When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [56]
“Comrades, go back to work or I’ll report you to your mekorg,” Nak warns, striding toward the children.
The children disperse quickly into the trees, and so do Cheng and I. After this incident, I stop sneaking out for fish heads. It’s too little food for me to risk my life.
In the evening after dinner, Cheng and I wait until the food ration is over. Before the cooks take those big black pots to the stream to wash, we dash over to them and ask if we can have the burned rice crust. Sometimes they peel off the sheets of crust and hand us each one, or they allow us to help ourselves. It is bitter, but it’s food. Later, everyone discovers this idea, and again there are more children than there is rice crust to go around.
We constantly try to find more food. One day as I am drinking water from the stream, I see schools of small fish parade in the shallows at its edge. On hot days they hover close, bunched amid the cool shade of overhanging branches. I’m eager to catch them, wishing for a fishing net so that I might simply scoop them up.
That night I tell Cheng of my exciting discovery. The next day we slip away to my secret spot, struggling to push our way through intertwined trees that cast a continuous deep shade into the stream. We grin at each other when the brave fish swim slowly in our direction.
For the first time, I’m happy—just to be here, to enjoy the proximity to nature and Cheng’s friendship. I feel like a kid again—a rare privilege. Here, no one yells at us, ordering us around.
Later, Cheng and I have a plan to catch the fish. During lunch we confide in Larg, one of the other “new people.” Early on, she drew our sympathy, and we befriend her. After work, the three of us would bathe in the stream far away from the shelters, where no one can easily see us. There, we would talk about missing our mothers and about our problems. Together we’ve shared rice crust when one of us gets more than the other. The three of us plot to fish with our scarves tied together as a fishing net.
On the way to the stream one evening after work, we walk like thieves, looking over our shoulder to see if we’re being watched or followed. The spot where I’ve seen fish is too small to fit all three of us. Instead, we hike farther until we come to a quiet spot with an open space.
We tie our scarves together with thin vines, then Cheng and I fish while Larg tries to scare the fish in the direction of our scooped net. We walk slowly in the cool, shallow water as Larg herds them toward us. We try again and again, but we don’t catch any fish. The final time we try, Larg stumbles, then falls facedown, splashing water toward Cheng and me. For a moment I panic, paralyzed, as I watch Larg’s body slowly sink into the shallow stream. Cheng and I run to help her.
“I felt light-headed,” says Larg softly, “then my legs just sank.”
Still recovering from shock, Cheng and I watch Larg shiver after we help her out of the stream. We return to the camp as empty-handed as we came.
I keep trying to figure out how to catch the fish. After bathing in the stream in my worn-out clothing, I notice that a metal snap from my cotton shirt is loose. I break it off the shirt and study the shine. Without a needle or thread, there is no way to sew it back on. But I notice the tiny wire snaking inside the back of the snap. Suddenly an idea takes shape. I hurry back to the shelter, looking for a safety pin on my shirt. Like a goldsmith, I carefully pull out the hidden wire, now a precious resource. I straighten the button wire. Sharpen one end with a stone. Then I bend it to form a fish hook. A tiny, tiny fish hook—probably an inch long, but made of a stout little wire. It is a glorious invention. Tomorrow, I’ll head to my secret spot, but tonight I need to hold my excitement, hoping my plan will work. I don’t breathe a word of it to anyone, not