Being new to this task, Cheng and I agree that we should watch the “old people” build their shelters. We decide to find tree branches near their area, where they’re making their makeshift tents. As we study them working, they catch us.
“What are you looking at?” a local girl snarls, speaking in rurdern, a distinctive northwestern drawl. In the past, such an accent would have made me laugh. Here, I only risk a giggle under my breath. It is hard not to mock people you don’t respect. The trick is not to get caught.
Cheng and I turn away. I murmur to Cheng, and softly drawl what the girl said, “What are you looking at?” Cheng mocks her, too, and we laugh quietly to ourselves. For a moment I feel as if we’re back in school, laughing our girlish laughs.
Cheng and I build our tiny shelter away from the other children’s, close to the edge of the stream. Like the “old people,” we use vines and branches to assemble our roof and walls, so low that we must crawl in and out. But I grin to myself at our small achievement, and I’m glad Cheng is here to help. And I wonder if what I heard back in Phnom Penh is true. Cambodian elders used to say, “At home there’s a separate mother, in the forest there’s only one mother.” In the wild, you have to cling together. Here, Cheng is my family. Hope is our invisible mother, the presence that comforts us.
At night we are like a family, but we can’t be while we’re working. Every morning at about four o’clock, our brigade leader, along with her “pets,” shrill in the air, “Wake up, wake up. Go to work, go to work….” Our leader’s voice is annoying, and her face is perpetually angry. She always frowns when ordering us, as if we’re not worth looking at. But the feeling is mutual. I don’t like her either. She’s thin, with short, curly black hair and dark skin. Cambodian elders would say her heart is darker than her skin. She seems to be yelling at us all the time, even after we wake up and march into the field. As our eyes close, open, and close again, her venomous words are all that we hear.
In order to curry favor, our mekorg wakes us earlier and earlier.
“Evil woman!” Cheng hisses under her breath. “This creature wakes us up early for work, but it and its evil people go back to sleep. Dogs!” Cheng growls.
“How do you know they go back to sleep?” I ask, astonished.
“I’ve sneaked out to the cooking area to get fish heads. Then I hide them by our shelter,” says Cheng softly. “And I see them sleep. Those dogs!”
Now I know why Cheng always disappears during the lineup time for food rations. I have often noticed how she goes away to eat by herself, or eat with her back to me and other children. She’s brave, I think, gazing at her toiling in the morning’s shadows.
The next day as she waits in front of me for her rice ration, I assume Cheng has fish heads in her scarf. I want to ask her for some fish heads, but I’m scared of the chhlops standing by the cooks. I glance at her, then at the chhlops, anxiety making my hunger gnaw deeper. I’m nervous, but bold. I walk over to Cheng and whisper.
“Can I have some fish heads?”
“Athy, stop talking to me. The chhlops will see us,” Cheng hisses softly.
Now I draw a chhlop’s attention. He turns, surveying the food line, and I quickly look away, pretending I haven’t said a word. As the line moves a step forward, I take a step, acting like everyone else. When we get our food, I sit down to eat by the other children, not beside Cheng. But as soon as that chhlop goes off, I move next to her.
I whisper, “Cheng!”
I wait. There’s no answer, then, finally, “Here!” Cheng’s hand slides out, touching me. I grab the fistful of fish heads, no bigger than a thumb. The little fish heads taste good, ashy but substantial, and I want more.
The next day during the rice ration, again I don’t see Cheng in the lineup. I look around and see only one chhlop helping the cooks with the rations. I sneak out to the stream, looking for a place where the cooks might dispose of their garbage—including anything left from fish cleaning, guts, fins, heads. There, I hope to find Cheng, but I’m nervous about being spotted by my mekorg or her “pets.” I discover Cheng and two other girls scavenging through the garbage by a clump of trees. They tear through the cold, slimy garbage even faster when they realize that I’m coming toward them. Clawing at the bits of flesh, we’re like four vultures circling ravenously over a corpse. When Cheng’s hands are full, she turns away from the garbage and us, then stuffs her fish heads in her scarf. I grab two heads with the guts still attached to them.
“You took my fish heads! Give them back!” a girl insists, grabbing at me.
I ignore her demands. Instead, my eyes search as rapidly as my hands, scanning for even the smallest scrap of dead prey. Soon the girl stops demanding. By now she has learned that the fish heads are not hers. She turns her attention to the garbage. I wish I could just give them to her, but I’m starving, too. We’re worse than beggars.
Before returning to the lineup for the rice ration, we look for a fire in which to cook our fish heads. Among a few cooking holes near the stream, there are slumbering embers covered by flakes of ashes. Into the hot holes we throw our fish heads, and go back to the lineup.
The next day Cheng and I sneak out early, perhaps two hours before lunch ration. Upon our arrival near the cooking area, we spot a few female cooks preparing our meal. One cook is alone, away from the others. We approach her, slowly like a turtle, testing to see if our intrusion is permitted. She looks over her shoulder at us, and speaks to us with motherly concern. A peasant, her voice lacks the typical sting of the Khmer Rouge leaders.
“Why aren’t you at work? You’ll get in trouble when they catch you.”
Her gentle tone invites me in. For the first time, I have the urge to tell a Khmer Rouge about my hunger.
“I’m so hungry. I want fish heads. Aunt, don’t throw them away,” I plead, addressing her as “aunt” instead of “comrade.” I trust her, feeling at ease as she reports to us what the food ration for today will be. Lunch will be rice and fish soup. But for dinner there will also be a vegetable, green mustard-like leaves.
“They woke us up to work very early this morning,” says Cheng softly as the cook scoops the cleaned fish into a basket. “Every day I’m very tired. Hungry.”
Suddenly the cook scrapes fish heads and guts toward us with the knife. Without repulsion, we grab the heads, trailing slimy guts from the tree stump. Then, making a makeshift pouch with our shirttails, we stuff them inside. To my great surprise, the cook hands us each two fish, which she has beheaded.
“Here. Go before they catch you. Before they punish us. Go now.” She motions her head nervously at Cheng and me, shooing us off.
As we’re leaving, more “vultures” emerge. A group of kids scurry from the trees toward the cook, sending her to her feet. She hurries over toward the other cooks, calling someone’s name in her jittery voice: “Nak! Nak! More…more children are coming for fish. I…I’m scared,” she stammers, pointing to the starving children scavenging at the fish area.
“Comrades, go back to work or I’ll report you to your mekorg,” Nak warns, striding toward the children.
The children disperse quickly into the trees, and so do Cheng and I. After this incident, I stop sneaking out for fish heads. It’s too little food for me to risk my life.
In the evening after dinner, Cheng and I wait until the food ration is over. Before the cooks take those big black pots to the stream to wash, we dash over to them and ask if we can have the burned rice crust. Sometimes they peel off the sheets of crust and hand us each one, or they allow us to help ourselves. It is bitter, but it’s food. Later, everyone discovers this idea, and again there are more children than there is rice crust to go around.
We constantly try to find more food. One day as I am drinking water from the stream, I see schools of small fish parade in the shallows at its edge. On hot days they hover close, bunched amid the cool shade of overhanging branches. I’m eager to catch them, wishing for a fishing net so that I might simply scoop the
m up.
That night I tell Cheng of my exciting discovery. The next day we slip away to my secret spot, struggling to push our way through intertwined trees that cast a continuous deep shade into the stream. We grin at each other when the brave fish swim slowly in our direction.
For the first time, I’m happy—just to be here, to enjoy the proximity to nature and Cheng’s friendship. I feel like a kid again—a rare privilege. Here, no one yells at us, ordering us around.
Later, Cheng and I have a plan to catch the fish. During lunch we confide in Larg, one of the other “new people.” Early on, she drew our sympathy, and we befriend her. After work, the three of us would bathe in the stream far away from the shelters, where no one can easily see us. There, we would talk about missing our mothers and about our problems. Together we’ve shared rice crust when one of us gets more than the other. The three of us plot to fish with our scarves tied together as a fishing net.
On the way to the stream one evening after work, we walk like thieves, looking over our shoulder to see if we’re being watched or followed. The spot where I’ve seen fish is too small to fit all three of us. Instead, we hike farther until we come to a quiet spot with an open space.
We tie our scarves together with thin vines, then Cheng and I fish while Larg tries to scare the fish in the direction of our scooped net. We walk slowly in the cool, shallow water as Larg herds them toward us. We try again and again, but we don’t catch any fish. The final time we try, Larg stumbles, then falls facedown, splashing water toward Cheng and me. For a moment I panic, paralyzed, as I watch Larg’s body slowly sink into the shallow stream. Cheng and I run to help her.
“I felt light-headed,” says Larg softly, “then my legs just sank.”
Still recovering from shock, Cheng and I watch Larg shiver after we help her out of the stream. We return to the camp as empty-handed as we came.
I keep trying to figure out how to catch the fish. After bathing in the stream in my worn-out clothing, I notice that a metal snap from my cotton shirt is loose. I break it off the shirt and study the shine. Without a needle or thread, there is no way to sew it back on. But I notice the tiny wire snaking inside the back of the snap. Suddenly an idea takes shape. I hurry back to the shelter, looking for a safety pin on my shirt. Like a goldsmith, I carefully pull out the hidden wire, now a precious resource. I straighten the button wire. Sharpen one end with a stone. Then I bend it to form a fish hook. A tiny, tiny fish hook—probably an inch long, but made of a stout little wire. It is a glorious invention. Tomorrow, I’ll head to my secret spot, but tonight I need to hold my excitement, hoping my plan will work. I don’t breathe a word of it to anyone, not even to Cheng.
As soon as the mekorg goes on patrol after lunch, I slip away with a hoe, carrying it on my shoulder. If I get caught, I’ll announce I’m going to bot chhurng thom, “fold big leg,” a polite way of saying “pooping.”
Alone at the fishing spot, I take out the fish hook and a length of polyester thread—my fishing line salvaged from an old rice bag—and a small ball of rice I’ve saved from my lunch ration. Now I need a fishing pole. I break a tree branch and pick off the leaves. My fingers mash the rice to make a bait. I gently sink the fishing line into the water so as not to disturb the fish. A few fish make sudden moves. Their tails wiggle faster, propelling them forward. In my mind, I speak to them, coax them: Come on, eat the bait, eat the bait. I recite my chant over and over while trying to hold the fishing pole still.
One fish approaches, studying the bait. Suddenly its jaws open and the bait vanishes, and I pull. Into the air flies a silver fish the size of a tablespoon, jerked free from the hook but landing on the bank. I run over to it and cover the fish with both of my hands. Then I pinch its head until it stops moving. For a moment my fingers are frozen in victory.
Holding the fish beneath my hands, I know the life has seeped out of it. But it takes courage to move them, for I fear that it will somehow leap from my grasp and tumble back down the sandy bank out of my reach. To be safe, I move it, setting it back several feet, and return to the water. I gently lower the hook again and promptly catch two more fish the same way. Again, I sink the rice bait, and as soon as the next fish gulps the bait, I pull. My eyes follow the fishing pole in the air, then to the ground, but I don’t see the fish. I look into the water. There goes the fish and the polyester thread, the bait and the hook. Ah, the fish must have been hungrier than I am, I decide. Still, I have my catch. I roll up the three fish into the elastic waistband of my pants to hide them.
Cheng’s eyes open wide when I show her the fish. Her eyebrows rise when I tell her how I caught them. And her hand reaches out to see the hook. I tell her about losing the hook and the string, and promise that I’ll show her and Larg how to make fish hooks. The three of us sneak into the underbrush to make more hooks. Now our shirts are held together with bits of vine or safety pins. We fish whenever one of us can sneak away. Any catch is shared among us, sneaked into the embers to be cooked a little. For a while our extra catch helps. Later, everyone is closely watched and we don’t dare try to leave our work. Still, we have each other.
Months have passed. We operate on a cycle of endless longing. A yearning for the lunch ration pulls us through the morning. The desire for a dinner ration tugs us through the remainder of the day. It’s a circle of hunger. It obliterates everything—the heat, the exhaustion, the loneliness. Every day we slave for the Khmer Rouge in a vast barren field, digging irrigation ditches, hauling dirt in woven baskets. But we’re also slaves to our own hunger.
Hungry and exhausted as I am, I can hardly lift my feet up as I carry two baskets full of dirt balanced on either end of a carrying stick that rests across my shoulder. When I turn around, Cheng is right behind me, tipping her baskets, dumping the dirt out. She whispers to me.
“Athy, do you want to eat sweet grass? When I went to pee, I sucked on this long grass and there is juice in it. It tastes like sugarcane.”
Cheng gestures with a quick motion of her head.
My mouth waters at the thought of sugarcane. These words seem old, far distant. It’s been more than a year now since the evacuation from Phnom Penh. Suddenly the word “sugarcane” triggers images of good times. Eagerly, my mind slips away to Takeo.
Here is Mak, emerging through the gate, baskets full of groceries, bending against their weight. Avy, Than, and I race over to her. Each of us is eager to find out if Mak has bought our desserts. Eagerly, we call out “Mak, Mak,” squealing like baby birds in need of worms.
Than digs into the baskets. Already he finds bags of sweet puddings. He hands me one. I hum in contented pleasure as I untie the bag. Mak places the baskets on the cement floor, then strides to the stairs, looking up with a smile at Avy, whose shrill voice adds to the din. She reaches out her little arms to Mak, eager to be picked up. Memories past. Now they are like good movies, a distant, comfortable place to which I escape. A moment’s fantasy simply triggered by a familiar word, “sugarcane.”
“Athy?” asks Cheng, snapping me back to the heat and our reality. I’m going to ask our mekorg if I can go pee. You ask her after I leave…. I’ll wait for you.” Cheng looks cautious, then disappears into the crowd of children in search of the mekorg.
Cheng meets up with me in a distant grassy field, away from the labor site. Each of us carries a hoe, our eating ware, which we’ll be using to cut the sweet grass. We hike to bushes of tall cream-colored grass, which look nothing like sugarcane. Cheng picks a clump and I pick the next one. Without hesitation, we raise our hoes in the air, cutting down the grass. I pick up a crisp stalk, the size of my index finger, and suck the sweet juice out of it. Cheng and I say nothing, temporarily lost in the frenzy of our hunger—we continue to drink the juice, grazing at one clump after another.
Suddenly the heads of the mekorg and a chhlop emerge among the swaying stalks of grass. I freeze. My jaws are stuck as the fierce, angry stares weigh down upon me. I want to alert Cheng, but I can’t spit out a word.
“Comrades, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be working!” the mekorg roars, her giant steps approaching.
Cheng turns. Her body jolts. Her hands drop the hoe.
“Take these comrades to reform!” The mekorg yanks my arm. She shoves me, sending me sprawling onto the ground. I struggle up, and stumble forward as fast as I can. Cheng glances at me in terror and I at her, through my tears. We knew the risk. But the fear, pain, and exhaustion are too strong to hold inside, spilling out in harsh sobs. I know we should have gone back to work sooner. It’s too late, I think regretfully. They must have watched us closely, and we were too hungry to notice. Now we’re at their mercy. They shove at our backs as they march us to the shelters.
“Tie both of them up and don’t give them food! Have other comrades watch them so they won’t follow their bad example,” the mekorg orders the chhlop, pointing to a stump near the entrance to the girls’ shelters.
Against the rough bark of the stump, my ankles, arms, and hands are bound tightly behind my back. Then my chest. Never before have I felt so utterly defenseless, so humiliated. The chhlop snakes the rugged rope, half the size of my wrist, around me over and over again. There is no struggle left in me. As soon as the chhlop leaves, having finished binding Cheng against the opposite side of the stump, my grief tumbles out.
“Athy, don’t cry too hard,” Cheng sobs. “Stop crying….”
“Cheng…I…I miss…my mom….” I gasp for air.
“I miss my mom, too….” Cheng weeps.
The sun sets. My legs go limp. The rope bites into me. I feel delirious, drowsy. Suddenly I hear a voice approaching. Slowly, I turn my head to see the mekorg, chhlops, and an army of children marching back from the work site. Like obedient soldiers, they walk single file, passing us. Each head turns briefly, throwing a glance at us. We are their lesson.
When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Page 13
