It was a boring shift, though I did have the opportunity to speak with a local boiler repair man (Steve) for a good while. Steve is not his real name. I’m using Steve because of the conversation we had. You’ll understand why as you read on. Steve and I began
talking about the usual stuff, not making enough money, the weather, and how we
both didn’t like jealous people. Eventually Steve started to go on a bit about
boiler repair and I began to disengage. Not wanting to be rude, I stayed in the
game and he eventually began to speak about how lucky we both were to be in America. I agreed and he continued on about how vastly different it was from his country
of birth. My ears perked up as Steve explained how he had come to the United
States from communist Cambodia in 1980. He was fleeing the final “takeover” of
his homeland by the communist forces. His five brothers, four of whom were
considered educators in the township had all been rounded up and shot. My heart
suddenly sank as I watched the eyes of a man who had been so jovial while
describing to me his many mechanical and HVAC attributes, turn suddenly dark and empty.
The lengthy conversation that followed was educational and
extremely frightening. I have had the opportunity to speak to many learned
folks on a variety of topics over the years, but this was something very different.
Knowing my history, it was clear that this man had lived through something
horrible beyond imagination, and despite his thick accent, I was about to get a
firsthand account.
Steve was a young man of 22 whose father had been stolen
away to work for the new government and was never heard from again. He watched
from a distance as his baby brother was ripped from his mother’s arms and taken
with 4 other brothers of varying ages to be shot and buried in a ditch by the
road. Steve managed to flee leaving his mother, sister and a remaining brother,
who was disabled. All would eventually be murdered in the name of communism.
Distraught and fearful that he too would meet the same violent end, Steve sewed
a small 24 karat rough gold necklace, his only possession of value in the
world, into the collar of his grimy tee-shirt and stowed away in the belly of a
freighter to Thailand. He vowed that if he was to die, it would not be on
Cambodian soil. He would eventually make it to Thailand and meet his future
wife who had also escaped the killing fields. Steve sold his treasured necklace
for food and eventually struggled on to the United States. They were cold and
hungry, but they were alive.
As I sat open-mouthed and gripped by what I was hearing,
Steve went on to describe himself in a way that I had only read about. He
called himself a “17 April”. This was a designation and date the communists
affixed to those they’d chased from Phnom Penh, under the pretext that there
would be enemy bombing on April 17, 1975. Subsequently, one of the greatest
genocides in human history would be recorded there. Steve recounted in horrific
detail his experiences as his family struggled to survive famine, disease and
the communist model of Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge. Babies were smashed against rocks
and trees while whole families were summarily executed and buried as fertilizer
for coconut groves. Millions would eventually die. There would be no more
schools or infrastructure of a conventional sense, but rather a “system” by
which all would be equal. Where have we heard this before?
I interjected my thoughts where I could and we related our
concern for the future of our children, a future reliant on recognizing and
acknowledging evil such as this. But mostly, I just listened and absorbed. There
before me was history in the flesh, spilling out the stories of the past and
sounding the alarm without ever really knowing it.
The conversation eventually grew sparse. Steve explained
that he rarely spoke of the past as it often induced nightmares so vivid and
terrifying that he would awaken and run from the house to confirm he stood on
American soil. He seemed sad as he remembered his family and murmured of how we
must all cherish and protect those we love. He explained how he has sent his
wife and son to live in a liberated but still emerging new Cambodia for two
years. He wants his boy to know of his father’s birthplace and heritage, and he
wants him to truly understand and be grateful for his own birthplace, America.
Ironically, Steve reaffirmed his desire never to return there himself. It is
still too painful for him. I had one more thing to say to Steve, albeit with a
very noticeable lump in my throat, and that was “thank you”. I simply didn’t
want to miss the opportunity to let him know how much the conversation had
meant to me, though I think he was in another place at that moment as he walked
off into the night.
People ask me about my passion for my values and my beliefs,
about the reasons I am so dedicated to the cause and history of this Nation. I
tell them it is not sanctimonious or selfrighteous, but rather concern that
drives my approach to the debates of our day. Concern that the next chapter in our
history is unfolding right before our very eyes and we have the power to ensure
it is a legacy our children will be proud of (or not). I’m not suggesting that all must
or will be perfect, but to ignore such poignant and definitive lessons is to be
just plain ignorant. To let pride, vanity, greed or any other of man’s weaknesses
stand in the way of doing right by our kids future, especially when the
consequences are so painfully obvious and easy to discern, is just plain
foolishness/selfishness. In this authors humble opinion, we should be embracing
the “Steve’s” of this world and begging them to speak of their experiences in
our children’s classrooms. Only in this model can we be thought of as having done our due-diligence on behalf of the next generation. In the end, it is our duty to humanity.
