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.
“Athy, who else is coming with you? Only yourself?” Aunt Rin inquires.
“Only me….” I break down as I think about the parting from Mak.
“Athy, stop crying. I’ll tell your sisters to look for you tonight. Stop crying.”
Tears flood Aunt Rin’s eyes as she gazes into mine. I feel Cheng’s hand touch my arm—she’s crying, too. Her ragged sobs and Aunt Rin’s make me cry harder.
Suddenly I hurt for Mak. She wanted to believe what they promised her. Maybe in her desperate hope she had to believe it. And now this.
“They lied to us, promised that the work camp was close to the village,” Cheng sniffs, wiping her tears away with her scarf.
“They told us,” I cry, “that there’s a lot of food here.”
Aunt Rin knows. “They lie, they lied so you’d come. There isn’t a lot of food. They give everyone rice rations just like in the village. They work you to death. I’m terribly tired and just want to rest.” Her mouth moves slowly, as if there’s no energy left in her. A stern woman in a new black uniform approaches Aunt Rin’s work group. I alert her. Aunt Rin looks horror-stricken. She wipes away her tears and says, “She’s my mekorg,* Athy, I have to work. I’ll tell Chea and Ra to look for you….”
“Comrade, go back to work NOW! This is not a place for you to talk. Who gave you permission to stop working?”
“I just want to talk to my niece, that’s all,” Aunt Rin answers submissively.
The mekorg looks at Cheng and me, then hisses, “Comrades, both of you go to the children’s camp, over there! Go there now!” Cheng and I scurry away.
We wander among makeshift tents. They sprout like mushrooms rooted under the shade of trees at the edge of a small mountain, which I think is called Phnom Kambour. So this is a labor camp, the place where mobile brigades are sent. Suddenly, a woman pauses in front of us and points to a large tent as if she knows where we’re supposed to go. Cheng and I look at each other, bewildered but relieved. When we get to the tent, it’s full, crowded with crying children. Their wails rise in the twilight, calling for their mothers like a sad, chanting prayer.
Chhlops shout at the crying children, ordering everyone to stop. The distraught children only wail harder. Even informants can’t stop our cries. Recognizing defeat, they leave us alone with our tears.
Without warning, cooks appear bringing steaming rice and watery soup in round black pots. As soon as we realize they have food, everybody, including Cheng and me, rushes toward the cooks. We swarm around them. My mouth waters, and my stomach roars. Like the other children, I ready my plate for a ration as I stare hungrily into the watery, milky soup and the rice pot. I can almost eat the food with my stare, for the only food I’ve had all day since leaving Daakpo village was a taste of Cheng’s yam, a piece the size of my toe.
After receiving the rice ration, I scurry with Cheng and other children for our soup ration, surrounding the cook, who is stirring a milky broth swirling with flat little fish, with heads and eyes peeking out at us.
The cook drops a plastic bowl on the ground in the middle of the circle, then pours the cloudy broth with a few fish into it. The minute she’s done, every spoon collides in the soup bowl. Everyone has the same idea—we all want fish and we all know there are not enough. Whoever is quick gets the fish and whoever is slow cries. We learn to ignore others’ sad eyes and eat the fish ravenously.
Surprisingly, the cook gives us another soup ration. Before she finishes pouring it into our bowl, a girl cries out, “Don’t take all the fish.” Her words freeze me and those who’ve gotten their share of fish. We don’t reach for the bowl until she and two others in our group get their fish. I feel sorry for her, and for us all, that it’s come to this, grappling like dogs over a bone. But I’m relieved knowing we’ve each got a fish. Despite starvation, we haven’t completely lost our sense of sharing, a human courtesy the Khmer Rouge have yet to take away.
After our meal, Cheng and I rest, sitting on the ground beneath tall trees since there’s no shelter for us. Tonight is the first night in my life I realize that I can lose Mak as easily as I’ve lost Pa. Never have I been separated from her, and the distance pains me. Closing my eyes, I can see Mak preparing dinner, bending before the flames, coaxing the water to a boil, dropping in leaves. Her words would be a low murmur, gentle instructions to get a bowl for a brother, to wash your face. Ordinary words, but delivered with a kindness that I will never know here.
Once I remember Mak daydreaming about food, telling us what she would be grateful to have. She used to say, “Having solid rice and salt is like going to heaven.” Tonight I have solid rice and fish soup, even more than her heavenly wish. I’ve only had one meal, but already I am full of regret, feeling guilty, wishing I could somehow have shared it to ease her starvation. But she’s too far away—even my ability to imagine her is fading away.
Out of the darkness, I hear a familiar voice. I look up and see a shadow of a person calling my name. It’s Chea! Aunt Rin did tell her that I’m here! And now she has come for me.
I get up, oblivious to everything around me, Cheng and the sobbing children. She runs and puts her arm around me. I can see little in the dark, only that she seems thinner. We walk away together, almost like in the good old times.
“Athy, when did you get here?” Chea sounds concerned.
“A while ago.” I’m comforted by Chea’s presence. Her sisterly role.
She wonders why I came to the camp, and worries that I should have stayed with Mak. “You shouldn’t have left Mak. Who’s going to look after her? The older children are gone.”
I explain to Chea why Mak wants me here.
“They lied to you so you would come. They lied to everybody. You should have stayed with Mak. You’re too small to work here. It’s hard work even for older people like me,” says Chea, sounding distraught.
Now I’m frightened about what could happen to Mak, and I’m scared for myself, whether I’ll survive this hard work and live to see Mak.
“Chea, I want to go back to Mak, I want to go back. How can I go back?” I cry, wanting Chea to help me, but she doesn’t answer except to hold me tight.
Chea takes me to her shelter, and I wait there alone while she goes back to finish her assigned task. Everyone must dig a prescribed number of cubic meters of soil each day, no matter how long it takes. I cry until Chea and Ra return to the shelter.
“Athy, I heard my mekorg say they will send all the children to a camp in Oh Runtabage tomorrow. Did they tell you?” Chea asks softly.
“No,” I sniff, gasping for air.
The words Oh Runtabage literally mean a stream struck by lightning. I’m scared all over again. Chea comforts me, saying I’ll be closer to Mak than if I were to stay at Phnom Kambour with her and Ra. But I can’t imagine seeing Mak, so the words don’t comfort me. Already I miss Chea and Ra, even though Ra has spoken little. She seems exhausted, used up. They are my sisters still, but worn-out versions of the girls I knew. And I’m too caught up in my fears and sadness. I cry until it wears me out; I fall asleep beside Chea, drifting into dreams about seeing Mak.
“Athy, Athy, wake up! Wake up, p’yoon [younger sibling].”
I open my eyes and it’s still dark. The voice is familiar, and for a sleepy moment I think I’m back in Daakpo.
“Wake up, Athy. You have to go,” says Chea, her hands lifting my head.
My body aches. Reluctantly I rise and Chea takes me back to where she found me. I don’t even have time to say good-bye to Ra.
I hold my tears when I hear a fierce voice ask “Which one of you, comrades, wants to be the brave children of Angka Leu? Stand here.” I’m shocked, spellbound by the voice of the man and the ghostly shadows of little children standing silently by the fire.
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Suddenly I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Athy, bang has to go back. May p’yoon srey [young sister] encounter only good things as you go to Oh Runtabage. Take care of yourself. Lea Haey [Good-bye], p’yoon.” Chea murmurs her blessing, then her voice is gone. I turn to watch her. She disappears into a grove of trees, and I’m left with heartbroken children.
As we depart from Phnom Kambour, the Khmer Rouge have the “brave children” march on the road under construction, the earthen bridge being built by those we leave behind. The Khmer Rouge launch into a marching chant. Around me, small hands stab the air and obediently repeat the song. Over and over, they call themselves “the brave children of Angka Leu.” They shout, they sing, they dance.
The journey to Oh Runtabage is tiring and cold. By the time we arrive at Oh Runtabage it’s late afternoon. The remote camp is as secluded as Phnom Kambour. Trees create a thick barrier on each side of a stream, casting their tangled shadows over the milky brown water, making it look shallower than it really is. Near the stream, tall yellow grass grows in an open field that stretches far into the distance. There are no huts, only the shelter of trees. I’m hungry and exhausted.
Already there is work. They order us to look for tree branches for the cooks to use as fuel. Some of us have to dig big holes for the cooking pots. Others go to the stream to retrieve the milky brown water for cooking. I help other children to dig cooking holes. I dig until my body trembles. Suddenly I feel dizzy. I pause and take a deep breath.
Softly I say to myself, “I’m feeling sick.” A few children glance at me as I sink down to the ground. I close my eyes, resting my head on my knees, hiding behind a row of working children who block the chhlops’ view of me. Though I fear the informants will see me, I’m too exhausted to care.
Eventually it is time to eat, and I have not been found out. After we eat, the Khmer Rouge direct us to a grove of trees along the stream in which we are to make our shelters. First we have to clear the brush to make a space, then the “walls,” nothing more than little branches. Those who have brought extra clothes use them for a sleeping mat while Cheng and I gather leaves for ours. The local children, the “old people,” get to choose where they want their shelters to be, and whatever they don’t want belongs to us, the “new people.” All is done to keep the peasants on the side of the Khmer Rouge.
When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Page 12
