When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback (21 page)

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 three years old.

Yiey
Om greets us with a long gaze, her eyes peering above half-glasses, studying what stands before her.

“
Chao
(Grandchildren/child) you come to visit
yiey
?” she asks, her voice rising with concern.

“
Yiey
, Chea asked me to bring Map here,” I finally say, hesitant to say more for fear I’ll insult her. “Wants Map to trade chili and mint with you for something to eat.” I repeat almost exactly what Chea told me to say. I feel as if we’re not related as the word “trade” passes my lips.

“Well, what do you have in there,
chao
?”
Yiey
Om reaches out to my scarf filled with a small harvest of our chili and
mvorng
mint.

She looks into the pouch of the scarf and raves about the red chili and mint, effusive praise so like what I used to hear in her voice when my father would bring her a gift of soap or detergent. It is a forgotten echo of a grandma’s excitement. Bending over a steamy pot of water bubbling over the fire, she picks up a flat woven basket, then scoops up tiny enclosed sacs afloat in the liquid.

“Go ahead and eat,
chao
.” She motions to me and Map.

I pick out a warm sac the size of a peanut. Its texture is coarse like a soaked cloth. I hold it with my forefingers. I finally speak out, “
Yiey
, what is this? How do you eat it?”

“Like this,
chao
….” She pauses from her weaving, her finger stearing the sac open.

She hands me what’s inside, a shriveled, cream-colored worm the size of a bean. I shiver, my body recoiling at the sight of the pale, motionless worm. She chuckles. Her daughters join in. It’s a silkworm, she says, and people eat them.

I place it in my mouth. I cringe, chew quickly, then swallow the creamy tofu-textured insect. It tastes good. But the idea of eating the silkworm is repellent.

Map likes it; his small fingers peel the cocoons like peanuts, his mouth munching it like a soft candy.

Yiey
Om’s family is more privileged than most “new people” in Daakpo or any of the nearby villages. Instead of staying in a makeshift hut like many “new people,” her family stays in a large wooden house built on stilts. It seems the Khmer Rouge accept them more than most of us. They have skills the Khmer Rouge want.
Weaving
. It’s the basis of what the Khmer Rouge value, the old ways of life which
Yiey
Om’s family mastered long ago. None of them seems to suffer from edema.

Yiey
Om lets us eat as many worms as we want, then she wraps a handful for Map in a banana leaf to take home.

This summer yields a crop. The corn cobs grow larger, their plump kernels, light yellow, packed like snug rows of teeth. It’s the first time we have raised many vegetables, yet
Mak
is not around to enjoy them.

“Athy, take some corn to
Mak
. Take Map with you.” Chea commands, her voice decisive, her words tumbling out as if she has been waiting to say this for a long time. “Don’t go to work. Take corn to
Mak
and take Map with you to see her. She hasn’t seen him for a while.”

The thought of seeing
Mak
is comforting, but I’m frightened. I remind Chea of the
chhlop
, of the village leader, of possible punishment. She turns to me, her expression wise. This happens whenever she wants to teach or share something with me.

“If taking food to one’s mother is a crime, I’ll be responsible for it. I’ll talk with the village leader. You are only taking food to our mother, not to an enemy of
Angka
.”

I put my trust in her. When she tells Map about the trip, his eyes glow. He follows me around as I pick eight ears of corn—four for
Mak
and two each for Map and me. In the pot I boil the corn. Map helps add the firewood from tiny tree branches to the cooking hole while I make tamarind paste, grinding the sour green tamarind fruit and coarse salt.

By the time we leave, it’s midmorning. I tuck the corn cobs in the pouch of my old scarf, still warm, pressing against a small package of tamarind paste. We walk quickly, my eyes on guard, frequently looking over my shoulder. My hand holds Map’s. We have long since passed Daakpo, entering a stretch of gritty road without any huts nearby. My fear of getting caught eases, but my body and Map’s grow weaker, slower, from the strong sun.

The hot road burns our feet. I carry Map until I’m too exhausted. Drawn by his cries, an old woman stops us to give us cool water. I’m struck by her kindness, which helps give me the courage to continue our journey. We reach an old, worn-down barn, surrounded by greenery, where a family has planted vegetables in front and in back of their hut. In front of the barn, there are rows of corn, pumpkin, and yucca root plants. But something is wrong. There is a reeking odor, like the stench from a field scattered with feces from cases of dysentery and diarrhea.

“Thy,
na Mak
[where is
Mak
]?” Map inquires, his voice quivering with apprehension.

As we approach the doorless barn, the pungent smell intensifies. The sound of groaning greets us. Walking ahead of Map, I hold his hand as we enter the barn. In the muted light, we’re met by the sight of pale, swollen people, perhaps thirty of them, lying on bare, rusty metal beds lining the wall. Patients are crammed into the aisle between two rows of beds, perhaps twelve of them, separated from each other only by a few feet. They lie on the dirty earthen floor, some on plastic sheeting, others on filthy clothes. Under the beds near them are flies swarming over runny feces pooled on the floor. The flies settle on eyes, on wounds, around nostrils, on the sides of mouths, gorging on human filth, on the dying.

I peer from one bed to the next looking for our mother, but I can’t find her. I pull Map’s hand, guiding him down the aisle. He is rigid with shock; it is like pulling a bag of rice. Slowly I study each patient. Even though it horrifies me to be here, my eyes take it all in—snapshots of the sickness and the filth and the crowding—yet I can’t find my own mother.

“Thy,
na Mak
?” Map begins to cry. “
Na Mak
?” Again and again he repeats it, his voice on the verge of hysteria.

Finally I answer, “I don’t know.”

A little girl scurries toward us. She says, “
Bang
, she’s your mom.” She points. For a few seconds my eyes fix on her face.

Who is she? How does she know my mother? And me?

“She’s over there,” the girl says, pointing again, her urgent voice snapping me to reality.

I follow her finger, and I see a frail woman sitting on a bare rusty bed. Her forehead rests on her knee, her face is pale and her swollen eyelids closed.
That’s not Mak!
I turn to the girl, searching for reassurance. She looks at me, then at the swollen woman. I study the frail, ailing woman again, then recognize the clothes she wears.

“Thy,
Mak
?” Map pulls me, but I’m trapped by what I see, a nightmare.

“Yes,
Mak yurg
[our mother],” I softly answer, then my hand opens, freeing Map’s fingers from my grip. My eyes fall on her floral blouse with its once-brilliant pink hibiscus and green leaves. Now old, the flowers have faded to a flat, muddy gray-brown.

Mak
slowly raises her head from her knee, her ears tracking our voices.

“
Koon srey Mak, koon srey Mak
.
Koon proh meas mdaay
[My beloved son]. My little son. Come to me, little son. I miss you so very much.”

“
Mak
.” Map reaches out to our mother, both of his hands holding her arm, his eyes gazing at her face.

Mak
embraces him, her swollen arm slipping as if it is too heavy.

“
Mak
, I’m Thy,” I say, staring at her bulging eyelids. I’m afraid she can’t see me. It is like studying a contorted version of my mother’s face—the stretched, pale face of an obese person, indentations where her temples are, her hair sticking up like tough wire. Her movements are slow and heavy, like those of a very old woman. Instead of asking her questions, I look at her. My jaws are locked, I struggle for words to fit what I see. For I know I am looking at death. I have to say something to her to give her hope, even if it can never be fulfilled. At least she can cherish it for the moment.

“I wanted to bring Map to see you,
Mak
.” The words slide out of my mouth. I want to comfort her, to make her feel better. I settle on words that seem so ordinary in this strange place. “I’ve brought you corn on the cob, and I also made you tamarind paste.
Mak
, you’d like to have tamarind paste with rice—that’s why I’ve made you some.”

“
Koon
,
Mak
can’t eat tamarind paste. I have dysentery,” she softly whispers. “You and your brother eat it.
Mak
will have corn, just give
Mak
corn.”

My hands untie the knot on my scarf, my heart aching. I wish I knew magic. For a moment I am a small child, back on our sofa watching movies about Cambodian magic, wanting to go to the Himalayas to find some of my own. But the only thing I see here are tears, building up behind my eyes.

“
Mak
, here is corn for you.”

“Only corn,
koon Mak
.” Her voice is sweet and longing.

“Athy,
koon
, this corn is not cooked. It’ll make
Mak
have more diarrhea,”
Mak
says, her tone frustrated. Slowly, she hands it back to me.

Heat from my body emanates up toward my face. I am hurt, frustrated, mad at myself that the corn is not cooked. I look at the bite she’s taken from that corn and check the rest—they’re uncooked. I’m so mad at myself.
How stupid!
I cry.
Why do I have to make Mak suffer more, why didn’t I check them better?
I thought I had.

As
Mak
requests, I go to the back of the barn looking for embers to cook the corn, passing by groaning patients, the casualties of
padewat
(the revolution). In one dug-out cooking hole, I find a few small, fading embers. I gather tiny sticks of firewood nearby, piling them up gently. Kneeling on the ground, I blow at the pile, coaxing streams of smoke. I add larger firewood, then bury the corn in the ash, below the burning fire.