First They Killed My Father (38 page)

Greeting! First and foremost I hope and pray that you’re in good health and spirit at the time you’re reading this letter. My name is M. and I was born on May 5th, 1977 in Cambodia. I don’t know where in Cambodia I was born but that’s the year that you, Bong srei left Ro Leap labor camp to be a child soldier, six to eight month after the Khmer Rouge took your father away. And according to your book, “First They Killed My Father”, that’s two years and some months since the Khmer Rouge took over Phnom Penh and forces our Khmer people out the city. And that’s the reason I am corresponding.

I don’t have much information about my family’s background but the story of your family is so so similar to mine. I am also Khmer/Chinese because my mother K. is half Chinese and my father was pure Khmer. Unlike you, bong, I’ve never got the chance to get to know my father and other brother whom my family and I lost in the hands of the Khmer Rouge. But with the love and grace of God, my mother survived with me and my older sister P. And was sponsored to Vermont in 1986 after a year in Thailand refugee camps and a couple of months in the Island of the Philippines. We then moved to
Philadelphia after finding out that our relatives and family friends lived here.

All and all, bong srei, I like to say, that your book has taught me a lot of what my mother had to go through. And I think you and my mom the strongest Cambodian women there are. Reading the story of how Bong Keav makes me wonder of how my older brother pass away because I’ve never question my mother or sister about his death or my father’s death. Well bong, I first found you on the cover of the USA Today 2/3/00 “Haunted by Cambodia”. And I purchase your book from a web-site. I’ve passed it on to my friends and family and also read it to my little cousin. I enjoy the book and cried as I read about your trials and tribulation. If there is any way I could support the Landmine Free World, please inform me upon your responds. Us until then, may God continue to rain down His love and mercy upon you and your family. Aw Koon, Bong Srei

Respectfully,

M.

Pennsylvania

[E-mail forwarded to Loung Ung by Dith Pran. Pran, a subject of the film
The Killing Fields,
is a photojournalist and founder of the Dith Pran Holocaust Awareness Project.]

July 12, 2002

Hi Dith Pran,

I hope you still remember my name (S.P., a Cambodian from Holland).

Today the Dutch TV has shown and made reportage with Ms. Loung Ung story. We had tears and we did recall all our pains from the past of the horrible war and killing.

Ms. Ung, she is marvelous to explained her heart and pains, our tears and our joy came out at the same time because there are people like you still who are fighting for the innocents and powerless Cambodians.

I do know how to express my thanks to you, to Ms. Ung and your team.

My sincere regards.

S.P.

Holland

Dear Ms. Loung Ung,

I have just finished reading your incredible book “First They Killed my father” and am left both stunned and inspired. As a Cambodian-Canadian I was deeply moved by your will to survive amidst such horror. I was born in 1974 in Phnom Penh and placed in an orphanage called “Canada House” until we were evacuated to Sai Gon due to the approaching domination of the Khmer Rouge. Shortly after I was adopted by a Canadian family in Montreal, Quebec. Having no memories of Cambodia, it is somewhat difficult for me to envision what it was like under the Pol Pot Regime. It is through your imagination and depiction of the truth that I am finally able to comprehend the reality of the Cambodian people’s suffering.

I wept when you told of your dear father’s death. He looks so similar to my own father—the same moon face, gentle smile and caring eyes. I do not know if my biological parents survived and have tried to make peace with this unanswered question. Though I wish to deny that they were tortured, your book forces me to accept this possibility. What a profound feeling.

Your beautiful and haunting words have sincerely touched me. It was wonderful to
read such a current and honest book. Thank you Loung for sharing your story. I hope it will propel other Cambodians to remember their struggle as forgetting the past annihilates hope for the future.

Sincerely,

S.B.K.

Canada

“The sky has turned pink and orange and the air blows cool breezes that chase the bugs away. All around us, the mass of people stroll together, their voices a low hum broken by an occasional shrill call for their kids to slow down.”

Lucky Child
takes its title from the moniker given to Loung Ung by Bat Dang neighbors who remained after the Khmer Rouge was deposed. A memoir about coming of age and surviving the peace, the book picks up the story of Loung’s life where
First They Killed My Father
left off. Focusing on the 1980s and 1990s in both America and Cambodia, Loung opens the story on her first day in Vermont in June of 1980. She chronicles her assimilation as in the United States surmounting dogged memories of genocide and the deep scars of In alternating chapters she gives voice to a genocide survivor left behind: her beloved older sister Chou.
Lucky Child, “
an unforgettable portrait of resilience and largeness of spirit”
(Los Angeles Times),
is about grasping for equilibrium and the strength to take on a new life in a place where violence is not the norm.
Lucky Child
is now available in trade paperback from Harper Perennial.

From “Minnie Mouse and Gunfire”—about Loung’s first Fourth of July

A
FTER A YUMMY BARBEQUE
of burgers, hotdogs, and Eang’s special Cambodian chicken, we all walk the short path from the McNulty’s house to the fairground. The sky has turned pink and orange and the air blows cool breezes that chase the bugs away. All around us, the mass of people stroll together, their voices a low hum broken by an occasional shrill call for their kids to slow down. As we march along, my skin picks up the excitement, a charge of electricity.

The mass is all heading in the same
direction, to a field of grass and shrubs used to host the fair every summer, and an occasional concert or monster truck show in the fall. Soon the mass grows too large for the sidewalk and overflows onto the street, slowing down traffic as people stop to greet, talk to, and gossip with their neighbors. Looking around, I’m surprised to see the normally drab white people dressed in festive red, white, and blue colors. A man in front of me adds another foot to his frame with a blue-and-white striped top hat. Next to him, white stars bounce on the back of a woman’s shirt as she jogs to grab a child’s hand. The young child breaks free of the woman’s grasp, her voice raised to its highest pitch, her arms out like the wings of a plane, as she runs to meet another friend her age. Once together, they wrap their arms over one another’s shoulders and lean their heads together, whispering secrets into each other’s ears.

Watching them, my palm feels empty and cool until Ahn sprints to my side and takes my hand. With her black hair and Asian features, Ahn is the only other girl who looks similar to me in the crowd, and she makes me feel accepted. Her acceptance warms me. Hand in hand, we edge along with the crowd toward the fairground. Ahn drags me along and talks excitedly about the exploding lights that cover the sky like shooting stars. Behind us, Joe and Lisa explain to Meng the importance of the Fourth of July.

After a few moments of searching, Joe finds a bench in the first row with room enough for all of us. All around, children scream with joy; their arms shoot out sparklers and flap around like dragonflies. Somewhere in the distance, a band plays songs I’ve never heard. The drums and symbols roll and clash thunderously, lifting me into the air before the tuba drags me back down to the ground. Above us, the stars twinkle like the eyes of the gods, blinking in and out, as if they’re spying on our festivities.

“Ahn drags me along and talks excitedly about the exploding lights that cover the sky like shooting stars.”

“The smell of burnt powder, the brightness of the bombs, and the haze of smoke are so terrifying that even the stars leave us and disappear into their black holes.”

“It’s almost time, it’s almost time,” the crowd whispers.

The crowd huddles in the dark, forming bumps on the field resembling burial mounds.

“It’s almost time,” the mass exhales.

My skin moistens from the sound of crackling gunshots from afar.

“Any moment now,” the swarm murmurs as the excitement grows. Perspiration forms above my lip. I wrap my arms around myself, my hands rubbing my skin to warm my arms.

Suddenly, a cannonball shoots into the air; the whiz of its flight and brilliant explosion hovers above me. My hands clasp over my ears, my eyes shut, and my jaw clenches so tightly I feel the muscles of my cheeks cramp up. In the sky, the rocket explodes, and its deafening sound vibrates in my heart. Then another cannon hurls another weapon above the crowd and is followed by many more as I brace myself for the oncoming war. The smell of burnt powder, the brightness of the bombs, and the haze of smoke are so terrifying that even the stars leave us and disappear into their black holes. Somewhere in the crowd, a baby screams; its cries jump into my head and are trapped in my skull, flooding my senses. Another explosion sends me trying to scurry under the bench but Meng grabs my arms and holds me in my seat. I want to be a good, strong girl so I press my body against the back wall as more flares shoot into the night and burst into fire showers. I flatten my body into the bench and try to disappear into the wood.

In my seat, my throat closes as I gasp for air. Suddenly, I am outside of time and space and in a world where Cambodia and America collide, with me stuck somewhere in the middle. …