Red History

• Journals
• Non-Fiction
• Biographies

								
Written by Chanthy (granddaughter) in hindsight of her grandmother (Chanty) and her mother (Danielle) when escaping the Khmer rouge war and seeking asylum in Canada. 


2023 intro - Chanthy - 
“So, tell me about yourself.” 
I sit, shuffling at the edge of my chair. I recently moved to a new school; nobody knows who I am. My brain is in pieces trying to think of something remotely interesting to say. It’s the kind of overly broad question someone asks in a job interview. I stare at my hands. 
After a while of awkward silence, she inhales deeply and says, “where are you from?” 
I think. I could say I’m half British, but that’s pretty boring, considering the majority of people in this school are British. 
“I’m half Cambodian.”  
“Oh, you're Columbian?” 
“No, Cambodian, a country in southeast Asia… next to Thailand.” 
“Oh, wow. I’ve never really heard about that country before.” She tells me with a puzzled expression on her face. 
Not many people have. Which is annoying but also a good thing. It means I can waffle on and on, intrigue people and make friends.  
“Well, my mum’s side of the family were refugees to Canada, too. So, I guess you can say I’m also Canadian, but my dad is British... but I grew up in Hong Kong.” 
“Wow…” she says, clearly impressed. 
“Yup.” I chuckle.  
I continue. “My family on my mum’s side is different. Very different from my dad’s side.” 
“How so?” She asks. 
“Well… they tell their traumatic life stories as if they were embarrassing, silly things that they now laugh about. Like how you sneeze in the middle of a chapel service when it’s dead silent.” 
She giggles because she can relate. 
“My great uncle says he recalls people running down a mountain but exploding like popcorn from the landmines. He says it with a smile on his face and chuckles it off.” 
Oh. Did I go too far? She sits there with a blank expression. 
She then sits in closer.  
“Oof...”. Her eyebrows scrunch inquisitively.  
“Do you ever go to Cambodia?” She asks. 
“Yeah, all the time.” 
“What’s it like?”  
Another overly broad question. Except this time, I know exactly what to say.  
“The blend of different smells from the street vendors makes my stomach grumble. This place is full of people rushing. The heat coils around you, kind of like a coat.” 
I continue, “And still, even though there are like a million people on the road all at once, a tuk tuk, which is basically like a motorbike- drawn carriage, has no problem driving straight through them.” 
She laughs again. 
“No, seriously… The people on the road part like Moses and the Red Sea to avoid getting hit, then continue with their chaos. A lot of the street vendors sell very similar things. Very colourful. The colour red is very prominent here. It’s on the flag and a lot of the stuff they sell. Like a krama, which is a scarf, but it is red and white in a chequered pattern. It’s a country full of genuine smiles and tasty but pungent smelling food.” 
“Huh”, she says with intrigue. Her eyebrows go up again. 
Somebody else chimes in. 
“Hey, I heard about the genocide in Cambodia. Was it called the kamar rouge or something? I’ve watched a documentary on it.” 
“Yeah, the Khmer Rouge,” I say. 
“Ohh, is that the thing that your family escaped?” She asks. 
“Yup,” I reply. 
“Oh no kidding?” They are both wide- eyed and fascinated. 
“Yeah, my grandma, her daughter and seven siblings escaped… She led them out. She was like the queen bee of the family.”  
“I just find it so hard to imagine what it was like to live through such an atrocity”, she says and then the other one nods. 
 
That has me thinking. If only I could see Cambodia through my grandmother’s eyes at the time. I only know the stories and silly metaphors my family use which undermine the suffering they endured and witnessed. 
 
Do I want to know what it was like? I’d imagine it’s like watching one of those gruesome videos on TikTok. It’s disgusting, but you just can’t stop looking.  
 




1978 intro to war - Chanty  
I see red everywhere. The vulgar, dreadful stench of rotting flesh makes my stomach heave, though at the same time it is mercilessly aching like I was being drilled from the inside, with debilitating hunger; desperately calling for food. They have cut down the ration of rice we are served by one mouthful for a few sunrises already. A grave amount. 


There are endless rows of skeleton silhouettes working. Picking rice, beans, carrying heavy bags of mud over their brittle spines. All in black, long- sleeved clothing. Everyone looks the same and behaves the same. The skulls of the people who challenged the nefarious regime are all thrown in the same hole. The only thing with colour is their red and off- white chequered kramas that sit around their neck. Sister Srey is sitting picking green beans next to me. Anxiously, she looks around. Her hands are shaking. She surreptitiously slips a green bean into her mouth. A giant shadow casts over her, like an eclipse. She is a tiny, frail figure compared to it. She looks up, her eyes filled with fear and her hands begging for mercy. “Please, it will never happen again,” her weak and frail voice pleads. I hear the most heinous words in response followed by a “next time, you will die,” and his voice echoes to make sure everyone has heard his threat. Luckily, he doesn’t use the bullet but rather the back of his gun. It slashes her head twice and she slumps to the floor. He beats her as if she owes him a lot more than a green bean. He has spared her life, this time.  
 
After he leaves, she sits up and silently whimpers as blood trickles down her face. Isn’t it ironic? I would have a full belly if I could eat all the food that I picked. Yet, I still wonder, where does the prized fruit of my labour go? If certainly not to my stomach, then where? I use my krama to wipe the blood off Sister’s forehead. I know if it is left unwiped, it becomes crusty like red sand. Looking at her sad, sunken face, I think she’d rather have the bullet.  
“You will dirty your clothing,” she worries. My clothing has been through a blood bath for all I know; little drops won’t make any difference.  
When the sun hides, we go back to our huts. The moon casts a light over my daughter. I literally named her “good health”, but she is so sick. She is 7 but looks 4 years old at most. When I was 7, I learned how to jump rope. We tied red ribbons around our hair like bows and played with dolls. I would come back home and be greeted with warm rice and sweet mangoes. Here, there are no ribbons, but red scarves. No jump ropes, but whips. There is certainly no food that we can eat without risking our lives. She does want a doll, though. There is no doll but some cloth. I wrap the cloth, tying a few knots. There, my beautiful daughter, the doll you wanted. Her smile lights up her emaciated face.  
 
I am lucky. Sister Srey has no family to wipe the blood from her face. Only me: who just squats next to her and picks beans. She has no one to go back to; they may all be in the same hole. Still, however, she expects them to come back to her every night with the bags of corn they promised her they would get. One night, many moons ago, her husband, uncle and father told her to stay in and that they would bring back bags of corn. She still has the porcelain plates, from her old luxurious house: souvenirs from her once ethereal life, many years ago, set out on the floor that were supposed to have sweet, delicious corn in them. They never came back but she still expects them.    

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes