When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [88]
Ra glances at me, then at Pok. I notice her calm demeanor, which she used to display when guests visited our home. This was how every Cambodian girl was supposed to behave in front of guests. She should be modest, gentle. The expected behavior was so rigid, so ceremonial, that as children we never ate any meal with guests. So even now, I can see a shyness, a modesty in Ra, although we’re only eating in front of Pok, a kind stranger.
Hunger doesn’t make me modest. I continue to gorge on the food. I feel Pok’s eyes watching us—I don’t care. I’ve unlearned Cambodian table manners, all the cultural rules: don’t scrape the plate when spooning rice; don’t eat too fast in front of guests; watch how others eat, go with the group. Today these things don’t apply to me. I’ve learned too well, adjusting to today’s scarcity, living by a proverb I used to hear Cambodian elders say: Chol sturng tam bought, chol srok tam proteh. “Follow the river by its winding path, follow the province/state according to its country.” One must adapt to one’s situation in order to survive. And I’m adjusting to my new environment, a world where formality and politeness are not a necessity—indeed are banned. Instead, cruelty is the law by which the people are ruled, a law designed to break our spirits. In the name of padewat (the revolution).
It has been a week since the trip to Pok’s warehouse. Even though he works for the Khmer Rouge, Pok doesn’t have a heart of stone like them. The goodness in him has lifted my spirit.
Ra doesn’t come, and I can no longer wait. All my waking hours, I summon up images of the food we ate at Pok’s: steamed rice, the pumpkin blossoms, the green shoots, lemongrass, and turmeric root. In my mind, I’m already at Pok’s.
The following day I sneak out alone. This time I feel I can walk as fast as Ra. Before I know it, I’m at the riverbank, and not afraid of slipping off the bank or being captured by the Khmer Rouge. Food is my only focus. Hastily, I cross the river, without Ra’s help or even a stick. The water reaches my knees, chest, mouth, then my ears! The current spills into my nose. Quickly, I pull my hand from the water. I clip my nose, tilt my head. My legs kick, propelling me. My body floats slightly, my mouth gulps for air. My face is barely above the water, my eyes focusing on my destination. The water recedes slowly to my neck. I swallow air hungrily.
Safe on dry ground, I look at the current and dread my return. But I have to have food.
At the warehouse, Pok is surprised, apprehensive. “Did Ara come?”
“No,” I answer, my voice vibrating from my shuddering body.
“Wait here,” Pok commands, his hand pointing to the concrete floor.
Soon he reappears, striding back into the warehouse with food, frowning.
“Hurry, eat. Take the rest of the food with you, be careful.”
I dish up the rice, then swallow it down with the broiled fish. I wrap everything in my scarf, then flee.
Back in the river, my gaunt body fights the current and so do my legs, propelling me above the rocks, pushing me forward. Above the water, my right hand holds the food in the scarf, my left hand clips my nose. A short distance ahead, the steep bank awaits. I’m not going through this again, I tell myself, relieved to survive this day.
But hunger is powerful, a silent but strong voice inside me. A few days later it orders me to go back to Zone 3. When everyone has gone to work, I stride toward the river.
When I arrive at the riverbank, I’m shocked to see the swelling river. The water is now doubled, and still rising. I can’t cross this! Yet desperation takes me to the green bridge. As I approach it, I slow down, strolling. Gazing skyward while standing on the bridge, I pretend I’m observing