When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback (25 page)

Ta
Barang glances over his shoulder. “In this era,” he says, “when you are kind to people, you get punished for it. They took me to reform and replaced me with someone else who is good for
Angka
. Niece, now our country is so different; it’s hard to understand.”
Ta
Barang sighs, but agrees to take the rice and salted fish to Map and Chea.

A month later, after most of the rice has been harvested, my brigade is sent back to Daakpo. We are told to go back to our families until we are needed again. After a long march, I see a glimpse of my hut. Suddenly two skinny people come running, as if the hut spits them out. It’s Chea and Map! Chea dashes in front, scrawny-looking, with Map behind her, his stomach bulging out, a sign of starvation. Carefully, like frail old people, they walk on sticklike legs. Chea manages a smile that conceals pain. Her arms reach out to embrace me.

“When did you get to the village?” she asks, her voice a mixture of excitement and sorrow, tears in her eyes. Map looks at me eagerly, yet his face is tired.

“I just got here, Chea. Hey, Map,” I say softly, reaching to touch his head. Having spent countless days thinking of them, I’m jubilant, so grateful to see them. But my excitement is short-lived. Chea’s and Map’s depleted faces shock me. I have forgotten that their lives have been so different from mine.

In the alcove of our hut in the cool evening, Chea, Map, and I sit, facing each other. Map sits close to Chea like a child wanting to be cuddled by his mother. Chea’s fervent, sunken face possesses that motherly quality. I ask her questions, eager to find out if the rice rations have been better in Daakpo since the crops turned out well this year.

“Nothing changes,” Chea says dismally. “We’re still eating rice gruel, not even enough, mostly water. Every day all
bang
wishes is to have solid rice just for one day. Only for one day…. When
bang
asks the cooperative leader why we don’t get more rice, he says most of the rice is sent to people in battlefields who build
padewat
.”

Tears flood her eyes. “Life is difficult, Athy. One season is just like another. I’ve been praying for the harvesting season to come so that we can have more rice. But when it comes, the rice ration is still the same, still little. When life continues to be this terrible, Athy,
bang
just wants to die. I…” Chea wipes away her tears. “I just want to close my eyes and die. If I live on, life doesn’t have meaning. No meaning at all. Except to live for that day just to have more rice, and that’s all.”

Chea’s tears drip like raindrops. My own burn my eyes. Map looks at her through his tears, then his hand reaches out to her. It is deeply hurtful to see her suffering. Her pain compounds Map’s. His four-year-old sunken face looks wounded. Amid all this, I remember what I’ve been wanting to ask Chea: about the rice and salted fish, my promise to
Mak
.

The thought of it lightens my spirit. “Chea, did
Ta
Barang bring the rice and fish I sent you and Map? Did he?”

She looks at me, then at Map as if trying to find the right words. Calmly she says, “He brought only fish, a little bit of fish.”

“How much?” My brow furrows. “I sent a bag of rice, this much rice, and a can of salted fish, this much to the rim.” I show her with my hands.

“Athy, he apologized that he ate all the rice and most of the fish,” Chea explains. “He was so hungry and he couldn’t help himself.”

“No! It wasn’t for him, Chea—” I wail, unwilling to believe what Chea has just told me. “I saved it for Map. For you. I promised
Mak
, Chea. She came to me. In my dream. She begged me….
Ta
Barang,
ta aakrak
[bad old man].” My head hurts, my chest is stuffed with deep pain. I feel so betrayed.

Chea hugs me tightly. “Athy, don’t say that,
p’yoon srey
,” she whispers into my ear. “He was hungry—he’s only human. If you were him you’d have done the same.”

“But it wasn’t for him, Chea, not for him….”

Year Zero was the dawn of an age in which,
in extremis
, there would be no families, no sentiment, no expression of love or grief, no medicines, no hospitals, no schools, no books, no learning, no holidays, no music: only work and death.

 

T
he wind howls. Thunder rumbles with low popping sounds, followed by a deafening clap. It trails away in the sky, then it starts all over again. The hut rustles, the panels of the thatched wall flapping. Dense raindrops strike madly against the hut. The monsoons are already here. The summer of 1978 has already flown away. Chea cuddles close to Map and I close to her. On this night, I’m grateful to have the warmth and comfort of my own family. As soon as the beating rain dies down and the wind loses its breath, I fall asleep, snuffed out like a candle. A moment later I’m jolted by a voice. “Get up, go to work,” an ugly, blotched-faced informant bellows.

I dread these days. I have to meet other children at the
sahakar
, then the workday begins. As I’m getting out of the hut, I see that the sky is still dark. The night rain freshens the air. The cold breeze makes me shiver. I wish we could go back to sleep, cuddling closely, sharing our warmth.

Chea curses under her breath. Something about
Angka
going to hell. I hope they will, but I’m too tired to be angry at
Angka
now. The sky is cloudy. Along the dike that snakes between vast flooded rice paddies, I walk behind a long line of children and adults, marching off to salvage rice seedlings. By this time of year the rice paddies along the dike would normally be green with thriving seedlings, but now they are all covered with water. Everywhere, as far as the eye can see. It looks as if a giant lake has been created overnight. Only the tips of the seedlings peek out of the water. It looks like there are more heavy rains to come.

The next day is another gloomy day. Wet ground. Overcast sky. The drizzle turns into a pouring rain. The line of children in front of me halts, backs up. The line moves again. Everyone walks around a person who squats on the dike, her head resting on her arms, which are wrapped around her knees. I look at her shivering body, covered with her faded cotton scarf. Her shuddering cry is familiar.

“Chea? Chea?”

The head rises, eyes wet. I embrace her soaking back. She weeps, shuddering. I wail, letting out the pain of helplessness, the loneliness, and the frustration that have been building in me. There is so much suffering to bear that I can’t hide it.

“Athy,
bang
is sick and they dragged
bang
out of the hut. I’m very sick. I’m cold; I cannot work,
p’yoon srey bang
.…”

Oh, Chea
…
God have mercy
. Looking up at the cloudy sky, I’m so overwhelmed by Chea’s suffering, and my own. I want to alleviate my sister’s suffering, but I’m so utterly helpless it hurts.
Who are they to drag off my sister? How brutal!
The question stirs up a burning anger that I haven’t felt for so long. I close my eyes, and I want so much to scream.

“Athy, Athy. Go,
p’yoon srey
. The
chhlops
are coming—” Chea mutters.

Glancing at Chea, I get up and trot away. After a few feet, she is out of sight, blocked by the moving line and the sheet of rain. The rains die down. The water in the flooded rice fields recedes. Chea has regained her health after two weeks of rest. Her fever is gone. Already she’s herself, resilient, friendly like she was back in Phnom Penh.

Our neighbor, a woman, comes to our hut. Chea’s face glows as if she is happy to see her. “Good morning. How are you, aunt?” Chea greets her cheerfully in English as if she has been yearning to speak it. I’m surprised, yet delighted to hear Chea talk in English.

The woman recoils, baffled. Chea’s lips widen into a grin, “Or, comment ça va, Madame? Trés bien? Oui?”

“You talk like that, I can’t understand you,” the woman mildly complains, her brow furrowing. “I’ve brought you some rice. Here.” She unties the knot on her scarf, producing a few pounds of processed rice.

“Merci beaucoup, Madame.” Chea gently bows, amused.

The woman looks sheepish, gazing at Chea.

Chea explains, translating what she’s said. Then she asks the woman how she is doing in Cambodian.

“Well or not, it’s so-so nowadays,” the woman speaks dismally. “Life is like hell.” She whispers. “These days you can’t trust anyone, Achea, not even your own children. My children, they’re now
Angka
’s kids. They’ve been turned against me. They don’t listen to me, but to
Angka
. You should be careful. Don’t speak those languages.”

I smile, observing Chea and the woman. I’m proud of Chea, elated by her sparkling greeting. Amused by the baffled look on the woman’s face when she first heard Chea speak English. She is a small woman, one of the “new people” who is friendly and seemingly timid.

The next morning the informant who wakes us suddenly appears in front of our hut. His piercing, sinister eyes look accusing. “
Angka
needs to look for books,” he declares, inviting himself into our hut. I’m baffled, disbelieving.

Chea waves at me and Map to get out of the hut as the informant ransacks our clothes and blankets. He hops onto the part of the open floor where we cook our food. I hear the sounds of pots and pans colliding. Then he begins digging. Chea looks at me and I at her. Map looks at us searchingly.

The informant leaves; his dirty footprints remain on the slabs of the floor. His wicked eyes glare at us as he carries away a package, our once-hidden past, Chea’s personal belongings wrapped in a damp turquoise plastic. In it are a leather briefcase and a handbag. They were
Pa
and
Mak
’s gifts to her for her academic success. The briefcase contains memories of her school years: a spiral math notebook; two Cambodian novels,
Pka Srapone
(Wilted Flower) and
Snaeha Muy
(One Love), written by Chea’s friend in college. Primly secured in their slots opposite the books are fancy pens and pencils, souvenirs from her friends. Their pictures, and pictures of her with them, are in a picture album. Beside each wallet-sized photo is a brief friendship note to Chea, decorated with roses, hibiscus, or ivy with blossoms. In the handbag are documents of our births and the titles to our houses in Phnom Penh and Takeo, hidden beneath Chea’s colorful traditional satin clothes. In the informant’s hands is the tangible evidence of our former lives.
How did he suspect us of having books?
Chea wonders, and I myself can’t understand his sudden appearance. Could it be that he was eavesdropping on us when Chea greeted our neighbor yesterday, hiding behind our hut or in the shrubs out front? With the family documents and Chea’s books in
Angka
’s hands, we have a lot to lose. Chea keeps her thoughts to herself. She’s quiet, preoccupied, as if saying anything at all would get us into deeper trouble. I brace for the repercussions.

At work the following day I worry about losing Chea. I imagine her being taken away to be reformed by the
chhlops
for possessing books, evidence of being educated. At the hut Map is alone, crying. I can see him clearly, sitting, waiting for me to return. His face distressed, heartbroken, just like it was when
Mak
was taken away from him to the Choup hospital.

Returning from work, I brace myself for the worst news. When I arrive at the hut, a bald, gaunt person is squatting in front of the hut with his back facing me.

Chea? No!
Tears spill out of my eyes. Chea has shaved her head. She looks so unlike herself, my once-beautiful sister. Her scalp sallow, bony. Her neck thin, dark. From the back, she looks like an old, old person; I can’t tell whether she’s a woman or a man.

When Chea turns, her eyes meet mine. She looks resolved, gets up and walks over to me. Calmly she says, “Athy, if
bang
looks crazy and ugly enough, the Khmer Rouge might not harm
bang
.”

We go through our family pictures, which I’ve hidden in the roof. To erase
Pa
’s ties to the previous government, I cut out parts of his wallet-sized picture in which he is wearing military police uniforms. What remains is his head, from the neck up. If we should be interrogated,
Pa
never worked for the previous government, Chea says. His former job was in a medical field, and he liked to help people.

The next evening the air is cool. Since it’s still light out, Chea and I weed our front yard, where we’d grown corn the previous year. We have two tools, one a knife, the other a small rusty shovel. Suddenly a stern voice behind us shouts “Comrade!”

We turn. It’s Srouch, the leader of the informants. Chea rises, facing him.

“
Angka
found books in your hut. What level of education did you have?” he demands.

Chea walks toward him, clutching the knife in her hand. Casually Chea says, “I found those books on a road during the evacuation from Phnom Penh. I didn’t get to study much because of the fighting. I know how to read a little. Why? Does comrade want those books? You may have them. I just keep them for wiping myself after I poop.” Chea drops the knife on the ground as if her hand has lost its grip. As she slowly moves toward Srouch, she scratches her body—her arms, chest, neck, her bald head—causing Srouch to walk backward.

“That’s enough,” he says, his brow furrowed. “I only wanted to know if comrade had a lot of education or held any position before.”

As soon as the last word leaves his mouth, he flees, disappearing as fast as he appeared. Chea grins at me, and I grin back.

A few weeks later, in the evening, while I weed in the front yard, Chea waters the vegetables in the back of the hut. I can hear voices of girls chatting, laughing, approaching a path behind our hut. They sound carefree.
Strange
, I think. Normally the “new people” would not dare to display this much happiness. When their faces appear out of the woods, I can see why they sound untroubled—they are the “old people.” They have it better than us, so they have good reason to be happy. When they near our hut, Chea looks at them, her hands holding the water bucket. “Did comrades just come from working in the woods?” Chea asks nicely. It’s her way of greeting some people.

The girls stop talking. One of them, perhaps thirteen years old, studies Chea. Her eyes narrow with contempt, then she shouts, “Crazy old man!” She thrusts a knife at Chea again and again. The others join in. They all chant, “Crazy old man. Crazy, crazy.” Together they flail their knives at Chea. They jeer repeatedly. I glare at them until they disappear behind the trees.

Chea stands rooted to the ground, her face filled with humiliation. She looks so hurt. Slowly she puts the bucket down on the ground. As she walks past me, she curses them, “Insolent kids!”

The following night Chea lies beside me; it’s only us since Map is with Ry at Peth Preahneth Preah. Close to me she huddles, then she whispers in my ear. “
Bang
wrote a poem last night in
bang
’s mind. Listen.”

Chea becomes ill with a fever. Her body is hot, refusing to cool down even with the help of wet cloths placed on her forehead and stomach. Ra returns from a labor camp in time to help me. Ry and Map are back from Preahneth Preah. Than remains away at a labor camp. The others’ presence gives me comfort. Now I’m not so scared to hear Chea mumble deliriously in her sleep, which often wakes me up in the middle of the night.

Chea is lying on the floor, and her breathing is shallow. After her fever breaks, she’s hungry. But all we have is rice gruel with yam leaves. The smell of it makes her nauseous. Her body becomes increasingly thin. In her soft, yearning voice, she wishes for real food: steamed rice with marinated beef. Pork rice soup. Oranges. Or just warm sweetened milk to take away the bad taste in her mouth. I wish I could go back in time and bring her the kinds of food with which
Mak
indulged us when one of us got sick.