When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [117]
Peering toward the woods to my right, I glimpse something unusual—white-and-red-checked scarves amid tall greenish trees. Men in black. One carries a rocket-propelled grenade. Others carry rifles, bazookas.
I yell to my family, “I saw the Khmer Rouge. I saw the Khmer Rouge. They have guns. One is holding a “banana bud”* gun. They’re wearing black clothes. It is the Khmer Rouge, I’m sure, it’s the Khmer Rouge.”
Ry comes running toward the mound, peering toward the woods where I’ve pointed. Our neighbors emerge from their shacks and congregate by our shelter.
While I’m still in the tree, artillery explodes behind our shack. Gunfire roars, showering the camp. I freeze, clutching the tree trunk with all my might. Ra, Map, everyone darts to the trench and water holes. Ry is on the mound, sobbing.
“Ry, help me!” I scream long and hard. Flat against the mound, she waves at me to come down, but I shake my head, tears streaming down. I’m afraid the flying bullets will hit me.
“Ry!…“I lean my face against the tree.
“Athy! Get down,” Ry shouts in a long-drawn-out voice.
I gaze at her crying face and shake my head. Suddenly more explosions erupt, one right after the other, producing shattering noises that rattle the trees and our shack. I have to get down, I have to get down. But I’ll get shot. I cry, frustrated.
Ry gazes up, waving again. I focus on her face, then slide down, landing beside her, hugging the mound. My hands and the soles of my feet throb from sliding down the tree, but soon the pain is overshadowed by the raucous, endless noise of gunfire.
“Mak, Pa, God of the Earth, please protect us, please protect us.…” Ry prays hysterically. She grabs loose dirt and throws it over her head repeatedly.
Propelled by Ry’s hysteria, I begin to pray as she does. I call upon the spirits of Mak, Pa, and the God of the Earth, then powder my head and face with dirt and at the same time try to breathe.
Ry and I move behind the mound, in the opposite direction of the area where I spotted the Khmer Rouge. There lies a shallow-breathing man whose head is caked with blood and whose uniform is like that of the PARA soldiers.
Ry moves closer to him. “Uncle, where did you get hit? Can I help you?” Her voice is warm and gentle.
Slowly, the pale man speaks. “I’m hit in the temple. I’m thirsty, but maybe I’m okay. There’s a woman hiding by me, right there.” He points. “She is bleeding a lot, she got hurt in the stomach.”
I follow his hand, and there she is, pale, lying in a pool of blood. Realizing we could be next, I suggest to Ry that we move to lower ground to hide. She agrees, and when an artillery shell explodes nearby, Ry crawls swiftly, disappearing into a water hole near our shack, leaving me panicked.
On my stomach, I pull myself to the wall of the shack, hoping the fierce popping sounds of rifles will let up so I can join my family in the trench. Suddenly another artillery shell explodes. In a flash of horror, I thrust my body through the wall of the shack, crawling across it and down to the trench.
“God in heaven, please help us, help us. Save us from evil, from the bombs and bullets. Help our children…” shouts a woman in prayer as she lies on her stomach, the palms of her hands pressed together.
A Thai merchant whom I’ve seen before hides beneath a cave-like groove in the trench. Compulsively, he claws the earth that houses shards of broken glass, his hands soaked with bright red blood mixed with dirt.
“Samdech Aov [Father of Princes], please help me. Help us, help us, Samdech Aov…” an old woman prays, her palms pressed against her forehead.
Samdech Aov? I’m distracted from my silent prayers by this mention of the person to whom she’s praying: Prince Sihanouk. He’s a man, maybe once a king, but not a god. I stare at her in disbelief, and for a moment my mind tunes out the cries and the surrounding noises.
The shelling and firing stop. We sit up and look at one another, relieved, yet we’re not sure what to do. But soon some of us share our own fears,