Cambodia, April, 1975

[kathminchin.livejournal.com]

The truck smelled – rank with sweat and fear, urine and blood. It was hot, airless, and filled with a tension that you couldn’t ignore.

In spite of the heat most of us were shivering. None of us spoke, we just stared at each other in this blind panic that was internalised in each of us. There was nothing to say, none of us had a clue what was happening.

All we knew was that this morning, a group of armed soldiers had burst into our quiet classrooms, ordered the students home and then we were herded onto a truck, our wrists jingling handcuffs behind our backs, and then driven away. It had been the entire day, we’d not been given food or water, and no one was telling us where we were being taken.

What had been sunlight streaking through the back gate had turned dark, and the moon was being shrouded in clouds when it happened. There was a sudden yell from the driver, and the truck we were in careered across the track. There was an immense shudder as it crashed into something, flinging us about as though we were rag dolls. Then gun fire, screams, and this odd ululating sound from many throats that I didn’t recognise.

And then the truck doors blew off. No really, they just blew off, as though something had grabbed them and just yanked them off to land in a twisted heap of metal. The word outside was shrouded in cold fog, and there were arms and hands reaching into the truck and dragging us out. We didn’t see the owners of the hands, just shadows in the mist, but I remember seeing great hooked claws instead of nails.

We got lined up, shivering in the cold, clammy mist. I remember knocking something with my foot, looking down and finding I was standing next to a man’s arm, torn off at the shoulder, the blood trail lacing across the ground. I looked along the trail and saw the soldier, kneeling on the ground, clutching his shoulder and staring out into the darkness , shuddering in shock.

I don’t remember how, but I found myself being dragged along, my wrists suddenly tied in front instead of behind; with rough rope instead of handcuffs. The mists thinned out and we were being pulled through bushes, the thorns scratching at our skin, digging deep into our flesh, the land at a steep incline that we were pushed to scramble up. I think … I don’t think we all managed it.

We found ourselves in a cave, dark and echoing. We were pushed to our knees, foreheads pressed to the floor. And then there were footsteps, heavy, that made the ground shake slightly; and a voice which seemed to resonate in my bones.

I was pulled to my feet, spun around and made to open my mouth; had my face pushed around by my chin as though I was a horse being sold.

And then I was dragged along corridors, to a great huge cavern, lit up by a fire that I could see flickering as I was dragged down the tunnels, to find myself in a huge kitchen, populated by twisted figures that looked as though they’d stepped out of a nightmare.

I was in Ream Eyso’s kitchens.