First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [59]
“Loung,” Ma calls me. “I need some water, come here.” She stands up and wipes her brows with her sleeve, leaving a trail of mud on her face. Scooping a coconut shell of water out of the bucket, I run over and hand it to her. “Here,” she whispers, “give me your hand fast while no one is looking.” Ma turns around and takes another careful look at the others to make certain we are not being watched. She quickly gives me a handful of baby shrimp as she takes the water cup from me. “Quick, eat them while no one is looking.” Without hesitation, I shove the raw crawling baby shrimp into my mouth, shells and all. They taste of mud and rotten weeds. “Chew quickly and swallow,” Ma tells me. “Now, you look out for me while I eat some. If anyone is looking, call me.” I see Ma in a very different light now and have more pride in her strength. Somehow, one way or another, we find ways to stay alive.
ma’s little monkey
April 1977
It is two years since the Khmer Rouge rolled into Phnom Penh with their trucks; four months since the soldiers took Pa away and Kim became head of our household. It has been almost a year since we last heard from Meng and Khouy. New Year’s has come and gone, making us all a year older. Geak is now five, I am seven, Chou is ten, and Kim is twelve. Now head of the household, Kim takes seriously Pa’s words for him to look after us. At dawn each morning, he wakes before us and runs to the town square for our work assignment. At the hut Ma gets us girls up and spends a few minutes with each of us. Before she is done combing Geak’s hair and washing her face, Kim is back with the day’s instructions. As I slowly rise from my slumber, he is already telling Ma where to go. After Ma’s left for the fields, we all walk to the community garden together with Geak clinging to Kim’s back. Though Kim’s face looks like a monkey more than ever, Ma has not called him by this nickname since they took Pa away. Now he is only Kim to us.
A few miles down the road from our village there is a cornfield. We have had a good rainy season this year and the corn is ripe for picking. However much we fear the punishment for stealing, our desperation is too strong to stop us. “Why not, Ma?” Kim argues. “We work morning, noon, and night planting these crops and now that they are ripe we’re told we can’t eat them. We are all starving.”
“It is just too dangerous, Kim. You know what the soldiers will do to you if you get caught.”
“Ma, we are starving to death. Many people are dying in the village. Yet the government trades our crops to buy guns to kill more people.”
“Shh … don’t talk so loud. It is a crime to speak against the Angkar. If the soldiers hear you they will take you away and kill you.”
“Ma, I am going to go and get us some corn tonight.” With a determined look, Kim has made his decision.
“Be careful,” Ma says to him and turns away.
Chou and I do not try to stop him from going either, even though we know it is dangerous. Pol Pot has many soldiers with guns and rifles guarding the cornfields every night. The soldiers have the right to punish thieves any way they see fit, killing them if they choose. Their power is so omnipotent that no one dares question their actions. However fearful I am, my hunger makes me want to go myself, but I do not have the strength or courage to actually do it. I hear tales that the soldiers rape the girls they catch stealing,