First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [49]
She walks over to the water tank and scoops out a bowl of water to wash her face with. She uses a piece of her old black pajama shirt to try and clean her teeth, remembering how Pa wanted her to take care of herself. She rubs the cloth across her teeth a few times, but her gums are too sore and she quits. She looks at her reflection in the water and gasps. She is ugly. Would anyone believe that she was once a very beautiful girl? She is fifteen and looks no bigger than a twelve-year-old. Her fingers gently touch her protruding cheekbones. In Phnom Penh, she often protected her skin with cleanser and moisturizers. Now damaged by the sun it is marked with scars and pimples. Her oily hair is so thin that her scalp peeks through. It is cut short, in the same block style as the rest of the eighty girls, and makes her look like a young boy. She glances at her body and she recoils. Her arms and legs are like sticks, but her stomach is fat and bulges out like she is pregnant.
Tears flow easily from her eyes, but it is okay. She could disguise them by splashing water on her face, pretending to wash her eyes. She is fifteen and has never held a boy’s hand, never been kissed by a boy, never felt a lover’s warm embrace. There are a lot of nevers in her life, not that it matters now. She only longs for them because she wanted someday to experience the love Ma and Pa have for one another.
She wraps her red scarf around her head and walks toward the rice fields. Every day she works in the rice fields, planting and harvesting rice. Everyday, it is backbreaking work. It is only five A.M., but today she could see that the sky is hazy and cloudless. The air is already hot and humid. In an hour, the haze dissipates to expose a white sky. Her black pajama pants and shirt absorb the sun’s rays and sweat drips out of all her pores. With the sun beating down on the top of her head, the heat and humidity make it difficult for her to breathe.
An hour passes and her stomach continues to growl, making loud, angry noises. She ignores it, hoping it will eventually settle itself. Talking and singing isn’t allowed during work. Planting rice now has become an automatic, physical action, requiring no concentration. Thus, she has lot of time to spend with herself in her head, too much time even. Her mind grows lazy and wanders around too many topics—her schoolwork, a cute boy she met in Phnom Penh, movies she saw—but always it comes back to our family. She misses us so much.
Another hour passes, and her stomach is now in great pain, causing her to double over. She wraps her arms around her stomach, runs to the bushes, pulls her pants to her ankles, and lets the poison run out of her. She pulls her pants up and walks back to the fields but soon has to rush to a bush again. After several visits to the bushes, she finally walks over to the supervisor.
“Please, I am very ill. It is my stomach. May I take the rest of the day off and visit the infirmary?” She pleads with the supervisor. The supervisor looks at her with disgust and contempt.
“No. I do not believe you are sick. We all have hunger pains. You are just a lazy, worthless city girl. Go back to work.” Keav’s heart shatters at being so denigrated.
Another hour passes, but her stomach refuses to settle down. In that hour, she spent ten minutes in the rice field and the rest of the time in the bushes. She is then so sick and weak that she has to drag her body to the supervisor.
“Please, I am very sick. I cannot stand up anymore.” As sick as she is, Keav’s face burns with embarrassment as she follows the supervisor’s gaze to her leg. On her last trip, Keav soiled her pants.
“You smell terrible. All right, you