Free In the Shadow of the Banyan by Vaddey Ratner

to see us staring at him.
    Big Uncle’s eyes darted to the hood of his car and then back to the boy, nodding as if to say, You could have that too. Was he mocking the soldier? A smile, a sneer, I couldn’t tell what Big Uncle was feeling or trying to communicate. The boy looked tempted. Then all of a sudden something rose in him and, straightening his stance, he spat on Big Uncle’s face. There was a nervous pause as he waited to see what this titan would do. Big Uncle remained as he was, the spit sliding down his face.
    The boy laughed, first forcefully, then more shrilly, thrilled that he could command the obedience of a giant. “IMPERIALIST PIG!” He lifted his foot and kicked Big Uncle in the stomach. Big Uncle fell on his haunches. The boy took a step or two back, still pointing the gun at us, and once at a safe distance, proclaimed, “DOWN WITH IMPERIALIST PIGS!”
    He turned and dashed out of the property. Again, shots rang through the air. Papa cupped his hands over my ears. Mama pressed Radana to her chest.
    Stillness returned. No one moved or said anything. No one knew what to do. Big Uncle got up, caught the twins and Auntie India lookingat him, their eyes shiny with tears, and suddenly his face quivered with shame. “Curse the woman who gave him birth!” he thundered, his face contorted, nostrils flaring, looking as fearsome as the yiak I’d always thought he was. He picked up a rock and hurled it in the direction where the soldier had disappeared.
    Auntie India, shaking from head to toe, begged, “Please, Arun. The gods—they are listening.” Her voice, robbed of its birdsong melody, rang with dread. “Please, they will hear you.”
    “Damn them all!” Big Uncle roared, his anger as magnificent as his bulk and height. “Their revolution and their gods!” He kicked a small sapling and broke it in half and hurled that too at the road. Then, looking even more ashamed for losing control, he got in the car, slammed the door behind him, and started the engine.
    We followed, our car behind his, roaring out the entrance.
    •  •  •
    But we didn’t get very far. Again the road lining the Mekong was crammed, and before we could decide whether to veer left or right, a group of soldiers appeared holding up hand grenades, ordering everyone out of the cars and down to the river, threatening any who remained in their vehicles.
    We found a spot under the shade of a rain tree, hurriedly sorted through the items we’d brought with us—food, kitchenware, sleeping mats, mosquito nets, blankets, clothes, medicines—and retied them into more portable bundles, while discarding the heavy and bulky suitcases. Radana’s little pillow, resewn and heavy with jewels, was saved. But Big Uncle’s small shortwave radio, Papa’s thick volume of classic Khmer verses, and Mama’s mother-of-pearl music box containing photos and letters had to be left behind, scattered on the car seats like offerings to a rapacious god who hid, invisible, salivating amidst the spoil.
    From my copy of the Reamker, which I’d grabbed at the last minute when we were leaving the house, I tore out the page with the ornate gold-colored illustration of Ayuthiya and stuffed it in my pocket, reciting quietly to myself the words I remembered by heart: In time immemorial there existed a kingdom . . . It was as perfect a place as one could find . . . Iwould miss reading it, but it didn’t seem right to tear out a page with words. If another child found it, I thought, I wanted her to have the complete story, from the beginning.
    All around us others were doing the same, figuring what to take and what to leave behind. Families wondered if their vehicles should be locked, if the soldiers would guard their belongings during their absence, and when they could be expected to come back. The soldiers had no answers.
    Papa, with rolled-up straw mats strapped to his back and two heavy sacks slung over his shoulders, picked me up and pressed me close