When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [40]
As Chea, Ra, Ry, and I walk outside, waiting for Mak, Avy, and our brothers to catch up with us, I sob. I think the words I cannot speak. The Khmer Rouge will kill us. I don’t want to die, to be killed with a hoe like Pa. My tears are contagious, igniting fear and sorrow in Chea. She weeps. The rest join in. Chea puts her arms around me. Together we cry until we can cry no more. The fear remains, but the tears are spent.
Heading down the dusty village road, Chea and Ra carry our belongings the primitive way—suitcases and bags of blankets strapped on either end of carrying sticks. Mak balances a bag of clothes on her head, guiding us like a hen herding her chicks. Walking through Year Piar and other villages, I pray to Buddha. Protect us, protect us. Then I ask Pa’s spirit to watch over us, as I’ve heard my elders pray to the spirits of their ancestors for protection and luck.
We cross many fields and pass through a succession of small villages until we see a collection of wilted souls waiting by a train track in a barren field. Squatting and standing around are hundreds of people waiting uneasily along the tracks. Suddenly Khmer Rouge cadres dash alongside the freight cars, appearing out of nowhere in their black uniforms with rifles on their shoulders. Some run toward the end of the train. A few open the freight cardoors before us.
“Get in, get in!” they shriek, waving their hands in the air.
We obey. We crowd into the freight cars. We are mostly women. Mothers reach out to find the hands of children, and children reach for mothers. “Mak, koon, hurry, wait” are the only words spoken as the steady stream of humans overflows into the freight cars. Then the cries. The Khmer Rouge begin to separate members of families into different cars, as randomly as you would divide livestock. Angka Leu is your family now. Mothers implore, children wail. The waves of rifles silence them. Squatting on the wooden floor in the car with Mak and my brothers and sisters, I’m relieved that I’m already inside, squeezed among strangers.
The door of the freight car slams shut. We move forward, and we move nowhere. I look at the threads of sunlight filtering through cracks in the car’s sliding door. The view reveals no details, not even a snippet of landscape. As the day fades, the night crawls in, smothering the dark car with a thick blanket of ink. Around me, tired bodies are crowded haphazardly, with someone’s feet planted next to another’s sleeping head. Planting filthy feet next to the head of someone else is a sign of disrespect. But no one cares, and that’s even more shocking.
Squeezed alongside my siblings, I breathe in the foul smell of sweat, warm bodies, and urine that permeates the entire car. Hours ago, people began peeing behind the water barrel, the only spot affording any privacy. The Khmer Rouge never stopped except to shove in that water barrel. The night comes, and I see only shadows in the shadows. The train slows. My fear escalates.
From a distance, men’s voices shout. As they come nearer, I hear “Bread, bread.” The door slides open. Two men, one with a flashlight and the other with a bundle of bread, appear in the dark. Warm French bread is passed about. I reach out for a small loaf, the size of a squash, and devour it. The bread settles in my stomach Why do they give us bread if they intend to kill us? Maybe not yet. Maybe they’ll use us first, then kill us. The bread gives a flicker of hope as the train resumes its course.
Night stretches into day. The revolution of the train wheels on the track sings me to sleep, then I wake to rays of sunlight that flirt through the cracks of the sliding door, telling