When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Read online

  The sharp stabs throb from the inside out, pulsing up my leg to my waist and head. Mak can’t sleep. She asks me to sleep away from her, Avy, and Map. All alone like Vin before he died, I’m banished to a small alcove. I realize now how helpless he must have felt. With no medicine, I know that I too will die. My wound is caked with pus. At night I study my foot, scratch around it, try to massage it, and cry. I beg for Mak again and again. But she doesn’t come.

  In the morning the fog of pain lifts long enough to allow me to make a decision. If I am to live, I must find slark khnarng, sour leaves, an ivylike vine that grows wild in the woods. It’s a valuable leaf, typically used for cooking. But I have my own ideas. When boiled, sour leaves produce a sharp acidic juice that used to sting my fingers when I had an open scratch. It reminds me of the rubbing alcohol that Pa used to clean out my scraped knees. Maybe the juice of the sour leaves could work a little of Pa’s magic as a disinfectant. At the same time, I can’t rely on Mak, can’t expect her to find sour leaves. The leaves grow in the woods, not in the rice fields. She barely has the strength to work for the Khmer Rouge and keep up with her trips in search of edible leaves to supplement our scanty rice rations. She’s doing all she can to keep our hearts beating.

  I cannot walk—since my left foot can’t take any pressure—so while others work in the field, I crawl on my hands and knees away from the village, past a grove of mango trees to a hill where the dead are buried. I follow a tight path carved to fit oxcarts. Past guava and bamboo trees I crawl, searching for sour leaves, the leaf of life.

  Finally I see some. Big green leaves sprawling on the ground, climbing up over other shrubs on the other side of a thorny fence. I try to reach them but can’t. Tree branches armed with sharp thorns shield the sour vines. I crawl around the bank until I see a small hole in the fence, through which I wiggle into the field.

  In joy, I grab the thick stem, stripping away all the leaves into my hand. Hands flying, I grab the other sour vines, pulling leaves, shoving them into the pouch in my scarf. I am lost in the movements. I fall into a rhythm, for a moment forgetting even about the pain in my foot.

  “Comrade, what are you doing? Are you stealing?” a fierce voice demands.

  I turn. Before me stands a tall, skinny man, dressed in black, carrying a long curved knife on his shoulder.

  “No, I’m not. I’m not stealing. I’m only picking slark khnarng,” I say timidly, frightened by his accusing words, his sudden appearance.

  He grabs me by the arm and drags me around the yucca field like a bag of rice. My arm feels as if it could be yanked off. I beg him repeatedly, “Please don’t hurt me,” but he says nothing. Reaching a tree, he drops his long knife to the ground and pulls my arms behind me. Snaking a rough rope around my skinny arms, he binds them tightly from wrist to elbow. Ignoring my pleas, he yanks my scarf from my neck and throws it on the ground. He pushes me down on my knees and binds me to the tree, the posture of a criminal soon to be executed. He must see the sour leaves, now all over the ground.

  With cool indifference, he announces my sentence. “I will kill you at sunset,” he says, delivering his verdict from behind a tree.

  I beseech him, my voice rising. “Please don’t kill me. I wasn’t stealing. I was just picking slark khnarng for a swollen foot. I’m telling you the truth! Please spare my life!”

  “Don’t lie, comrade,” he shouts. “I don’t believe you. I will kill you. Say no more!”

  I sob, “If you don’t believe me, just look at my infected wound. I don’t lie. I need slark khnarng. My foot hurts at night. Please spare my life. Don’t kill me….”

  I wish I could bow down to him, sink into the dirt before his feet, begging his forgiveness. But it’s too late. My words don’t reach him.

  His voice trails off, shouting in near-triumph, crowing like a bully who has had his way, “I’ll cut off your head at sunset so people coming from work can see you—they won’t follow your bad example.” His footsteps crunch on dry leaves.

  I look at the sour leaves scattered on the ground. I keep thinking how it’s the small things that get me into trouble. Sucking sweet grass with Cheng. And now this. How can I be accused of stealing when there’s nothing in my scarf—only sour leaves. I stare at the hole in the fence where I sneaked through only moments ago. Now I wish that whoever made it had left more thorns in it. I wouldn’t have gotten in. As time passes, I cry hard and loud, tears of fear and frustration. In time, my sobbing becomes softer. My destiny awaits.

  The sun is now behind the tree, its rays filtering through branches in a shifting dance. Suddenly I’m awakened by birdsong. Maybe they cry for me. I listen to them and I remember an old Cambodian warning: “When the owl cries, it will take someone’s life,” the spirit winging away with the bird. Now I hear birds cry. Later, perhaps the owl will hoot, announcing the fact that I will be beheaded.

  As the sun begins to set, I speak to my heart, to Buddha, to Pa’s spirit, silently begging for a second chance at life. I’m not ready to die. My prayers are broken by my fear of the man in black. I imagine him returning, raising that long curved knife in the air. I can feel my own body cringing, feel the hiss of air as it swings toward my neck. Fear chills me. I shut my eyes and lower my head, looking for the courage to face the blade.

  Suddenly footsteps echo on the dry leaves. I drop my last tears, my eyes dry with fear. The air is warm, but I’m shaking with cold. I look down at the ground and shut my eyes. I tighten my body, bracing for pain. I don’t know whether I should scream or bite my lip. When he comes closer, I get ready to die.

  All of a sudden, I feel a tug on the rope that snakes about my arms. I cringe. I squint my eyes tighter. Soon my arms swing free, released from the trunk of the tree, and I slump to the ground. I open my eyes and turn.

  The man in black speaks sternly. “Comrade, now I set you free. Don’t do that again.” He says no more.

  He loosens the rough rope from my numb wrists. I grab my scarf and put it around my neck, leaving the spilled sour leaves on the ground. I struggle to get up and walk but can’t; in the unimaginable excitement of being freed, I have forgotten that I cannot walk. I crawl back as fast as I can through the hole in the fence without turning back.

  Around me, birds sing in the woods. Every sense is sharpened, and I’m amazed at my own energy. I struggle down to the ox path and slowly crawl up the other side. I pull myself up, grabbing vines along the bank. I’m numb with my good luck, can’t believe that I have been released. It seems like a strange, powerful dream. The voice of the man still echoes in my head.

  As I crawl past the grove of trees, dragging my swollen left foot along through the dirt and dung, I’m elated to see our tattered community of huts. Never before have I seen the beauty in them. I’m anxious to tell Mak about my brush with death, my release. I’m giddy with the joy of survival. As I approach our hut, my eyes run hungrily over every detail. I can’t stop looking. A short time ago, I faced a certain death. Now I’m home. “My hut,” I call softly, crying, as if the palm walls were human, a close friend whom I’ve missed.

  From the ground, I look up to see the pale, thinning shape of my mother’s face, old at thirty-five, peeking out at me from the hut. In the twilight shadows, her face is a dream.

  “Oh, Mak,” I cry in joy and disbelief, “I thought I wouldn’t see you again.”

  My words spill out, a tumbled, babbling story about leaves and a man in black cutting my head off. In that moment I feel I must never let her out of my sight. My heart clings to her, my eyes can’t let her go.

  Mak strokes my hair. “You’re lucky. I’m so glad that you weren’t killed.” Tears stream down her cheeks. She reaches out to hold me, tightly embraces me. I feel Mak’s love. Her fear of losing me. Suddenly she stops crying. She wipes her tears. Then mine. Sitting near Mak, I’m lost in indescribable happiness. I’m oblivious to Avy or Map. I don’t feel the throbbing in my foot, the pain in my puffy leg. Only an unreal sense of gratitude.

 
; Mak says, “Stop crying, Mak cooks leaves for you. Stop crying, koon.…”

  The next day Mak, Avy, and Map come home with slark khnarng packed in the pouch of her scarf, wrapped around her neck. I’m grateful. Eagerly, I greet them. Their presence is medicine to me.

  My foot gradually gets better from the daily cleaning with the slark khnarng. Guided by vague memories of my father, I prescribe for myself the care I think my foot needs to heal. Twice a day I disinfect it with the stinging acidic juice. With my thumb and forefinger, I gently scrape and pinch away the crusted yellow pus that has formed overnight, releasing a fresh stream of blood. Mak is like the head doctor, checking my foot almost every night.

  I’m relieved, almost grateful, not to be forced to work. I sleep soundly, trying to make up for the restless nights caused by my throbbing foot. One morning I’m pulled from slumber by a fierce voice. The next thing I see is the ugly chhlop looking down at me.

  His voice strikes like a fist. “Comrade, why don’t you go to work? Go to work, or I’ll take you to reform! You must go to work.”

  I don’t know what to say to him—I’m ambushed before I have a chance to think. Tears come before words, but I abstain from crying.

  Finally I spit out the words, “I can’t walk. My foot is painful, it’s swollen. I will work when my foot gets better.” Submissively, I show him my foot. Red blood spurts out the side of the yellowish curve of my wound. The bleeding is probably the result of getting up so quickly. The blotchy face glances briefly at my foot, recoiling from it. Then he is gone. I know he’ll keep an eye on me.

  In time, my foot improves. In the cool evening I stand in front of the hut. For the first time, I feel as if I need to inhale more air. Suddenly I sense a weight upon me. The ugly chhlop is out hunting again. I hop up into the hut, frightened. “Mak, it’s him again!” I flatten myself against the front wall of the hut, hoping he won’t see me.

  In a cold, detached voice, he barks at Mak, his elder. “Comrade, where is your daughter? Your daughter has to work.”

  “She’s still sick. Her foot has not healed yet,” says Mak meekly.

  “But she can walk some,” he snaps.

  I listen to them, my body shaking. He sticks his face inside our hut.

  “Comrade! Get out of there and come with me,” he orders.

  I obey. I burst into tears as I move away from the wall. I plead to Mak, “Mak, help me. Help me!” He grabs my arm and yanks me out of the hut as I grab Mak’s hand.

  He threatens, “If you don’t go, I will take you to Angka.” He speaks the words we fear. The mysterious Angka. I don’t know where he wants to take me—another distant labor camp, nearby fields? All I can do is cry.

  “Go, koon, so they won’t harm you.” Mak lets go of my hand.

  I limp beside this awful boy who thrives on his small measure of power.

  “Don’t hurt my daughter,” Mak begs, appearing behind me. Her sunken face bespeaks pain, added to my own.

  The next morning I’m herded with a pack of malnourished kids by a group of chhlops. After an hour’s walk I limp onto a rough, barren field. Another labor camp. I sob silently, wishing Mak could stop them from taking me away. I wish Pa were still alive to make my foot better. I’m the slowest kid, lagging behind a scattered crowd of children. As if the hard labor weren’t enough, pain is again my working companion. It’s only morning, but the sun is fierce. I’m fighting the pain. The sun. This time there’s no Cheng to help. I don’t know how I’ll survive another labor camp.

  The new labor camp, near Phnom Srais, isn’t far from Daakpo, perhaps five miles. We must stay here, they command, but there isn’t any shelter. Before we have a chance to rest, they order us to work. They throw hoes, baskets, and carrying sticks at us. Even the youngest know better than to disobey or talk back.

  As in Oh Runtabage labor camp, a mekorg breaks the children into groups of four or five. I’m assigned to a group of five, one of whom is elected to be the group leader. She oversees everyone’s work and reports to the mekorg. At least she’s one of the “new people.” The mekorg hands me a hoe since I can’t walk well. I break up the hard dirt and scoop it into everyone’s baskets. I repeat the task over and over, and the vibration from the hoe as it strikes the earth sends an echo of pain that crawls up through my foot, to my leg, and all the way to my waist. Dust swirls and settles, threatening more infection. The intense heat is suffocating. Everyone moves slowly, a weary production line, an army of ants that could be crushed under the heel of Angka.

  I have a fever. I announce to no one in particular, “I’m very sick and my foot is painful. I want to stop a little.” I squat down, allowing myself the brief luxury of leaning my shoulder against the hoe. The group leader takes over my task. She begins to break up the dirt. She looks at me urgently.

  “Comrade, why aren’t you working?” A loud, forceful voice erupts behind my back.

  “That comrade said she’s very sick,” answers the group leader, pointing at me as I struggle to get up.

  “Now, you dig the dirt,” she says, pointing at the group leader. “You”—she points to me—“carry the dirt. No more resting.”

  I carry the baskets filled with dirt, struggling feebly up the bank with the weight. The scene is a familiar flashback: Mekorgs and chhlops stand among us, watchful. I wonder if I’ll ever be free of their constant scrutiny.

  The hot, scorching day changes abruptly. By late afternoon the sky turns cloudy. More clouds move in and it gets very dark. Thunder roars. Lightning strikes, flashing bright jagged lines, lighting up the dark sky. Everyone stirs, anxious and agitated. We look for anyone with the authority to dismiss us, but two mekorgs order us to continue working until, they say, Angka Leu tells us to stop.

  Thunder echoes again. The rain falls in dense plops, beating down on me. Then it falls in heavy sheets, stinging our arms. We run in a frenzy. The mekorgs and chhlops vanish. Everyone, all at once, runs. Knowing I can’t run, I plead for help, “Please wait for me. Wait for me!” I’m scared for my life. Everyone scrambles. The lightning strikes brutally across the sky, revealing chaotic crowds of frightened children moving through the drenched, muddy field. Some cling to one another. Others trudge by themselves, scattered bodies in the field. The only way we can see where we’re going is by the flashes of lightning. I lag behind.

  Another lightning bolt lights the sky. I see a group of four children holding on to each other, with dark clothes covering their heads, walking beside me. I grab a girl’s soaking scarf, draped over her head. Then I switch, grabbing her arm instead, making sure I won’t be lost in this tempest. She turns. Glances at me, startled.

  Now the sky is totally dark. The intermittent flashes of lightning stop. The sky roars, thundering. The angry rain still falls, beating, slapping my body. Everyone shudders. My jaws chatter. I’m cold, yet I feel warm with fever. We stumble into a ditch, slamming into baskets and hard pieces of wood. Screams erupt in unison: “Mak, help me. Mak….” My words mingle with the other pleas. In the chaos of mud and baskets and the collision of bodies, I struggle to stand. I reach out in the dark, looking for the kids I’ve been with. I feel a hand, grab it, and say, “Please wait for me.”

  The sharp, pinching pain in my foot is immense, but the fear of getting lost, swallowed up in the cold darkness, cannot be measured. I cry the pain away. My own suffering is lost in this madness. Somehow we rise and move on. We must move on.

  As suddenly as it started, the rain is over. The darkness lingers, daytime tumbling into night. Some children’s cries pierce the night, other children whimper. I release my long-held fears, calling out to Mak in my mind. A man’s voice from a distance rises over the children’s cries. It sends a wave of hope. The group I’m with steps up the pace, shifting our bodies in the direction of the man’s voice. We cling together, a chain of human links. As we get closer, we can make out the man’s words of warning.

  “Don’t cross the water! Stand there! I’ll help you one by one,” the man’s voice
commands, loudly but with compassion.

  “Ow, help me!” a voice bursts out, choking. “I fell in the water. Help me, Athy. Help me….”

  Who is calling out my name? I rack my mind, trying to think. Suddenly it clicks—the voice is Ary’s, a girl I know from Daakpo. I saw her earlier, when we were working.

  “Ary! Ary! Where are you?” I yell at the top of my voice. I want to pull her out of the gushing water, but I can’t see anything in the darkness. I can hardly move. My body is as stiff and cold as a corpse. I feel my way with my hands, threading through other children, reaching forward in the dark, trying to get to her.

  I shriek, “Where are you, Ary? Where are you?”

  “I’m in the water…. Help me, Athy,” she cries, choking and coughing.

  “Ary, wait, I’m coming.” My feet slowly sink in the slick, muddy soil. The cold water gives me chills. I stoop, my hands working as eyes. Suddenly the man’s voice shouts, breaking my own fear of getting swept away like Ary. “Don’t get into the water,” he commands. “I’ll get her. Stay there!”

  I stop, relieved and grateful. Everyone else, it seems, has abandoned us. He somehow manages to get Ary out of the water.

  The man guides us with a flashlight. We squeeze together, shivering. As we walk through the field, I suddenly feel concrete beneath my feet—a distant memory of a more civilized world. I know we’re now in a village, but I can’t see anything before me except the curtain of darkness. A woman’s voice guides us up a wooden stairway to a darkened building. I’m exhausted, yet with every step I take I encounter a rug of children, sprawling and packed closely together.

  I resign myself to the darkness and sink down amid some mysterious metal objects, hugging them like a soft pillow.