A Stranger Tells a Story

"You know," the man said suddenly, "the Khmer Rouge killed many people in Cambodia."

"Yes," we said.

The man looked surprised. "You know the Khmer Rouge," he asked.

"Of course," we nodded.

The river was shining in the evening light. Palm trees were in silhouette against the sky. "It's beautiful here," I sighed, resting my head on Chris' shoulder.

The man turned his face away. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"They killed my parents," he said. His voice was a whisper. "They took them when I was nine years old. After that, I was alone. I had no one to care for me, so I worked in the fields. Spreading fertilizer. I remember the smell, the heat and the dirt, the mosquitos. I remember spreading manure with my hands." He shook his head and looked at Chris. "That job was very bad," he chuckled. Then he paused.

We stood there, quiet.

The man laughed suddenly. "Cambodian swimming pool," he said, pointing at two, small boys in the river. "There are crocodiles there, of course, but the boys don't worry. You hardly ever see them." One of the boys scrambled onto the muddy bank, grinned, and then jumped onto his brother. They both went under then came up again, spluttering and splashing. I closed my eyes. I could hear Katherine and Penelope jumping off stones in the field behind us. They were loud and laughing; every now and then one of them would shriek.

They're all the same, I thought, these children.

"In the old days," the man said, and his voice was soft again; his eyes were fixed on the boys in the river. "In the old days, we were always thirsty, but there wasn't any cold water; we weren't allowed to have ice. One year though, one year I remember they gave us ice. People stood in line, hundreds of people; they stood in line for hours waiting for one, small cup of ice water. That's communism, though," he said, turning back to Chris. "Communism, very bad."

"Yes, very bad," we nodded.