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I see two informants pad swiftly toward Thore Meta, who is reaping ahead of us. One informant approaches her, then whispers in her ear. She recoils, alarmed. The other informant mouths something. Thore Meta steals glances at us, then toward the distant villages. She talks to a group leader, then quickly scurries away with the informants, wading through the field. They climb into a waiting canoelike boat and begin rowing. I watch her until the boat dwindles to a speck. I wonder if what Chea predicted is happening: that broken glass is sinking. There have been rumors of the invasion by the Vietnamese into Cambodia.

“Go back to work,” the group leader commands softly, her hands waving at us to resume our duty.

“Look, look, three people are coming!” a girl shouts, pointing the sickle at the people crossing the reservoir.

The harvesting stops. Everyone scurries toward the women who have just crossed the reservoir.

“They all run away, they all run away….” one woman mutters, out of breath. The other two, panting, exchange smiles.

“Mae, mae [Mom].” A girl runs into a woman’s arms.

They embrace, jumping, making dull, muffled sounds in the paddy. For the first time in a long time, I see happiness again. All of us smile at the thought of no more Khmer Rouge. My heart dances in my chest, my mind sings the word “freedom” repeatedly. Years ago, I knew only its pronunciation, but now, at thirteen, I truly understand what it means to have freedom, and to have it taken away from me.

The heavy weight on my soul, my body, suddenly lifts. The scenery around me changes. The golden fields, the clouds, the blue skies are beautiful.

We run to our remaining families, racing each other across the reservoir. We giggle as we splash water at each other. The sound of laughter is soothing; I feel like a child again. The little girl in me returns, and my curiosity soars: Are they really gone? I want to know.

From Poik’durng village to Daakpo I run, checking different places to see if there are still signs of the Khmer Rouge. But every place looks abandoned: the children’s shelters, the commune houses, and the rice-processing hut in Daakpo. There, empty woven baskets are scattered on the ground. The wooden door on the rice storage building is broken, yanked loose. All the processed rice is gone. The villages are as quiet as when we were brought here three years ago. Then, there were nine of us. But now there are only five: Ra, twenty; Ry, seventeen; Than, fifteen; me, thirteen; and Map, four. The other four—Mak, Chea, Avy, and Vin—are all dead. Like Pa. Gone. Forever.

15

A Letter

The sun shines, and the sky is bright blue. The Khmer Rouge are gone. On a dusty road flows a river of families. People are leaving behind the place that enchained them. Joining them is my family. We are the leftovers the “ghost” doesn’t want, Mak used to say. On this day, every child, woman, and man looks more relaxed. On their sallow, sunken faces, beaten by the sun, I see hope. Their eyes glow. A few smiles emerge from behind the tired faces. I steal glances at those who are smiling. I wonder if they are experiencing the enormous sense of freedom I feel, as well as the indescribable emotion that bubbles inside me. It’s a newly discovered exhilaration.

A stocky woman grins, even while carrying a stick arching from a heavy load. Her bare feet move like the wind, as if propelled by what she’s feeling inside. Like many of us, her daughters transport their pots, pans, and food on their heads, and on their shoulders using carrying sticks. When we left Phnom Penh four years ago, the picture was very different. Then, there were cars, motorcycles, and bikes, on which we secured our clothes and foodstuffs, and on which the children could ride. But now everyone walks. Virtually everyone is barefoot, walking on calused, cracked soles.

“Where are you all going?” the stocky woman asks, smiling at me.

“I don’t know, ming [aunt],” I answer, returning her smile, then I look at Ra for the answer. Instead, I hear my