When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [26]
Within a week we approach Yiey* Narg’s house, Pa’s aunt, in Srey Va, a small rural village set amid dry, sandy fields on our way to Year Piar. I’m thirsty and hungry, eagerly expecting good food and comfortable rest on a soft bed like the one I left behind.
But it is just a dream. Yiey Narg and her husband are modest farmers who have already lived under the Khmer Rouge for five years. Their wooden house is small and crowded. There are no chairs, only a hard platform and a bamboo counter near it. Instead of lush greenery, the overwhelming color here is drab brown. I stare at a few banana and papaya trees thriving in a dry, sandy backyard. The soil is as worn-out as the expression on Yiey Narg’s and her husband’s faces.
Yiey Narg informs us how restricted her family’s freedom has been since the Khmer Rouge arrived. They had touted a promise of equality. And yet, her family can’t fish or trade with other people as they used to. They can’t travel outside the confines of their own rural neighborhood. As a result, there are deprivations. It seems they have little salt for cooking. And so they’ve learned to improvise, using ashes from the cooking fire to preserve the fish they’ve caught.
After we have a simple rural meal, Pa wants to head to Year Piar immediately. But Yiey Narg insists we all rest overnight at her house. Pa is polite but adamant about going to see his father.
“Then your wife and children stay. And Heak and her children. All right, you stay, rest.” She makes up her mind for all of us, which is almost always the way it is with Cambodian elders. “Tidsim,” Yiey Narg continues, “be careful. I’ve heard rumors. Some families have had to go elsewhere, beyond their home provinces, because the Khmer Rouge are not trustworthy. They’ll question you about your past profession. Who knows what they’ll do to you…. Be careful, don’t trust them,” she warns Pa.
Be careful, don’t trust them. The words sound ominous yet abstract—an open-ended warning. But my fear is more realistic now, especially when I hear this admonition from a relative who has lived under the Khmer Rouge for five years.
Pa takes me with him to Year Piar. I’m very tired, but relieved to be leaving. Like Pa, who believes in human goodness, I still believe that life could return to what it used to be. Already, as we are about to leave for Year Piar, I look forward to something less grim.
“Athy, koon, don’t sleep, do you hear?”
Even as I close my eyes, cheek pressed against Pa’s warm back, I feel the fog of exhaustion settle over me. But I must leave this place. And I’m happy to be here, clinging to Pa like a weary little monkey.
The labored strains of the scooter engine propel the wheels along a dried-mud path while my tired eyes struggle to stay open.
“Pa, are we almost there yet?”
“We’re almost there, koon. Don’t sleep now.”
“No,” I say softly.
I lie. My eyes are barely open. My hands are losing their grip on Pa’s waist. Already I’m beginning to doze off. Now and then I feel Pa’s hand shaking my back repeatedly. I hear him say, “Don’t sleep, koon. We’re almost there.” I open my eyes, then close them once again.
Soon I hear children’s voices. Gradually the chorus becomes louder, “Look, those things spin!” The chatter of joyous laughter follows. A wave of young children run toward us as if we were a traveling novelty act.
Pa slows down, then suddenly comes to a stop, causing our bodies to jerk forward. Children swarm around us out of nowhere, hovering the way flies cluster around raw flesh. They chase us, pointing and giggling like fools at the wheels. Some reach out to touch the rubber scooter tires, which hold a strange, hypnotic allure for them.
This herd of half-dressed and naked children, ages two to nine, are unlike anything I have ever seen. The poorest of the poor. Their clothes are ragged, beyond old, the color faded beyond recognition. So many patches have been sewn haphazardly atop each other that their garments are thick and bulky. These are not typical country children but a postrevolutionary product. Dirt is a uniform,