When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback (3 page)

At school I have seen posters of the Viet Cong posted on tree trunks in the school yard and on the school fence.
*
Pointing to the posters, a teacher told us that the men wearing black shirts and pants with black sandals were called
yeakong
.
Yeakong
had big teeth and scary smiles and carried long guns on their shoulders. Behind them was a large pot called
tae ong
(metal pots that resemble the shape of a bell) sitting on top of human heads with tongues of flame coming between them. The heads, the teacher said, were the Cambodians’ heads, used as cooking stones. When we are caught by the
yeakong
, she said, they will do that to us.

Pa
decides to go to the office. He works for the government in Phnom Penh, overseeing import/export violations, but he also owns a number of pedicarts, which people rent from him monthly. My father is different from my uncles. He helps my mother around the house, washing diapers and even the bloodied bedsheets after she’s had a baby. Although culturally women are the preparers of food, I often watch Father work in the kitchen. He finds pleasure in small things, helping us clean and trim our fingernails, pouring water over us in our shower—things women do. I can feel my father’s ambition, and also his desire to escape tradition. An entrepreneur at heart, he imports televisions via Vietnam and rents out two bedrooms downstairs. He dreams of filling our home with children.

It’s only been about eight hours since I first encountered war, but already I am beginning to worry like an adult. I am so afraid that our family might be separated from my father if fighting breaks out again. Oh, how much I want to tell
Pa
that I’m scared, but I’m even too scared to tell him this. I’ve learned from grown-ups that you don’t think about or say terrible things or else they will come true.

They come true anyway, and
Pa
isn’t home yet. We shiver as the gunfire rumbles in the distance. At least it’s not close to our home, as it was the night before. We stay inside. I wish for the war noise to stay where it is. I’m too tired to stay awake. The next thing I feel is my body shaking, Chea waking me up.

The morning is cloudy and chilly as I stand outside the gate near our packed suitcases. I’ve been asked by
Mak
to watch for a bus to pick us up for Phnom Penh. I look at my home: the pine trees, three on each side, stand before our big two-story stucco house, almost as tall as the house itself. Along the front cement fence, a cool, shady row of mango, papaya, and coconut trees overlooks swings—a playground I already begin to miss almost as much as I miss my father.

Mostly, I feel relieved:
We won’t be captured by the Viet Cong after all. We’re going to be with Pa.

A faded blue bus packed with people stops in front of the house. Everyone, it seems, has the same idea. On top of the bus rises a growing tower of suitcases and bags. Through the open gate, I run to tell
Mak
. As I begin to climb the cement stairs, my family is coming down. My mother holds Avy on her hip with one hand and a bundle in the other. Her black hair is combed neatly, framing her face and curving against her neck below her earlobes. She wears a colorful sleeveless blouse with a flowery long sarong, similar to that worn by Hawaiians. As always she is composed.

I ask
Mak
, “What about
Pa
?
Pa
’s coming home tonight, and we are not going to be here. Will he be scared when he doesn’t know where we are?”

“Your father will know. He’ll find us. Go on now. Go to the bus,
koon Mak
!”
*

As the bus starts to leave, I look at my home, one last snapshot, click. With my eyes, I caress all that I see—the pine trees, the swings by the shaded mango trees near the fence, the balcony with hanging houseplants cascading from the ceiling. I remember how we used to come out and sit on the balcony and enjoy warm evening breezes together. I would chase fireflies hovering near the houseplants.

Everyone on the bus is quiet, even little kids. We glance at each other and see silent worry, especially on the adults’ faces. Some people hide it—they look out the bus windows, staring at trees and passing landscapes.

Pa
somehow finds us in Phnom Penh. We find shelter at Bantiey Sheichaak, a military garrison of sorts. We enter a world of curfews. At 11
A.M
. we can’t leave the house. For hours Cambodian surveillance planes circle overhead in search of Viet Cong infiltration. If they detect any movement, you could be shot. Whenever I hear the whine of engines above, I am afraid to breathe, to play, even to pee.

For two months this is our life. Then
Pa
says we’re going home to Takeo. “It’s safe now,” he announces. But it is not the same. Our home has been bombed.

Surprisingly, Akie, a collie, has survived these months alone, unlike our guard dog, Aka Hom, who is gone. Akie endured the war, waiting loyally outside the charred remains of our decimated home. When
Pa
arrives, Akie runs up to him, licking him again and again. In Cambodia, it is rare to see public displays of affection between adults. But with pets, we feel free to lavish our affections.
Pa
has always enjoyed pampering Akie, shampooing him, feeding him prime table scraps.

Instead of staying at our home, we go to the house of
Kong
*
Horne, my mother’s uncle. His family has abandoned it and has not returned. But he is one of the lucky ones, whose house is untouched by war. His two-story stucco home overlooks the Bassac River, located near the heart of Takeo City.

Sitting on the scooter,
Pa
tells Than to go with him to see our home, but I ask to go along too. He looks at me, hesitant, but then says I can come.

Along the streets lie clothes and debris. I look for people, but there’s no one. When
Pa
says we’re here, I look at our house, but the top part is gone. It looks broken, shorter than before. The gate is broken. The mango, coconut, and papaya trees look dry, burned. The tops of two pine trees have broken off, withered, and turned brown, and now are dangling.

Pa
holds my hand as we climb the stairs. When we get to the top, there is no door. Metal spikes stick out of what used to be the walls of the bedrooms and the balcony. The floor of the living room is partially gone, exposing the downstairs room.
Pa
holds me back from moving any further. The sofa, the glass cases holding crystal and engraved silver chalices, the pictures, and everything else in our house are reduced to ashes. Where the television set, radio, and record player once stood there is nothing but charred debris.

When
Pa
takes us to the backyard, the pond is dried up, its beautiful water lilies and green lotus and
trey pra
, the catfish we used to feed, are dead. The trees once bowed with the weight of fruit are wilted and brown. Our house is dead, and I ask my father to take me away.

Washington, July 17—United States B-52 bombers made at least 3,500 secret bombing raids over Cambodia in a 14-month period beginning in March, 1969, Defense Department sources disclosed today…. Military sources did confirm, however, that information about the Cambodian raids was directly provided to President Nixon and his top national security advisers, including Henry A. Kissinger.

 

T
here is a story about the life of Buddha in which a mother carries her dead son to him draped in her arms. The woman has heard that he is a holy man who can restore life. Weeping, she appeals for mercy. Gently, Buddha tells her that he can help save her son’s life, but that first she has to bring him a mustard seed secured from a family that has never experienced death. Desperately she searches home after home. Many want to help, but everyone has already experienced a loss—a sister, a husband, a child. Finally the woman returns to Buddha. “What have you found?” he asks. “Where is your mustard seed and where is your son? You are not carrying him.”

“I buried him,” she replies.

As a young child, I had never known loss. I never envisioned my family without our home. But the Vietnamese invasion changes that. My brother Tha becomes ill. The mischievous boy who climbs trees like a monkey has come down with a fever. My mother sits up with him at night, dabbing his face with cool, damp cloths. But he is not getting better.

Pa
gives Tha some medicine, but nothing changes. Tha can’t move or pee and just lies in bed, breathing slowly. He sleeps a lot and his face has turned white. When
Mak
and
Pa
try to talk to him, he squeezes his eyes open, eyelids fluttering, but he can’t talk.

Mak
is desperate. At one point she seeks a spiritual adviser. The answer is simple: at some point, Tha has peed on someone’s grave. That is why he cannot pee or speak. The angry spirit steals his spirit as retribution. Without an apology, Tha surely will die. My mother racks her brain trying to think of where the offended grave might have been—perhaps in Phnom Penh, during our brief stay there. By now she grasps at any explanation, any thin hope.

With the city abandoned, there is no medical help available.
Pa
has to get a doctor from far away to help Tha. The doctor gives Tha shots and removes a catheter and hose from his medical bag.
Pa
motions with his hand, telling me to stand away from Tha’s bed while the doctor tries to get his pee out. Tha groans.
Pa
and
Mak
are twin mirrors of distress.

After the doctor finishes, he and
Pa
go outside and I walk over to
Mak,
who sits by the bed.
Mak
feels Tha’s stomach and gazes into his eyes.
Mak
strokes his hair. I want to touch his hand to comfort him. Then I hear a click sound, and suddenly Tha’s lips slowly widen into a smile. “
Mak
, Tha is smiling!” Than exclaims happily, standing at the foot of Tha’s bed. We all smile.

Mak
says gently, “Than,
koon
, let your older brother hold your toy gun for a second,” and he does.

Tha does not recover, however. He shuts down, taking nothing in, giving nothing out. He only breathes.
Mak
and
Pa
are always by his side.

My parents haven’t prepared us for the idea of death. It is never discussed. When Tha dies, our mother cries very hard. Her ragged sobs scare me and yet pull me to her.
Pa
’s eyes are red, wet with tears. He covers his face and leaves the house. I am saddened by the death of my older brother, who once let me hold a baby crow, warm and wriggling, with its tiny feet scratching for a perch in the palm of my hand. But in a way, my parents’ distress and helplessness bother me even more.

Increasingly, our lives are spinning out of control.

We have been squatters in the house of
Kong
Horne,
Mak
’s uncle, for a month when he returns with his wife and children. The house is filling up. People gradually return to Takeo, and life slowly begins to seep back into the vacant streets.

With a growing household, our family moves into the second floor of the home—a place with an eerie history. Years before I was born, a Vietnamese woman broke into my uncle’s home intent on stealing jewelry, gold, and silver ingots that were hidden in a stack of firewood—a crude but practical safe-deposit box for many Cambodians fearful of inflation and the shifting value of paper money. The intruder somehow lured my seven-year-old aunt upstairs. No one knows what happened. Perhaps she was trying to scare her into revealing where the gold and jewelry was. Maybe she was silencing a witness. In the end, the woman hanged my aunt by her neck, suspending her small body by a rope from a ceiling beam. The murderer was later found hiding under a bed upstairs not far from the body. She never did find the gold.

For years the entire second story of the house was closed off. Cords of wood and thick wooden poles were stacked against it to counterbalance the evil. Whenever we get scared, my great-grandmother rattles off her spiritual defense, a rapid string of Pali words that come out as a chant, asking Buddha to ward off the bad spirits, to set up an invisible boundary so that ghosts can’t enter. In Cambodian culture you can also ward off ghosts in a single gesture: a defiantly uplifted middle finger.

At night my mother swears she can hear someone pouring tea. Some nights when she rises to get water, she spies a dark shadow sitting on the hammock. One night I call out to my father. Someone is running a finger down my arms, as light as a spider’s touch. “
Pa
, ghosts!” At first he pretends to misunderstand. “What? Ant?” he teases, deliberately confusing two words that are phonetically similar. By my third cry, he comes running.

Amid this place of death and ghosts, there is more destruction.

Something drops down loudly. The house shakes. I open my eyes. It drops again and again as if a big fist were pounding on the ground. Ry runs out of the mosquito netting. I follow behind her. It’s dark. When Ry and I reach the hallway,
Pa, Mak
, Aunt Cheng, Than, Chea, and Ra are already crowded by the front window.

“
Putho
[Mercy]!”
Mak
cries out, wincing with each strike.

I want to see what they’re looking at, and squeeze through them to reach the window. Gigantic tongues of fire and smoke lick the black sky, lighting up the landscape in the distance, somewhere on the other side of the Bassac River. Silhouettes of planes loop in the darkness with sequins of light pouring from them. The sequins dissipate in the brushy shadow of distant trees, then erupt in enormous explosions, bright fire on the earth. We see it before we hear it, the explosion arriving as a delayed echo. Each burst concludes with a huge mushroom of smoke.

“
Pa?
” I squeeze my father’s hand, looking up at the shadow of his face. He doesn’t say anything, but keeps on looking at the burning sky, trembling. I stand there with
Pa
watching it after everyone else has gone back to their beds.

Never before have I seen men cry, so much, like
Pa
tonight.

A few days later, news circulates.
Pa
and other adults talk about casualties reported in different villages outside Takeo province. He says that
B-cinquante-deux
(B-52s) bombed those areas, and many Cambodian civilians were killed in villages where his aunts live, near Srey Va village. Some were killed by direct hits, others perished in the intense heat created by the bombs.
Pa
’s young sisters’ families have had to leave their homes since the bombs dropped near their villages. Like other families, they seek refuge in Takeo City, staying in a house close to us. I don’t understand that these are planes from across an ocean. I don’t understand they are in pursuit of escaping Viet Cong soldiers, who have infested Cambodian border provinces like stubborn cockroaches, refusing to leave.

After this destruction and death comes a new life.

My baby brother, Bosaba, is born in June, two months after the bombing. He is named after the month of February, the rice-ripening season, when the land is lush and the rice heads golden and heavy and ready for harvest.
Mak
caresses the dark, fuzzy head of her eighth child. “We lost the older one, and now we have a little one,” she tells us.
Mak
gazes at Bosaba’s closed eyes and his tiny mouth, which moves as if he is nibbling. His small pink fingers open and close, and I insert my index finger into one of his fists. A snug, perfect fit.

I am glad that Bosaba is born because it makes
Mak
and
Pa
happy, but my youngest brother is only a brief gift. Perhaps he was born prematurely, his health compromised by the trauma my mother endured during the pregnancy. He falls ill and cries constantly. No one can console him.
Pa
can’t help him, and neither can the doctor.

Medical help is becoming so scarce that many people fall back on traditional folk ways.
Pa
begins suffering sharp pain in his abdomen. He says he is suffering from appendicitis. A friend of his, or perhaps a doctor, cautions him, “If you don’t get medical intervention to break the “turtle neck”—the inflamed appendix—you will surely die.” But the hospitals are not manned. Only time and fate can help him. Somehow,
Pa
lives. But life has become so tenuous. Real medicine is increasingly out of our reach, and the consequences are frustrating and deadly.

After a few weeks, my new brother Bosaba dies.

More displaced villagers and refugees are pouring into the city, including
Mak
’s mother and six brothers and sisters. Her father remains in Prey Ronn village to take care of his farming business. Our second-story home is becoming crowded. We have to share it with
Mak
’s mother and siblings. Signs of war have already begun to trickle into the city. One day I am playing marbles along a street with cousins and neighborhood children. We glance up to see a cluster of grown-ups. Our game is abandoned as we run to discover what has captured their attention, fighting our way to the front of the crowd. There on the street sit the decapitated heads of two men. The blood on their necks is encrusted with dirt and hay. Their faces are puffy and purple, their eyelids bruised. “Here, see, Khmer Rouge heads,” a man fiercely declares. “We captured them. Look at them.”

My first reaction is to reel backward, my spine slapping into the circle of adults standing around me. I am baffled. Rouge is “red.” Khmer means “Cambodian.” I do not understand what I am hearing. These lifeless faces before me could be those of anyone in the crowd. Quickly, other adults begin to herd us away from the gory spectacle, chastising those who rolled the heads before us like melons at a market. “Don’t you know better?” they bark at them.

Pa
says that there has been more bombing along the Cambodian border, and more people are fleeing their homes to Takeo. In these strange times, after returning my brothers, sisters, and me to school for a year, my parents consider relocating. They decide to buy a house in Phnom Penh that had been owned by a Vietnamese family.
Pa
says many Vietnamese families have been involuntarily repatriated, and their homes in Phnom Penh are being sold in a hurry and at good prices.

For
Pa
these have been months of frustration entangled in brutal lessons. He has lost two sons, children not touched by bombs but who might have survived if there had been access to hospitals and advanced medical care.
Pa
has become silent, but out of his silence comes a burning desire. A desire to fight back, not with guns but with the mind—a desire to learn.

In ways I can never imagine, his desire will come to affect us all.