When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [35]
Mak’s face gorges with blood, burning with sorrow and anger. The women who wanted to be with their husbands, along with their children and elderly parents, were also executed. Their bodies were buried in the empty field, but their personal belongings were brought back to Year Piar to be distributed among the villagers—Pa’s belongings as well as my uncles’. Possessions of the dead passed out as a gruesome prize to the living.
Mak returns, telling us all at once. She is composed, unraveling the bad news carefully. There is no outward grieving, even as a family. Like other emotions, it must be tucked away. She delivers the news in a tone of resignation—relieved that Som has told her. There is no more wondering. And in a dull way, I am not surprised.
But inside, questions bubble up. More confusion than rage. What has Pa done to be killed this way? He has never been anything but a caring father, a responsible husband, and a devoted son. Contemplating it all, I’m first baffled by this senseless killing, rather than sad. In this era, the rules are twisted: having education is a crime and honesty doesn’t pay. What will? I wonder. I answer this question myself. I recall a Cambodian proverb that I heard grown-ups quote among themselves: Don’t give up on the winding road, but don’t tread the straight one.
Mak had treaded the winding road and lied to the Khmer Rouge. Her false act of patriotism prompted by Som’s secret warning saved our lives. Despite her fear and her new loyalty to the Khmer Rouge, Som recognized her human obligation, her old loyalty to Kong Houng, her former employer, and thus his family, his children and grandchildren.
The Khmer Rouge leaders in the village want to see Yiey Khmeng (Pa’s mother) to interrogate her regarding the whereabouts of Uncle Seng. To prepare her for this, she, Kong Houng, Mak, and other relatives discuss what Yiey Khmeng should tell them. Already we’re playing within their rules, hoping we’ll survive this life-and-death game. This order to interrogate Yiey Khmeng provokes Kong Houng: “I already told them about Seng. Atidsim also told them. Now what do they want? These people are impossible.”
Yiey Khmeng comes home distressed, agitated and shaking. Slowly she whispers, “They asked a lot of questions. After one of them asked me, the others continued interrogating. They kept asking ‘Where is Seng?’ One of them addressed me as Mae.* He said, ‘Mae, where is your other son and what did he do in the city?’ He questioned me sarcastically. ‘Tell Angka Leu where he is and what he did—that is, if you don’t want your son to be in a gas barrel.† Do you want your son to be in a gas barrel, Mae?’”
“Why do they speak of such a thing?” she goes on. “These people are cruel. All I told them was that I don’t know where Seng is or what he did. All I knew was that I saw him carrying his books to school every day. One of them was furious and said: ‘What kind of a mother are you? Don’t you know what your son did? Comrade, you lie! Stop asking her more questions. When her son is here, put him in a gas barrel.’ And then he stormed out of the hut. These people are coldhearted.”
Yiey Khmeng sighs, staring at the floor.
Silence. The Khmer Rouge’s dark power renders us speechless, makes us paranoid. We’ve learned to watch over our shoulders for the chhlop. It becomes second nature. Our tightly drawn family community numbers forty-three people, all supported largely by my grandfather’s orchard, which is beginning to bear the signs of our dependence. The banana trees are nearly stripped bare; papaya trees and pineapple plants are overused. Still, we find things to eat, to survive.
“Athy, do you want to eat pickled armmiage?” Mak asks me one day, seemingly in good spirits.
“Mak, I like to eat pickled armmiage with broiled fish. It’s delicious, isn’t it, Mak?” My mouth waters as I think about it, a green plant resembling watercress.
“Do you want to look for it so Mak can pickle it for you? It grows wild along the