When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [58]
“Athy?” asks Cheng, snapping me back to the heat and our reality. I’m going to ask our mekorg if I can go pee. You ask her after I leave…. I’ll wait for you.” Cheng looks cautious, then disappears into the crowd of children in search of the mekorg.
Cheng meets up with me in a distant grassy field, away from the labor site. Each of us carries a hoe, our eating ware, which we’ll be using to cut the sweet grass. We hike to bushes of tall cream-colored grass, which look nothing like sugarcane. Cheng picks a clump and I pick the next one. Without hesitation, we raise our hoes in the air, cutting down the grass. I pick up a crisp stalk, the size of my index finger, and suck the sweet juice out of it. Cheng and I say nothing, temporarily lost in the frenzy of our hunger—we continue to drink the juice, grazing at one clump after another.
Suddenly the heads of the mekorg and a chhlop emerge among the swaying stalks of grass. I freeze. My jaws are stuck as the fierce, angry stares weigh down upon me. I want to alert Cheng, but I can’t spit out a word.
“Comrades, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be working!” the mekorg roars, her giant steps approaching.
Cheng turns. Her body jolts. Her hands drop the hoe.
“Take these comrades to reform!” The mekorg yanks my arm. She shoves me, sending me sprawling onto the ground. I struggle up, and stumble forward as fast as I can. Cheng glances at me in terror and I at her, through my tears. We knew the risk. But the fear, pain, and exhaustion are too strong to hold inside, spilling out in harsh sobs. I know we should have gone back to work sooner. It’s too late, I think regretfully. They must have watched us closely, and we were too hungry to notice. Now we’re at their mercy. They shove at our backs as they march us to the shelters.
“Tie both of them up and don’t give them food! Have other comrades watch them so they won’t follow their bad example,” the mekorg orders the chhlop, pointing to a stump near the entrance to the girls’ shelters.
Against the rough bark of the stump, my ankles, arms, and hands are bound tightly behind my back. Then my chest. Never before have I felt so utterly defenseless, so humiliated. The chhlop snakes the rugged rope, half the size of my wrist, around me over and over again. There is no struggle left in me. As soon as the chhlop leaves, having finished binding Cheng against the opposite side of the stump, my grief tumbles out.
“Athy, don’t cry too hard,” Cheng sobs. “Stop crying….”
“Cheng…I…I miss…my mom….” I gasp for air.
“I miss my mom, too….” Cheng weeps.
The sun sets. My legs go limp. The rope bites into me. I feel delirious, drowsy. Suddenly I hear a voice approaching. Slowly, I turn my head to see the mekorg, chhlops, and an army of children marching back from the work site. Like obedient soldiers, they walk single file, passing us. Each head turns briefly, throwing a glance at us. We are their lesson.
“This is what will happen to you if you don’t follow Angka Leu.” The dark, ugly mekorg jabs at Cheng and me with a stick. “Observe, comrades….”
The night is here. The food ration is served. The children are asleep. But we stand through the night, without being given food or water.
The night turns to morning. The children pass us, escorted by the mekorg to the work site. With shallow breaths, my ribs fight against the ropes around my chest. My body slumps against the stump. I’m on the verge of death, I think, and the very words terrify me. I breathe slowly. Every breath I take is for the deadened weight in my arms, wrists, and legs—they’re hungry for