On a cool, clear morning, amid the rolling plains of golden rice flanked by a water reservoir, I harvest rice, stooping down among other children. One hand gathers the stalks and the other cuts them free with the sickle. Suddenly a voice whispers, “Look, two chhlops are coming.”
I see two informants pad swiftly toward Thore Meta, who is reaping ahead of us. One informant approaches her, then whispers in her ear. She recoils, alarmed. The other informant mouths something. Thore Meta steals glances at us, then toward the distant villages. She talks to a group leader, then quickly scurries away with the informants, wading through the field. They climb into a waiting canoelike boat and begin rowing. I watch her until the boat dwindles to a speck. I wonder if what Chea predicted is happening: that broken glass is sinking. There have been rumors of the invasion by the Vietnamese into Cambodia.
“Go back to work,” the group leader commands softly, her hands waving at us to resume our duty.
“Look, look, three people are coming!” a girl shouts, pointing the sickle at the people crossing the reservoir.
The harvesting stops. Everyone scurries toward the women who have just crossed the reservoir.
“They all run away, they all run away….” one woman mutters, out of breath. The other two, panting, exchange smiles.
“Mae, mae [Mom].” A girl runs into a woman’s arms.
They embrace, jumping, making dull, muffled sounds in the paddy. For the first time in a long time, I see happiness again. All of us smile at the thought of no more Khmer Rouge. My heart dances in my chest, my mind sings the word “freedom” repeatedly. Years ago, I knew only its pronunciation, but now, at thirteen, I truly understand what it means to have freedom, and to have it taken away from me.
The heavy weight on my soul, my body, suddenly lifts. The scenery around me changes. The golden fields, the clouds, the blue skies are beautiful.
We run to our remaining families, racing each other across the reservoir. We giggle as we splash water at each other. The sound of laughter is soothing; I feel like a child again. The little girl in me returns, and my curiosity soars: Are they really gone? I want to know.
From Poik’durng village to Daakpo I run, checking different places to see if there are still signs of the Khmer Rouge. But every place looks abandoned: the children’s shelters, the commune houses, and the rice-processing hut in Daakpo. There, empty woven baskets are scattered on the ground. The wooden door on the rice storage building is broken, yanked loose. All the processed rice is gone. The villages are as quiet as when we were brought here three years ago. Then, there were nine of us. But now there are only five: Ra, twenty; Ry, seventeen; Than, fifteen; me, thirteen; and Map, four. The other four—Mak, Chea, Avy, and Vin—are all dead. Like Pa. Gone. Forever.
15
A Letter
The sun shines, and the sky is bright blue. The Khmer Rouge are gone. On a dusty road flows a river of families. People are leaving behind the place that enchained them. Joining them is my family. We are the leftovers the “ghost” doesn’t want, Mak used to say. On this day, every child, woman, and man looks more relaxed. On their sallow, sunken faces, beaten by the sun, I see hope. Their eyes glow. A few smiles emerge from behind the tired faces. I steal glances at those who are smiling. I wonder if they are experiencing the enormous sense of freedom I feel, as well as the indescribable emotion that bubbles inside me. It’s a newly discovered exhilaration.
A stocky woman grins, even while carrying a stick arching from a heavy load. Her bare feet move like the wind, as if propelled by what she’s feeling inside. Like many of us, her daughters transport their pots, pans, and food on their heads, and on their shoulders using carrying sticks. When we left Phnom Penh four years ago, the picture was very different. Then, there were cars, motorcycles, and bikes, on which we secured our clothes and foodstuffs, and on which the children could ride. But now everyone walks. Virtually everyone is barefoot, walking on calused, cracked soles.
“Where are you all going?” the stocky woman asks, smiling at me.
“I don’t know, ming [aunt],” I answer, returning her smile, then I look at Ra for the answer. Instead, I hear my echo.
“I don’t know, ming,” Ra says, flashing an uncertain smile at the woman. “We are following everybody.”
“So are we following others. Go wherever there’s food.” She beams.
In the late afternoon we stop at a village to rest and eat, then replenish our supply. In the fields by the road, we glean rice, whatever was left by harvesters. We join others who are already there, their bags and buckets half or nearly full. And here we are just beginning.
As we work through the field, we spot our aunts stooping and rising as their hands gather leftover heads of rice. They are Pa’s young sisters, Aunt Chin and Aunt Leng. Even though we aren’t working under the Khmer Rouge, my aunts can’t seem to take time to talk. They have to keep busy. Their sunken faces demand the action of their hands. They seem like strangers to me. It takes me a while to realize that they are my relatives. The effects of the Khmer Rouge’s abolition of family intimacy slowly seep away from my mind, and a sense of family connection gradually takes their place.
Aunt Chin’s brows are furrowed. She motions her head to show us that her children are in the next field. Then she and Aunt Leng ask us where we’ll be going after this village. Ra says she doesn’t know. Go to Phnom Penh with us, they urge us. And Ra agrees, looking relieved.
But before we have a chance to finish processing the rice we’ve gleaned, Aunt Leng decides that she, Aunt Chin’s family, Aunt Cheng, Kong Houng, and Uncle Surg’s only surviving son should go ahead and leave first. Her plan is for us to follow them when we’re done. Ra asks them to wait as we quicken our rice processing, but Aunt Leng only says they will walk slowly so we can catch up with them on the road. Ra doesn’t say anything, her face reddened as she vigorously sifts the rice.
When we set out on the road, we see no trace of our aunts, cousins, or Kong Houng. I wish we would somehow run into Mak’s remaining sisters and brothers, but there is no trace of them either. It seems that our extended families shot out of their huts as soon as the Khmer Rouge vanished. Again, we are on our own, just the five of us without a destination. We follow others, going wherever we can find food. As the night creeps in, we decide to rest in a village called Korkpongro, taking up residence in the foyer of an abandoned wooden house, as do other traveling families.
Later in the night we sleep side by side. Quickly, I drift into slumber as if someone had cast a spell on me, only to be awakened by the distant voice of gunfire, familiar sounds we all know too well. The dull, hollow explosions of artillery combine with the raucous noise of rifles.
A man’s voice bellows in the quiet night. “What was that?”
I spring up, as do my brothers and sisters.
“What happened, what happened?” Ra mutters, alarmed.
People nearby wake. A woman asks the question to which we all wish we know the answer. Who is fighting? The Khmer Rouge? Tonight they won’t be surprised, the men say, if the gunfire belongs to them. Only then do I realize we are far from safe.
The next morning everyone in my family resumes our rice gleaning, including four-year-old Map, who helps his elder siblings search for clusters of rice in the hot sun. Scavenging through the already harvested fields, I think of nothing but the golden cluster. When night comes, the gunfire roars in the distance again. It growls louder than the night before, as if the fighting is only a village away. For the next three days it continues, making us feel trapped. Fearful for our lives, we confide in other families who stay near us. To our relief, they tell us about a prayer gathering and urge us to go.
On a decklike stage covered by a wooden roof, candlelight illuminates the wooden floor and a picture of Buddha in the forest. Sitting behind the candles are old men and women with shaved heads. These elders could be former nuns or priests. In awe, I’m surprised and comforted to see candles after all these years. Already many men, wo
men, and children surround this place, their legs folded neatly on the sandy ground. Our elders chant prayers to Buddha. Those who know the prayers join in, chanting traditional words in Pali. The palms of their hands are pressed together and raised to their chins. It is a humble spiritual gathering that fits this fearful night.
Even with the nightly prayers, our souls cannot be comforted. The sound of war is powerful. We have to leave Korkpongro. Many families move on, even though there’s still rice to glean. Having collected some food, we decide our safety takes precedence.
We arrive at the next village, Chhnoel, before nightfall. Here, there are people camping along the shoulder of the road, by the huts and cottages, and beneath the coconut, mango, and palm trees. Their shelters are in place, made of blankets, sarongs, and tarps. Everyone looks weary, especially Map. I know he is hungry, but he doesn’t cry for food as we search for a place to camp in a dry rice paddy.
The next day, warned by the neighboring women that rice is hard to find, requiring a lot of walking, we decide to have Map stay in the tent or play outside with the other children. As we leave with the women, Map cries, his eyes following us. After a few days have gone by, Map is better at coping with our daylong absences, and plays with other children.
Living near our tent is bang Meng’s remaining family. She and Ra worked together in the same labor camps. She, her aunt, young sisters, and a baby brother also used to live in Daakpo. She is about twenty, Ra’s age, short and thin with straight black hair down to her chin. Her eyes and light complexion suggest she’s part Chinese. By her composure, she appears intelligent. She reminds me of Chea. In only a few days, our families have become close. We have both lost parents and are learning to depend on ourselves.
Rice is becoming scarce. It’s been a week since we arrived here. Today we barely glean enough for a day’s meal. When we get back, news awaits us—a letter from the Khmer Rouge telling us to leave Chhnoel.
A couple were given the letter and told to warn everyone. In it, the woman says, they warn us to leave this village. If they should find us here, no one will be spared. They will kill everyone, including a baby in a hammock.
“Oh, I don’t think they’ll come,” a man says, his hand brushing aside the fear. “They probably think the Vietnamese soldiers are here and are afraid to come. They just want to threaten us. Don’t worry.”
The following day we go to glean rice again, leaving Map at the tent. Since rice is hard to find, Ra and I go north with a group of women while Ry and Than head south with others.
Ra and I work quickly, trying to get as much as possible of the little rice left. In the distance my ears pick up faint dull, hollow sounds. I pause.
“Ra, the sounds of gunfire. Can you hear it?” I shout.
“Yes, ming, the sounds of gunfire! Coming from there,” Ra cries, pointing. She signals to the women near us to come.
“Oh, it’s far away,” a woman says, brushing aside our anxiety. “I’m staying a bit longer.” She returns to her stack.
My heart hammers. I want to leave. The gunfire becomes louder. I turn to Ra for a decision, but she looks at the other women.
“I’m staying a bit longer, too,” one woman decides, then the rest agree, including my own sister.
Another hollow boom sounds closer than before. “Ra, let’s go!” I scream at her. “Can’t you hear it? It’s getting louder and louder!”
“Everyone is still—” Before Ra finishes, the woman next to us takes off.
She cries, “I’m going, I’m not staying, my children—”
Ra grabs the rice bag and the basket, and off she runs. Again, I’m behind her, along with the other women.
The resonant booms approach closer and closer to Chhnoel. When one explodes nearby, all of us cry. In my mind I scold the women, and I’m angry at Ra for not listening to me.
Across the rice paddies near Chhnoel, children, women, and men are running for their lives, like red ants whose hole has been destroyed. Mothers with babies, one arm pinning them against their bodies while the other holds on to the bundles of belongings riding on their heads. Some yank their children’s hands. Others carry foodstuffs on sticks. Their children trot behind, shuffled in the crowd. At that instant I’m reminded of Map and yell to Ra.
Amid the flow of humans, she flashes a distressed glance at me. When we get to our tent, Map is not there. Than and Ry are not there either. Most of the tents are disassembled, vanished. Ra shouts at me to find him while she packs.
The crowd flows around me as I peer at every kid I see. They are all crying, just like me. Suddenly I spot a boy screaming, looking in the direction from which Ra and I came. On a mounted path between rice paddies, he is stomping hysterically with his hands flying in the air. I run, my hands parting people away from me as my eyes try to keep track of him. When I get closer, I recognize his clothes. It is Map!
“Map, Map. I’m here, over here.” I raise my hand, waving.
He runs to me, his hand wiping away his tears. I grip his other hand. He glares at me. “I waited a long time,” he barks. “Why didn’t you come sooner?” He shoots another angry look at me, his long eyelashes rise, then fall.
I’m so relieved and thankful to find Map and to see his furious little face scolding me that for a moment I’m oblivious to the gunfire.
Ra is distraught. She shouts for me to carry a load, what looks like bags of rice, pots, and pans, all tied up to be carried on a stick. She lifts her load onto her shoulder, then drops it back down. She picks up a mat, all rolled up and almost twice Map’s height, and hands it to him. Now we run, heading toward a small makeshift bridge built over a ditch. The crowd backs up. A hollow boom thunders. Everyone cries hysterically. Ra steps down into the ditch and then up on the other side. I follow. Map is behind, struggling. The weight of the mat slows him down, pulling him backward. Ra is up ahead, a dwindling figure in the crowd. I’m waiting for Map. “Come on, hurry,” I mutter to myself, frightened for Map and myself.
When an artillery explodes, followed by the raucous pop of rifles, everyone moves forward. I run across one dry cracked paddy to the next, climbing the mounted path. “Map, hurry, hurry,” I shout, wanting Map to step up his pace. When I turn to look for him, he is far behind, a paddy away, standing still. He is crying, his hands holding the mat that is taller than he is. I wave for him to come. He shakes his head. I drop my load and run to him, he drops the mat and walks toward Chhnoel. I wail, screaming, “No, don’t go back—”
Map vanishes among people and trees. Standing still, I wait for him to return, but I see only other children and their families. I place my load on my shoulder and run forward.
“RA, RA, STOP!” I yell. She turns. I pause, crying.
“Where is Map?” she asks, her eyes alarmed.
“Run only for your own sake,” I bawl. “You didn’t help me look after Map. Now he’s gone, running backward.”
“Backward where?”
“Toward the Khmer Rouge!” I yell, then point to the trees and fleeing people.
Ra puts down her load, runs, then stands by a mounted path. “Ming, poo [uncle], have you seen my brother?” Ra asks, her hands reaching out to the men and women, but no one looks at her.
“Hey, Ra, your brother is coming!” a woman shouts at Ra.
Ra’s eyes search, then her legs leap over the path.
The woman trots by me with two girls. I ask her, “Ming, is my brother coming?”
The woman nods. Now I remember who she is—her tent was close to ours in Chhnoel.
Suddenly Ra and Map appear without the mat. Ra pulls Map up the path. When Map nears us, I scold him. “Crazy kid, running backward! Don’t you know you’ll get shot!”
“The mat’s too heavy, my legs hurt,” Map snaps. “You didn’t wait for me. You let me run by myself!”
Together we trot, catching up with the woman and her daughters. Then we are ahead of them again. When we’re near Kandal village, about two miles from Chhnoel, the woman calls out t
o Ra.
“Hey, neag, let’s rest a little,” she begs, out of breath.
We stop near a ditch a few steps ahead.
“We’ll rest with you, ming,” Ra says, panting.
Frustrated, the woman shouts at her daughters, “Throw something away. It’s too heavy, hurry, hurry.”
Ra looks at her load, pulls out a pot, a cutting block, and a bag of salt, then she cries. “Thy, I can’t throw these away. We need—”
Boom! An artillery shell lands nearby. We jump into the ditch, then Ra sticks her head out. “Ming, over here!”
When the firing subsides, we climb out of the ditch. To avoid any attack by the Khmer Rouge from the Kandal village, we move to a grove of trees away from it. Here, resting on the ground among the trees, we are by ourselves. Two families. The woman, her daughters, Ra, Map, and me. Now that I’ve caught my breath, I can feel my body aching. My mind slips, giving in to exhaustion. My head nods, I’m dozing off. I try to open my eyes, and try to listen to Ra and the woman as they talk about their fears.
Soon, though, someone emerges from the trees. We stand up, ready to run.
“It’s Meng…only Ameng.” Ra runs to her, and I follow.
“Ara, Ara—my siblings, oh, my aunt, my aunt,” bang Meng stammers incoherently. “Ara, they’re all dead. Dead. The Khmer Rouge killed my family.”
Bang Meng pants. Her body trembles, wobbling. Her hands grip the carrying stick that balances two big trunks on her shoulder. Ra grabs the carrying stick from her.
Free from the load, bang Meng cries in a long, shrieking voice and stammers about the death of her family. Suddenly her legs sag, then she pulls herself back up. At that second a wave of flies recoils, bouncing off her blood-soaked blouse, then is drawn back to her.
When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Page 24
