When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback by Chanrithy Him Page B
Authors: Chanrithy Him
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one.
Mak had treaded the winding road and lied to the Khmer Rouge. Her false act of patriotism prompted by Som’s secret warning saved our lives. Despite her fear and her new loyalty to the Khmer Rouge, Som recognized her human obligation, her old loyalty to Kong Houng, her former employer, and thus his family, his children and grandchildren.
The Khmer Rouge leaders in the village want to see Yiey Khmeng ( Pa ’s mother) to interrogate her regarding the whereabouts of Uncle Seng. To prepare her for this, she, Kong Houng, Mak , and other relatives discuss what Yiey Khmeng should tell them. Already we’re playing within their rules, hoping we’ll survive this life-and-death game. This order to interrogate Yiey Khmeng provokes Kong Houng: “I already told them about Seng. Atidsim also told them. Now what do they want? These people are impossible.”
Yiey Khmeng comes home distressed, agitated and shaking. Slowly she whispers, “They asked a lot of questions. After one of them asked me, the others continued interrogating. They kept asking ‘Where is Seng?’ One of them addressed me as Mae . * He said, ‘ Mae , where is your other son and what did he do in the city?’ He questioned me sarcastically. ‘Tell Angka Leu where he is and what he did—that is, if you don’t want your son to be in a gas barrel. † Do you want your son to be in a gas barrel, Mae ?’”
“Why do they speak of such a thing?” she goes on. “These people are cruel. All I told them was that I don’t know where Seng is or what he did. All I knew was that I saw him carrying his books to school every day. One of them was furious and said: ‘What kind of a mother are you? Don’t you know what your son did? Comrade, you lie! Stop asking her more questions. When her son is here, put him in a gas barrel.’ And then he stormed out of the hut. These people are coldhearted.”
Yiey Khmeng sighs, staring at the floor.
Silence. The Khmer Rouge’s dark power renders us speechless, makes us paranoid. We’ve learned to watch over our shoulders for the chhlop. It becomes second nature. Our tightly drawn family community numbers forty-three people, all supported largely by my grandfather’s orchard, which is beginning to bear the signs of our dependence. The banana trees are nearly stripped bare; papaya trees and pineapple plants are overused. Still, we find things to eat, to survive.
“Athy, do you want to eat pickled armmiage ?” Mak asks me one day, seemingly in good spirits.
“ Mak , I like to eat pickled armmiage with broiled fish. It’s delicious, isn’t it, Mak ?” My mouth waters as I think about it, a green plant resembling watercress.
“Do you want to look for it so Mak can pickle it for you? It grows wild along the paths, by people’s huts. Mak picked some yesterday on the way to work. This is what it looks like. Please go find some more for Mak .”
I eagerly ask my mother for something to put the armmiage in. Mak ties knots at both ends of a scarf; draped around my neck, it creates two pouches. She gives me a plant of armmiage to take with me in case I don’t remember what it looks like. From hut to hut, my eyes take in all the plants and weeds growing on the paths or in the yards. Mak is right about a lot of armmiage growing wild. It grows everywhere, along the pathways and in front of people’s huts. After I pick a patch of it, I look up and see more armmiage ahead of me, some growing in clusters, others scattered randomly. Both of the pouches fill quickly, but I am still picking. I know how good it will taste once it is pickled and ready to be eaten.
I am stooping down by the path at the corner of a house when I hear a chorus of women’s voices.
“Who else dropped the bombs?” An angry voice demands. “It was him, Aseng, who dropped them. Our families and children were savagely killed because of him. When he comes, we’ll torture him and make him feel pain.”
Her anger makes me look up. The name the woman
Mak had treaded the winding road and lied to the Khmer Rouge. Her false act of patriotism prompted by Som’s secret warning saved our lives. Despite her fear and her new loyalty to the Khmer Rouge, Som recognized her human obligation, her old loyalty to Kong Houng, her former employer, and thus his family, his children and grandchildren.
The Khmer Rouge leaders in the village want to see Yiey Khmeng ( Pa ’s mother) to interrogate her regarding the whereabouts of Uncle Seng. To prepare her for this, she, Kong Houng, Mak , and other relatives discuss what Yiey Khmeng should tell them. Already we’re playing within their rules, hoping we’ll survive this life-and-death game. This order to interrogate Yiey Khmeng provokes Kong Houng: “I already told them about Seng. Atidsim also told them. Now what do they want? These people are impossible.”
Yiey Khmeng comes home distressed, agitated and shaking. Slowly she whispers, “They asked a lot of questions. After one of them asked me, the others continued interrogating. They kept asking ‘Where is Seng?’ One of them addressed me as Mae . * He said, ‘ Mae , where is your other son and what did he do in the city?’ He questioned me sarcastically. ‘Tell Angka Leu where he is and what he did—that is, if you don’t want your son to be in a gas barrel. † Do you want your son to be in a gas barrel, Mae ?’”
“Why do they speak of such a thing?” she goes on. “These people are cruel. All I told them was that I don’t know where Seng is or what he did. All I knew was that I saw him carrying his books to school every day. One of them was furious and said: ‘What kind of a mother are you? Don’t you know what your son did? Comrade, you lie! Stop asking her more questions. When her son is here, put him in a gas barrel.’ And then he stormed out of the hut. These people are coldhearted.”
Yiey Khmeng sighs, staring at the floor.
Silence. The Khmer Rouge’s dark power renders us speechless, makes us paranoid. We’ve learned to watch over our shoulders for the chhlop. It becomes second nature. Our tightly drawn family community numbers forty-three people, all supported largely by my grandfather’s orchard, which is beginning to bear the signs of our dependence. The banana trees are nearly stripped bare; papaya trees and pineapple plants are overused. Still, we find things to eat, to survive.
“Athy, do you want to eat pickled armmiage ?” Mak asks me one day, seemingly in good spirits.
“ Mak , I like to eat pickled armmiage with broiled fish. It’s delicious, isn’t it, Mak ?” My mouth waters as I think about it, a green plant resembling watercress.
“Do you want to look for it so Mak can pickle it for you? It grows wild along the paths, by people’s huts. Mak picked some yesterday on the way to work. This is what it looks like. Please go find some more for Mak .”
I eagerly ask my mother for something to put the armmiage in. Mak ties knots at both ends of a scarf; draped around my neck, it creates two pouches. She gives me a plant of armmiage to take with me in case I don’t remember what it looks like. From hut to hut, my eyes take in all the plants and weeds growing on the paths or in the yards. Mak is right about a lot of armmiage growing wild. It grows everywhere, along the pathways and in front of people’s huts. After I pick a patch of it, I look up and see more armmiage ahead of me, some growing in clusters, others scattered randomly. Both of the pouches fill quickly, but I am still picking. I know how good it will taste once it is pickled and ready to be eaten.
I am stooping down by the path at the corner of a house when I hear a chorus of women’s voices.
“Who else dropped the bombs?” An angry voice demands. “It was him, Aseng, who dropped them. Our families and children were savagely killed because of him. When he comes, we’ll torture him and make him feel pain.”
Her anger makes me look up. The name the woman
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