Last week, I had the chance to watch a journalist from the Toronto Star interview the parents of one of my longtime friends. I first met Seng Hongcheang and Sok Sihong when I came to Cambodia in 2004. Knowing I was here by myself, they generously accepted me into their large family, hosting me for countless dinners and weekend trips to the countryside. They took care of me. Hongcheang, a doctor, even offered me medical counsel and regularly replaced my Coca-Cola with tea, chastising me for my poor eating habits.
In all the time I've known them, we had never discussed the details of their time under the Khmer Rouge. Since Hongcheang spoke French and was a practicing doctor before the Khmer Rouge came to power -- he and Sihong, a midwife, met when they were working in the same hospital -- I assumed life in Democratic Kampuchea must have been tough. But finally hearing them recount their story of survival was a powerful experience.
It was heart wrenching to hear Hongcheang, a truly kind and gentle man, describe how he saw Khmer Rouge soldiers bludgeon an entire family to death in a pagoda. Sihong spoke less, because when she did, her eyes would well with tears and voice catch. After the Khmer Rouge came to power, she never saw her mother again. Every night she snuck into the forest to scavenge for anything her children could eat; "during that time, I never had any rest," she said, dabbing her eyes with a krama.