When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [61]
I am free.
Even though we’ve passed the trees, our first obstacle, the horizon seems so far. Not a sound passes between Cheng and me, only soft, labored breathing. She pulls, I follow. We keep on walking fast, using the clump of trees we’ve passed as a visual block.
We’ve covered quite a distance already—a few miles, I think. Over the sound of our shuffling footsteps, we hear voices approaching. We pause, crouch down, looking at each other, horrified. Spontaneously, we both sprawl flat on the ground, like soldiers listening to enemy voices.
Cheng grabs my hand. We run, stoop, hunker down. By the time we reach the bushes, we have to stifle our gasping breaths. The voices are men’s, coming closer. Already I know the terrible torment that will befall us. As they near, I’m surprised to hear them talking about fishing, not about us. I feel reassured enough to peek: one man carries a fishing net on his shoulder, and the other an old bucket. Cheng and I look at each other, relieved.
Without a map, we let the landscape guide us, looking for clumps of trees, letting memory lead the way. As Cheng and I figure how to get to Daakpo village in the twilight, my emotions run high, mixed with fear, nervousness, and excitement. We pass two villages. Then the path begins to look familiar. Fearing informants, we keep to back pathways, zigzagging, trying to stay invisible. Somehow, in the darkness, Cheng and I find our way back to Daakpo village. But the discovery brings uncertainty. What if we don’t find our mothers? Before we go our separate ways, Cheng makes one last request: “In case they catch me, if you see my mother, tell her that I escaped with you.” Cheng’s shadow turns once again, as if to study me, then begins to fade. I run through layers of darkness to find her, to make the same request: “Tell my mother, too, if I don’t see her.”
Alone, I’m again on guard. I’m nervous, but I’m also eager to see Mak. I swallow the urge to run back into my mother’s arms. Instead, I walk to the hut, cautious. Like an adult, I’ve learned to anticipate obstacles, to avoid drawing attention to myself. When I see the tall trees near our hut, my personal landmark, I’m exhilarated. The cooking fire in the corner casts a dim glow around the entrance. At last, I see her. Mak sits beside the fire—so typical, so ordinary, as if I never left. Her gaze transfixed, she is studying the contents of her cooking pot like a fortune-teller, as if something will be revealed in the tangle of leaves that swim within it. For a moment I’m frozen, stilled by my own joy. Then, the impossible. I walk up to her, reaching out to embrace her.
“Mak, I’m back!” Just to speak those words fills me with pride and jubilation, a swell of feeling I haven’t known since they took me away. To be so near her. To smell her familiar scent. In an instant, I realize the depth of my love for her. I know exactly how much I need my mother. How much my family means to me. To my survival.
Mak turns, startled. She jumps to her feet and her voice explodes with delight, “Koon, they let you come back! You’re finished….” Mak gropes for words.
“Mak!” I whisper. “Don’t speak so loudly.” I glance around the hut, and so does she. At that moment I notice Map and Avy gazing at Mak and me nervously. I lean closer to Mak and whisper into her ear, “I escaped from the labor camp.”
Mak pulls away, horror-stricken. Her expression scares me. Freezes me. I look at Avy and Map. Their silence triggers more fear in me. Hunger has wrung out their spirits. My heart races as I realize the repercussions of my escape. Now I fear what my homecoming could mean to my family. At the Phnom Kambour labor camp, Chea had warned me that I should have stayed with Mak, Avy, and Map and looked after them. At the time