When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [92]
Inside the hut, other women sift the winnowed rice on a large mat. Diligently, they swirl flat round baskets in circular motions; the grains of rice filter through the tiny holes. Before the evening ration I am hungry, so I linger at the entrance of this hut. Since no one scolds me, little by little I move to squat by the rice piles, then my hand pinches a few grains and shoves them in my mouth. Other children follow, stealing glances at the women. In return, the women flash us warnings as their hands keep busy.
“If you keep it up, you’ll get diarrhea,” warns a woman in charge who is known as Comrade Murn. She’s in her fifties, stocky with dark skin and black hair covered by an old cotton scarf.
I’m relieved to hear a caring warning, and not a scold or a slap. Diarrhea later, but hunger is now. My teeth grind away at this new crop, producing a sweet powdery flavor in my mouth. We take whatever amount Comrade Murn tolerates, shoving it in our pockets or whatever we have, a scarf, or our hands.
As the weather gets hotter, the rice ripens quickly. Bags of pounded rice lean against the outside walls of the hut. The women are twice as busy, working up a sweat as they sift, winnow, and bag piles of processed rice into burlap sacks. Suddenly a woman shoves her sifting basket aside, gets up, then cries, “Oh, I can’t hold it anymore! I’ll pee in my sarong.” She staggers as if her legs are numb from sitting too long.
“Who forbids her from peeing?” says Comrade Murn, chuckling. Her eyes glow, lines form around her dusty temples as her hands sift vigorously. Other women glance at her, their mouths flashing a weak smile.
I stare at the lonely basket sitting on the rice pile and the spot vacated by the woman. On an impulse, I jump into the woman’s area, scoop the winnowed rice into the basket, and swirl it. The sifting around me stops. The only thing I hear is the sound of my own sifting basket. I fear Murn will soon scold me.
“Look, look at her! Young like that, yet she knows how to sift rice like an adult,” Comrade Murn says in amazement. “And she’s not even a farm kid.”
Koon la-aw (good child) Comrade Murn calls me, and wonders from whom I learned this skill. I gaze briefly at her, then at everyone. I learned it from watching my mom, I explain.
After Pa was executed in Year Piar, I wanted to learn the ways of farm life so I could help Mak. I watched her process rice from start to finish. One day I thought I was ready to make use of my observations. I thought I had gotten everything down, so I told Mak that I wanted to help her, and she let me. As I sifted the rice, I felt awkward. The rice in the basket didn’t go in a circular motion as it did with Mak. The basket was bigger than me, Mak concluded, and I needed practice. I perspired profusely as I struggled with the weight of the rice and the size of the basket.
Mak beamed and said, “Koon, swirl the basket, not your koot [butt]. Look at you. Your face is red, your veins bulging. You look like you’re going to the lavatory.” Her hands reached out to take the basket from me, but I wasn’t done learning. I lightly pushed her hands away and resumed my sifting practice. Mak laughed at my awkwardness. It had felt good to hear her laughter.
Comrade Murn grins, glancing at me, and so does everyone there. I’m surprised to be the center of attention. I feel a sense of connection with these people. Suddenly I feel as if they’re my family, a surrogate family.
I’ve saved up rice in a bag and salted fish in a tin can, hidden in my shack for Map and Chea in Daakpo. Chea has been staying in Daakpo to look after Map, Ra had told me when we were in the labor camp near Zone 3. Ry is still at the hospital