Witchika

Witchika does not like rice. “Eat rice,” his father tells him when the bowl and cutlery are placed before him. He pokes at it, and looks around him while the others are eating their luncheon. He is distracted by the television, for it is far more interesting. His body is facing his bowl, but his head is now turned to his right. The soft eyes are watching the flickering images of a dancing troupe from Phnom Penh. His mother notices that he is not eating and repeats the same command, only much louder. Still he will not eat. Mother grows angry. She stands up and tears off a piece of straw from the thatched roof above her. She walks over to her son. Witichika does not see the threat coming in time for him to retreat. A soft blow comes down on his hands, and Witchika cries in pain. Quickly, he dislodges himself from the table and runs for safety around the table. Mother emits a guttural rising pitch of indignation and follows chase. The two are locked into circumnavigating the table. The boy’s small yellow pajamas make for an easy target, and his little legs cannot outrun mother for very long. Witchika is upset and tired. He finally sits down with his back resting against a wooden pole and begins to cry. His tears are hot and his wails can be heard from far away. Witchika’s brothers are laughing at the scene, but his parents are stony faced. Their eyes are focused on their bowls of rice and soup. Soon, Witchika’s own efforts to seek attention enervate him to the point where he stops crying. He rejoins the group and sits down at the table. “Eat rice,” his father calmly tells him. Witchika picks up his fork and spoon and begins to carve up an egg resting on the edge of the bowl. A saucer of fried meat is brought over for him, but he takes no notice. His concentration is fixed. Witchika’s egg is now divided into three equal pieces. He picks up one piece, covered in sticky rice, and puts it into his mouth with his fingers. He washes it down with a couple of pieces of fried meat. Witchika does not know that his cheeks now have many grains of rice on them. I ask him what kind of meat he is eating. He tells me it is pork. The dogs will eat it later after the meal.

Witchika is not afraid of anything, except mother. He practices his fighting skills in the front yard of our house. His legs are spread apart and bent at the knees, and his hands are ready and cocked in fighting position. One fist is held ready at his ear, and the other is at the other end of his extended arm. In an instant, his legs will jut forward and his fist will punch the air in front of him. Watch carefully. There he goes! A few more punches and he finishes the combination with a kick in the air and a yell. I take a break from my Khmer studies and watch. The television starts to broadcast a program about ghosts and the supernatural. I ask Witchika if he is afraid of ghosts. “No, he tells me, ghosts are afraid of me.” Don’t you wish you had that kind of pluck at his age?

Sometimes his bravado can get the best of him. Here he is now playing with the little girl from the house across the street. They are both lying in the dirt, and the little girl is looking idly at the trees above her. Witchika is playing with a big red blow-up airplane, but he is suddenly looking at the little girl. Without her noticing, he reaches up and hits his companion with the airplane. She is too shocked for words. Witchika hits her again, and the little girl’s hair is messed up. Her cheeks start to swell up, and she cries as he runs for the safety of her mother. She is picked up, caressed, and brought out of harm’s way. Witchika suffers no rebuke from her. Witchika smiles with delight at this act, his brown head held high.

But here comes mother.