For the Sake of All Living Things by John M. Del Vecchio Page B

hoes, from imported iron ingots. In 1926 his older brother had been ordered by French colonial authorities to report for militia duty. In his stead he had sent Y Ksar. For fifteen years, Y Ksar assisted in the “pacification” of the Srepok region. He learned to handle Western weapons, to dress in Western dress, to use the colonial monetary system. For fifteen years Y Ksar traveled—from Ban Me Thuot to Stung Treng, from Kontum to Phnom Penh. He learned to speak French, Khmer, Viet Namese, Bahnar and Rhade. For fifteen years he was away from his village and people. Then, in 1942, he became canton chief, the highest governmental post allowed to one of a minority race. In 1947 he was appointed a member of the district council of the French colonial government. After the devastation caused by Viet Minh and French conscription and by cholera, in the early 1950s, Y Ksar quit his post and led many villagers on an escape march to a hidden valley where they remained until 1954. Then, with the help of the Mountaineer movement, even though all major political powers ignored it, Y Ksar, his sect and the people of Plei Srepok attempted to establish an autonomous region.
    “We were stopped by a North Viet Namese patrol very near here,” Chhuon said, breaking from the jar, indicating to a house girl that he wished the jar to be measured.
    “Yes,” Y Ksar said. “We’re used to them now. They camp in the Cloud Forest, where the mist and drizzle never stop, where the Spirits live. The yuons force us to sell them rice, which is why we buy rice.” He laughed. “No rice, no rice beer. Ah, how well now they pay. At one time they simply took it.”
    Chhuon glanced at his old friend. He was not sure how to respond. He was not sure if Y Ksar was being shrewd, knew the riels were counterfeit, but was not letting on, or if he truly did not know. He decided not to confront the old man. Instead, he imagined himself reporting to Cheam that the soldiers at the NVA roadblock had demanded ten of the twelve bags. He himself would pay for two and all would be accounted for. “Are there many soldiers in the forest?” Chhuon asked.
    “Yes,” Y Ksar said. “There are many. Thousands, but not all at one time. They flow like the river. Sometimes they pool deep. Always there are puddles. I’m told they’ve a large hospital in the forest—and a sports arena. Ha! Every evening our scouts see their columns. For a time we coexisted. This changes. The Mountaineers switch allegiance.”
    “Switch allegiance?!” Chhuon said.
    “That’s what the village commonhouse is about.”
    “The brick building?” Samnang asked, astonished.
    “Ah-doh-bee,” Y Bhur pronounced the Spanish word slowly.
    “But from where...”
    “My Brother.” Y Ksar laughed. His old eyes were bright, his back straight. “We have a brick press from my sons in the Jarai village at Duc Co. American Special Forces gave them the press and taught them to make granaries. Our grain’s better stored in the xum , but look what we’ve done. Now when we have a large sacrifice the whole village can sit in the courtyard. Or inside.”
    “From the Americans?” Chhuon asked.
    “Yes. And we’ve brought our children to them. Draam Wah was very sick and the shaman said he might die even though Ama Wah sacrificed all his chickens and his pigs and two buffalo. Y Ko heard of it and directed Ama Wah to bring the boy to the Duc Co Special Forces camp. I wasn’t there but I was told the phalang medic wasn’t concerned Wah was not from his village. He treated Wah. Wah is better. They treat us like people, not like dogs as yuons and Khmers. They treat my people like you treat my people.” Phalang was Khmer for “white foreigner.”
    “And the yuons?” Chhuon protested. “They must...”
    “We’ve carried their supplies for ten years,” Y Ksar said. “We’ve fed them. Now we tell them, ‘no more.’ Are we beasts of burden? They steal my pigs. For them three of my sons have been