Red History Page #3

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After we somehow exit that endless void we turn to a place with slightly more colour. We stop at a very large hut. This hut isn’t made of grass, trees or straw. It looks strong and formidable, like it can withstand the strongest of wind and rainstorms. It is identical to all the other gigantic huts down the grey road. Further down a few more huts, I see a little fat, white man made of snow with a blue krama around its neck and the black window sweeper- like sticks, as hands. 
The driver who was driving the car looks like it. He turns and his smile hides underneath his mustache and long beard, but the wrinkles by his eyes show he is. He then says “Bienvenue!” but to me it sounded like “beayanvinouiiiii”. It almost makes me smile. 



1953 Childhood in rural Cambodia - Chanty

Chanty was born in Cambodia and grew up in a village where she would be considered rather wealthy. She was gifted with her strength of both mind and body. Her family was big and tight-knit. 
Despite her being a well-off family in a village where there was always food on the table and many cows to their name, she remained very modest. This is because though she is young, she knows that this can all be lost in an instant. 

With humble beginnings comes hard work. Her family was a great example of that. They were very hard-working and deserved every fruitful mango on their tree and fat fish they caught from the Serei Saophoan river. 
Behind their house was a massive lump of land that belonged to them. It has many different trees, space for rice paddies and sugarcane nodes, which would reach up to 10 feet tall. Chanty, up until the age of 9 would often try to jump up to try to touch the top of the canes. She stopped doing it however, because it became too easy for her. She became tall and had strong, springy legs from all the jumping that was required to touch the top of the cane. Now, she is 15 and the canes wouldn’t fascinate her as much as they did anymore.
“Why can’t you be more ladylike?” “Why can’t you be more delicate and graceful, like your sister, Thorng?” are the questions her mother always asks her. She scowls at those comments. 

The rough, stringy nodes of the rice crops in the rice field would often cut the family’s hands leaving them with rough, calloused palms, wrapped in red-stained cloth by the end of the day. When they press their hands together to pray or to greet, their hands feel tough; you can feel the bumps: little mountains of thick and rough skin on their hands, which is a reflection of their hard work. It was all worth it, though. They had a house that was able to stay upright in the rain; a house that was envied by the other villagers; a proper door that would not fly away with a gust of wind; one with a lock and that would work on hinges. In this tiny village, this was a sign of extreme wealth as not many people would have that luxury. 

After a hot day in the sun, Chanty was treated to a big, fat, orange mango served with bright, white and sticky rice. The others preferred the green unripe mangoes, dipped in a spicy, salty pungent mixture. However, Chanty liked sweet things. She thought: maybe a sweet mango was magical. It may be… because she was the most intelligent, strong, beautiful, and tallest in the family. Even taller than her brothers. 
She wants to pursue a good high school outside her small village. 

In primary school, her friend had red ribbons. Everyone’s hair was pin straight and too slippery to hold the ribbon in place. The ribbon would slide out of the girls’ hair when they were playing jump rope. Chanty, however, with thick, curly and coarse hair would grip and latch onto the ribbon. She could play jump rope all day and not worry about her hair. 
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