Witchika Does Not Like Rice

Witchika does not like rice. “Eat rice,” his father says calmly. Two hands place a bowl of steaming white rice before him on the wooden table, but he does not look up. Another pair gives him a hard-boiled egg. Witchika moves forward in his chair and picks up a fork. He pokes at the rice, and then at the egg. The supple white surface now looks like it has suffered several puncture wounds. Witchika looks around at the other members of his family, and then at me. We are all taking soup out of a large communal bowl and dishing it into our bowls. Witchika is not ready for this kind of food yet, so he mostly eats eggs instead. Still, everyone is eating rice. He looks down at the bowl before him and stares at it. Perhaps he refuses to eat on a matter of principle? Only five years old, and he is beginning to form the idea that rice is a symbol of his place in society. The rejection of it means that he does not have to be a prisoner of his social class. In fact, the freedom to eat anything he wants could be part of a movement. The Witchika revolt! Freedom for the palate! I secretly support his rejection of the staple. “I’m not very fond of eating rice every day either,” I want to say to him right there and then. However, the bowl of rice before me must be emptied simply for appearances sake, so I give him a smile instead.

He turns to face the blaring television, which is far more interesting than eating. 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. Mother notices that he is not eating and repeats the same command, only much louder. Still he will not eat. Good, Witchika, hold fast and stick to your guns. Mother grows angry. Perhaps she has had a bad day at the primary school? Something has happened which has affected her temper. She stands up and tears off a piece of straw from the thatched roof above her. Her face reveals nothing about what she is about to do. She walks over to her son. Witichika does not see the threat coming in time for him to retreat. He is still watching the television when a soft blow comes down on his hands.

Witchika cries in pain. Quickly, he dislodges himself from the table and runs for safety. Mother emits a guttural rising pitch of indignation and follows chase. Bory and I look up from our meal and exchange glances and nervous smiles. The scene has become too farcical to ignore. Mother and Witchika are locked into circumnavigating the table. The boy’s small yellow pajamas make for an easy target, and his little legs cannot outrun her 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. Poor Witchika! His brothers are laughing at the scene, but his parents are stony faced. Their eyes are focused on their bowls of rice and soup. The crying enervates him to the point where he can go on no longer. His strategy has saved him from more blows, but he is now back where he started. He rejoins the group and sits down at the table. “Eat rice,” his father calmly tells him. His tone is didactic. Witchika picks up his fork and spoon and begins to carve up the egg resting on the edge of the bowl. A saucer of fried meat is brought over for him from one of his brothers, but he takes no notice. His concentration is fixed. Witchika’s egg is now divided into three equal pieces. He picks up one, 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. I ask him if I might have some of his delicious pork, and he gives me the whole saucer. I take one small piece, and politely offer the rest of it back to him. He needs the protein more than I do. He does not care to eat the rest. The dogs will eat what he has not eaten after the meal.

Witchika is not afraid of anything, except mother. He practices his fighting skills in the front yard of our house. He is usually by himself. Mother is usually at school or at the boh-boah stand across the street, and Father is usually at work. For the most part, Witchika plays in his own world. When he brings out his toy trucks or monsters, I play with him. However, his war games are much too dangerous to participate in.

Here he is with his legs are spread apart and bent at the knees. 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, which is always on, 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? He goes for one of his favorite toys. It is a plastic gun with two red barrels on the end, a banana clip, and a little fireman that sits on the top just before the sights. When you press the trigger, the voice commands, “Fire!” I have always wondered about that toy. Is it a gun or a firefighting device? Father once heard the sound of an AK-47 on the television, and recognized it at once. He lived through the war, but Witchika knows nothing about it.

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.