnom-Penh. It was there I met a young man who would become my husband, Leang. He was not an acceptable choice to my Papa in a society where social status governed most aspects of life. My father was wealthy and politically prominent; Leang’s family was not. Our forbidden romance caused much conflict, but eventually we prevailed and married on January 1, 1975, four months before the KR invaded Phnom-Penh and turned our lives upside-down, on April 17, 1975. It was a shock to me when the KR took over our country. My father had convinced me that it would never happen. Since he was a government minister, I thought he surely knew best. All the residents of Phnom-Penh, including my entire family, were forced out of our homes and expelled from the city by the KR rebels, in a mass forced march. We believed the propaganda of the KR that we would return home in three days after the city had been “searched for Americans” but instead, we were force-moved from one isolated village to another and ended up living in a tiny hut in the countryside far from Phnom-Penh. My husband’s family, who had left the city with us, were placed nearby. One by one, every member of my family died from starvation or illnesses that could have easily cured by access to modern medicine. The pain that remains constant, however, is the experience of watching my very proud Papa always clinging to the hope that America would rescue us, and that we would return home soon. With me still, 35 years later, is his final surrender to starvation, as I held his frail body in my arms and he took his last breath. I can still hear his defeated voice imploring ‘America come to rescue me, I am starving’, while his emaciated body was shivering and shaking from malaria. These images still haunt me. America never came. --- No one did!!!................. 2 LIGHT OF HEAVEN This was not a decision to be taken lightly. The dangers along the way were many: escape was illegal and, if caught, the punishment was imprisonment or death; thieves and murderers preyed upon the refugees as they made their way through thick jungle and over the KID mountain; the area along the border was thick with land mines; and, worst of all, the border area hid guerilla groups and pockets of KR who were hiding from the government. They all robbed, kidnapped, raped, murdered and terrorized refugees. Despite these very real dangers, we made our decision; we would take the chance for a better life. “We are climbing KID Mountain now,” Meny whispered to us and my hidden fear began to melt. I heard what I wanted to hear “-- climbing KID!” I knew I was moving toward my destiny. It was the dead of night but we could see the landscape was changing; the huge trees that stood so close together, like a black curtain covering the forest, began to thin and disappear as we climbed. The ground became flatter and dried grass stubble poked through my slippers at my already sore feet. All these hopeful signs forged bravery from exhaustion. “We are safe from land mines now,” quietly assured Meny. I wanted to stop to rest my feet, however my cousin kept pushing me forward, sometimes even dragging me behind him. There was no sense complaining. Everyone was in the same condition. My eyes looked down at the ground, hoping to see in the dark any animals that could attack my feet. If a tiny snake crawled silently under the dead leaves, I could run. If any birds lay dead under the tiny branches, I could change direction. If a line of ants following their leaders appeared, I could jump over them. But what if I stumbled upon a human body murdered by robbers? All my life I had feared the dark because I was told ghosts hid there. Now I was walking through a pitch black jungle where many had lost their lives; I had been warned of a host of dangers but I was less afraid of the living than I was of the dead. “C’mon, hurry up!” Meny’s voice brought me back to the moment. I looked up. Nothing was different, there were no ghosts, and it was still dark. “We're almost there,” said Meny, breathlessly. “Do you see the bigger rocks?” I didn’t want him to know that it wasn’t the rocks I paid attention to. Our companion, Sophal was unresponsive too. Maybe she and I shared the same worries. “The rocks on the mountains are different as we near the top,” Meny explained. Who cares about the rocks? I just nodded my head, focusing the little energy I had left to keep going; we had been walking for two days and I was exhausted. I kept my eyes on Meny’s back so I would stay on the trail and not see any ghosts. As we arrived at the top of the incline, I looked up at the clear night sky. A few stars appeared, assuring us that we were out of the jungle. I breathed a sigh of relief. ........................................... We charged, ran, scrambled and slid down the slope as fast as we could. It was dark but the lights from the camp made the descent possible. As we neared the bottom I could see the fence and hear the guide urging us forward. Fear and then -- pank, pank, pank – gunshots from the direction of the Thai guardhouse. I was petrified. I didn’t know if I was still breathing or not. The sound of gunshots gave me added energy and I ran faster, faster. If I tripped, I knew I could tumble like a rock down the slope. I kept running even though I couldn’t see what was beneath my feet or any barrier in my path. Everything was a blur but I had wings on my heels and I had to make it to freedom. Freedom was in front of me, inside the camp. I ran toward freedom! ...................................................