When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [24]
“You can’t go, comrades,” a Khmer Rouge barks, “It’s not allowed. Go!”
Comrade. The word sounds strange to me. I do not understand it. And these young soldiers, younger than the couple they’re ordering about, don’t use the proper courtesies in addressing elders, don’t call them “aunt” or “uncle.” The way they speak to the couple suggests they consider themselves their equal. That’s not the way we greet our elders, especially in a time of crisis. The lack of respect shocks me. Authority is reversed. Guns now mean more than age and wisdom.
“Athy, Athy!” Mak calls out to me. “Keep walking.”
My feet move faster, propelled by the tone of Mak’s voice.
“Walk by your father. Stop looking back, koon.”
Mak frowns as she gestures with her head. I notice her stealing a glance at the distraught couple. She walks behind me as if trying to shield me.
Finally we reach the bridge, but still the mass barely moves. My family is mashed against the metal railing of the bridge. I can’t see ahead beyond the wall of people, so I look down at the river. It is low, slow-flowing this time of year. Many things float in it, including corpses.
“Pa, look.” I tug Pa’s shirt gently.
“Athy, come here.” Pa gestures with his head.
We now look ahead, only ahead. As the human river flows out of Phnom Penh, the water carries away the garbage of war. It is as if everything is being washed away.
Then I hear the continuous barking of a dog. It sounds like a cry of frustration, a cry for help. The familiar sound jolts me back to reality.
“Pa, where’s Akie?” I blurt out. “I don’t see him.” I bend down, searching for him among the moving feet. Then I see him whimpering, trying to pass through the moving feet. His head tries to forge an opening among them.
“Pa, Mak, Akie’s behind us!”
“Athy, stop thinking about him. Keep walking,” says Pa softly. He looks straight ahead. Akie has been a part of our family, and I don’t want to lose him again, like during the Viet Cong invasion.
“Mak, Akie doesn’t walk behind us anymore,” I whisper to my mother, eyes teary.
“He’s probably lost, koon! Stop worrying about him. Keep walking.” Mak sounds concerned. Her motherly voice soothes me, and I obey.
We make it across the river onto a stretch of paved highway, which is covered with lines of people—thousands and thousands, marching out like a giant flock of birds in forced migration, hurrying to beat the arrival of a storm. Now that we’re out of the city, the sky is blue and the sun is shining, and little children cry. Wails of misery and confusion form the background noise to moving feet.
The Khmer Rouge are everywhere. We pass an open field and see them loading people into trucks. On the shoulders of the highway the Khmer Rouge soldiers stand sentry, holding rifles upright. They survey the moving crowd suspiciously, eyes darting among our faces.
In the distance, I can see what seem to be military trucks and people in different uniforms moving in a field off the right side of the highway. When we get close, almost everyone is curious.
“Pa, the Khmer Rouge tie Lon Nol’s soldiers up,” Chea announces.
“Pa knows,” says Pa softly, as if he’s afraid someone will hear.
His voice makes my heart hammer. What does this tying-up mean? What will happen to these men? There are about one hundred of Lon Nol’s soldiers in green camouflage. They are tied up, hands behind their backs. Walking behind them are lines of more tied-up men, including a few in civilian clothes. But among them are also those with their hands behind their heads, as the black-uniformed Khmer Rouge point rifles at them.
Pa quickly walks the scooter into a thicker mass of moving people, trying to blend in with the crowd. Among them, he’s the tallest. He hunches his shoulders and spine, eyes studying the speedometer of the scooter. Mak notices this and so does everyone in the family. The worry passes through us