No Dream Beyond My Reach is an exciting and heartfelt drama that captures with eloquence and imagination the gut-wrenching true story of Dr. Sopheap Ly, a survivor of the Cambodian Killing Fields. For more than ten years, Sopheap experienced hell on earth as a child slave under the Khmer Rouge regime and later as a refugee. Yet despite impossible odds and extraordinary challenges, she persevered with sheer determination to achieve a dream her father planted deep in her heart as a young child. Her story is the American Dream in its rawest form, sung with hope and inspiration.

No Dream Beyond My Reach

One woman's remarkable journey from Cambodian refugee to American MDBy Sopheap Ly

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Sopheap Ly, MD
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-8456-8

Contents

Acknowledgments.................................................ixIntroduction....................................................xiiiChapter 1 Evacuating The Good Life..............................1Chapter 2 Bloodstained Rice.....................................8Chapter 3 Free To Struggle Forward..............................16Chapter 4 Home to a Different Town..............................21Chapter 5 Seeking Refuge in Thailand............................25Chapter 6 Another Camp Closer...................................30Chapter 7 Approaching the Dream.................................37Chapter 8 Hope and High School in Santa Ana.....................42Chapter 9 The Golden State of Opportunity.......................72Chapter 10 Gaining Experience, Giving Care......................76Chapter 11 Through The MCAT Hoop................................83Chapter 12 The Doctor To Be.....................................87Chapter 13 Rotating Through the Grind...........................96Chapter 14 Ready to Practice....................................102Chapter 15 Sopheap Ly, MD.......................................108Chapter 16 Pearls of Wisdom.....................................111Biographical Statement..........................................115

Chapter One

Evacuating The Good Life

I was born in Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. I do not remember much about my childhood in Cambodia before the Khmer Rouge took control of my country. I remember being happy because I knew my father loved me very much. I was the apple of his eye. I have memories of my father driving me around on his motorcycle to his older brother's house, which was a beautiful estate with lush farmland that had large tractors and shiny machines that harvested rice, corn, and lotus. He had forty people working for him. My favorite uncle was a wealthy landlord, and I affectionately called him Uncle Heng. His house was where I wanted to go on the weekends, because when I visited my uncle, he would tell me, "Take whatever is in my home. What's mine is yours." I didn't want anything from his home, but I did want lots of fresh lotus flowers from his garden. I remember carrying lots of fresh flowers back to my house and putting them in a vase. I will never forget how every year during the Cambodian New Year my uncle would stuff lots of large bills in a big red envelope and give it to me.

I loved my Uncle Heng for his generosity and kindness, and my father did too. I remember my father telling me, "Sopheap, this motorcycle you are riding on is a gift from Uncle Heng." My father was so proud that his brother had bought him such an expensive classic motorcycle for his graduation.

During our special visits to Uncle Heng's house, my father shared his dream with his brother. His dream was for little Sopheap to serve in the medical profession. My father looked to his brother for inspiration and guidance because Uncle Heng had raised him after their parents died at a young age. My father later told me that my uncle said, "Sopheap will pursue her dream, and she will succeed."

Like Uncle Heng, my father always encouraged me during my early years, sometimes whispering in my ear, "Never ever give up, no matter how terrible things might be. Always follow your dreams. They are never beyond your reach." His words would serve as a beacon of hope and light during my darkest nights.

Before those dark nights, my family life was filled with love, laughter, and fun. I was four years old when my parents enrolled me in a French private school in Phnom Penh. In Cambodia, a developing country, children usually did not go to school until a much later age. At four, I was quite young to attend school, and my mother sat in my classroom every day and wiped my tears, as I was very unhappy about being there. My dad, mom, sister, aunt, and I lived in a large red brick home in an affluent suburb of Phnom Penh. We had a nanny who was supervised by my aunt, who stayed with us while my parents went to work. On the weekends, we went on all-day shopping trips and visited relatives in the evening. One night, our cousins, aunts, and uncles gathered in front of my grandparent's house to watch the Chinese New Year dragon parade in the month of January. It was a joyful time and very exciting, as bright colorful lights-red, orange, yellow, green-flickered and flashed against the night sky, while a large dragon danced wildly in the street just a few feet from where I sat. I was being held tightly and securely in my father's arms as he sweetly kissed my forehead and cheeks while cuddling me in his lap. The fantasy of the celebration was beyond my expectation, and I couldn't imagine that life could ever bring anything but this kind of happiness and joy.

It was just a few months later that Khmer Rouge soldiers stormed our home late one night with guns and swords, demanding that we leave our home. I'll never forget that night. With only the clothes on our backs, my father, mother, sister, aunt, and I were ordered to leave our home by men with guns. After a long walk, we were herded onto a train like cattle. None of us had any idea that we would be taken to a distant farmland and nearly worked to death harvesting rice for four years before we would ever know freedom again.

The conditions on the train ride to our new destination were cramped and very crowded. As I looked around, people were compacted in like matchsticks in a small box. Without food, water, or bathroom privileges, some sat on the cold floor for hours while others tried lying down to sleep, hoping that when they awoke the nightmare would be over. The loud droning sound of the train wheels over the tracks screamed in my ears; crying babies and children wailed with hunger; women wept for lost loved ones, husbands and fathers stared blankly with anguished faces, as they could only anticipate the horror that awaited them and their families.

Everyone in our family, close and distant relatives alike, rode the train for a day and a night until we arrived at a remote farmland somewhere in the middle of very wet rice fields. We were pushed and shoved off the train like animals going to slaughter. Harsh speaking soldiers ordered us to get to work in the fields-if anyone had a problem, they would be shot or decapitated. We were now barefoot as we made our way to the rice fields under cruel and watchful eyes. It was then, at the age of five, that I entered the world of slave labor. I was told that I was to work at least fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, in the watery rice fields, while the adults were to work eighteen hours a day, seven days a week.

Dozens of families worked together to build crude shelters made of coconut and bamboo sticks or any tree that could be found that had leaves, sticks, and branches that could easily be pulled off. The shelters had dirt floors, and our beds were made out of bamboo sticks. We had no blankets, pillows, or any kind of warm covering. Everyone slept in the same outfit they had on during the forced evacuation. New clothes were given only when the old clothes were in shreds or when the children's clothes no longer fit them. Black jumpsuits made out of thin cloth were handed out to us. I did not like wearing the jumpsuit-it was ugly and too big.

As I lay on my bamboo bed late at night, I wondered why this awful nightmare was happening to me, to our family, to everyone I loved and cared about. I thought about my favorite Uncle Heng and wondered what the soldiers had done to him and his family. I later found out that the Khmer Rouge had viciously separated my uncle from his family. His teenage son, Ratana, witnessed the handcuffing of his beloved father in front of his estate. His son watched angry soldiers cruelly tie his father with thick red ropes and then blindfold him with a heavy black cloth. Uncle Heng's face turned purplish black as he lost oxygen. Oxygen deprivation could cause death within several minutes even in a healthy strong adult. Angry soldiers hurriedly shoved my Uncle's limp body inside the four-wheel-drive truck. His teenage son helplessly watched the truck careen wildly on the unpaved road as it traveled about eighty miles an hour. Such speed and crazy driving was an attempt by the soldiers to confuse their victim, in the remote chance that he was still alive-and he was. But not for long, as the evil soldiers shoved his alive but greatly weakened body into a small rice sack and threw him into the Mekong River, where the blackbirds would later consume what was left of his flesh.

Such heartless violence against the innocent was difficult to comprehend. While trying to fall asleep at night, I thought over and over, "Why is this happening?" I could not go to my father for answers or comfort, as he was not in our family's shelter. The soldiers thought it was best for husbands and wives to be separated from one another, so my father was taken away from us shortly after we arrived. Now, I could only remember his tender touch, sweet kisses, and encouraging words: Never ever give up your dream. It is always in your reach.

It was difficult for me to fall asleep because I was afraid of the war situation we were suddenly in. So I spent a lot of my time looking through the crack in the wall made of bamboo leaves, watching the soldiers walk around outside our shelter with their long guns draped over their shoulders. The big guns hanging across on their bodies were very frightening. I didn't like their clothing-black pants and shirts, with small red-and-white checkered scarves tied around their necks, and dark caps on their heads. Seeing the toes of their black boots, I wondered who they might be kicking next. In my five-year-old mind, the soldiers were like gross aliens from another planet. Sometimes the aliens would pop their heads into our shelter in the middle of the night to check whether we were sleeping or plotting our escape. Anyone caught talking quietly would be dragged out of bed and killed for committing the "crime of speaking evil against the Khmer Rouge."

After a while, I could not cry any more tears. I had no more left. How strange and scary my life had become-no more nanny, no more soft blankets or sheets, no more shopping trips, no more visits to grandparents' house to watch a colorful dragon parade, and no more father to hold me tightly like before and whisper in my ear, "Never give up on your dream." With only hope and faith to hold on to, I let my father's words burn like a bright light through my dark night.

Chapter Two

Bloodstained Rice

Everyone working the rice fields was sleep deprived because we were only allowed to sleep a few hours each night before we were rudely awakened at 3:00 am by soldiers harshly shouting, "WAKE UP!" All family members were jolted awake and rushed to get out of bed, knowing that if they were even a minute late showing up to work in the fields, they would be at risk of losing their life.

Work began at 4:00 am, and most days it was not over until very dark. We were not allowed any breaks, and the only time we were allowed to eat was at the end of our day. Our food was a small portion of watery rice and a bowl of rotten vegetables; it was hardly enough to keep us from feeling hungry. I felt the most hunger during our early morning walks to the rice fields. There were many times when I would stumble over rocks, large roots of trees, or logs because I was so weak and because it was dark and I could not see the road very well. Even though there were times I scraped my knees and hurt myself, I couldn't stop to recover. I didn't want to be killed for arriving late.

Hunger and darkness were not the only things I struggled with on the early morning walk to work. Leeches were eager to feast on my flesh whenever I stumbled and fell into the watery rice fields. I remember landing with my face down in the water, barely conscious and unable to stand. After several minutes, I stood and discovered dozens of black leeches all over my body sticking their tiny tentacles into the flesh around my nose, ears, eyes, neck, arms, body, and legs. Relief came after I scraped the leeches off with a wooden stick that was about one inch in width. Only a strong stick would work, as the leeches were very stubborn and extremely difficult to remove.

The early morning walk routine was strictly kept for four years. We worked in the rice fields seven days a week, except when it rained heavily. The rain made it impossible to harvest rice, so it was on those days that we were allowed to kill and roast rats on our homemade spit. The rats were about the size of a small dog. I remember seeing them pop their heads out of large holes. The rats would come out and run right across my bare toes. Our family learned to outsmart them by setting traps. Once caught, we put them to good use. They became protein-rich food for our starving bodies.

When it was not raining and we were not roasting rats, I worked alongside other children in a different rice field from the adults. The adults were made to work eighteen hours a day, while the children worked fourteen. Every day, I picked tiny heads of rice under the scorching sun without any kind of protection. Many times, the heat was unbearable. One day, when I was about eight years old and working in the rice fields, I decided that I'd had enough. I was going to run away and find my mother who was far away in the adult rice fields. I had no idea where she was, but that didn't stop me. I did not care if the mean soldiers saw me-I was in too much pain, burned by the sun, sick, and tired of my life. I believed that running away would be the answer to my problems, even if it meant that I might be shot by the soldiers or get lost in the rice fields and die of hunger. All that mattered to me was getting away and finding my mother. For the next several hours, I walked through wet slushy rice fields often collapsing with exhaustion and landing face down in the mud, soaking my clothes with water and dirt. It was a miracle that I survived my brief escape and was not noticed by any of the soldiers. Many hours later, I found my mom. She was very shocked to see me suddenly appear, all red with sunburn, looking like an overripe tomato. She immediately told me to be quiet and quickly tried to hide me from her supervisors and the other soldiers. She gently and quietly convinced me to go back to my field with the other children because she feared that if I did not return, all our family would be shot and killed by the soldiers. I was not happy to go back, but I wanted to live and wanted my family to live too.

I made it safely back to the rice fields, and no soldier noticed that I had been missing for hours. The next day, I was forced to attend school. There was no classroom; class was held under shaded trees, and there were about twenty children who sat there in front of a black chalkboard, wondering why they had to endure a boring lecture about communism. I looked around and thought that working under the hot sun in the rice fields was better than hearing the teacher. The teacher must have sensed my thoughts; the next moment, I felt her hand on my head as she slapped and pushed me to the ground and placed her large hands around my throat. She gripped my throat for several minutes, and at one point I almost passed out. I could not breathe as I struggled for my life. When she loosened her grip, I found my voice and began to cry. Huge tears rolled down my cheeks, and I watched them fall on the dry ground. I could not stop crying. I was so frightened. I must have sobbed for close to half an hour, and just when I thought the teacher was finished with me, she tightened her grip around my throat again. Finally, she gave up and let me go back to my shelter alone. I never went back to the teacher's class again. I told my mother what happened, and she said, "Don't tell anyone because our family would get hurt or killed for talking about it." I was young, but I took the consequences of telling anyone about the incident very seriously. I have kept my mouth zipped very tightly until the writing of this book.

The next day, I gladly went to my work in the rice fields, though I could not forget the horror of what I had gone through. After I returned home from my work late that evening, I could not sleep. The mosquitoes were buzzing over my head and biting me. Red welts formed on my body, and I buried my head under my arm and prayed that the mosquitoes would stop their attacks. The attacks soon ended, and I fell asleep exhausted.

When we weren't battling mosquitoes at night, we battled the rain. Many times, it rained during the night and water poured in through our very thin leafy roof. I would wake up with my clothes soaked, and I still had to walk in the dark in the early morning to work in the rice fields. No extra set of warm clothes was ever provided to me or anyone else in our family.

During the four years, my family and I were prisoners forced to work night and day in the rice fields. Our suffering never seemed to end. I carried with me a great sense of loss and hopelessness and wondered if things would ever change or if I would ever achieve my dreams of a better life. Then I would remember my father's words: Your dream is never beyond your reach. I had hope, even though not a day went by when I didn't hear of someone who was taken away to be killed or who died of disease or starvation.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from No Dream Beyond My Reachby Sopheap Ly Copyright © 2009 by Sopheap Ly, MD. Excerpted by permission.
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