When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [75]
Ra smiles, a warm smile, her eyes bright. She reports, “I forged a letter saying my mekorg allows me to return to the village because you’re very ill. I signed her name.” Ra smiles again. “I ran from Phnom Korg Va at early dusk and showed the letter at every checkpoint. They let me through, no questions asked. I hitchhiked, riding on oxcarts from village to village, until I got close to here.” Ra takes a deep breath, her face relieved, her eyes gazing into Mak’s.
Finally Ra shows Mak the white medicine tablets. Small, round. Mak takes a few, swallowing them greedily. She tilts her head as if trying to help them down. I watch her, my heart constricting as I observe her bloodless, swollen face, her wiry hair. Slowly, her hand reaches toward Ra.
“Give Mak more, maybe it will make Mak better soon.”
Ra holds her scarf out to Mak. “Mak, that’s too many,” Ra cries, alarmed.
Ra cringes as she watches Mak toss the tablets in her mouth. I don’t see how many pills Mak is holding in her cupped hand, but later in the night, I can only imagine how many she must have taken. Mak grows very ill, her body writhing, agitated, gagging. The sound of her dry retching makes me sick to my own stomach. I’m relieved to have taken only two tablets for my own malaria. Silently, I say a prayer. I pray to Preah that she’ll survive the overdose of this medicine. In the morning I’m relieved to see her looking better.
A month later, Chea returns. Miraculously, she brings food: uncooked rice and dry salted fish. She also has a container with cooked rice and cooked dry fish, a luxury long past. I didn’t recognize Chea at first. She looks so different, her complexion healthier, her face crimson with robust color. Her hair is thick, now touching her shoulders. She has gained weight, looking more like she did before the Khmer Rouge’s takeover.
With her, Chea brings us more grim stories. Weeks ago, while clearing the dense woods in Phnom Korg Va for a cotton plantation, a tree branch cut her foot, resulting in a small wound that quickly became infected. She couldn’t walk and therefore couldn’t work. Chea knew her days were numbered—her brigade leader now had a chance to incriminate her, scold her for not “fulfilling her duty to Angka.” With this in mind, Chea devised a way to save herself.
Alone in her shelter, she composed a fight song for her brigade leader. A song about nature, green vegetation, and fruit, on which she had been laboring all these months. It’s a song of hard work at Phnom Korg Va.
“One evening I went to see my mekorg,” Chea recalls. “I asked her how she was doing. She was surprised. Then I flattered her, complimenting her on how attractive she was. I told her that if it were during sangkum mun [the previous society], men would be crazy about her. They would whistle at her, flirt with her. Do you know what? She relaxed.” Chea smiles, her eyes bright, satisfied. “Then I sang her the song. She liked it!”
My eyes widen, a mirror image of Chea’s animated face. “She’s pleased that I wrote it, especially for her. After that she never gives me a hard time. She treats me nicer, giving me food to eat. She let me come back to the village when she saw my foot. It doesn’t matter which era, p’yoon srey,” she says, looking at me, “people want others to compliment them. And many like bribery.”
But now, in 1977, more changes are taking place. Angka Leu sends us a clear signal, letting us know that we will have no privacy at all. We’re told in a meeting that there will be no rice, salt, and vegetable distributions as before. Everything will be sent to the commune kitchen. Foods