I scamper down the stairs. The breeze is warm, humid. The evening becomes twilight so suddenly. When I near the hut, the fire is burning beneath the hut again. This time it’s dimmer. Just as the fire loses its intensity, I find Ra, Ry, and Map lying near Chea. It’s quiet. I don’t hear Chea’s voice as I had last night. I feel I’ve returned too late. And here I am, wanting to hear Chea talk again, to pick up where she left off yesterday.
“Chea, Chea, it’s Athy,” I whisper. “I’ve come to see you, Chea. My brigade leader let me come.”
There’s no answer. Ra and Ry turn to me, then they weep. Their cries are echoed by Map’s. Ry says Chea stopped talking this morning. But she asked me to come back to see her. She must have wanted to tell me something more. She can’t stop talking now. She can’t.
I sob, gasping for air. Suddenly Chea’s hand slowly reaches out to me. I move away, wailing uncontrollably. Her hand drops to the floor. Her throat chokes. Her eyelids quiver, then shut again. This is too much to bear. I leave, running back to the commune.
Through the night I weep. Though the pain is in my heart, my sorrow is shared by the other children in the commune. They cry softly. Their snifflings fill the air.
After work the next day, as I hang my washed pants on the wall of the commune house, my body senses something strange. A sudden emotion surges through my body, then my body is jolted and tears stream out of my eyes. Chea! I cry, calling her under my breath. Chea died. Oh God, please help my sister.
I hear the sounds of footsteps climbing the stair. I wipe my tears, then before me are the children with whom I share the house. Their faces are a mirror of my sorrow. Soon Thore Meta emerges. I walk up to her, then say, “I want to—” I break down before I can say Chea’s name.
“Comrade Thy, your sister came and told me that your older sister has died.”
The morning comes. The dawning sunlight filters through the cracks of the house. I just fell asleep, but already I’m awakened by the voice of Thore Meta—it’s time to work. Before I can think, everyone gets up and hurries down the stairs, disappearing one by one.
After the noon ration Thore Meta tells me to go home. As she talks, I feel the eyes of other children looking at me. Too weak to say anything back to her, I leave.
When I arrive, Kong Houng (Pa’s father) and a man climb down from the hut, their hands steadying a long wrapped object, Chea. Ra, Ry, and Map are behind them, their red eyes swollen. Once Chea is off the hut, Kong Houng and the man secure her with a rope, tying her to a carrying pole. How sad, I think, to have Chea disposed of this way. I cry uncontrollably.
As Kong Houng and the man dig Chea’s grave near palm trees, I look at her corpse. In my mind I speak silent words for me and Chea. I say: Chea, if I survive, I will study medicine. I want to help people because I couldn’t help you. If I die in this lifetime, I will learn medicine in my next life.
When night falls, Ra reminds me to go back to the commune house. For a moment I’m not sure what she’s talking about. I look at her, my brow furrowed. Only when she repeats the words “commune house” do I remember Thore Meta, who has given me permission to stay with my family tonight and tomorrow.
Lying on the floor, I recall Chea’s request. I look at Ra and ask, “Why didn’t you bury Chea under the tree?”
“I didn’t want to bury her there! I’m scared,” Ra says annoyingly.
I can’t believe that Ra has denied Chea’s last wish, and I remind her of Chea’s exact words, Chea’s plea for her not to forget. Ry jumps in to rescue Ra, reminding me that Ra is afraid of ghosts. True, she is afraid, and I understand that, but Chea is our sister. She won’t scare us. She wanted to watch over us, I reason, but I only scare Ra even more.
Ra hisses at me, “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to sleep. I haven’t slept since she died.”
I awake so suddenly, yet I feel refreshed. It was dark before I fell asleep, but now it’s bright and I’m amid layers of clouds. Freely, my body ascends through them, soaring to the next layer, where there’s a flat surface like a floor made of clouds. How strange, I think, but it looks like the floor of a home, a special home filled with men and women dressed in white clothes. One by one, their arms open to welcome someone. A white carpet magically rolls over the floor. The men and women smile. When I look up to the layer of cloud, a woman descends. It’s Chea! Her back faces me. Those people encircle her, then somehow dwindle behind the clouds. “Chea, wait! Wait for me.”
“Athy, Athy. Wake up! You had a bad dream,” Ry says, and comforts me.
13
Mass Marriage and a Forbidden Love
Just as I’m released from my brigade, Than returns home, too late to say good-bye to Chea. Though he seems shocked to hear about her death, he doesn’t look sad. Maybe he’s numb like Ry was when Avy died, and he can’t shed any tears, or maybe boys have a different way of grieving.
At fifteen, Than has been sent away a lot, more than I can remember. For a while I even forgot that I had an older brother. When he showed up, I was surprised to see him, but also relieved that he’s alive.
At thirteen, the nascent adult in me realizes that Cambodia is a nation that houses the living dead. Around me there are starving, overworked, and malnourished people. Death is rampant, as if an epidemic has descended on the villages. Yet Angka is nonchalant, doing nothing to stop this plague. For the last three years of my life, since the Khmer Rouge’s takeover, I’ve lost half of my family. Pa, Vin, Avy, Mak, and Chea. Death is like leaves in the autumn, readily falling from a soft touch of the wind. I wonder who in my family will be the next victim.
As the population dwindles and rumors spread that Vietnamese troops are invading Cambodia, Angka awakens. In meetings, the Khmer Rouge stress the need for chamren pracheachun, the need to increase the population for Angka. Young adults need to be married, they emphasize, and stay in the village to fulfill this goal. Those who stay single will be sent to the front line, to the battlefield.
One bright sunny afternoon Ra returns from a mandatory meeting. Standing by the alcove, she waves urgently at Ry, Than, and me as we weed in front of the hut. Her face looks scared and troubled. As I climb up the alcove, I brace for the worst.
Ra says, “I have to get married…. I don’t want to go to a labor camp—I don’t want to die….”
Married? I’m shocked. All of a sudden everyone seems to retreat into his own silent thoughts. Ry, Than, and I are speechless, our eyes looking at Ra. The color in her face momentarily disappears.
“I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go,” she mutters. “I don’t want to die. You have to understand me. I almost died many times.”
Ra is agitated. Here, she’s going to marry someone, yet she’s fearful, and our faces are the mirror of her fright. She tells us that she needs to make a quick decision because Angka will soon have a wedding sanctioned for those who want to help increase the population.
“If I’m in the village, there’s a better chance for me to survive. I can also help take care of you now that Chea has died.”
“To whom are you going to be married?” Ry asks.
“A local man,” Ra says dismally, her eyes expressing her dire need of our approval.
“It’s up to you,” Than says indecisively. Ry murmurs a soft yes. I keep my thoughts to myself.
I remember Ra’s last brush with death, and I can understand why she would never want to be sent to a labor camp again. It happened when I was working as a scarecrow while Ra remained in the camp near Zone 3. Ra and her coworkers, out of hunger, had ventured into another zone. They got caught and were accused of being spies for the Vietnamese. They were taken to a crowded, filthy prison where they were interrogated and tortured. But they were lucky. Their brigade leader reported them missing and got them freed.
Two days later, Ra is to be wed. She asks me to come with her to the wedding ceremony, which will take place in Poi-kdurg village. I worry, and am nervous for her. I hope the man she will marry is not mean or abusive.
The sun is bright. We cover our heads with our tattered scarves, dressed in grayish-black uniforms with cotton pants shrunk far above our ankles.
As we scurry barefoot on dusty paths, no words are exchanged between Ra and me. I hope we’re not late, for we don’t have a watch. We stop at an old barn. By the entrance are two cadres, their necks decked out with red-and-white checked scarves. Hanging from their shoulders are rifles. They stand still, solemn.
Ra and I briefly look toward them as men and women in dark uniforms enter the barn. Finally Ra gets up the courage to ask a woman who is about to enter the barn. The woman tells us that this barn is the site for a wedding.
It’s dark inside the barn. I grab Ra’s shirt, walking behind her like a blind child. On my right I see dark shadows, patches of heads in rows. I’m overwhelmed by the sight of so many people, perhaps a hundred, sitting quietly. They are all getting married?
“Listen for your name,” a stern male voice says firmly.
They start calling off names. All I see across the barn are shadows rising, then dwindling behind the sheet of blackness. My eyes return to the comfort of the sunlight filtering through the tiny cracks in the walls as if I need it to stay alive.
“Athy, let’s go,” Ra calls softly, her hand tapping my shoulder.
I rise, wading behind Ra. Nervous all of a sudden.
At the center of the barn, Ra stands, and I am beside her. Across from us are perhaps six men’s silhouettes. Cadres? My mind is jolted at the sight of them. Why are so many of them here?
Their hands clutch their rifles, one hand at the bottom of the butt and the other on the barrel. They position themselves in the shape of a pyramid. Suddenly a silhouetted body, a man, emerges from my left. He stands beside me. Now I’m between him and Ra.
“Athy, move back. Stand behind me,” Ra whispers.
“Comrade Ra and Comrade Na,” a male voice erupts.
Before I can hear all that is said, the two cadres in the front turn, face each other, and raise their rifles up.
“The rifles will be the judge when comrades betray each other or break Angka’s rules.”
My mind freezes shut. The next thing I know, Ra and I arrive at her “husband’s” house—a wooden house on stilts with a stair and railings. In the front yard, vines of squash spread over trellises. Large green leaves crowd together, mixing with bright yellow flowers. Near the trellises are rows of yams and hot chili plants. Everything looks like it’s well kept. These people’s way of life is intact, unlike ours.
In the house, the wooden floor is the color of oak. Smooth. Clean, as if there are no grains of dust on it. The slabs are tightly sandwiched together, well built. It’s almost as pretty as Kong Houng’s house, though much smaller. I study the wooden walls. This room is more spacious than our hut, two times larger.
A woman’s voice erupts from the nearby room. “If you want to take, go ahead, take all.” The voice sounds hoarse. Old. Irritating.
Footsteps vibrate on the floor. Suddenly Ra’s husband, Na, appears holding three pillows in his arms. Na is about Ra’s height. Compared to some men in the village, he looks fit with a slightly jutting chin. He looks healthy and strong. He’s different from what I had imagined—not ugly or scrawny. He’s quiet and seemingly gentle. Now I’m more at ease, not as worried for Ra as I was before.
“Here,” he says. His voice is soft, his eyes look at Ra. Ra looks at the pillows, then takes them from him.
Pillows with cases? My eyes widen. I haven’t seen pillows since we left Year Piar.
Ra places a pillow by the front door. Then another one near it. The third pillow she drops far away from the one in the middle. It’s near the room where the old woman’s voice came from.
“That’s your pillow.” Ra points to the middle one. She lies down sideways, facing away from us, on the pillow by the front door.
I stand there, puzzled, and glance at him. He says nothing. I lie down beside Ra, facing her back.
Ra has me spend several nights sleeping beside her. Most of the time she ignores Na. When he talks to her, she scolds him, angry. He’s confused, frustrated.
Ra is mostly at our hut with Than, Ry, Map, and me. Sometimes she brings us food from Na’s house. Rice and yams. Though it’s not much, I’m glad she does this. It is as if she’s trying to take a motherly role now that Chea’s gone. But I fear that she will put herself in jeopardy because she has an obligation to Angka to be with Na. When she’s with us and stays overnight, I’m reminded of the man’s stern voice in that dark barn.
“The rifles will be the judge when comrades betray each other or break Angka’s rules.”
When Ra and I return to Na’s house, as we climb the stairs we hear the bellow of a drawling voice. “What kind of a wife are you, never staying home with her husband? Coming and going as you please.”
Ra and I turn, and there by the trellises is Na’s mother, a short, gray-haired woman, glaring. Ra looks hurt. Resuming the climb, she sighs as if shrugging off the blame. Looking at her back as we climb the stairs, I ponder how changed Ra has become. Angry. Resentful. Even though she is this way, Na has never raised his voice to her. His face shows only frustration, not anger.
Having seen Ra’s aversion to Na, I don’t think Angka will succeed in its goal of increasing the population. A marriage sanctioned in such an evil way will never bear fruit. Even though I’m young, I can’t imagine that babies will be produced by these men and women who are made up of bones and sheets of skin, whose physical appearance reminds one of the living dead. Months ago, Angka could have spared a baby and its parents. Instead, Angka destroyed them.
It was nearly noon, perhaps in November 1975, when my brothers, sisters, Mak, and I, among hundreds of other people, arrived at a place near Peth Preahneth Preah. It was a large, open ground studded with tall trees shielding us from the blazing heat of the day. Men, women, and children were gathered to witness a judgment on two people. Their crime, Angka said, was loving each other without Angka’s permission. Thus they were our enemies. “When Angka catches enemies,” a leader had announced in the previous mandatory meeting, “Angka doesn’t keep them, Angka destroys them.”
One by one, the children, are picked from the crowd and told to stand near the two poles so they can see what Angka will do. It sounds as if we are about to see a play, an entertainment.
To the right of the poles are three wooden tables aligned from edge to edge to form one long table. Behind them, sitting on chairs, are Khmer Rouge dressed in black uniforms, perhaps in their forties and fifties, whom I have never seen before. Their necks, as usual, are decked out with red-and-white-and white-and-blue-checked scarves, draped over their shirts. They are well guarded by cadres standing with rifles behind and beside them. The cadres’ faces are grave. They stand still, straight like the poles. A few Khmer Rouge at the table whisper among themselves. At that moment I see a stash of spades, hoes, and shovels leaning against a pole planted firmly in the ground.
A one-horse buggy pulls up. Two cadres stride toward it. A blindfolded man, hands tied behind his back, is guided off it. Behind him emerges a blindfolded woman who is helped out of the buggy by another cadre. Her hands, too, are tied behind her back. Her stomach bulges out. Immediately she is tied to the pole near the buggy. Her arms first, then her ankles, with a rope about half the size of my wrist.
A woman in the crowd whispers, alarmed, “God, she’s pregnant.”
The blindfolded man’s arms are also bound to the pole. He’s calm, standing straight as his ankles are fastened to the bottom of the pole. Dressed in slacklike pants and a flannel shirt with long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, this man appears intelligent. He’s tall. His body build suggests he’s one of the “city people.” Like him, the pregnant woman looks smart, educated from the way she carries herself. She looks composed. Her collarless blouse with short sleeves reveals her smooth arms. Her once-refined face suggests a once-sheltered life.
Each of the Khmer Rouge rises
from the table to speak. Their voices are fierce, full of hatred and anger as they denounce the couple. “These comrades have betrayed Angka. They’ve set a bad example. Therefore they need to be eradicated. Angka must wipe out this kind of people.”
Abruptly another Khmer Rouge at the table gets up, pulls the chair out of his way, strides to the front of the table, picks up a hoe, and tests its weight. Then he puts it back, lifts up a long, silver-colored spade, and tests its weight. He walks up to the blindfolded man.
“Bend your head now!” he commands, then raises the spade in the air.
The man obeys, lowering his head. The Khmer Rouge strikes the nape of his neck again and again. His body slumps, his knees sag. A muffled sound comes out of his mouth. His lover turns her head. The executioner strikes the man’s nape again. His body droops. The executioner scurries over to the pregnant woman. “Bend your head NOW!”
Her head bends. The spade strikes her nape. Her body becomes limp. No sound comes out of her mouth. Only two blows and she’s dead. The executioner walks away, his hand wiping the perspiration from his forehead. Suddenly a long choking sound is heard. The woman’s stomach moves, struggling. Everyone turns. Someone whispers that the baby is dying.
Oh…a cry from the crowd. The executioner runs back and strikes the body repeatedly until the struggle in it stops, still like the pole.
This was a brutal lesson. By now I know the Khmer Rouge’s dark side. I fear for Ra for avoiding Na, a defiant act against Angka. I am afraid her silent rebellion will carry a heavy price.
14
When Broken Glass Sinks
It is late 1978, time for the rice harvest and of hope for a better ration. It is also time for Angka to reclaim me, putting me back in the children’s brigade. Luckily, I am back with brigade leader Thore Meta. At dawn she leads us to the rice field, then brings us back before sunset.
When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Page 23
