First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [45]
Chong sobs loudly as the villagers put the girls in a little hole. When she sees the villagers cover her girls with dirt, she runs over to the grave and attempts to climb in. Tears, phlegm, and drool from her eyes, nose, and mouth drip all over her shirt. “No,” she cries. “I’m all alone. I’m all alone.” Two male villagers pull her out of the grave and hold her back until the last shovel of dirt is piled on top of Peu and Srei. When the job is done, the villagers walk away to the next hut to dig the next grave. “This one will be easier,” a man says as he shakes his head. “No survivors in the family.”
After the deaths of her children, Chong has now gone crazy. Sometimes I see her walking around still talking to her kids as if they are there with her. Other times her eyes clear up and she realizes they are dead, and screams, beating her fists on her chest. A few days later, Chong comes to our house with great news for Ma. “I have found the perfect food—don’t know why I didn’t think of it before! It’s safe and it doesn’t taste bad either,” she says excitedly to Ma. Then her eyes fog over, her hands wave about her in agitated motions, and she whispers, “I could have saved my children.”
“Wait, what is it? What is it?” Ma asks anxiously.
“Earthworms! They’re fat and juicy. You take the dirt off, cut them open, wash them, and cook them. It isn’t bad, cook ’em like you do noodles. I’ve tried it! Here’s a little bowl.” She hands her bowl of earthworms to Ma.
“Thanks,” Ma manages to say.
“I have to go. I have to go find my children.” Chong smiles at Ma and rushes off.
I feel like retching at the thought of eating them. Earthworms feed off of dead things in the ground. For me, eating them would be like eating dead people. I try to picture a nice clean bowl of worms, but the picture changes to worms crawling on the rotten flesh of the dead we bury, writhing and squirming their way into the body by the thousands. “Don’t worry, I still have some jewelry left that we can trade for food. We won’t have to do this,” Ma says to me.
We are some of the few very fortunate people in the village who have possessions to trade with the base people for food. Our situation is not as bad as others because we still have gold, diamonds, and precious gems. At Uncle Leang’s hut, Ma managed to hide them from the soldiers by sewing them in the straps of our bags, which we kept even after they burned our clothes. This jewelry, though beautiful, is now almost worthless because of the war. An ounce of gold buys only a few pounds of rice, if we’re lucky. Most of the time, we get less than that. Among the many crimes that exist in the Khmer Rouge society, bartering for food is viewed as an act of treason. If caught, the trader is whipped into confessing the names of all parties involved. The Khmer Rouge believes one individual should not have what the rest of the country does not have. When one person secretly acquires more food than the others have there is an inequality of food distribution in the community. Since we are all supposed to be equal, if one person starves, then all should starve.
A few weeks ago, Kim told me that maybe the Angkar isn’t to blame. He says the name Pol Pot is passing through many lips in the rice fields and village. Many are saying that Pol Pot is the leader of the Angkar but still no one knows who he is. They whisper that he is a soldier, that he is brilliant, and that he is the father of the country. They also say he is fat.
They say he has kept his identity a secret to guard against assassins. They say that he liberated us from foreign domination and gave us independence. They tell us Pol Pot makes us work hard because he wants to purify our spirit and help us achieve beyond our potential as farmers. The say he has a round face, full lips, and kind eyes. I wonder if his kind eyes can see