Category Archives: labor

From Prisoners of Class: A Historical Memoir of the Khmer Rouge Revolution, by Chan Samoeun, tr. by Matthew Madden (Mekong River Press, 2023), Kindle pp. 378-381:

The Organization at the farm gives orders to stop the roasting of rice grains. Everyone who is permanently stationed at the farm is authorized to confiscate any pot, dish, pan, or other equipment used for roasting paddy rice. It is quieter than before, but some people continue to do it. They roast the rice in pots, kettles, or cans covered with a lid so that the popping can’t be heard from very far away.

Whenever they see anyone stationed at the farm coming near, they panic, sometimes picking up the pot or kettle they are using to roast and running away, sometimes abandoning it and saving themselves. I don’t make any effort to suppress this activity, for I know hunger the same as they do. Sometimes I sneak some paddy rice from stalks whose grains are still young and tender and chew on them. Sometimes I sneak grains of rice that have just sprouted on the rice stalks and chew them; sometimes I chew grains of ripe paddy rice raw; and sometimes I chew grains of milled rice or kernels of ripe corn I come across at the economy kitchen.

But some people take no pity on others, especially the young men who keep the oxen for trampling the rice at the threshing yard (the farm personnel help trample the rice that the mobile young women bring in). They act macho, walking around confiscating other people’s equipment to show off. They steal, they roast, but there is no one to catch them, for they are the catchers.

Now there is nobody who does not steal. Everybody steals according to their own abilities and opportunities. Some steal a little, others steal a lot; some steal secretly, while others steal openly.

The cadres steal a lot, and openly. They steal from the mobile units to bring back to the cooperatives. Nobody dares to see them stealing, and they don’t bother to hide it. They steal it openly, and the economy team prepares it for them.

As for myself, I steal secretly, and I steal “legally” (though of course there’s no such a thing as legal stealing) without anybody knowing that I am stealing. I appear to be very proper, when in fact I am a secret thief, stealing from the pigs. Some of the finer rice dust is eaten by the pigs, and some is eaten by me. Sometimes I roast it, and sometimes I eat it raw. As for the courser bits, before I pour the rice dust into the manger, I mix it with water in a bucket, then take my hand and stir its so that the broken rice ends and chaff ends settle to the bottom of the bucket, then pour out only the rice dust and water mixture into the manger. The rice ends are for me; I wash these many times with water to remove the chaff ends and cook them in the small pot left to me by the late Bong Yong. So long as there are any course rice ends in the rice dust, I get some rice ends to eat every meal. The pigs don’t know that I’m stealing from them, as they are animals; they are ignorant; they are stupid. They only thank me and love me for bringing them rice to eat every meal and for hauling water for them to bathe in. But if they did know, they wouldn’t dare object, for I am their cadre. I have the right to beat them, to deprive them of food, to cut off their rations.

Some days I sneak a chicken egg and the hen doesn’t dare squawk at me, as I am her master. But if there are other chickens with her, even if I am standing right there, she will chase them all over, pecking and attacking them mercilessly. Perhaps this is a case of “being angry at the cow and smiting the plow.”

Oh, how nice to be a cadre! Even if only the cadre of the chickens, ducks, and pigs—still it is a great way to live.

In summary, apart from the chickens, ducks, and pigs, everybody is a thief. So why is it necessary to catch people stealing, if you are also a thief? Some people want to catch others to hide their own deeds, to improve their own ability to steal.

But it is hunger that has taught people to fight for survival. The higher-ups give orders to confiscate equipment used to roast rice grains, and a number of dishes, pots, and kettles are taken away by them. But the stomachs remain hungry as before, unchanged.

How great is this hunger? Very great! So great that a sated person could never understand or even imagine it!

Even without dishes or pots, people sit around the fire, take out the paddy rice grains they have hidden in their pockets, and place them on the ashes of the fire with small coals hiding beneath. The roasting grains pop and fly onto the dirt, and they pick them up one by one, place them on the palms of their hands, and clean them off by blowing on them puff puff and then plop them into their mouths. Is this not the behavior of a hungry person? And is this not stealing? Why not come and confiscate the coals as well?

From Prisoners of Class: A Historical Memoir of the Khmer Rouge Revolution, by Chan Samoeun, tr. by Matthew Madden (Mekong River Press, 2023), Kindle pp. 263-266, 269:

But then we reach the Great Leap Forward offensive, and the mode of working changes. When the work first began, only Ta Val’s brigade and the district young men’s and young women’s units kept working twenty-four hours per day. They would take shifts both day and night, one unit up and another down. But starting in early April, all of the units begin to work both day and night, and there are no more individual allotments.

…

In one day and night there are three shifts. In my unit, the men and women take turns working at night. Because of this, the working hours are not the same. The men start work at six o’clock in the morning and continue until eleven or noon, then take a lunch break. In the afternoon we work from twelve or one o’clock and take a dinner break at six o’clock. At night we work from ten o’clock until three in the morning. We have two chances to sleep at night, from seven to nine thirty, and again from three thirty to five thirty in the morning. In total, in one day and one night, the men work for sixteen hours and sleep for four and a half hours.

The women begin work at four o’clock in the morning and work until eleven o’clock or noon. In the afternoon they work from noon or one o’clock until six o’clock. At night they work from seven to ten o’clock. The women sleep only once per night, from ten thirty at night until three thirty in the morning. In total, in one day and one night the women work for sixteen hours and sleep for five hours.

…

When the sky is bright and clear, the economy team (cooks) carry rice and water to us at the edge of the pit. During the transplanting season, we were so hungry for rice. We wanted to eat rice so badly! The word rice would make our mouths water like dogs that have seen a piece of meat. But now, the word rice has a different meaning, a bitter flavor. If they weren’t afraid that we wouldn’t have the strength to dig and haul dirt, we wouldn’t have rice to eat. Now they give us abundant rice. Leftover rice is thrown out because the economy team doesn’t even have time to dry it.

But it isn’t rice for which we hunger now, it is sleep. We can’t get enough sleep. But nothing is up to us to decide. We have neither time nor rights to think about anything. The Revolutionary Organization is the one who does the thinking, who resolves everything. We have only our strength to do the labor, and that is sufficient for them; they are content with that.

We drop our hoes, baskets, and yoke poles in one spot, and then we each untie our own bags and take out our bowls and spoons, dish up our rice, and sit around the soup pot and try to swallow, try to chew, but without heart, and without daring to prolong the moment. We can barely finish eating the rice before we must rush to pick up our hoes and baskets and get back to work right away.

The Organization tells us, “People can rest, but the hoes, bangky baskets, and yokes must never rest!” Dear God! Each person has one hoe, one yoke pole, and one set of bangky baskets. If a person rests, how is the equipment supposed to keep moving? This kind of language makes us all shrink in fear, not daring to rest or take time to eat.

…

It’s not only the unit cadres who watch over us personally and supervise our work activities; clandestine chhlops from the region work among our units as well. Their presence intimidates us, and we work hard without daring to converse with one another. They come to assess our mentality toward the work and toward the leadership of the Party. Every thoughtless utterance which they perceive to be an objection to the Revolution is a danger to our lives. They can take you away without even telling you what you have done wrong. They take you away secretly. Only the people in your unit will know that you have been taken away to be killed; other units will have no idea.

How many people have already been taken away and killed at this worksite? Nobody knows. My older sister tells me to be cautious. A few people have already died in the special unit just for saying, “Gee, this rice looks a bit spoiled.” They were dragged away immediately and clubbed to death beside the base of the dam.

The economy unit rises to cook the rice in the middle of the night. They cook a pot and dump it into a large basket, then another and another. Because the earlier rice and the later rice are all piled together, sometimes this causes it to take on a sour, spoiled smell. Saying that the rice is spoiled means that you are not pleased with the Party, that you are hindering the work of the Revolution.

The fragility of life fills us all with terror! Each of us works to appease Yama so that he will spare us to live another day.

…

If you are too lazy to work, the Organization says, “To keep you is no gain, to remove you is no loss,” and the Organization will take you away and club you to death. Actually, we Life Slaves don’t dare be lazy, as we are afraid to die. We do whatever they want us to, so long as they don’t kill us.