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nurses had to carry out the operations ourselves. Only one of us had any medical training at all: our chief nurse had done one course in Phnom Penh for a few months.
    We learned by trial and error—mainly error. When our stocks of medication ran low, we diluted it. People died of gangrene, of malaria, of blood loss. But the worst, to me, were the women who died in childbirth. There I felt real pity. One woman, who was expecting twins, suffered for hours. We didn’t know how to perform a cesarean. I was so tired that after she died I fell asleep on the spot, on the floor right next to her body.
    When the young mothers had hemorrhaged on the inside, they would get ill and then develop a high fever. In the West you call this puerperal fever. We interpret it differently. For us, it means a dead person has used the labor to enter the body of the woman and perform a dance. A lot of young mothers died of the fever. Those who survived childbirth went home to drink a glass of boy’s urine, as custom dictated. A coal fire was laid under their beds. They had to eat a lot of pepper to get their energy back and to lighten their skin. Highly peppered caramelized pork was served, together with a few glasses of alcohol. We used traditional recipes, but there was no real traditional medical expert around.
    Washing hands was not a habit at the clinic, and we often ran out of soap anyway. So many people perished in pain. Obviously, all these years later, I can see that what we did to the patients was awful. But we were poor and ignorant. It was a terrible situation and we did what we thought best.
             
    About six months after I was married, I got my period for the first time. I was fifteen, and I thought perhaps a leech from the lake had hurt me. I had no idea why I should bleed, and I stayed home all day. My husband was away, fighting. When I went back to work at the clinic, I asked my colleague Pov, another nurse, about what happened. Then the chief nurse arrived, and she was angry with me for missing work. She asked me for my excuse, and when I told her my secret place was bleeding—that is what we say—she was still angry, but she explained. She said this was what happened to women, and she took me to the cupboard where she kept clean cloth, for bandages.
    Pov hadn’t had her period yet either. She was dark skinned and her face wasn’t pretty. None of the other nurses liked her, but I did. She was about fifteen too. Pov was an orphan, like me—she lived with her uncle, who beat her. She told me he raped her too. Though I never told her about my husband, that was when I realized that I wasn’t alone—that when my husband hurt me between my legs, this happened to other women too.
    There was no respite from men, even at the clinic. The doctors there preyed on us, especially the pretty white-skinned ones and the orphans, those who had nobody to protect them. There was nothing we could do but submit. At first I was spared, because I was ugly, and married. But it didn’t last forever.
    The chief doctor came to find me one evening when I was on night duty. He had already tried to sleep with me several times, but that night he used force. Afterward, he told me, “You’re so ugly, you’re lucky I’m doing this.” The rape wasn’t as bad as the words he said. Another doctor whom I liked and got on well with took advantage of the situation too. The choice was simple: let it happen or be fired and find myself with nothing to eat.
    I felt like garbage, like I was nothing. I was also frightened of my husband finding out. In Cambodia a woman must not have sex with another man, and if it happens, many believe she should kill herself.
    I tried. I swallowed a lot of Russian sleeping drops from the clinic. The next day I woke up stunned and bleary. When I went back to work a day later the chief nurse told me off.
             
    Grandfather appeared again, from Thlok Chhrov. He needed money. And he had a letter for me—a