When Broken Glass Floats: Growing Up Under the Khmer Rouge Paperback Read Online Free PDF Page A

inside. I wish for the war noise to stay where it is. I’m too tired to stay awake. The next thing I feel is my body shaking, Chea waking me up.
    The morning is cloudy and chilly as I stand outside the gate near our packed suitcases. I’ve been asked by Mak to watch for a bus to pick us up for Phnom Penh. I look at my home: the pine trees, three on each side, stand before our big two-story stucco house, almost as tall as the house itself. Along the front cement fence, a cool, shady row of mango, papaya, and coconut trees overlooks swings—a playground I already begin to miss almost as much as I miss my father.
    Mostly, I feel relieved: We won’t be captured by the Viet Cong after all. We’re going to be with Pa.
    A faded blue bus packed with people stops in front of the house. Everyone, it seems, has the same idea. On top of the bus rises a growing tower of suitcases and bags. Through the open gate, I run to tell Mak . As I begin to climb the cement stairs, my family is coming down. My mother holds Avy on her hip with one hand and a bundle in the other. Her black hair is combed neatly, framing her face and curving against her neck below her earlobes. She wears a colorful sleeveless blouse with a flowery long sarong, similar to that worn by Hawaiians. As always she is composed.
    I ask Mak , “What about Pa ? Pa ’s coming home tonight, and we are not going to be here. Will he be scared when he doesn’t know where we are?”
    “Your father will know. He’ll find us. Go on now. Go to the bus, koon Mak !” *
    As the bus starts to leave, I look at my home, one last snapshot, click. With my eyes, I caress all that I see—the pine trees, the swings by the shaded mango trees near the fence, the balcony with hanging houseplants cascading from the ceiling. I remember how we used to come out and sit on the balcony and enjoy warm evening breezes together. I would chase fireflies hovering near the houseplants.
    Everyone on the bus is quiet, even little kids. We glance at each other and see silent worry, especially on the adults’ faces. Some people hide it—they look out the bus windows, staring at trees and passing landscapes.
    Pa somehow finds us in Phnom Penh. We find shelter at Bantiey Sheichaak, a military garrison of sorts. We enter a world of curfews. At 11 A.M . we can’t leave the house. For hours Cambodian surveillance planes circle overhead in search of Viet Cong infiltration. If they detect any movement, you could be shot. Whenever I hear the whine of engines above, I am afraid to breathe, to play, even to pee.
    For two months this is our life. Then Pa says we’re going home to Takeo. “It’s safe now,” he announces. But it is not the same. Our home has been bombed.
    Surprisingly, Akie, a collie, has survived these months alone, unlike our guard dog, Aka Hom, who is gone. Akie endured the war, waiting loyally outside the charred remains of our decimated home. When Pa arrives, Akie runs up to him, licking him again and again. In Cambodia, it is rare to see public displays of affection between adults. But with pets, we feel free to lavish our affections. Pa has always enjoyed pampering Akie, shampooing him, feeding him prime table scraps.
    Instead of staying at our home, we go to the house of Kong * Horne, my mother’s uncle. His family has abandoned it and has not returned. But he is one of the lucky ones, whose house is untouched by war. His two-story stucco home overlooks the Bassac River, located near the heart of Takeo City.
    Sitting on the scooter, Pa tells Than to go with him to see our home, but I ask to go along too. He looks at me, hesitant, but then says I can come.
    Along the streets lie clothes and debris. I look for people, but there’s no one. When Pa says we’re here, I look at our house, but the top part is gone. It looks broken, shorter than before. The gate is broken. The mango, coconut, and papaya trees look dry, burned. The tops of two pine trees have broken off, withered, and turned