First They Killed My Father (24 page)

Ma comes back with a bowl of rice and permission to take a few hours off. “It’s past lunch, but I got this for you from the chief.”

I take the bowl and we walk back to our hut.

“The chief gave you time off?”

“Only a few hours. He is not a bad man.”

“Ma, Geak still looks really sick,” I say once we are sheltered in our hut.

“I know, I’m very worried about her. I’m afraid she won’t grow anymore. We are given plenty of rice now, but we had all those periods of virtually no food.

Pangs of guilt gnaw at my stomach.

“She needs meat,” Ma continues. “Last week, I tried to trade a pair of my ruby earrings for a small chicken …” Her eyes are sad as she recounts her story to me.

It was dusk and the sky turned red as it phased into night. When she and Geak finished their meal of rice and fish, Ma went to her secret hiding place under the small pile of clothes and took out one of Pa’s old shirts. Reaching into the pocket, she took out a pair of ruby earrings. Sadness overcame her as she remembered Phnom Penh, a place long ago where she collected expensive antique jewelry. She shook her head as if to chase away the memory. No time for that now. She had to
get going before it got too dark. She told Geak she would be back soon and quickly left.

As she walked the twenty minutes to a nearby village, her body grew weak. Her joints ached with every step. She hated leaving Geak alone. She knows Geak cries for her whenever she leaves, even for only a few minutes. Her poor baby girl. “Seng Im,” she whispered to Pa, “I’m so tired. I’m thirty-nine and growing old, so fast and so alone. Remember? We were to grow old together. Seng Im, I’m too old to live like this.” The memory of Pa brought tears to her eyes. She knows it’s no use, but still she talks to him.

Ma approached the village. Her heart raced, pumping the blood too quickly and making her dizzy. “Act casual,” she thought. “They cannot suspect.” If they knew what she was doing here, if she got caught, there would be big trouble. She shuddered when she thought of what they would do to her. Pa had traded inside the village with the base people for rice and other grains. But Ma wanted to trade for meat to feed Geak. The other women assured her the operation is completely discreet and safe. Slowly, she walked into the village. No one stopped her to ask questions. If they did, she would tell them she was visiting a friend. A sigh of relief escaped her when she saw the house. In it lives a certain woman who works in the chicken farm. Other women in the village told Ma this woman had stolen chicken for them in exchange for jewelry. They described in detail the woman and her hut, so it was easy for Ma to pick it out. She walked over and called out, “Good evening, comrade sister. It is your friend visiting you.” The woman looked out of her hut, and though she did not recognize Ma, she invited her in.

Once safely inside Ma whispered to her, “Comrade sister, I have come to ask for your help. I am told that you work in a chicken farm. I have a young daughter who is sick. She needs some meat. Please, comrade sister, help me.” Ma unfolded her scarf and showed the woman the earrings. “If you are able to help me, I will give the pair to you.”

“Yes, yes, I can get you a small chicken, but I cannot do it now. You have to come back tomorrow. Come at the same time tomorrow.” With that, she hurriedly sent Ma away.

The next night Ma returned to the village with her earrings. Her steps were faster and lighter tonight, a smile spreading over her face as
she thought of giving Geak the chicken to eat. Ma can’t even remember the last time she and Geak had meat. Ma walked to the house and the woman invited her in. As she sat down across from the woman, Ma realized the woman was agitated and nervous. Then Ma heard the sound of footsteps behind her, coming from a dark corner of the room. Her heart lurched and fear took over her body as she stood. “What’s going on?” she managed to whisper to the woman.

A man emerged from the shadows and blocked her escape. “Please comrade, I have a daughter—”

His hand came down hard across Ma’s face.

Ma’s hand blocked her face, her eyes blinked back tears.

“Give me the earrings,” the man commanded. With shaking hands, Ma reached into her pockets, found the earrings, and put them in his open palm.

“Give me everything you have,” he demanded her.

“Comrade, please forgive me for I do not have any more. This is all I—” her voice trembled. He balled up his fist and punched her in the stomach. Ma doubled over and fell to her knees. His foot kicked her thighs, then many more kicks landed on her body. She was lying on the floor now, gasping in pain.

“Please comrade,” she begged, thinking of Geak, “have mercy, I have a young, sick daughter.”

His foot dug into her stomach. White spots flashed before her eyes. She felt as if her insides had been ripped out. She gasped for more breath as his hands pulled her to her feet. He dragged her to the door and pushed her out the steps.

“Don’t come back, ever!” he yelled at her. Her knees buckled on the steps. She fell, her body slamming against the stairs. Landing in the dirt, she picked herself up and ran.

Back at Ro Leap, Ma lifts her shirt and shows me the bruises where the man beat her. The marks look raw. Black and blue, they run across her protruding ribs. She lifts her skirt up and shows me the big red and purple patches covering her white thighs. Looking at her face, a rage rises up in me. The image of some stranger beating my mother brings to life such hate in me. And all for a chicken!

“Ma, I want to kill him!” I tell her.

“Shh … Don’t talk crazy,” she shushes me. “Don’t say it out loud or we will be in trouble. I am lucky to be alive at all. I feel sad Geak did not get her meat.”

Hearing her name, Geak walks over to Ma and sits on her lap. Ma smoothes her hair and kisses the top of her head.

“I’ll have to be more careful from now on,” Ma continues. “I worry about who will take care of Geak if something happens to me.” Ma stares at Geak and sighs. Her biggest worry is that her sick child does not get what she needs. I look at Geak; she is quiet in Ma’s arms. It strikes me then how she does not have much command over the language to complain about her hunger. How does a five-year-old tell us about her stomach hurting, her heart aching for Pa, and her fading memories of Keav. I know she hurts and feels pain. It is rare when she does not thrash and cry in her sleep. Her eyes look lost. “I’m so very sorry,” I say to her with my eyes. “I’m sorry I am not good like the rest of the family.”

“Chou visited us a few weeks ago,” Ma says. “She was able to get permission slips to visit every other month now. She said the old Met Bong was taken away by soldiers and the new one is nice. She tells the new Met Bong she has a younger sister at this camp living with another family. Being a cook, she is able to sneak rice out of the kitchen and dry it in the sun. She brought us a feast the last time she came.” I flinch with shame as Ma’s voice trails off. I cannot listen anymore. I did not bring Ma and Geak anything. I am tormented by the knowledge of how much my family is willing to sacrifice for each other. If Chou gets caught sneaking food she will be severely punished, but she risks it. Kim stole corn for us and was brutally beaten. Ma was assaulted trying to get Geak a bit of chicken meat. I have done nothing.

I look at Geak and choke back my sadness. She was so beautiful when we lived in Phnom Penh. She was everyone’s favorite. Her big brown eyes were always so full of life. She had two of the world’s rosiest, chubbiest cheeks, which no one could keep from touching. Now she has lost all her color; her face is sunken and hollow. There is always sadness and hunger in her eyes. I stole her food and now I’m letting her starve.

“A lot has happened since you left.” Ma’s voice brings me back. My eyes stay on Geak. She does not talk anymore. She is so thin it is as if
her body is eating itself up. Her skin is pale yellow, her teeth rotten or missing. Still she is beautiful because she is good and pure. Looking at her makes me want to die inside.

When the sun falls behind the hut it is time for me to leave. The camp is a few hours walk and I need to reach it before dark. Ma and Geak walk to the road to see me off. With Geak hanging on to her leg, Ma takes me into her arms. She smells of sour body odor and dirt. My hands hang awkwardly to my side as I lift my face from her breasts and push myself away.

“I’m not a baby,” I mutter and try to smile.

Ma nods her head, her eyes red and brimming with tears. Bending down, I lay my hand on Geak’s head. Her hair is fine and soft. Gently, I smooth out the strands that stick up in the air. Then I quickly turn and walk away. They are both crying. I walk away not knowing when I will see them again. Though I long to be with them, being with them brings back too many memories of my family, of Keav, of Pa.

The period of plentiful food did not last long. Once again our rations have been reduced and many people are becoming sick. My stomach and feet swell as my bones protrude everywhere else. In the morning I find myself short of breath just walking to the rice fields. I have lost so much weight it feels as if my joints are rubbing against each other, making my body ache. In the rice paddy, my head throbs and it’s difficult to focus on the task at hand. By midday, during lunchtime, the effort of pulling the leeches out of my toes requires more energy than I have in me. So tired, I allow the leeches to feed on me and only remove them at the end of the day.

Each morning my face puffs out a little bit more, my cheeks rounder and my eyelids more swollen. Each day, I awake feeling weaker and weaker, my arms, fingers, stomach, feet, and toes feeling heavier, until I am no longer able to train or work.

“Met Bong,” I wheeze out the words, “may I have a permission slip to go to the infirmary? My stomach hurts very much.”

She sighs with impatience. “You are so weak. You must learn to be strong,” she shouts at me and walks away, leaving me standing in the sun with my head down. I curse myself for being small and weak. As I turn
and walk back to the hut, she calls to me. “Where are you going, you stupid girl?” Met Bong puts a piece of paper in my hand. “Go to the infirmary and recover, then come back. I am taking you out of the dance troupe!” I let out a sigh of relief and thank her.

The infirmary is a few hours’ walk from the camp. With permission slip in hand, I walk toward it. The sun climbs higher and higher above the trees, heating everything around me. I walk over to a shallow pond near the roadside and squat down. The mud oozes warm and soft between my toes, soothing my aching joints. I wade in deeper to where the water is clearer, but each time I move, my feet disturb the water, making it brown and hazy. Standing still until the residue settles to the bottom, I scoop up the water in my hand. It is warm and soothing to my throat but tastes of rotten weeds.

I move on until the water reaches my chest. Slowly, I put my face in the water, my arms floating on the surface. My upper body floats easily in the water, pulling my feet up from the bottom. The water amplifies my heartbeat so that the thumps are much louder. The rhythm sounds normal but my heart feels very hollow. Listening to my heartbeat, my mind wanders to Ma and Geak. April and New Year’s are behind us, so now we are all one year older. Geak is six now. She is a year older than I was when the Khmer Rouge took over the country three years ago. It has been six months since I visited Ro Leap when Ma showed me her bruises. Nine months since I pulled my hand out of Chou’s grasps. Twelve months since I said good-bye to Kim, seventeen months since the soldiers took Pa away, twenty-one months since Keav-I stop myself from counting more dates. It is no use remembering when I last saw them. It will not help bring them closer to me. Yet in my world where there are so many things I don’t understand, counting dates is the only sane thing I know to do.

When I am cooled down, I raise my head and spot a small cotton field in the distance. I get out of the water and walk toward it. The cotton stands as tall as my chest, puffy, white, and soft like the clouds, but I can actually touch the cotton. I pick a ball and pull it open. In the middle of the puffy cloud, there is a cluster of black round seeds like pepper. I have heard that they are safe to eat, but I hesitate momentarily
before putting one in my mouth. I roll the seeds on my tongue—they are hard and have no taste. Tentatively, my teeth crack the shells and dig into the soft, oily meat. Slightly sweet, the seed quiets the noise in my stomach. I quickly pour the rest of the seeds onto my hand. Scanning the field to check for guards, I shove the seeds in my mouth as fast as I can. Then I collect a few more handfuls and put them in my pockets.

By midmorning I arrive at the infirmary, an abandoned concrete warehouse with moldy, crumbling walls and open spaces for rooms. There is no electricity so it is dark, except for the area that is illuminated by sunlight pouring in through the glassless windows. In the air hangs the unmistakable smell of rubbing alcohol and stale flesh. The two hundred or so patients are lined up on straw mats or cots on the floor, their cries echoing off the cold stone walls. The bodies lie motionless, some bloated, others skeletal, all on the verge of death. Some are so sick they cannot get up to relieve themselves. There are not enough nurses to help so they He in their own messes.

Keav’s face flashes before my eyes as I gasp for air, only to cough at the stench of death that floods into my nostrils. Keav slept in cots similar to these, drenched in urine and waste. Some people come to this hospital hoping to be cured of their sickness, but many are dumped here because they are too weak to work and therefore of no use to Pol Pot. Those “who can no longer work come here to die. A cold draft hits me and pricks my skin with tiny stings as I imagine Keav staggering here alone to die among a thousand strangers. In a makeshift hospital, on these yellow-stained cots, many of these patients will die before the sun rises tomorrow.

Forcing myself to focus on something else, I try to shake off the feelings of pity I have for these patients. I look intensely at my hand in the yellowish light. It looks stubby and waxy like five pale fat worms attached to the palm. When I move my fingers, they wriggle and I momentarily envision them detaching and crawling away. My toes wriggle in the same way. I am jerked out of this vision by the moans of the sick. This must be how Keav died, lonely and afraid. Am I to die in a sea of sick people I do not know?