When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [33]
Now it’s a routine. After fishing, I wash up at the well. I’ve learned not to be scared by it. I lower the bucket, then scoop up as much water as I can carry. Only after fishing and cleaning myself up do I hurry off to breakfast. Usually I have meals with Mak and my siblings, cousins, and aunts. Pa, Kong Houng, and my uncles eat by themselves, but sometimes the women join them.
It’s been two weeks since we entered this strange world and new life. Now Pa and my uncles are required to report for “orientation” with Angka Leu. They will learn about the new government, they are told, and will be gone for a while—exactly how long no one knows. They must attend and will be picked up in oxcarts. The news is unsettling to everyone, but little is said. By now we’ve learned to take our worries into our own quiet corners.
The morning for orientation finally arrives, and I’ve planned to have breakfast with Pa before he leaves. Though I never shared my plan, I thought this would be a way to show him how much I will miss him.
After fishing, I go to the kitchen and place the day’s meager catch by the clay stoves. I’m disappointed to find Pa already eating with my uncles and Kong Houng. All I hear is the sound of spoons scraping plates and bowls. Each man studies the spoon as he brings it to his mouth. I can almost feel the weight of their thoughts, even if I can’t hear them. Though together, they seem alone, like strangers who have never met. Their stillness sends a strange air through the house, a sadness so heavy that it radiates like thick smoke, choking me. Suddenly I feel lonely, as if something will be taken away from me. I dash down the stairs from the kitchen to the well. I quickly rinse the lake off my legs, then run back to the kitchen. The men are done, the kitchen empty. I want to look for Pa, but figure I have time to get a bowl of rice and soup to ease my growling stomach. With the bowl of food in my hand, I run looking for him in the house while shoving a few bites in my mouth. I see only Mak and my sisters and aunts.
“Mak! Where did Pa go?” I ask, feeling scared.
“They brought oxcarts to take your father and uncles.” Mak speaks softly as she sits on the floor folding clothes.
I storm out, running down the stairs, one hand gripping my rice bowl, the other clutching the railing. I want to catch up with Pa, to see him again. I run to the path behind Kong Houng’s house, but he’s nowhere to be found. My uncles are gone, too. No oxcarts. No one there.
My mouth no longer chews the food, but simply releases a sound of immense sadness. I run to the banana grove. I sink down onto the dirt. Only a moment ago I saw Pa, and now he’s gone. I wail, cupping my face, my agony, in my hands.
Looking at the canopy of banana leaves, I beg, “Pa, come back. Come back, Pa. Come back to your koon.…”
With each breath, I plead for Pa to come back. No, it’s too soon. You left so soon. You didn’t wait for me. No, don’t leave.
Never before have I felt so much pain inside my body. My chest, my eyes. My throat. My grief encompasses every cell, touches every limb, every organ. For Pa has never left me for more than a day. Never. Now he’s gone, and I have the deepest intuition that something is wrong.
Along with sorrow come the companion emotions of frustration and anger. Only nine, I already find myself furious at the Khmer Rouge for taking my father away. I take my burning anger out on the banana tree. I tear at the wilted, papery layers along the trunk, yanking them away and striking the tree with my fist. I rage at the Khmer Rouge. I cry until I’m drained of tears, until my body is limp from exhaustion, in need of the beat-up tree. I lean against it, my head resting on my knees. I feel utterly hollow.
Days have gone by since the Khmer Rouge took Pa and my uncles away. I’ve counted the days until Pa is due back, noting them carefully with pen and paper. I draw my own