When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback (13 page)

She can’t even walk less than a mile to see to her dying mother,
Yiey
Srem, who has also been brought to our village. As fate would have it, all of
Mak
’s side of the family also end up in Daakpo. But there is little joy in this fact. We hardly see each other. Starvation has given
Yiey
Srem a swollen body much like her daughter’s. My grandmother’s sagging, wrinkled skin is inflated. Oddly, there is a cruel family resemblance in the edema—we are all becoming a tribe of puffy people, all the “new people” in the village. It is a hideous badge, a way to identify us. We become preoccupied with the lack of food. The memory of it is a living, breathing thing. It infects us. It tires us. It is everything.

Now time becomes hard to measure. We mark its passage in terms of who has died and who is still alive. Time is distilled and recalled by death.
Before Vin died…After Pa was executed
…This is how we talk. Before
Yiey
Srem’s death, I’m able to walk and see her briefly. Such visits are rare, even though our extended family members live close to each other. We have to weigh our desire for such contact against the risk of being punished for exhibiting “family intimacy”—a connection the Khmer Rouge frowns upon. Even while working, we are not permitted to talk with family members. Harder still, we have to sneak visits when we are supposed to be working. And we have to decide whether the energy consumed by walking half a mile should be used instead to find food, for we are all starving.

Angka
doesn’t care. It no longer gives us anything. No salt, no meat, and no rice. Every day I search for edible leaves, anything to survive. One day I find weeds beneath a tree, duck leaves
Mak
calls them. Only a few months ago, these were weeds that were mixed with rice and fed to pigs. Today, they are a welcome food. “Now we are worse than pigs,”
Mak
mutters, boiling the leafy greens.

This is our routine. During the day we clear weeds from fields of yucca and yams, stacking the weeds in piles. Early the next morning, we scatter the debris, tearing through the piles in search of the small black crickets that scurry from beneath their dark hiding place.

“
Koon, koon
, help me catch crickets. I can’t run,” Grandma Two Kilo begs. “Just two crickets a day, I can survive.”

Tadpoles. Crickets. Toads. Centipedes. Mice. Rats and scorpions. We eat anything. As we till the earth, we look upon bugs as buried treasure. Our eyes scan the soil, tucking any edible treat in a waistband, a pocket, tied into a scarf. Later the prize is retrieved, skewered on a stick, and stuffed into the fire. Those who haven’t caught anything watch, their begging eyes following each move. We must ignore them, and also ignore what we eat. There is no revulsion. Food is food. Anything, everything tastes good—even the smell of roasting crickets makes stomachs rumble with desire. Yet even the smallest creatures, the rodents, the insects, are becoming scarce. Some days, our meals for the entire day consist of boiled leaves.

Our lives are reduced to a tight circle. Each day revolves around what we can find to eat for the following day. And until it comes, we think about food.

All day. All night.

Hunger owns us.

A handwritten note is scrawled at the bottom of a document signed by two of Pol Pot’s men at Tuol Sleng, the former Phnom Penh school that became the most notorious prison of the Khmer Rouges. It reads, “Also killed 168 children today for a total of 178 enemies exterminated.”

 

T
he year is 1976. Hunger is constantly on our minds, an inner voice that will not be stilled. Yet the Khmer Rouge lecture us about sacrifice. In a mandatory meeting they tell us that we need to sacrifice for the mobile brigades that are working on the “battlefield.” These mobile brigades, they stress, are building
padewat
(the revolution). We, here in the village, are not worth much since we don’t work on the battlefield. We’ve planted rice, yams, and yucca, yet we get to eat little or nothing of the harvest. Most of the food is sent to the brigades. Later, I learn exactly what “battlefield” means—a place where the only fight is to survive the revolution itself.

Mak
’s swollen body somehow improves, so she can walk short distances now. Like a vulture sensing a corpse nearby, an informant begins circling our hut. He orders
Mak
to a meeting.
Mak
pleads that she’s not well yet. But he pounces on her slight improvement. As long as
Mak
can walk, she must go, he demands.
Mak
is angry and murmurs to herself, “When I was sick and hungry and couldn’t walk, why didn’t it [that creature] stick its head in here?
Ar’khmaoch yor
[The-ghost-take-you-away]!”

Surprisingly,
Mak
comes home in a better mood. The village leader will be sending children to build an irrigation canal near Daakpo where there will be lots of food to eat. Fish, yams, solid rice.
Mak
can’t wait to tell me, thinking, perhaps, that her young children will survive after all.

“Athy,
koon
, you should go to the meeting. They’ll send you away to work, but it’s near here. You’ll have more food to eat there. Eat until you are full while there’s plenty.” It is something to cling to, and she will not let it go.
Mak
sounds dreamy, desperate. “Maybe you can bring
Mak
some food.”

“But I’ll be away from you,
Mak
. I don’t want to go. I’ll miss you, I’ll cry.” Tears burn my eyes as soon as the words leave my mouth.

“Athy! The camp won’t be far from here. You’ll come to visit me at night after work, you’ll have food to eat,
koon
. If you stay in the village with me, we’ll all probably die of hunger. Go with those children. Come to see me at night when you miss me, but don’t stay here—you’ll starve.”
Mak
looks into my eyes, willing me to simply listen, her own eyes begging me to understand her intentions.

“I still don’t want to go,
Mak
! I don’t want to go away from you. I can find leaves and other things to eat. I’ll be okay.” But it’s not okay, I know.

“
Koon
, you have to go. They won’t let you stay in the village. If you don’t go, they will take you to
Angka Leu
. You don’t know what they’ll do to you. I don’t want them to torture you,
koon
. You go—you’ll have food to eat. Go,
koon Mak
, listen to me.” Her voice strains, her breath puffs in protest.
Mak
is miserably frustrated. I can only cry.

It is a powerful choice, food or the comfort of
Mak
. In this time of hardship, I can’t choose. The lack of food makes me confused, light-headed. There is nothing that I can depend on. In the end, I don’t have a choice. I’m ten, and I need my mother. But the mention of food draws me, memories of food I had in Phnom Penh pop to life. With these memories come doubts. Fears. Wisps of questions no one can answer.
What if they lie, like they’ve done in the past? What if I never see Mak again, like Chea and Ra, who have gone away for months? There are no words, no letters from them. What if Mak starves to death before I return?

When the evening comes, I go to the meeting. As I get close to the sahakar,
*
I wipe away my tears, erasing any evidence of weakness. Before the
sahakar
lies a blanket of children, about fifty of them. It’s getting dark, and I can hardly make out the faces of the leaders. I take a seat in the back, and a few heads turn to look at me. I’m not alone in my despair. In front of me, children are steeped in their own sadness. We are small, obedient statues. The reek of cow dung and urine rises from the ground. The cool, breezy night is lit by the moon. I gaze at the silhouette of the village leader, and I’m hypnotized by his descriptions of food. He makes life in the brigade sound like going to a restaurant, a daily feast. With words, he casts his spell.

I return home, falling into a deep sleep. A voice drones in the distance, then it gets louder. “
Ko’ma
[Children], go to the
sahakar
…go to the
sahakar
.”

My eyes crack open and it’s still dark. My heart pounds. I crawl closer to
Mak
. The shrill voice keeps coming. I’m afraid they will take me away from
Mak
and never let me come back to her. Lying beside
Mak
, I’m comforted by her warm presence, her soft breathing as she sleeps.
I don’t want to go, for now I know I’ll really miss her.
I know that I need her more than food.

“
Ko’ma
[Children], go to the
sahakar
….” The voice is two huts away.

Mak
is startled and her body jerks. I’m scared, nervous, holding my body still, pretending I’m asleep.
Mak
sits up and shakes my arm. “Athy, get up! Get up,
koon
. It’s time to go. Get up!”

I cry. “
Mak
, I don’t want to go away from you. I don’t want to go,
Mak
,” I plead, looking at the shadow of my mother in the early morning darkness.

“
Koon
,
Mak
explained to you yesterday that you can’t stay.
Mak
doesn’t have time to explain it again. You have to go, daughter. The
chhlop
is coming.”

“Comrade!” the informant shouts, now standing by our hut, “go to the
sahakar
. Hurry, hurry!”

“Athy, here—take a plate and spoon with you,
koon
.”
Mak
speaks softly, handing me the package of necessities.

I take the plate and spoon wrapped in a scarf, wishing
Mak
would say more. But
Mak
is silent. I can’t see her face or her tears, nor Map’s and Avy’s, but only their shadows, now taking their places beside
Mak
. Silently, I say good-bye to my shadow family.

One by one, children arrive at the
sahakar
. Each carries a package of plates, spoons, and clothes wrapped at one end of their scarves. Some of the informants go back, working their way from hut to hut to make sure “workable” comrades show up. The Khmer Rouge recruit children as young as eight. This is like harvesting rice that hasn’t yet ripened.

Around me stands the new children’s brigade—small barefoot bodies wearing little more than rags, our work uniform. All cloth has taken on the same drab tone, from constant use and rinsing in dirty water. Some of the children don’t even have a simple scarf, a basic necessity that serves as both a garment and a practical carrying bag. They hold their plates and spoons in their hands, or hug them against their skinny chests. Now and then I steal a glance at them—I wonder if they miss their moms like I miss mine.

“
Ahh
, walk after each other in a line! Comrades, walk in a line,” an angry teenage
chhlop
shouts fiercely. “Line up, line up! Straight! No talking. Any comrades caught talking will be taken to reform.”

His eyes take in everything, waiting to pounce on the slightest mistake. Like small slaves, we are watched closely by the informants policing the slow-moving human line. I whisper good-bye to
Mak
.

There are no roads, and we make our way through rural land separated by distant green squares, rice fields. I pick my way through odd clumps of stiff grass, a landscape so different from the woods where we live. When we reach an open grassy field, the morning dew that clings to the tough grasses scrubs away the mud, leaving me cold. I wonder why we keep walking farther and farther.
Didn’t he say we’ll be working near the village? How much longer?
I’m horrified that we’ve been lured here with lies, but keep in step with the line.

As we march farther away from villages, the trees begin to look smaller. Everywhere there are empty rice paddies, dry and overtaken by grass. Each field is surrounded by elevated paths, small dikes designed to trap water for growing rice. We hike along the elevated paths, then off them again into the empty paddies, stark and barren.

We’ve walked for hours, and the
chhlops
begin to relax. It is as if they’ve abandoned us, disappearing far in front of us, assuming that we’ll follow. As much as I fear them, I’m more worried about being lost. To lose sight of them is to risk losing one’s way, starving to death. Even so, as everyone hurries along behind them, I find myself trudging, lagging behind. My foot, already bruised and tender, meets something sharp. Pain shoots all the way to my skull. I swallow the urge to scream, and drop on the dirt, squatting. Then I see the tree branch, armed with long, tacky thorns, one of which broke into my foot. It’s black and deep in my flesh, leaving a point sprouting out of my foot. I pinch it, but it’s stuck. I try again, but it’s stubborn. I look up and everyone in front of me is gone. Now scared, I cry out, frightened that I’ll be stranded here with no food or water.

I try to remember in which direction the
chhlops
were heading, but I don’t know the answer. The thorn thrusts deeper into my foot. And my fear of not being able to get to the labor camp intensifies. At this thought, I wail.

“Athy, Athy, why are you crying?” says a soft, small voice.

I turn and see Cheng, a girl my age whom I know from Daakpo village.

“Cheng,” I call out, “those people disappeared—we’re the only people here. Cheng, I stepped on a thorn and can’t get it out.” I’m relieved that I’m here with Cheng, one of the “new people,” like me.

Cheng brings out a small orange piece of yam root and shares it with me. It is the first food I’ve seen all day. Softly, she speaks to me. “Athy, stop crying. My legs ache so much, and I’m tired and hungry, too.”

“Cheng, can you take the thorn out for me? It hurts when I walk.”

She reaches for the package wrapped in her scarf, then unclasps a big safety pin from it. Cheng licks her finger and wipes away the mud from my foot. Gently, she fishes for the buried thorn with the sharp point of the safety pin and carefully plucks at it with her thumb and forefinger.

Cheng seems at ease. “We’ll help each other find the way.”

“So we’ll walk together? Will you wait for me if my foot hurts?”

“You wait for me, too, when I’m tired.” Cheng looks up and I nod.

Cheng and I start off again, walking past groves of trees, then into thick, tall, golden grass, taller than either of us. The tightly packed stalks scratch at me. No sooner do we beat back a wall of it than we confront another.

“Cheng, this grass is too tall and we can’t see where we are going.” Around me, I listen for footsteps, voices, clues that we’re on the right path. All we can hear is the constant whisper of parting grass.

Cheng looks tired as her arms—as thin as classroom rulers—push the mighty grass away and her tiny body moves along next to mine. I too am exhausted. Eventually the thick forest of grass ends, and ahead of us are broken lines of children. I’m relieved, almost grateful to be here.

As we trudge closer to a group of trees, we’re shocked by what we see. There are hundreds of adults, bent and slaving in a field. Side by side, they dig into the earth, leaving a long excavated ditch flanked by a huge elevated road with sloping sides. Some workers attack with hoes, loosening dirt and scooping it into baskets for those behind them. Others hold their carrying sticks, waiting for the baskets to be filled with dirt. Then there are those who have just dumped the soil at the rising, elongated road, returning for more. The first thought that comes to me is of Chea and Ra.

“Cheng,” I say softly, “my older sisters might be here. I want to look for them.” My hope floats and hovers above the field.

I scan the busy crowd, but it’s hard to see faces. Most are covered by scarves, shielding them from the sun. They either stare down as they work the ground or look away as they carry the baskets. I study each filthy, skinny face, hoping to find Chea and Ra. Motionless, I stand beside Cheng searching, searching for my sisters.

“Athy, Athy!” A weak, hoarse voice calls out. I turn, but find no faces that I recognize.

“Athy!” a scrawny, malnourished person standing among a group of workers shouts, waving eagerly at me.

I move closer, and I’m stunned. It’s Aunt Rin,
Mak
’s baby sister. A once-youthful, beautiful woman. Now she hides in the cloak of an old peach scarf and a once-black uniform, now faded a dull gray. Her eyes, framed by long lashes, and her gentle, birdlike grace are my only clues to the person I knew, now a shadow of her former self.

Gingerly and eagerly, she reports, “Athy, your older sisters Chea and Ra also work in this labor camp, but they’re over there.” She motions away, toward distant tall trees and shelters.