When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [50]
“Comrade!” the informant shouts, now standing by our hut, “go to the sahakar. Hurry, hurry!”
“Athy, here—take a plate and spoon with you, koon.” Mak speaks softly, handing me the package of necessities.
I take the plate and spoon wrapped in a scarf, wishing Mak would say more. But Mak is silent. I can’t see her face or her tears, nor Map’s and Avy’s, but only their shadows, now taking their places beside Mak. Silently, I say good-bye to my shadow family.
One by one, children arrive at the sahakar. Each carries a package of plates, spoons, and clothes wrapped at one end of their scarves. Some of the informants go back, working their way from hut to hut to make sure “workable” comrades show up. The Khmer Rouge recruit children as young as eight. This is like harvesting rice that hasn’t yet ripened.
Around me stands the new children’s brigade—small barefoot bodies wearing little more than rags, our work uniform. All cloth has taken on the same drab tone, from constant use and rinsing in dirty water. Some of the children don’t even have a simple scarf, a basic necessity that serves as both a garment and a practical carrying bag. They hold their plates and spoons in their hands, or hug them against their skinny chests. Now and then I steal a glance at them—I wonder if they miss their moms like I miss mine.
“Ahh, walk after each other in a line! Comrades, walk in a line,” an angry teenage chhlop shouts fiercely. “Line up, line up! Straight! No talking. Any comrades caught talking will be taken to reform.”
His eyes take in everything, waiting to pounce on the slightest mistake. Like small slaves, we are watched closely by the informants policing the slow-moving human line. I whisper good-bye to Mak.
There are no roads, and we make our way through rural land separated by distant green squares, rice fields. I pick my way through odd clumps of stiff grass, a landscape so different from the woods where we live. When we reach an open grassy field, the morning dew that clings to the tough grasses scrubs away the mud, leaving me cold. I wonder why we keep walking farther and farther. Didn’t he say we’ll be working near the village? How much longer? I’m horrified that we’ve been lured here with lies, but keep in step with the line.
As we march farther away from villages, the trees begin to look smaller. Everywhere there are empty rice paddies, dry and overtaken by grass. Each field is surrounded by elevated paths, small dikes designed to trap water for growing rice. We hike along the elevated paths, then off them again into the empty paddies, stark and barren.
We’ve walked for hours, and the chhlops begin to relax. It is as if they’ve abandoned us, disappearing far in front of us, assuming that we’ll follow. As much as I fear them, I’m more worried about being lost. To lose sight of them is to risk losing one’s way, starving to death. Even so, as everyone hurries along behind them, I find myself trudging, lagging behind. My foot, already bruised and tender, meets something sharp. Pain shoots all the way to my skull. I swallow the urge to scream, and drop on the dirt, squatting. Then I see the tree branch, armed with long, tacky thorns, one of which broke into my foot. It’s black and deep in my flesh, leaving a point sprouting out of my foot. I pinch it, but it’s stuck. I try again, but it’s stubborn. I look up and everyone in front of me is gone. Now scared, I cry out, frightened that I’ll be stranded here with no food or water.
I try to remember in which direction the chhlops were heading, but I don’t know the answer. The thorn thrusts deeper into my foot. And my fear of not being able to get to the labor camp intensifies. At this thought, I wail.
“Athy, Athy, why are you crying?” says a soft, small voice.
I turn and see Cheng, a girl my age whom I know from Daakpo village.
“Cheng,” I call out, “those people disappeared—we’re the only people here. Cheng, I stepped on a thorn and can’t get it out.” I’m relieved that I’m here with Cheng, one of the “new people,” like me.
Cheng brings out a small orange piece of yam root