When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [37]
Like fish drawn to water, the village children dash ahead to the drenched rice paddy recently plowed—a brown flooded field with bunches of soft green rice seedlings. Following the women, the village children troop into the muddy field. This is work they’ve grown up with, and they know what they’re doing as they move quickly to scatter seedling bundles in the paddy. They plant them in rows, in a pattern. Their feet spread apart, legs straddled widely, they stoop down to shove a few seedlings into the mud with one hand while holding the loose seedling bundle in the other. To them, it seems like a pleasant game. To me, the fieldwork looks grim, uninteresting. One of the women yells out at us, the city children, to get into the muddy field. We are hesitant, especially me, when I realize that I will dirty my school clothes. But I have no choice. I hold my breath as I step gently into the field after more commands from these women, leaving my school shoes on the bank behind me.
I’m shocked at the way they speak to me, without the warm, formal endearments that adults typically use, calling young people “niece” or “daughter.” I cannot remember women ever yelling rudely at me, ordering me around. In Sangkum mun (the previous society), Mak or Pa would have intervened, confronting and correcting the women. I hold my skirt up and wish the Khmer Rouge never existed, that they were only as harmless as a villain in a movie, gone when the lights come on.
As I wait in the cold, thick water, the mud already making my skin itch, one of the women hands me a bunch of slender stalks. I wad my skirt between my legs, squeezing it safely above the mud. The woman shows me how to plant, dealing out seedlings swiftly and skillfully.
I try to plant like her, but the stalks don’t stay put. They float to the surface like bubbles. I only wish I could do the same, feet leaving the mud and floating gently away. I perspire profusely, wipe my forehead with my arm, and swallow the urge to scream. Unlike the rural children, I don’t straddle my legs, instead standing with my ankles together—a modest stance when you’re wearing a skirt. Other city children do the same. My back and legs are killing me from stooping at a steep angle, as if perpetually caught in a deep, formal bow. One with the city children, I lag behind the village children.
I’m only two feet from the elevated pathway, and they are already halfway across the field. They look coordinated and fast as they shuffle backward. I watch them, observing their work. I try to emulate them, but I still don’t get it. Again, I study posture, technique. But I can’t figure it out, and this begins to eat away at me, as if I were trying to master a simple game of jump rope. If they can do this, I can do it, too. I try to copy them and plant fast, but the stalks float and I almost fall facedown into the muddy water.
“Move this leg this way.” I feel a hand grabbing my right leg. One of the women pulls my right leg apart from my left, startling me.
A chorus of giggles erupts from my coworkers. I look up and see the village kids looking amused, as well as the city kids. I laugh with them, feeling less frustrated and angry. I’m relieved that the woman doesn’t scold me for being slow. Instead, the women and the village children quietly plant rice seedlings around me and the other city children, closing in on the open areas until we finish. They fix my floating stalks as well as other stray stalks. Since the woman pulled my legs apart, my slender skirt now drags in the muddy water. By now I don’t worry too much