When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [66]
In a cold, detached voice, he barks at Mak, his elder. “Comrade, where is your daughter? Your daughter has to work.”
“She’s still sick. Her foot has not healed yet,” says Mak meekly.
“But she can walk some,” he snaps.
I listen to them, my body shaking. He sticks his face inside our hut.
“Comrade! Get out of there and come with me,” he orders.
I obey. I burst into tears as I move away from the wall. I plead to Mak, “Mak, help me. Help me!” He grabs my arm and yanks me out of the hut as I grab Mak’s hand.
He threatens, “If you don’t go, I will take you to Angka.” He speaks the words we fear. The mysterious Angka. I don’t know where he wants to take me—another distant labor camp, nearby fields? All I can do is cry.
“Go, koon, so they won’t harm you.” Mak lets go of my hand.
I limp beside this awful boy who thrives on his small measure of power.
“Don’t hurt my daughter,” Mak begs, appearing behind me. Her sunken face bespeaks pain, added to my own.
The next morning I’m herded with a pack of malnourished kids by a group of chhlops. After an hour’s walk I limp onto a rough, barren field. Another labor camp. I sob silently, wishing Mak could stop them from taking me away. I wish Pa were still alive to make my foot better. I’m the slowest kid, lagging behind a scattered crowd of children. As if the hard labor weren’t enough, pain is again my working companion. It’s only morning, but the sun is fierce. I’m fighting the pain. The sun. This time there’s no Cheng to help. I don’t know how I’ll survive another labor camp.
The new labor camp, near Phnom Srais, isn’t far from Daakpo, perhaps five miles. We must stay here, they command, but there isn’t any shelter. Before we have a chance to rest, they order us to work. They throw hoes, baskets, and carrying sticks at us. Even the youngest know better than to disobey or talk back.
As in Oh Runtabage labor camp, a mekorg breaks the children into groups of four or five. I’m assigned to a group of five, one of whom is elected to be the group leader. She oversees everyone’s work and reports to the mekorg. At least she’s one of the “new people.” The mekorg hands me a hoe since I can’t walk well. I break up the hard dirt and scoop it into everyone’s baskets. I repeat the task over and over, and the vibration from the hoe as it strikes the earth sends an echo of pain that crawls up through my foot, to my leg, and all the way to my waist. Dust swirls and settles, threatening more infection. The intense heat is suffocating. Everyone moves slowly, a weary production line, an army of ants that could be crushed under the heel of Angka.
I have a fever. I announce to no one in particular, “I’m very sick and my foot is painful. I want to stop a little.” I squat down, allowing myself the brief luxury of leaning my shoulder against the hoe. The group leader takes over my task. She begins to break up the dirt. She looks at me urgently.
“Comrade, why aren’t you working?” A loud, forceful voice erupts behind my back.
“That comrade said she’s very sick,” answers the group leader, pointing at me as I struggle to get up.
“Now, you dig the dirt,” she says, pointing at the group leader. “You”—she points to me—“carry the dirt. No more resting.”
I carry the baskets filled with dirt, struggling feebly up the bank with the weight. The scene is a familiar flashback: Mekorgs and chhlops stand among us, watchful. I wonder if I’ll ever be free of their constant scrutiny.
The hot, scorching day changes abruptly. By late afternoon the sky turns cloudy. More clouds move in and it gets very dark. Thunder roars. Lightning strikes, flashing bright jagged lines, lighting up the dark sky. Everyone stirs, anxious and agitated. We look for anyone with the authority to dismiss us, but two mekorgs order us to continue working until, they say, Angka Leu tells us to stop.
Thunder echoes again. The rain falls in dense plops, beating down on me. Then it falls in heavy sheets, stinging our arms. We run in a frenzy. The mekorgs and chhlops vanish. Everyone, all at once, runs. Knowing I can’t run, I plead for help,