When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [49]
Surprisingly, Mak comes home in a better mood. The village leader will be sending children to build an irrigation canal near Daakpo where there will be lots of food to eat. Fish, yams, solid rice. Mak can’t wait to tell me, thinking, perhaps, that her young children will survive after all.
“Athy, koon, you should go to the meeting. They’ll send you away to work, but it’s near here. You’ll have more food to eat there. Eat until you are full while there’s plenty.” It is something to cling to, and she will not let it go. Mak sounds dreamy, desperate. “Maybe you can bring Mak some food.”
“But I’ll be away from you, Mak. I don’t want to go. I’ll miss you, I’ll cry.” Tears burn my eyes as soon as the words leave my mouth.
“Athy! The camp won’t be far from here. You’ll come to visit me at night after work, you’ll have food to eat, koon. If you stay in the village with me, we’ll all probably die of hunger. Go with those children. Come to see me at night when you miss me, but don’t stay here—you’ll starve.” Mak looks into my eyes, willing me to simply listen, her own eyes begging me to understand her intentions.
“I still don’t want to go, Mak! I don’t want to go away from you. I can find leaves and other things to eat. I’ll be okay.” But it’s not okay, I know.
“Koon, you have to go. They won’t let you stay in the village. If you don’t go, they will take you to Angka Leu. You don’t know what they’ll do to you. I don’t want them to torture you, koon. You go—you’ll have food to eat. Go, koon Mak, listen to me.” Her voice strains, her breath puffs in protest. Mak is miserably frustrated. I can only cry.
It is a powerful choice, food or the comfort of Mak. In this time of hardship, I can’t choose. The lack of food makes me confused, light-headed. There is nothing that I can depend on. In the end, I don’t have a choice. I’m ten, and I need my mother. But the mention of food draws me, memories of food I had in Phnom Penh pop to life. With these memories come doubts. Fears. Wisps of questions no one can answer. What if they lie, like they’ve done in the past? What if I never see Mak again, like Chea and Ra, who have gone away for months? There are no words, no letters from them. What if Mak starves to death before I return?
When the evening comes, I go to the meeting. As I get close to the sahakar,* I wipe away my tears, erasing any evidence of weakness. Before the sahakar lies a blanket of children, about fifty of them. It’s getting dark, and I can hardly make out the faces of the leaders. I take a seat in the back, and a few heads turn to look at me. I’m not alone in my despair. In front of me, children are steeped in their own sadness. We are small, obedient statues. The reek of cow dung and urine rises from the ground. The cool, breezy night is lit by the moon. I gaze at the silhouette of the village leader, and I’m hypnotized by his descriptions of food. He makes life in the brigade sound like going to a restaurant, a daily feast. With words, he casts his spell.
I return home, falling into a deep sleep. A voice drones in the distance, then it gets louder. “Ko’ma [Children], go to the sahakar…go to the sahakar.”
My eyes crack open and it’s still dark. My heart pounds. I crawl closer to Mak. The shrill voice keeps coming. I’m afraid they will take me away from Mak and never let me come back to her. Lying beside Mak, I’m comforted by her warm presence, her soft breathing as she sleeps. I don’t want to go, for now I know I’ll really miss her. I know that I need her more than food.
“Ko’ma [Children], go to the sahakar….” The voice is two huts away.
Mak is startled and her body jerks. I’m scared, nervous, holding my body still, pretending I’m asleep. Mak sits up and shakes my arm. “Athy, get up! Get up, koon. It’s time to go. Get up!”
I cry. “Mak, I don’t want to go away from you. I don’t want to go, Mak,” I plead, looking at the shadow of my mother in the early morning darkness.
“Koon, Mak explained to you yesterday that you can’t stay. Mak doesn’t have time to explain it again. You have to go, daughter. The chhlop is coming.