Free When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback by Chanrithy Him Page A

Mak interrupts Pa . “Those we saw on the road. What will happen to them?”
    “I don’t know what they’ll do to them. But I think the Khmer Rouge won’t just take the country. I think a government fights for its nation to liberate its people,” Pa philosophizes. He wants to believe the Khmer Rouge can be forgiving, that it can become the Cambodian people’s government.
    After that evening at Sturng Krartort Lake, we journey through many villages and make several stops. Our routine is simple. We walk most of the day and sleep during the night. The sky has become the roof of our home, and the distant stars replace our fluorescent lights. As we crowd together on blankets and plastic ground coverings, the loose tent of mosquito netting around us does little good. Mosquitoes feast on our blood, leave itchy red welts on our hands and legs.
    Within a week we approach Yiey * Narg’s house, Pa ’s aunt, in Srey Va, a small rural village set amid dry, sandy fields on our way to Year Piar. I’m thirsty and hungry, eagerly expecting good food and comfortable rest on a soft bed like the one I left behind.
    But it is just a dream. Yiey Narg and her husband are modest farmers who have already lived under the Khmer Rouge for five years. Their wooden house is small and crowded. There are no chairs, only a hard platform and a bamboo counter near it. Instead of lush greenery, the overwhelming color here is drab brown. I stare at a few banana and papaya trees thriving in a dry, sandy backyard. The soil is as worn-out as the expression on Yiey Narg’s and her husband’s faces.
    Yiey Narg informs us how restricted her family’s freedom has been since the Khmer Rouge arrived. They had touted a promise of equality. And yet, her family can’t fish or trade with other people as they used to. They can’t travel outside the confines of their own rural neighborhood. As a result, there are deprivations. It seems they have little salt for cooking. And so they’ve learned to improvise, using ashes from the cooking fire to preserve the fish they’ve caught.
    After we have a simple rural meal, Pa wants to head to Year Piar immediately. But Yiey Narg insists we all rest overnight at her house. Pa is polite but adamant about going to see his father.
    “Then your wife and children stay. And Heak and her children. All right, you stay, rest.” She makes up her mind for all of us, which is almost always the way it is with Cambodian elders. “Tidsim,” Yiey Narg continues, “be careful. I’ve heard rumors. Some families have had to go elsewhere, beyond their home provinces, because the Khmer Rouge are not trustworthy. They’ll question you about your past profession. Who knows what they’ll do to you…. Be careful, don’t trust them,” she warns Pa .
    Be careful, don’t trust them. The words sound ominous yet abstract—an open-ended warning. But my fear is more realistic now, especially when I hear this admonition from a relative who has lived under the Khmer Rouge for five years.
    Pa takes me with him to Year Piar. I’m very tired, but relieved to be leaving. Like Pa , who believes in human goodness, I still believe that life could return to what it used to be. Already, as we are about to leave for Year Piar, I look forward to something less grim.
    “Athy, koon , don’t sleep, do you hear?”
    Even as I close my eyes, cheek pressed against Pa ’s warm back, I feel the fog of exhaustion settle over me. But I must leave this place. And I’m happy to be here, clinging to Pa like a weary little monkey.
    The labored strains of the scooter engine propel the wheels along a dried-mud path while my tired eyes struggle to stay open.
    “ Pa , are we almost there yet?”
    “We’re almost there, koon . Don’t sleep now.”
    “No,” I say softly.
    I lie. My eyes are barely open. My hands are losing their grip on Pa ’s waist. Already I’m beginning to doze off. Now and then I feel Pa ’s hand shaking my back repeatedly. I hear him