When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback (23 page)

“Pretty soon
Pok
will come. He went to get us food,” Ra says softly.

I hear her, but I pay little attention. I’m fascinated by this place. How different it is than the forced labor camp. It is modern, like places back in Phnom Penh or Takeo.

Though I haven’t met him, I envy
Pok
. I wonder how he fits in with the ideology the Khmer Rouge have long preached to us.
There are no rich and poor. There will be equality. As comrades, we are all one.
Looking back, I remember how doubtful I was when I first heard them speak in Year Piar. And now this warehouse reinforces my doubts:
There’s no equality. There will never be
, I think darkly.

“Athy,
Pok
’s coming,” Ra alerts me.

She introduces me to him. “
Pok
, this is my young sister.”

“
Chumriep sur, Pok
,” I say, pressing the palms of my hands together, raising them to the tip of my chin. A courtesy the Khmer Rouge can’t take away from me. I didn’t consider his approval, whether this is appropriate or whether he’s one of the Khmer Rouge and despises this formal culture.

Instead of greeting me with words, he looks at me, then at Ra. Back in
sangkum mun
[the previous society], he would have returned my
chumriep sur
. But since both of his hands are holding a pan and plates, I can understand. I’m more than content with his kindness, his willingness to bring us food.

“Ara, you must be careful when you bring your sister here, and when you take her back. There are a lot of
chhlops
,”
Pok
warns as he sets the foodstuffs on the concrete floor. “If they catch you, they’ll torture you. Be careful.”

His words reveal much. His tone is gentle, like a father addressing a child. And by not calling Ra “comrade,” I know he is not a Khmer Rouge. I study him—tall, strongly built, with dark olive skin. His black hair, neatly combed, is mixed with scattered gray strands. I would guess he’s in his early fifties. His physical features suggest he has never suffered any hardship or lack of food. He seems educated, privileged, even though he wears the Khmer Rouge uniform: new black pants and a long-sleeved shirt with a cotton scarf wrapped around his neck. I watch him in wonder.
Who is this man?

Pok
invites us to sit down. We hunker down, squatting on the concrete floor. Suddenly a slender young man, perhaps eighteen, with dark eyebrows and thick black hair approaches us. I look up, peering at what he’s holding in his hand.

Pok
explains, “Sun works with me. He brings more food for you.”

Before us Sun sets down a large soup bowl filled with chunks of golden pumpkin, its withered blossoms and green shoots. Near it lies the crisp, reddish-brown smoked fish, nestled back to belly as they were when they were smoked. Then there’s a saucer with about three tablespoons of fish sauce the deep color of tea. Its smell is strong.
Good
. I savor the aroma and my mind reels.

I have not tasted fish sauce since we were driven out of Year Piar—more than two years ago now. At first I didn’t recognize it until my nose prompted me, detecting the pungent smell. Then my memory arouses me, my eyes widen, fixing on the food.

Pok
picks up a plate from a stack. He lifts the lid of a small blackened metal pot, revealing white steamed rice. The sweet aroma reaches my nose, the familiar scent of a new crop of jasmine rice. My stomach growls, my mouth waters. My eyes follow
Pok
’s hand as he dishes up the rice with a spoon onto the plate. My mind, my whole body, yearns to snatch that plate from him.

“Can you eat this much?” asks
Pok
, his eyes looking into mine.

“Yes!” I answer, my head nodding as the word tumbles out of my mouth. I’m relieved to finally have the plate.

The rice piled on my plate is as high as rising dough. I want to gorge on it, shoving it in my mouth, but I have to wait for
Pok
, who is dishing up another plate of rice for Ra. I’m anxious, studying the movement of his hand from the pot to Ra’s plate. It takes every bit of self-control to not fidget and scream out “Hurry, hurry.”

Finally
Pok
hands Ra her plate, and she reaches for it with both hands, a polite gesture of reverence taught us by our mother.

“Go ahead, eat,”
Pok
says, eyes glancing at me.

“How about you,
Pok
?” Ra asks.

“You eat, then hurry back.”

I bury the spoon in the heap of rice, shoveling it into my mouth. My throat fills quickly, the food a stranger to my body. Next I spoon up the soup, gulping down the warm broth to help wash down the sluggish rice. Then I eat the pumpkin. The blossoms. The soft green shoots. Then the smoked fish with fish sauce, then another spoonful of rice. As quickly as it enters my mouth, it is gone, swallowed. Flavors are fleeting, my body is anxious to receive them. I slow down long enough to savor the sweetness of pumpkin, the spicy flavor of turmeric and lemongrass. The warmth spreads throughout my body, my hand unwilling to slow. It is as if I’m in an eating contest with myself.

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 the slanting structures of the bridge, which look like a group of X’s interconnected with a flat beam on top. I stand there waiting to see if someone will come and question me as to what I’m doing here. I wait and wait, but I don’t hear or sense a soul coming. I turn to look at the shimmering ribbon of water. I’m briefly comforted. My head urges me forward, telling me to go now or never. I hurry across and hop off the bank near the bridge, my butt sliding down the slant ground into the woods, landing by a thicket. As I get up, I hear men’s voices and squat down.

Waiting to be captured, I notice that the voices are still in the distance. They’re not approaching me. Now curiosity kicks in. I crawl to the next bush. From here, I see three men wearing black uniforms with scarves wrapped around their heads. One sits in a boothlike hut with the butt of a rifle leaning against his shoulder. The other two are outside the booth, facing him.

I pad quietly to
Pok
’s warehouse. When I stick my head inside,
Pok
’s, Sun’s, and another man’s stares await me.
Pok
strides toward me, his face pale with indignation.

“Who else is coming?”
Pok
demands nervously.

“Only me,” I answer softly, lowering my gaze to the floor, then look at Sun and the other man for their reaction. Their faces are masks of apprehension.

“God, you’re daring!”
Pok
cries out. He stares at me in disbelief. “How did you get here?”

“Crossed the bridge.”

Pok
shakes his head, his right hand on his hip. “Aren’t you scared of the cadres by the bridge? They will torture you when they catch you! Don’t you know? They’ll ask me why you are here. They can kill us. Do you understand?” The tone of his voice strikes me.

“Don’t ever come back. Don’t ever cross the bridge again. Today high-level Khmer Rouge are coming here. It’s very dangerous, understand?”

After he calms down, he tells Sun and the other man to take me to a hut. There, we are to be quiet while we eat. No talking, absolutely no sound.

The hut is small, built on stilts with a ladderlike stair in front. Around it are tall trees, casting their shade over the hut. The warehouse is close by, and Sun goes to get food with the other man. Dim light is faintly visible between the slits of the bamboo slabs. I keep looking at it as if my survival depends on it.

Suddenly I detect footsteps climbing the stairs. My head turns toward the door, which softly cracks open. Shadows of hands holding a pot and a large bowl appear. Then another shadow follows. I take a deep breath, relieved to know it’s only Sun and the other man.

On the floor before me are silhouettes of a pot of rice and a bowl of soup with dark shadows of vegetables and white chunks of something, perhaps fish. Then a pungent aroma startles me: the tangy, sour smell of steamed-pickled fish combined with freshly sliced cucumbers. My mouth waters, my stomach growls, my fear flees.

In the dark we sit in a circle. Each of us gently spoons up the food and places it in our mouths. I hear only my swallowing. The routine of this secret eating now feeds on fear.

Suddenly
Pok
’s voice erupts. “How are you, comrades?”

“We’re so-so,” a man replies stoically. “Is the production better?”

My mouth freezes. The shadows of Sun’s and the other man’s heads turn toward me. But their gazes retreat, turning to the food on the floor. I imagine the cadres storming into the hut, dragging me away, and tying me up. Only after
Pok
’s and the Khmer Rouge’s voices trail away do I dare swallow the last bite. Now I understand why the men were distressed to see me. Understanding how my being here can bring trouble to these men, I get up abruptly to go.

“Take some rice with you,” Sun urges. He too gets up.

“Wait a moment,” the other man says, his voice calm. “Here, we’ll wrap up some food.”

The men leave to find out when it’ll be safe for me to return to my zone. Again, they warn me to be quiet. To wait for them. Alone in the hut, I cry silently. I don’t know whether I’m moved by these men’s kindness or if I’m simply scared.

Shortly, rapid footsteps shake the hut. I half stand, half squat. “Hurry, get out. Hurry!” A voice whispers urgently.

I freeze.

“Come, follow me. It’s okay.”

I slip out the door and there is Sun, already stepping off the stairs. I shake as I step down. Once on the ground, Sun pulls me behind a tree. “They’re still at the warehouse,” he whispers. “When I say go, run. Don’t cry if you trip.” His eyes ask,
Do you understand?