When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [52]
“Comrade, go back to work NOW! This is not a place for you to talk. Who gave you permission to stop working?”
“I just want to talk to my niece, that’s all,” Aunt Rin answers submissively.
The mekorg looks at Cheng and me, then hisses, “Comrades, both of you go to the children’s camp, over there! Go there now!” Cheng and I scurry away.
We wander among makeshift tents. They sprout like mushrooms rooted under the shade of trees at the edge of a small mountain, which I think is called Phnom Kambour. So this is a labor camp, the place where mobile brigades are sent. Suddenly, a woman pauses in front of us and points to a large tent as if she knows where we’re supposed to go. Cheng and I look at each other, bewildered but relieved. When we get to the tent, it’s full, crowded with crying children. Their wails rise in the twilight, calling for their mothers like a sad, chanting prayer.
Chhlops shout at the crying children, ordering everyone to stop. The distraught children only wail harder. Even informants can’t stop our cries. Recognizing defeat, they leave us alone with our tears.
Without warning, cooks appear bringing steaming rice and watery soup in round black pots. As soon as we realize they have food, everybody, including Cheng and me, rushes toward the cooks. We swarm around them. My mouth waters, and my stomach roars. Like the other children, I ready my plate for a ration as I stare hungrily into the watery, milky soup and the rice pot. I can almost eat the food with my stare, for the only food I’ve had all day since leaving Daakpo village was a taste of Cheng’s yam, a piece the size of my toe.
After receiving the rice ration, I scurry with Cheng and other children for our soup ration, surrounding the cook, who is stirring a milky broth swirling with flat little fish, with heads and eyes peeking out at us.
The cook drops a plastic bowl on the ground in the middle of the circle, then pours the cloudy broth with a few fish into it. The minute she’s done, every spoon collides in the soup bowl. Everyone has the same idea—we all want fish and we all know there are not enough. Whoever is quick gets the fish and whoever is slow cries. We learn to ignore others’ sad eyes and eat the fish ravenously.
Surprisingly, the cook gives us another soup ration. Before she finishes pouring it into our bowl, a girl cries out, “Don’t take all the fish.” Her words freeze me and those who’ve gotten their share of fish. We don’t reach for the bowl until she and two others in our group get their fish. I feel sorry for her, and for us all, that it’s come to this, grappling like dogs over a bone. But I’m relieved knowing we’ve each got a fish. Despite starvation, we haven’t completely lost our sense of sharing, a human courtesy the Khmer Rouge have yet to take away.
After our meal, Cheng and I rest, sitting on the ground beneath tall trees since there’s no shelter for us. Tonight is the first night in my life I realize that I can lose Mak as easily as I’ve lost Pa. Never have I been separated from her, and the distance pains me. Closing my eyes, I can see Mak preparing dinner, bending before the flames, coaxing the water to a boil, dropping in leaves. Her words would be a low murmur, gentle instructions to get a bowl for a brother, to wash your face. Ordinary words, but delivered with a kindness that I will never know here.
Once I remember Mak daydreaming about food, telling us what she would be grateful to have. She used to say, “Having solid rice and salt is like going to heaven.” Tonight I have solid rice and fish soup, even more than her heavenly wish. I’ve only had one meal, but already I am full of regret, feeling guilty, wishing I could somehow have shared it to ease her starvation. But she’s too far away—even my ability to imagine her is fading