Razor-wire fence rounded and rounded Phanat Nikhom Refugee Processing Camp where the days were filled with a bustling market and freshly-made ice cream, Cantonese love songs blasting off from old cassette players, and the young and old learning about American culture and language; and where the nights were taken by children gathering around a story-teller, young men courting the lovely cheek-burnt girls, and adult males joking and drinking beer to kill time as they took turns guarding the camp against a possible reprisal from their war enemy. This was the place that we were trapped inside and watched closely like law-violating prisoners. We couldn’t go past the barbed-wire fence. Thai security guards patrolled the camp’s borders like vicious dogs that bite if one went near. They wore gun-packed dark-lilac color uniforms with black helmets, and in pairs—they rumbled around the camp in their black motorcycles eying for offenders. I heard that if a boy was caught going outside of the fence, no matter how old he was, he would be beaten and sold as a slave. If a girl was caught, she would be sold as a prostitute. And then there were the others, who would be locked up for life unless their parents bailed them out with a large sum of money. These stories sent shivers down my spine and goose bumps across my skin more than the ghost stories I heard at night. I hoped I never get caught or sold as a prostitute, or worried my parents—especially worrying my parents. They would undeniably hit me if they heard I was captured. But still, my curiosity about what was beyond the fence often overcame me and drove me to sneak past the fence many times.
There weren’t many things to do inside the camp. I didn’t like school much either. I went when I felt like it and skipped when I felt like it too. No one forced me to go and no one forced me to stay. I showed up on movie days only, which we often watched a movie about an almost naked man who lost his son and daughter while trying to get rid of a glass bottle that fell from the sky. It was something different for me and I liked to see the strange fruits that the two kids gorged on so deliciously.
While not at school, I followed my mother. Sometimes, her teacher taught the class to make American food like sandwiches but when I was offered one to eat, the abundant flavors tasted funny to my tongue. I didn’t like it. So I skipped off and peeped into other classrooms. Once, I sneaked into a class and watched a movie about a boy in a green outfit wearing a pointed hat with a feather. He could fly and played with some mermaids in a waterfall. Other times, I squeezed in with a crowd of women and children to watch Nkauj Ntsum and Tub Tuam. I never got tired of that movie and was disappointed if the movie about a big guy in a red suit riding a sleigh or the one about seven men in seven different color shirts flirting with seven women was shown instead.
I learned to like watching movies. Whether a motion clip was a movie or a television show, there was no distinction in our mind. We all knew it as “movies” only. It became a window out of the bland life of Phanat Nikhom. Aside from getting to watch shows at school, we have the option of paying two-baht to watch a movie inside a theatre—operated by Thai businessmen and consisted of a large room filled with rows of plastic chairs and a twenty inch television, positioned roughly three feet from the ceiling. I went in once, after ditching a friend because I hated people who clung onto me like superglue. That morning, an episode of Japanese power rangers dubbed in Thai was shown. Once the half-hour children’s show was over, a Thai boran lakorn about a princess who lived in a bamboo grove and had a magical golden hair band came on. Depending on the time of day, there were different shows. Chinese dramas and Indian movies dubbed in Thai tended to be screened during the evening time. But me, I enjoyed the power rangers and Thai ancient dramas more.
When I didn’t have money, I sneaked out of the fence with a bunch of other children to watch Thai dramas at a little Thai snack shop right on the outskirts of the fence. Sometimes, I bought a snack with the one baht allowance my father gave me and sat down on the dirt ground to munch on the sweet candy while waiting for the Thai boran episode to come on. Other times, I just sat there in front of the shop for hours, watching some younger kids running in and out of the fence, naked, under the scorching sun. But just sitting there was risky and dangerous. The kids and I knew about the Thai security guards, so we were always watchful. When we heard the slightest sound of their motorcycles’ guttural, yet thunderous retort and crackling at times noise—we all rushed back inside the fence.
Even when none of us were caught, the Thai security guards knew that we were outside of the fence. So to fulfill our television needs and discourage us from stepping out of the fence, they set up a free black and white television at their station by the camp’s entrance. But me, I didn’t like watching people in black and white. I wanted to see them in color because the presence of color was much more appealing and interesting. So, I was pulled to the Thai snack shop over the fence almost every day despite the fact that I was violating camp rules.
One day while outside of the fence and waiting for my show to come on, I began picking flowers next to the shop. I thought I had heard the rumble that we were all terrified of but it sounded so far away. I looked at the other children and they were still there. If they haven’t left yet, it was okay for me to stay as well. So I continued to pick flowers. Then, in the blink of an eye, I saw them. There in front of me, they sat on their motorcycles looking like giant, angry elephants about to stomp over me. The other children had vanished and I was left alone there.
A million thoughts ran through my mind. What was I going to do? Would my parents kill me if they found out? Would I end up being a prostitute? I was scared.
I was not sure if it was the fright in my eyes or that I was young and innocent or that it was my luck, but one of the guards nodded to me to get back inside the fence. Without hesitating, I took the chance to rush back inside. It was better to be a prisoner with my family than to be an abused prisoner alone.
As I walked away from the fence, a myriad of women and children stared at me like I had committed a capital offence. I felt embarrassed and was afraid that one of those people would definitely tell my parents about what I have done. If they found out, I would absolutely be whipped by my mother. The trip home that afternoon through rows and rows of shingle-roofed bungalows took longer than I remembered. But the strenuous walk to our cramped living quarter had made me decide to keep my mouth shut of the experience for as long as I could. It was not until many years later when I gained enough confidence that I finally revealed the incident to them. My mother laughed about it. However, I knew that it was definitely not something laughable then.
Since that day, I never dared step past the fence again. Although my body could not physically travel past the fence, my mind often wondered beyond it. Sometimes, I leaned on the fence facing the Thai snack shop and thought about what America was like. Did it lie just beyond the rusting, brown shingle-roofed barn in the distance where the sun shone like it never set or was it over the lush hills afar the barn? America seemed so close, yet so far away. I wished it was just beyond the fence. But I knew that I would get there someday. I would.
When I was bored staring past the Thai snack shop, I walked toward the camp’s entrance and stared past that fence. There was a nice, smooth cement-lamented road ahead that stretched from nowhere and went to somewhere. Now and then, a car—a brown pickup truck, a white van, or a red convertible came on the road and raced past the camp. I often wondered where the cars were heading to. Would a car stop and ask me to see if I wanted to go on a ride? Were there a lot of people inside the car? Perhaps there was a little boy, who out of curiosity, would stare at me—a strange, dirtied-face little girl who was confined behind the fence and staring peculiarly at him too? If there was such a boy, how does he look like? Where is he going? To the city of angels? Does he have a better life than I do? Did he come to participate in the social gatherings I often saw happening near the camp. There were two white towers, nicely decorated, and often filled with short-hair ladies in nice gowns and dresses—wearing big belts like the one my mother bought for me for Hmong New Year. They drank fluids in nice clear v-shaped cups, and danced and laughed with gentlemen in black suits. Why were they permitted to be free to enjoy so much fun and laughter while we were trapped inside the camp? It was not until my college years that I found out that Phanat Nikhom was less than a mile from a beach and the wide, crystal-clear blue ocean. Like the Thai dramas, the cars racing by and the people in nice clothing probably came there for a vacation by the ocean. They spent their days splashing in the cool water and their nights enjoying music and dance. Something that we were so close to, neither my fellow camp members nor I ever got to experience until after migrating to America.
So if I was not thinking about America, I was by the fence counting the cars speeding by. Who was inside the car? How did they look like? Where were they heading to? The sound of rushing cars gave me hope and a chance to kill my boredom. I often ran toward the fence to stare at them whenever I could. The cars looked so free, like a flock of birds soaring through the sky without limitations. I yearned for that ability very much.
Many years after leaving the camp, I however, am very tired of noisy traffic sounds that even in the depth of the night—disrupted and woke me up from my sleep. In my years of college, I met many people. Sometimes, I wonder if any of my Thai classmates was inside a car that sped by or participated in those parties during that time I spent staring at them from inside Phanat Nikhom. If so, who would imagine that we would finally end up at the same place? A place that offered us the same chance toward enlightenment. But I never asked. At least for the moment, I won’t have to wonder about what was beyond the fence again.
Author: TT Vang
Author: TT Vang
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