When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [53]
Out of the darkness, I hear a familiar voice. I look up and see a shadow of a person calling my name. It’s Chea! Aunt Rin did tell her that I’m here! And now she has come for me.
I get up, oblivious to everything around me, Cheng and the sobbing children. She runs and puts her arm around me. I can see little in the dark, only that she seems thinner. We walk away together, almost like in the good old times.
“Athy, when did you get here?” Chea sounds concerned.
“A while ago.” I’m comforted by Chea’s presence. Her sisterly role.
She wonders why I came to the camp, and worries that I should have stayed with Mak. “You shouldn’t have left Mak. Who’s going to look after her? The older children are gone.”
I explain to Chea why Mak wants me here.
“They lied to you so you would come. They lied to everybody. You should have stayed with Mak. You’re too small to work here. It’s hard work even for older people like me,” says Chea, sounding distraught.
Now I’m frightened about what could happen to Mak, and I’m scared for myself, whether I’ll survive this hard work and live to see Mak.
“Chea, I want to go back to Mak, I want to go back. How can I go back?” I cry, wanting Chea to help me, but she doesn’t answer except to hold me tight.
Chea takes me to her shelter, and I wait there alone while she goes back to finish her assigned task. Everyone must dig a prescribed number of cubic meters of soil each day, no matter how long it takes. I cry until Chea and Ra return to the shelter.
“Athy, I heard my mekorg say they will send all the children to a camp in Oh Runtabage tomorrow. Did they tell you?” Chea asks softly.
“No,” I sniff, gasping for air.
The words Oh Runtabage literally mean a stream struck by lightning. I’m scared all over again. Chea comforts me, saying I’ll be closer to Mak than if I were to stay at Phnom Kambour with her and Ra. But I can’t imagine seeing Mak, so the words don’t comfort me. Already I miss Chea and Ra, even though Ra has spoken little. She seems exhausted, used up. They are my sisters still, but worn-out versions of the girls I knew. And I’m too caught up in my fears and sadness. I cry until it wears me out; I fall asleep beside Chea, drifting into dreams about seeing Mak.
“Athy, Athy, wake up! Wake up, p’yoon [younger sibling].”
I open my eyes and it’s still dark. The voice is familiar, and for a sleepy moment I think I’m back in Daakpo.
“Wake up, Athy. You have to go,” says Chea, her hands lifting my head.
My body aches. Reluctantly I rise and Chea takes me back to where she found me. I don’t even have time to say good-bye to Ra.
I hold my tears when I hear a fierce voice ask “Which one of you, comrades, wants to be the brave children of Angka Leu? Stand here.” I’m shocked, spellbound by the voice of the man and the ghostly shadows of little children standing silently by the fire.
Suddenly I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Athy, bang has to go back. May p’yoon srey [young sister] encounter only good things as you go to Oh Runtabage. Take care of yourself. Lea Haey [Good-bye], p’yoon.” Chea murmurs her blessing, then her voice is gone. I turn to watch her. She disappears into a grove of trees, and I’m left with heartbroken children.
As we depart from Phnom Kambour, the Khmer Rouge have the “brave children” march on the road under construction, the earthen bridge being built by those we leave behind. The Khmer Rouge launch into a marching chant. Around me, small hands stab the air and obediently repeat the song. Over and over, they call themselves “the brave children of Angka Leu.” They shout, they sing, they dance.
The journey to Oh Runtabage is tiring and cold. By the time we arrive at Oh Runtabage it’s late afternoon. The remote camp is as secluded as Phnom Kambour. Trees create a thick barrier on each side of a stream, casting their tangled shadows over the milky brown water, making it look shallower than it really is. Near the stream, tall yellow grass grows in an open field that stretches far into the distance. There are no huts, only the shelter of trees. I’m hungry and exhausted.