When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback (28 page)

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,
ban
g 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 she calms down, she tells us what happened, tears spilling out of her eyes. “We were tired and afraid of getting hit by bullets and bombs, so we stopped. We hid in a paddy with four other families behind this path. Suddenly a man wearing black, a Khmer Rouge, approached. He walked up to a boy, a sick, swollen boy, hiding near the road. Oh, Ara,
ming
, it’s awful….”
Bang
Meng breaks down, shaking.

“He begged, raised his hands to his forehead. He said, ‘
Poo
, don’t kill me, please don’t kill me—’

“That Khmer Rouge said to the boy, ‘I won’t kill you,’ but as he said that, he pulled a pistol and shot the boy in the head, right in the head. When I saw that, I knew we were next,”
bang
Meng continues. “As he strode toward us, my brother, sisters, aunt, the girls from this family, everyone, and this old grandma, all
sampeahed
*
him. They implored him, saying, ‘
Poo
,
khmuy,
†
chow,
‡
don’t kill me, don’t kill us.’ When he was close, I shut my eyes. I covered my face with a scarf and hat. I lay down on the ground near the feet of my aunt, sisters, and brother. Suddenly I heard shots, loud shots. Oh God, everyone fell on me. Warm blood seeped onto me, my clothes. Then I felt a foot on my chest, then I thought he’d shot me….”

Later,
bang
Meng heard footsteps coming. She feared that the same Khmer Rouge had returned to kill her. As she cried, trembling in horror, the footsteps stopped near her. Then the hat covering her head blew away. She shivered, wailing, her hands over her face. “Don’t be afraid of me,” a man’s voice said. “I’m not going to harm you. I’m a good soldier, a
PARA
¶
soldier.”

He said that when he noticed
bang
Meng’s body was still breathing, he felt compelled to save her. Having explained himself, he advised
bang
Meng to leave Chhnoel, and so here she is with us, alone without her family.

Having heard
bang
Meng’s story, we all decide to move farther away from Chhnoel and Kandal. We join a group of people in an area with hay-colored grass. A few older men and women talk, the rest stare at the grass or into space. We camp there overnight.

The next morning
bang
Meng ventures to Chhnoel with other people who lost their families. Tears well in her eyes as she describes the stench and the heap of corpses removed to a field to be burned. “Ara, my baby brother is gone,” she sobs. “He’s pale, bloodless. Lifeless.…” She asks Ra to go with her to see her family’s corpses before they are burned. In this time of loss, Ra can’t refuse a friend. Struggling to decide what is the right thing to do, Ra takes Map and me along for fear of separation if the Khmer Rouge should attack again.

When we arrive at Chhnoel, the presence of the Khmer Rouge still lingers. Clothes in disarray, tarps, blankets, pots, and pants are strewn near coconut and palm trees. I dread coming back here. As we approach an alley behind a group of houses, a warm breeze carries a terrible odor. Before I can ask about it, we are looking at a black ashen ground, half the size of a rice paddy.

“Oh no, they’ve already burned my relatives,”
bang
Meng cries, shocked, her hand covering her mouth.

She hurries over to the charred body parts. Ra scurries after her. Holding Map’s hand, I’m rooted to the ground. I cringe as
bang
Meng and Ra survey the dark ashes and partially burned remnants. The stench repulses me, but the ghostly silence moves me to take Map over to Ra and
bang
Meng. Now we too are staring at the charred remains.

“Ara, this was where my siblings and aunt were. Look.”
Bang
Meng walks up to a blackened piece of a small chest. “Maybe it’s a part of my young brother. It’s small.”

Glancing at the scorched chest with its rib cage still intact, I pull Map away. My eyes take refuge in the trees in a faraway field. I shield Map’s face with my hand, my stomach churning.

As we’re leaving, walking back along the main road of Chhnoel,
bang
Meng tells us stories she heard on her first day upon returning here. Pointing to a group of palm trees, she says that the
PARA
soldiers found the body of a murdered woman sprawled beside that of her newborn with its legs torn apart. She says babies were killed by the sharp sawing edges of a palm branch. A woman with edema was shot in the head in a house. I wish
bang
Meng had not told us these stories. I pray that Ry and Than didn’t return here to look for us. I pray they are still alive somewhere.

O
ur arrival in Sala Krao village is met by a commotion. We, along with fifteen families who seek safe haven, merge with a procession of men and women who glare angrily at three men with their hands tied behind their backs. Escorting them are two men in civilian clothes and two Vietnamese soldiers in dark lemon-green uniforms and helmets. The soldiers are among the few we’ve seen so far, though we’ve been told more are stationed on the far right off the road.

“They’re Khmer Rouge,” a man in the crowd exclaims. “They dressed up like civilians so they can infiltrate this village.”

My mind shuts off, refusing to take in any more news. The man’s voice drones on. The sharp throbbing pain of a badly decaying, infected wisdom tooth returns. The swelling of the gum flares up at a bad time. The pain saps the little energy I have left to get to Sala Krao. Luckily, on the road among displaced families, we spot Than, Ry, and Phally, Aunt Leng’s former servant who worked for her back in Phnom Penh. When the Khmer Rouge attacked Chhnoel, they managed to run farther south, then followed other families until we were reunited. Than and Ry help me carry our foodstuffs, a heavy load that was slowing me down. Even now, carrying nothing, I have a difficult time walking.

“Athy, lie down here.” Ry taps me on my shoulder, her hand points to a cloth spread on the ground near the exposed roots of a tree.

My body savors the rest, welcoming the awaiting cloth.

The sound of a hollow boom. A loud, bright fire bursts. The ground shakes. I feel hot. “
Mak
, help me—” I hear myself scream in a long-drawn-out plea.

“Get in the water, get in the water. Hurry.”

“
Mak
, help me….” At that moment I think I’m dead, but I feel my body being dragged along and it’s getting wet. The muddy water seeps into my mouth and ears. I struggle, trying to get up. A voice commands, “Don’t stand up, Athy!” I feel a tug on my shoulder. I open my eyes and Ry is beside me.
We’re in the pond!
I don’t understand….

Suddenly a baby cries, and only then do I realize that we’re being attacked by the Khmer Rouge again. It’s night, a moonlit night. Shadows of heads scatter above the water. The baby’s older sister, perhaps three, cries as well. Her mother whispers, “Don’t cry. If the Khmer Rouge hear you, they’ll kill us. Stop.” The little girl stifles her tears, gazing at her mother. Her father moves slowly in the water to be near her.

Another weapon is fired from a distance, sending a loud noise into the night. By now I know what kind of a weapon this is—a bazooka with a cylindrical rocket. In seconds it strikes a branch on the very tree under which we had settled, setting the leaves briefly on fire. Suddenly a loud boom erupts from the Vietnamese soldiers’ side, sending us screaming for cover. “About time. I thought they were all dead!” a man says in relief.

The firing from the Khmer Rouge stops. Then it starts up again, but stops after two consecutive firings from the Vietnamese’s artillery. After the third one, the night becomes quiet. I’m relieved, thankful that the Vietnamese soldiers are here tonight to oppose the Khmer Rouge.

In the morning I’m awakened by voices. A short, thin Vietnamese soldier in a dark lemon-green uniform and helmet is striding along the road with a briefcaselike bag in his hand. With him are two girls, perhaps ages eight and ten. They come over and squat among us. The girls stand beside him; the younger one surveys our group. As the soldier speaks in Vietnamese, the older girl looks at him, listening. Then she translates for us. “He wants to take a look at everyone to see if you are hurt.”

The soldier removes tiny fragments of shrapnel embedded in our backs, faces, and arms. Tonight a silver-haired man whom Than has befriended offers to let us stay under his wooden house as long as we want. It’s safer to be here, he says. We address him respectfully as
om,
great-uncle. If the Khmer Rouge attack again, the trees and the road will shield us from a direct hit. The house is built on stilts with a spacious balcony all around. In the front there are stairs made of cement and wooden steps and a platform. We are relieved to have this place to stay in.

Two soldiers come to visit us the next evening. These soldiers could be brothers; they are the same height, about five feet five, with thick black hair and tan, refined skin. They look healthy, strong, and cute, especially when they smile. Their eyes briefly study Ra when she gets up to sit in the cooking area. At twenty, hardship hasn’t robbed Ra of her beauty. Her slender figure, light complexion, and chin-length hair make her attractive, prettier than any woman I’ve seen. Of all of us, she’s the healthiest one.

One of the soldiers picks up a metal container and asks me in broken Cambodian, “What is this called?”

I slowly tell him the one-syllable word for container. He tries to say it, but he doesn’t say it right. Grinning, he repeats the word. I shake my head. He tries it again. Still, he gets it wrong. When I say the word faster, I hear the wrong echo coming back at me. It’s like saying the word “cow” and hearing the word “cook” echoed back.

Tranh is his name. He speaks less Cambodian than the other one, Minh, who constantly steals glances at Ra. After learning a little Cambodian, Minh and Tranh tell us about Vietnam, about their lives there. About dancing. About music. Suddenly Tranh dashes away, disappearing on the road.

He’ll be back, Minh tells us, smiling.

Soon Tranh appears with another soldier, grinning sheepishly. Minh gets up from his squatting position, hands the metal bucket to the soldier, then says something to him in Vietnamese. Standing face-to-face, less than a feet apart, Minh and Tranh beam, then nod at the soldier.

On cue, the soldier begins to drum on the sides of the bucket, creating a soft, chiming upbeat sound. His mouth moves, followed by pretty lyrics in Vietnamese. Before I know it, Minh’s and Tranh’s bodies sway gracefully, arching forward and backward like two bamboo rods swaying in unison to the rhythm of the wind. Their hands dance, swinging in circular motions. They smile, laughing. I’m amused.

An endless line of people marches on the road snaking in front of
om
’s house. Standing on the shoulders of the road, we watch men, women, and elderly people walking barefoot. Some clutch babies in their arms. Most transport bundles of pots and pans, and personal belongings on carrying sticks or their heads. A few own old bikes on which they transport blankets and foodstuffs. Young children are tugged along, their hands gripped either by their mothers or older siblings.

Om
asks a thin man about his destination. “We don’t want to live in Cambodia anymore,” he says decisively. “Life here is too difficult. We don’t know where we’re going, we just want to leave this country.”

From morning to afternoon for the next three days, Sala Krao is the gateway for an exodus. Their destination, we later find out, is a camp on the border between Cambodia and Thailand.

Ry, Phally, and I befriend a local woman named Art. We call her Aunt Art, a slender and friendly woman with beautiful dark eyes, perhaps in her early thirties. She has a baby girl. Inside her small wooden home, located half a mile from
om
’s, there are fishing baskets, pots, pans, sifting baskets, and waffle irons hanging on nails embedded in the walls.
Waffle irons!

Upon returning to
om
’s house, I check his millstone, which is used for grinding soaked rice into batter, among other things. Later in the evening I discuss with Ra, Ry, and Than my idea of making waffles to trade in the village for processed rice. The main customers would be the travelers who pass by Sala Krao, I tell them. People travel, they get hungry, and they buy food. My goal is to live on the rice profit so we don’t have to farm. Ra says it’s embarrassing to sell when none of the local people sell anything. Than doesn’t think people will buy my waffles, and thinks I’ll be wasting the rice I invest in the waffle making.

Unlike Ra and Than, Ry thinks I should try. With support from her, I soak about four pounds of rice to make batter for tomorrow. At dawn I get up, wash the soaked rice and the millstone, then grind the rice into batter. After an hour I’m done, then I mix the batter with a dark golden palm sugar, a pinch of salt, and water. With eggs and coconut milk, I think, the waffles would have been as delicious as the ones we had back in Phnom Penh, but as it is, they’re still good.

On the shoulder of the road, beneath the shade of tall trees, I pick a spot, an intersection where many people cross. Setting a pot of the batter down on the ground, I dig a hole, then set three stones on its edge to support the iron.

Ry brings me firewood, Aunt Art’s waffle iron, a platter, a fork, and a piece of ember from
om
’s house to start the fire. Map brings me an empty bucket and an empty twelve-ounce milk can. Before long I begin making waffles.

Ry, Map, and I myself are my first customers. We eat the first two waffles since they were stuck to the iron, all crumbled up. I shove a piece in my mouth. Map eagerly picks up pieces and eats as soon as I give him the go-ahead. Ry smacks her lips, thinking.

“Athy, it’s not that sweet.” She gazes at me, still thinking gravely.

“I know,” I say, grinning, glad to finally hear her comment. I didn’t want to use a lot of sugar in case we didn’t trade and ended up eating our own product.

Ry smiles and says, “This kid,” shaking her head. “I’ll go back and get some more sugar.”

“That’s why I asked you to help,” I say, laughing.

Gradually, children from Sala Krao come to watch us. They stand gazing hungrily as I peel one waffle after another.

Ry tells them, “
A-oon
, go get rice. Tell your moms that you want to eat waffles.” She smiles sheepishly and waves at them to go. She laughs for having said it.

“One can of rice,” I add, picking up the tin can from the empty bucket and showing it to them, “and you’ll get two of these.” I point to the waffles on the platter. Ry nudges me, giggling. Map smiles quizzically.

The batter is gone faster than I’d ever imagined. Carrying a good load of rice in the bucket, our investment and profit, I joke with Ry about our day’s work. Ry teases me, repeating some of our customers’ comments. I assume the roles of both the customers and myself, speaking as if I’m in a play. Map grins, gazing up at us, his silly sisters, as we giggle like schoolgirls again.

With our little waffle stand comes a makeshift market. On the shoulders of the road lined by shade trees, people from Sala Krao and other villages join in the trading. They bring papayas, coconuts, squashes, live fish, and woven baskets, anything usable, to trade for processed rice. Several other people set up competing waffle stands, so we turn to making and selling noodles.

The market expands further, spilling out from the shoulders of the road into a large wooden-covered building. In two months, with the influx of travelers, suddenly food, everything, is also traded for small pieces of twenty-four-karat gold cut from necklace chains, bracelets, and ring bands, a lighter currency than processed rice.

I’m surprised to see that people still have fine jewelry. Looking back, I remember the time when the leader from Daakpo told us to give up our jewelry to
Angka
. He said it was bad for us to possess material connected with the “American imperialists,” and now it helps people to buy meals.

As with the waffles, other people begin to make noodles, competing with us for customers. Soon we feel the effects of this competition and can barely sell our food.

Ra, Than, Ry, and I discuss our future survival, a way to earn our living. After talking to some travelers from Kompong Cham, Ra, Than, and Phally decide to go with them to the border to buy goods from the Thai merchants to bring back and sell in Sala Krao.

One day, after they’ve left, Ry and I decide to take a break, especially since we haven’t sold many noodles in the previous days. Having the burden of trading off my shoulders, I play jump rope under the trees in front of
om
’s house.

Later a girl my age, thirteen, comes and asks if she can play. Gladly, I say of course. We play rock-paper-scissors. I win, so I get to jump first. As I jump, I can’t stop smiling. It feels as if I’m at recess after a long morning in class. When it’s time for the other girl to jump, I’m excited just to watch her.

The girl’s mother calls her away. While I continue to jump rope by myself, she comes back. Excitedly, she says that she and her mom are going to buy food near Thailand and bring it back here. She asks if I want to go. I wonder how long it will take to get to the market near Thailand.

Her mom says, “Oh, it won’t take that long, and before you know it, you’ll be back here. A kid like you can carry four boxes of instant noodles and you will make a lot of profit. Do you want to go? I’m taking Srey with me.”

“Yes,” I say excitedly. I imagine myself carrying four boxes of noodles on my back. Already my mind travels to this market. In a split second I’m back in Sala Krao.
Easy
, I imagine, just like the woman said.

I tell Ry that I’ll be back in two days. Sensing my excitement, Ry smiles as she splits half of the gold we’ve earned from selling food. In a hurry, I leave with Srey and her mom, and I don’t get to tell Map where I’m going.

Our journey is much longer than Srey’s mother told me it would be. We walk through villages and fields. Thirst and fatigue overwhelm me. Srey’s mother says we must keep on walking and warns me to hide my gold somewhere on my clothes where it won’t be easy to find in case we meet with robbers.

We come to a large lake filled with tall, grasslike plants called kak that grow three to four feet above the blackish water. I don’t want to go in. Having come this far, Srey’s mother warns me that she’s not going to turn back. If I go back by myself, she says, I’ll get lost. If I go ahead, I can buy the noodles and make a profit.