phnom penh
April 1975
Phnom Penh city wakes early
to take advantage of the cool morning breeze before the sun breaks through
the haze and invades the country with sweltering heat. Already at 6 A.M.
people in Phnom Penh are rushing and bumping into each other on dusty,
narrow side streets. Waiters and waitresses in black-and-white uniforms
swing open shop doors as the aroma of noodle soup greets waiting customers.
Street vendors push food carts piled with steamed dumplings, smoked beef
teriyaki sticks, and roasted peanuts along the sidewalks and begin to
set up for another day of business. Children in colorful T-shirts and
shorts kick soccer balls on sidewalks with their bare feet, ignoring the
grunts and screams of the food cart owners. The wide boulevards sing with
the buzz of motorcycle engines, squeaky bicycles, and, for those wealthy
enough to afford them, small cars. By midday, as temperatures climb to
over a hundred degrees, the streets grow quiet again. People rush home
to seek relief from the heat, have lunch, take cold showers, and nap before
returning to work at 2 P.M.
My family lives on a third-floor
apartment in the middle of Phnom Penh, so I am used to the traffic and
the noise. We don't have traffic lights on our streets; instead, policemen
stand on raised metal boxes, in the middle of the intersections directing
traffic. Yet the city always seems to be one big traffic jam. My favorite
way to get around with Ma is the cyclo because the driver can maneuver
it in the heaviest traffic. A cyclo resembles a big wheelchair attached
to the front of a bicycle. You just take a seat and pay the driver to
wheel you around wherever you want to go. Even though we own two cars
and a truck, when Ma takes me to the market we often go in a cyclo because
we get to our destination faster. Sitting on her lap I bounce and laugh
as the driver pedals through the congested city streets.
This morning, I am stuck at
a noodle shop a block from our apartment in this big chair. I'd much rather
be playing hopscotch with my friends. Big chairs always make me want to
jump on them. I hate the way my feet just hang in the air and dangle.
Today, Ma has already warned me twice not to climb and stand on the chair.
I settle for simply swinging my legs back and forth beneath the table.
Ma and Pa enjoy taking us to
a noodle shop in the morning before Pa goes off to work. As usual, the
place is filled with people having breakfast. The clang and clatter of
spoons against the bottom of bowls, the slurping of hot tea and soup,
the smell of garlic, cilantro, ginger, and beef broth in the air make
my stomach rumble with hunger. Across from us, a man uses chopsticks to
shovel noodles into his mouth. Next to him, a girl dips a piece of chicken
into a small saucer of hoisin sauce while her mother cleans her teeth
with a toothpick. Noodle soup is a traditional breakfast for Cambodians
and Chinese. We usually have this, or for a special treat, French bread
with iced coffee.
"Sit still," Ma says as she
reaches down to stop my leg midswing, but I end up kicking her hand. Ma
gives me a stern look and a swift slap on my leg.
"Don't you ever sit still?
You are five years old. You are the most troublesome child. Why can't
you be like your sisters? How Will you ever grow up to be a proper young
lady?" Ma sighs. Of course I have heard all this before.
It must be hard for her to
have a daughter who does not act like a girl, to be so beautiful and have
a daughter like me. Among her women friends, Ma is admired for her height,
slender build, and porcelain white skin. I often overhear them talking
about her beautiful face when they think she cannot hear. Because I'm
a child, they feel free to say whatever they want in front of me, believing
I cannot understand. So while they're ignoring me, they comment on her
perfectly arched eyebrows; almond-shaped eyes; tall, straight Western
nose; and oval face. At 5'6", Ma is an amazon among Cambodian women. Ma
says she's so tall because she's all Chinese. She says that some day my
Chinese side will also make me tall. I hope so, because now when I stand
I'm only as tall as Ma's hips.
"Princess Monineath of Cambodia,
now she is famous for being proper," Ma continues. "It is said that she
walks so quietly that no one ever hears her approaching. She smiles without
ever showing her teeth. She talks to men without looking directly in their
eyes. What a gracious lady she is." Ma looks at me and shakes her head.
"Hmm..." is my reply, taking
a loud swig of Coca-Cola from the small bottle.
Ma says I stomp around like
a cow dying of thirst. She's tried many times to teach me the proper way
for a young lady to walk. First, you connect your heel to the ground,
then roll the ball of your feet on the earth while your toes curl up painfully.
Finally you end up with your toes gently pushing you off the ground. All
this is supposed to be done gracefully, naturally, and quietly. It all
sounds too complicated and painful to me. Besides, I am happy stomping
around.
"The kind of trouble she gets
into, while just the other day she-" Ma continues to Pa. but is interrupted
when our waitress arrives with our soup.
"Phnom Penh special noodles
with chicken for you and a glass of hot water," says the waitress as she
puts the steaming bowl of translucent potato noodles swimming in clear
broth before Ma.
Excerpted from First They Killed My Father © Copyright 2012 by Loung Ung. Reprinted with permission by HarperCollins. All rights reserved.
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