When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [76]
With the new rule, we move to a new hut half a mile away from the old one. It is similar to our first hut, built from bamboo poles and palm leaves. It’s even a little bigger, about eleven by thirteen feet. It is situated among a scattering of other huts, all of which seem to have more space in front and back—open land on which we can cultivate vegetables, the fruit of my family’s labor which I want no Khmer Rouge commune to have. I brace myself for the day they come to harvest it.
I have almost recovered from malaria and so has Mak, but she grows steadily worse in a different way. In our new hut she’s with us, eating our dinner of rice with yam leaves and salt, but she stares into the distance, her eyes fixed on something invisible. I know Mak is mourning. It was May 1975 when Pa was executed. It’s been nearly two years since his death, and she has never spoken of him until now—spring 1977. Reminiscing, she talks about Pa, saddened for him. She wonders out loud how painful his death was, talking to herself more than to us. Since Avy’s death, she has changed. She has become disheartened, complaining of headaches, dizziness, and fatigue. Being sick for nearly a month, she feels useless, and simply eats and sleeps. It’s all she can do. Her face spells out her frustration.
One morning I wake up to Mak’s voice. “I’m going to weed, do some physical work,” she murmurs to herself. “I don’t want to be cooped up in the hut.”
Mak hops off the hut. Chea and Ra have gone to work, only Map remains on the hut platform. With a knife in her hand, a tool she uses for everything, Mak tills the dry soil in front of the hut, weeding, pulling the grass. Maybe being outside in the sun will help her, but I’m fearful of her being exposed to the watchful eyes of informants.
“Comrade, why aren’t you at work?” a voice snarls. My heart quickens as my mind recognizes this familiar demand. “Everybody works and you’re staying home! Do you want me to take you to reform?”
“I’ve been sick, and I’m swollen all over.” Mak’s voice rises, softly, protesting. “I’m hungry. I just want to weed a little, perhaps my children can raise vegetables. It’s hard just sitting in the hut,” Mak pleads. “I can’t work like others when I’m still sick.”
The informant snaps, “Go to peth if you’re sick! Don’t stay home.”
“Two of my children died there. No one could help them. If I go, who will take care of my children? I’ve a baby son who needs me. I’d like to stay home and take care of my children. Would Angka Leu please understand and let me take care of myself at home? If I go, I’ll die there like my children.”
Mak’s imploring words don’t reach him. He gives her an ultimatum. “If you don’t go to peth, I’ll have people take you there. If you can’t work, you stay in peth!”
In the evening when Chea, Ra, and Ry return, Mak announces the bad news.
“They want me to go to peth and die. They won’t let me stay home. All of you take care of your p’yoon proh [young brother]. He’s little and doesn’t understand. Don’t get mad at him. Take care of each other. I don’t know when I’ll come back. I don’t want to go, but the chhlop threatened me. I don’t want him to harm us…. Life is so hard…. I’ve asked Preah to let me live for one more year….”
Mak’s voice subsides. Inside the hut, silence. For a moment we’re all lost in despair, our own words suffocated by her acceptance. Quietly, we’ve feared the day when Mak would die, but none of us has spoken of it. Chea finally breaks the silence. “Mak, don’t worry about us. You take care of yourself and we will take care of each other.”
“I’ve asked Preah to let me live one more year.” A wish so modest, so small, so unselfish. Only a year, so short. I wish that she hadn’t told us this prediction of her fate. I don’t want to know, am not ready. Her wish reminds me of Pa’s years ago.
Back then, our world was already in chaos—the invasion of the Viet Cong,* our Takeo house decimated, our dog Aka Hom killed, Tha dead, then Bosaba. Pa was afflicted with appendicitis,