When Broken Glass Floats_ Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge - Chanrithy Him [94]
Tears flood her eyes. “Life is difficult, Athy. One season is just like another. I’ve been praying for the harvesting season to come so that we can have more rice. But when it comes, the rice ration is still the same, still little. When life continues to be this terrible, Athy, bang just wants to die. I…” Chea wipes away her tears. “I just want to close my eyes and die. If I live on, life doesn’t have meaning. No meaning at all. Except to live for that day just to have more rice, and that’s all.”
Chea’s tears drip like raindrops. My own burn my eyes. Map looks at her through his tears, then his hand reaches out to her. It is deeply hurtful to see her suffering. Her pain compounds Map’s. His four-year-old sunken face looks wounded. Amid all this, I remember what I’ve been wanting to ask Chea: about the rice and salted fish, my promise to Mak.
The thought of it lightens my spirit. “Chea, did Ta Barang bring the rice and fish I sent you and Map? Did he?”
She looks at me, then at Map as if trying to find the right words. Calmly she says, “He brought only fish, a little bit of fish.”
“How much?” My brow furrows. “I sent a bag of rice, this much rice, and a can of salted fish, this much to the rim.” I show her with my hands.
“Athy, he apologized that he ate all the rice and most of the fish,” Chea explains. “He was so hungry and he couldn’t help himself.”
“No! It wasn’t for him, Chea—” I wail, unwilling to believe what Chea has just told me. “I saved it for Map. For you. I promised Mak, Chea. She came to me. In my dream. She begged me…. Ta Barang, ta aakrak [bad old man].” My head hurts, my chest is stuffed with deep pain. I feel so betrayed.
Chea hugs me tightly. “Athy, don’t say that, p’yoon srey,” she whispers into my ear. “He was hungry—he’s only human. If you were him you’d have done the same.”
“But it wasn’t for him, Chea, not for him….”
12
Though a Virgin, I’m Called an Old Man
New Internationalist
April 1993
“Return to Year Zero”
Year Zero was the dawn of an age in which, in extremis, there would be no families, no sentiment, no expression of love or grief, no medicines, no hospitals, no schools, no books, no learning, no holidays, no music: only work and death.
The wind howls. Thunder rumbles with low popping sounds, followed by a deafening clap. It trails away in the sky, then it starts all over again. The hut rustles, the panels of the thatched wall flapping. Dense raindrops strike madly against the hut. The monsoons are already here. The summer of 1978 has already flown away. Chea cuddles close to Map and I close to her. On this night, I’m grateful to have the warmth and comfort of my own family. As soon as the beating rain dies down and the wind loses its breath, I fall asleep, snuffed out like a candle. A moment later I’m jolted by a voice. “Get up, go to work,” an ugly, blotched-faced informant bellows.
I dread these days. I have to meet other children at the sahakar, then the workday begins. As I’m getting out of the hut, I see that the sky is still dark. The night rain freshens the air. The cold breeze makes me shiver. I wish we could go back to sleep, cuddling closely, sharing our warmth.
Chea curses under her breath. Something about Angka going to hell. I hope they will, but I’m too tired to be angry at Angka now. The sky is cloudy. Along the dike that snakes between vast flooded rice paddies, I walk behind a long line of children and adults, marching off to salvage rice seedlings. By this time of year the rice paddies along the dike would normally be green with thriving seedlings, but now they are all covered with water. Everywhere, as far as the eye can see. It looks as if a giant lake has been created overnight. Only the tips of the seedlings peek out of the water. It looks like there are more heavy rains to come.
The next day is another gloomy day. Wet ground. Overcast sky. The drizzle turns into a pouring rain. The line of children in front of me halts, backs up. The line moves again.