When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [78]
Beneath the shade of a tree, hidden from the hot afternoon sun, Mak squats on the dusty earth in front of the hospital, waiting to be taken to Choup. Mak bids Ry good-bye, her mouth slowly articulating advice, her arms embracing Map.
“Koon, Mak doesn’t know when Mak will see all of you again. Take care of each other. If Map does something wrong, please let him finish eating before you discipline him. He’s little, doesn’t understand—pity him….” Mak’s eyes are red, burned by gathering tears.
When her last word leaves her mouth, her head turns, eyes on Map. Her tears spill over. Map’s arms break free from her embrace, wrapping around her neck. Finally a high, ringing cry tumbles out of his mouth. Their good-byes are brief. A horse cart approaches. Mak’s head turns, her arms releasing Map. His cry rises to a wail, his legs wrapping around her leg. Ry pulls him away from Mak, then two black-uniformed strangers from the cart take Mak away.
Map screams, “Mak, don’t go!”
Ry freezes, hypnotized by Mak’s frail body as she’s helped into the cart like an old woman. She watches the cart pull away as she anchors Map, preventing him from running after it. His free hand grabs and flails toward the cart, fingers stretching for it as it grows smaller until it is a distant speck.
At three, Map is left alone in the hut each day to fend for himself. He sits motionless in the center of the doorless entrance like a tiny statue in a shrine. When Chea, Ra, or I get back from working in the woods, Map checks our scarves, his hands shuffling through the weeds we’ve picked, searching for things to eat—a yam or yucca root. When we tell him there’s nothing to eat, he doesn’t cry. His eyes resume the distant stare, a small, detached statue once again.
At about lunchtime, Map carries his spoon and sets out on foot. He has learned how to find Peth Preahneth Preah. There, he goes to Ry. She shares with him her meager ration of rice gruel, but it is still better than what we’ve been getting in Daakpo.
Sometimes he returns with a stomach full of food. Sometimes Ry sends him away with food for the evening. It is a risky act of compassion. Because she is a patient, she worries that the Khmer Rouge will catch her sharing her ration with her brother. The penalty, she fears, could be her return to a forced labor camp. “Feverish rabbit”—it’s the term the Khmer Rouge use for workers who pretend to be sicker than they are. Fatigue and starvation don’t matter. Ry hasn’t been well, her stomach is puffy with edema. She worries that giving away part of her ration will send the wrong signal and mean punishment for both of them. Despite her fears, she continues to feed Map whenever it’s safe.
At the hut, the vegetables we planted are now thriving, pushing up shoots of green around the hut. In front of the hut stand rows of tall corn; their cream-colored tassels are blooming, silk hair spilling out and weighing down their stalks. On the right side of the hut and in the back are chili plants. Alongside them are a few small rows of pepper and mvorng mint. In the front near the corn rise a few mounded rows of yams. Thick vines from pumpkin plants spread out like wild ivy, blossoms opening to brilliant gold, leaves green and prickly. Though Angka says these vegetables are for the commune, everyone harvests from their own garden.
I wake up to the opal haze of summer morning. Chea tells me to stay home today. She asks me to show Map how to get to the hut belonging to Yiey Om, Pa’s favorite aunt, who is Kong Houng’s younger sister. Somehow her family has ended up in a village called Poi-kdurg, located near Daakpo.
When Map and I arrive at her house, she and her daughters, whom I call kao (aunt), are working at what seems to be weaving, passing crosswise threads under and over lengthwise ones, which are already secured to the wooden frame. I’ve seen this before, long ago when Pa took me to her house. I was about