Jai Yen Means Keep A Cool Heart

CAMBODIAN REFUGEES

There’s an old proverb from rural Southeast-Asia; “When elephants fight, the ants get hurt.” Throughout history, when kings and princes fight, it’s the poor village people who get trampled on. Thailand had been fortunate in avoiding the civil strife that brought great upheaval and misery to neighboring countries, especially Viet Nam and Cambodia. In the 1960s and 70s the war in Viet Nam had spilled over into Cambodia. Eventually, the radical regime of the Khmer Rouge, headed by Phol Pot, came to power in that country. The Khmer Rouge had a policy of forced agrarian reform. They emptied the cities, sending everyone to work in rural areas. People with any education were suspect and killed. The Buddhist clergy were killed. Fear ruled the land.

In 1980 great masses of starving, traumatized Cambodian refugees fled into eastern Thailand. That was when the rest of the world learned of the horrors they had experienced. In May of that year I visited the Mai Rut Refugee Camp in southeastern Thailand, located near the Cambodian border. By that time the United Nations had constructed shelters and basic food was provided. However, there was a need for supplemental food which the refugees could grow in their own gardens. They were eager to do that, so I brought them a large quantity of fast growing vegetable seeds.

Most of the refugees lived as family units in the housing provided, but there was one shelter in which only children lived. In the jargon of U. N. administrators, those children were called “unaccompanied minors”. They were orphans. Perhaps some family members would find some of them eventually, but for most, their parents and siblings were dead, either by starvation, or executed by the Khmer Rouge.

Two young American men lived in the camp. They were volunteers sent by some Christian aid group to help the refugees. The children loved them. Whenever the young men walked around the camp they were surrounded by children holding their hands and even hanging on to their pant legs. When they sat down the kids would climb on their laps seeking affection. The young men provided what they could. They hugged the kids, played games, did silly tricks and provided love so desperately needed by the children.

A few days before I arrived they had given the children some paper, brushes and water color paints. Perhaps the reason was for therapy, or maybe just for recreation. The children made good use of those materials, and painted scenes from their life in the camp and of their former homes in Cambodia. Most of the paintings were of fields, mountains and village life; idyllic scenes of peace and quiet. A former life remembered, with no indication of strife and violence. There were two pictures, however, that were different. They were illuminating and very distressing. A boy of about 10 years of age had painted those pictures. The other children took me by my hand and proudly showed off their handiwork, but that boy was silent and watched me. I noticed he had not joined the other kids following the volunteers around. He watched and waited, only his eyes moved.

One of his pictures depicted an execution by beheading, complete with spurting blood. The other picture was of a group of Cambodian men standing in line waiting for their execution. They were guarded by Khmer Rouge soldiers with automatic rifles as they moved, one by one, toward their executioner. The men’s faces showed no hope. The execution device was a hoe; the heavy iron hoe used by farmers throughout Southeast Asia. The picture showed the executioner swinging the hoe against the skull of the man at the front of the line. Blood spurted out of the man’s head. A pile of dead bodies were scattered about on the ground.

The boy had surely witnessed those events, perhaps several times. It was, after all, a very common event in Cambodia during the reign of the Khmer Rouge. Using a hoe as a club saved bullets. Perhaps the boy’s own father, or other men he knew, were in that line. I wondered how often that scene appeared in his mind. Did he dream about it? Many children imagine monsters under their beds. That child knew the monsters were real. Perhaps he had joined them. Some children had survived by being “spotters” for the Khmer Rouge. They picked out adults who acted suspiciously and reported them to the authorities.

He was watching me as I looked at his artwork, perhaps looking for a reaction. What can you say to a ten year old boy who has witnessed such horrors? There was nothing I could say. He resisted affection. He only watched. That boy was one of the ants who get hurt when superpowers