For the Sake of All Living Things (13 page)

“I’m called Cahuom Samnang.” Samnang was bewildered, frightened, yet so exhausted, so surrounded by alien behavior, he could barely react beyond numbness.

“No,” the guard said. “Met Nang. Comrade Nang. We are all comrades in the Movement. Look about. There is only the Movement. There is no other past.”

Samnang looked forward, back, at the resting column. He saw nearly twenty guards, all young boys only slightly older than him. He looked at Hon. He didn’t wish to offend him by looking into his eyes but he had to see. Was Hon sincere? “What movement? Where are you taking me?”

“Ah. You’ll see, Met Nang,” Met Hon said. “Oh, I like that. Nang, ‘Lucky’; Comrade Lucky. When a coin falls, you shall always receive the head. There is a place where the rice grows, where you’ll learn to live without corruption, where all live in perfect self-reliance. That is the Movement.” Hon spoke simply. He neither smiled nor scowled. The words came from him as from a man in total tranquility. “Now, Met Nang, eat the rice the Movement has provided. It will nourish you for the journey ahead.”

“Older Brother...” Samnang began to address Hon with the formal appellation a young boy uses with an older male friend.

“No.” Hon snapped harshly. “Not ‘Older Brother.’ ‘Met.’ ‘Comrade.’ No ‘Older Brother,’ ‘Little Sister’ anymore. ‘Met.’ Now stand. We must go before an enemy discovers us.”

By the third night fatigue had pushed Samnang to a state of apathetic delirium. He barely knew when he was resting, when he was walking. Constantly he heard Met Hon address him in gentle yet unfamiliar terms. He began to think of himself as Met Nang, of Y Bhur as Met Ur, but his thoughts, like the questions where? and why? and the images of Plei Srepok, had not congealed but were like globules of fat floating in a hot chicken broth.

His feet were sore. He’d been barefoot since disrobing beneath Y Ksar’s longhouse. Behind him, always, was Y Bhur. They were not allowed to speak, nor was Samnang allowed to speak with the other conscripted boys or with other guards. His confusion increased. He did not, could not, think of Y Bhur except for the clump-drag limping noise made by Met Ur, who was wounded and probably crazy with fever.

Of himself? What?
Thlak tuck chet.
His heart could no longer speak to his mind. His desire to behave, to adhere to the Eightfold Path, to his belief in right thoughts, right mindfulness, right meditation, evaporated and dissipated like the mist following the last monsoon before the dry season.

That night they covered his eyes, packed him in a coffin full of soft dirt so he could not move, and they buried him. His only connection to the outside world was a thin reed through which he had to suck in air to keep from suffocating.

In dark early morning mist and rain Cahuom Chhuon stood on the steps of the decagonal pagoda in Phum Sath Din. It was the one hundredth day since the death of his father, the seventh day since the attack at Plei Srepok. No one had yet risen. Even the monks were asleep. Chhuon let the rain drench him, let it run from his shaved head, stream with the tears from his eyes, dribble diluted salt into and from his mouth. For three days he had wailed like an old woman. For three days he had sat perfectly quiet, perfectly still, breaking neither to eat nor to relieve himself. In the wet darkness he turned, faced north, then west, south and. east. Four directions, he thought. Four Noble Truths: hardship and suffering are elements of life; suffering is caused by the passion to possess that which has no permanence; suffering can be defeated by overpowering one’s passions; to control one’s passions one must strictly follow the Eightfold Path. He repeated to himself the second Truth. He repeated it again and again. He lay the Truth, as if a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle part, onto the image he held of the events of the past seven days, seventy days, forty-five years. Somehow it should fit, should fall in if turned just so, set at the exact angle which would allow the shape to mesh. He thought of his truck, his most prized possession, and he thought he would never again touch it. His desire to possess, yes, that was where it would fit, to possess goods which have no permanence, yes, not the goods themselves, but the desire for he himself to have them as if he were alone, an individual, apart from all others, yes, his passion for the
glories
Westernization was bestowing upon him, upon Phum Sath Din, upon all Cambodia...he wished he could explain it to Cheam...here was the pain, the passion which caused the pain...which...The anguish in his heart welled up in his throat and behind his eyes...I have yielded to my passion for worldly goods and for this the spirits have taken Kdeb. Have taken Yani. I am the source...Chhuon pulled the statuette from his soiled shirt. He squeezed it. He prayed to the spirit of his father. In midprayer his thought transformed to a prayer of homage to his father’s spirit on its hundredth day of liberation from its earthly vessel. Chhuon returned home.

Midday, two days after Chhuon had returned from Plei Srepok without his children, a FULRO messenger had arrived with word of the destruction of the Jarai village. K Drai, the messenger dispatched by Y Ksar to the airfield at Andaung Pech, had returned from the government post without reinforcements. From a position on the canyon’s escarpment he had witnessed the ceremonial trial and the slaughter. On foot he had raced through dense forest to a small Mountaineer outpost and from there the commander had sent word of the attack in every direction. Thus had Chhuon and all Phum Sath Din learned of the death of Samnang, Mayana and 317 Jarai villagers, and the conscription of two tribal boys.

When Chhuon returned to the wat he was washed, dressed, composed. Under his left arm he held a white satchel. Behind the pagoda, under the trees by the river, a score of village men milled in groups of two, three or four. Chhuon felt their eyes keep pace with his approach. He bowed his head, climbed the steps and entered the vestibule, removed his sandals, entered the main hall.

For several weeks village women had been preparing for the hundredth-day ceremony for the dead. When word of the children’s fate arrived, a rite for their spirits was added. Relatives and neighbors had cooked elaborate meals and now the bowls, dishes and platters covered three long tables. Sweet pungent smells of curried foods mixed with earthy odors of boiled greens and steaming mist from hot soups and rice. The scent of mint garnished the aromas. At the far end of the hall on the altar to Buddha the smoke from a hundred incense sticks rose and mixed with the fragrance of baskets of flowers. Young children darted behind groups of eating, chattering women, playing hide-and-seek and peekaboo with their cousins. The atmosphere was light, happy even in its solemnness, gay, the occasion bringing together nearly the entire village, bringing together, an extended loving family in their best and whitest clothing, taking them from fields and the confines of their homes to celebrate the journey of the spirits.

Chhuon approached the altar. To one side Vathana and Samay held their grieving mother. Chhuon knelt before the altar, said a prayer, advanced. He lit several joss sticks and stuck the ends into cans of rice to support them. From the carefully packed satchel he removed two red candles which he lit and placed on the altar so that Samnang’s and Mayana’s ghosts would be able to find their way home. In his heart he feared their ghosts would be disoriented and bewildered. Any ghost, in its first days, could have trouble adjusting to the state of death, and the ghost of a child violently killed far from home needed guidance lest it return to frighten or harm its own family.

Chhuon removed a lacquered wooden box containing the ashes of his father. Sok joined her husband. She brought a bowl of fresh fruit and sweet rice cakes. Chhuon eyed her as she arranged the fruit on the altar. He wished with all his heart he could find comfort in her presence, but he could not. He looked at Samay who now held Peou in his arms. Then he looked at Vathana. He could not but believe that they blamed him, as he did himself, for the death of the children. Sok retreated without a word.

Chhuon placed his father’s ashes on the altar. In this act there was joy. Though he was distraught over the children he was proud to be able to provide properly for his father. Then hopelessness seized him. He would never have the ashes of Samnang or Mayana. Never be able to place them at the altar of the village wat. Their spirits would never find peace and the path to rebirth. Behind him the room had filled.

“It’s their strategy,” Chhuon heard a male voice. Then another, “Eh? The yuons?” “The Communists,” the first answered. “If they rid the mountains of the tribals they have no opposition.” A third voice said authoritatively, “Ten thousand have been pushed from the land. Tens of thousands killed. They’re marching south. Why’d Chhuon go up there?” The second voice piped, “It’s one thing to kill himself, eh, but his own flesh?!”

Chhuon removed from his satchel a comb, shirt, pack of cigarettes and a small roll of twenty-riel notes and placed them with his father’s ashes. For Mayana he left a scarf which had been Vathana’s and which the younger daughter had always admired. In the scarf were pieces of cellophane-wrapped candy and a pack of gum. For Samnang there was a new pair of pants, a book of maps, two ballpoint pens and an order pad. Chhuon closed his eyes, stepped back, then stopped. He opened his eyes. He reached into his pocket. He had not planned the action but suddenly he felt he must. From his pocket he withdrew the wad of counterfeit fifty-riel notes. He stared at them in his hand. “For what possible reason,” Chhuon muttered, shaking, suddenly shaking violently, unable to control his arms or body, throwing the wad on the new pants, “could you possibly want these?”

“Brother,” Cheam said, “the monks have arrived. Come.” Cheam led Chhuon to their family mat where Vathana was again supporting her mother, where Samay and Sakhon knelt. All the food had vanished in deference to the monks who could not eat for six more hours. Maha Nyanananda climbed onto a raised pallet by the altar, sat, tucked his feet beneath him. Chhuon barely noticed. Then the saffron robe caught his eye. He looked up and tears welled. About the old monk were several assistants, the
aacha
, and several of the village leaders. Through Chhuon’s swollen eyes all his people in their best and whitest clothes looked gray, like apparitions. The apparitions brought their hands together and bowed their heads to the floor three times. The monotonic chanting in Pali reached his ears but did not enter his head. He knew the prayers but he could not utter a sound. An urge to rise swept over him but he forced it to pass through him and on. In its wake he yet wanted to rise, wanted to address his family, neighbors, wanted to explain why he had left the children, wanted to make them understand. The
aacha
sprayed perfume into a bowl of water, the monk dipped a white chrysanthemum. Maha Nyanananda flicked the flower toward the kneeling congregation and over the clothes and gifts, consecrating them for the dead. Later he would give them to the poor. The chanting continued for hours though the young children had long since departed and again were playing hide-and-seek in the vestibule and on the grounds about the pagoda. Chhuon forced himself to repeat the prayers, the suttas shielding his consciousness against the tragedies that had befallen his family, forced his eyes to close, to hide in blackness, forced his body into a state of numbed trance. Again and again his mind escaped from the prayers to think, first, if it is not the fate of a person to remain with the living then this must be accepted. Then with great anxiety, to think of the Samsara, the Wheel of Life, which connects all generations, and to project the ramifications of his deed, his loss, his unheeded dream.

In the first days that followed, Chhuon appeared calm. After the days of wailing and the days of silence the sudden change was welcomed as a sign of moderation of his grief. But within days his wife, his brother, all the villagers, again became concerned for him and said prayers for him.

“Mama,” Vathana whispered, “what can we do?”

“In time...” the older woman began, but she did not finish. How strong she seemed to her daughter, and how affected seemed her father. Yet Vathana knew her mother was not so much stronger, only she did not show her grief.

“I’m so sad, Mama,” Vathana said. “I’m sad for Yani and Samnang, and I’m so sad for you and Papa.”

“In time...” the older woman repeated. “In time. Now we must plan for your wedding.”

“I won’t go now,” Vathana said compassionately. “I’ll stay with you and Papa.”

“No,” Sok said quietly. “You will go as planned. I will take care of the things your father should do...until he comes awake.”

On the surface Chhuon was spiritless, apathetic about Vathana’s wedding plans, despondent. “Please!” Sok pleaded. “Talk to the monk. Talk to the khrou.” “It was fate,” Cheam said. “Had you taken the trip, had you not, exactly what was fated to occur came to pass.” “Say another prayer,” his cousin Sam advised. “I pray to the spirit of your home,” Sam’s wife, Ry, added. “You have three children alive. You’re a very lucky man.”

But inside, under his despondency, like a planted grain of rice sprouting, flourishing, blooming, spreading its seed, resprouting, multiplying in tranquil paddies under darkened still skies, in him like the wave of snowmelt rushing down the mighty river, building momentum unstoppable, a mantra directed at the yuons rumbled, repeated, doubled with each repetition: blood-for-blood! blood-for-blood!

Blood-for-Blood!

Blood-For-Blood!

BLOOD-FOR-BLOOD!

BLOOD-FOR-BLOOD!

After three days and nights of bound, painful forced march the cool earth and light restraints of the box were a welcome relief. Samnang was frightened yet too exhausted, too confused, too disoriented for the reality of his burial to seize him. For twelve hours he slept. For twelve hours he dreamt nothing, felt nothing, thought nothing. Then, slowly, the earthy facts of capture, rite, witness, march and burial oozed into the emptiness like lava seeping under pressure into a sealed underground chamber.

He tried to open his eyes. Dirt particles fell into the slits. He jammed them shut. They had bound him loosely, only enough to keep his hands and legs still. When they had told him to lie in the dirt in the box, he had done so without the slightest resistance. They had tied his arms at the wrists to loops of vine about his upper thighs. They had wrapped his hands, each finger separately, in soft cloth. Carefully they had packed dirt over his body, enough to fill the box and hold him motionless though not enough to crush him when they shut the lid. Then they fitted a reed through a cloth over his face and pushed it into his lips. They aligned the other end with a hole in the lid, packed his head, neck and face in dirt, closed the lid and buried Samnang’s coffin in a shallow grave. Only the reed tip broke the surface.