“Through the years I have lived many lives, and with each incarnation my war child is there beside me—giving me strength. … But when I visit her in the Khmer Rouge’s Cambodia, none of my new adult incarnations can travel back with me.”
“I knew I was protecting myself by writing in the past tense. … I knew I had to use the present tense.”
With the narrative style and point of view selected, I sat down and wrote the first three chapters of First They Killed My Father in the past tense. But it did not feel authentic. I knew I was protecting myself by writing in the past tense. I knew I would have an easier time writing this way, but that the book would not have the impact I wanted. I felt (and still strongly feel) that war is hard, heartbreaking, and painful. Writing in the past tense allowed me to distance myself from that pain, but it distanced the reader as well. I knew I had to use the present tense. When I made the switch from past to present tense, the emotional toll of writing was exponentially harder. For months I listened only to Cambodian music, ate mostly Cambodian food, read books about the Khmer Rouge genocide, and covered my apartment floor with pictures of my father, mother, sisters, family, Pol Pot, Khmer Rouge soldiers and their victims. As I relived the raw anger, searing pain, and ripped heart of the child I was when my family started to disappear one by one, I found that the pain did not defeat me but only made me hungrier for peace. By the time I had finished the last line of First They Killed My Father, I knew I would come out stronger for having written it.
Letters from Cambodian Readers
Note to reader: minor editing for clarity was performed on the following letters. Most of the writers’ language—misspellings and all—has been preserved. Writers’ names have been changed to protect their identities.
March 21, 2000
Ms. Ung,
While flipping through the TV channels on Sunday, I bumped into the interview on CSPAN in which you talked about your book. The TV program has awakened my memories that had been subsided over the years. With refreshed memories and a new perspective, I’d like to share a few words.
Finally we Cambodians have someone who is articulate enough to bring the tremendous sufferings of the Cambodian people during the four murderous years to the American Media and possibly the world as well. Among all the Indochinese refuges, the Cambodian has suffered the most and yet has not gotten our share of attention. In America, we heard of Viet Cong Death Camps but rarely heard of Tuol Sleng Slaughter house. At one time, I happened to overhear at Vietnamese woman said that staying in her country would have no future for her children—what a joke! To us, thinking about a future with good education for fancy houses is a luxury beyond reach. To all of us, coming to the U.S. or other countries was not a matter of choice. We went to whatever country that was willing to accept us. Some non-Cambodians refugees picked countries of their choices like they shopped for houses. I knew of some fellow Cambodians families went to Ivory Coast in Africa. I bet nobody knows or cares about how many nightmares have awaken up us and made us think we are still laboring under the watchful eye of the Khmer Rouge cronies.
“‘In America, we heard of Viet Cong Death Camps but rarely heard of Tuol Sleng Slaughter house.’”
“‘After shoveling snow for almost three years in Kansas, my folks moved to Los Angeles and eventually settled in Orange County.’”
It looks like I won’t be able to limit myself to one page. Interestingly enough, I’m also Cambodian of Chinese descent. I stayed in Lam Sing refugee Camp in Thailand for almost one year. We arrived in Wichita, Kansas in the bitter colder winter of 1978. After shoveling snow for almost three years in Kansas, my folks moved to Los Angeles and eventually settled in Orange County. I attended and graduated from CA. State Long Beach in the late eighties in engineering. Well, it’s going to take at least a few more pages to go over the journey after we left Cambodia and made our way to the west. I guess I have made my point for now.
At your leisure, please drop me a note or so.
Thanks for taking the time to read out of your busy schedule.
D.P.
California
March 12, 2000
Loung Ung,
Please accept this letter as a thank you note for a very inspirational book. I’m sure like many, it has touched my life deeply. Though reading it, I have found strength and peace within myself.
Let me start by introducing myself. My name is L.P. I was born in Cambodian on May 1st, 1975. About two weeks after the invasion of Phnom Penh. This I’ve learned from your book. My family, mom, dad, two younger sisters and I came to the U.S. in 1981 as refugee.
I was still a baby then but my parents have never speak of their past with me. The only memories I have is of my childhood here in the U.S. I guess now I can understand why they choose not to. But I believe my life would have taken a different course if I knew it then. For most part, I grew up wondering.
It was only through the conversation my parents had with friends of our past in Cambodia that I overheard bits and pieces, but not enough to understand. One day I overheard something I would remember for the rest of my life! That I had an older sister and she died of some type of illness. I’ve always wanted an older brother or sister and to find this out I felt a lost without quite understanding it all! I’ve always kept my feeling suppressed and somehow through that I grew up feeling lonely.
While reading your book I imagined my life as an infant; bombs dropping, bullets flying, and everything around me is struggling to survive. Me, I wasn’t aware of what was going on and around me cause I was still so little. Honestly, I don’t know whether I should feel lucky or guilty for having such an easy way out while everyone is suffering. From your book I was able to understand a lot of my and family’s past.
Maybe I should talk to my parents about it now that I am older. I know it was a horrible and terrifying time. They have been through enough and I have contributed to some of that because of my incarceration. It’s all the more reason for me not to see them sad again.
I am incarcerated now, also facing a possible deportation ’cause of my crime. I would loose much sleep worrying. I have never been back to visit, but if worst come to worse, I’m not sure if I should be afraid. I guess I am afraid. Being able to obtain your book is one of the best things that happened to me in here. My hear goes out to you and “Awh-koon” Loung Ung. It’s through your book that I am grateful to be alive today.
“‘I am incarcerated now, also facing a possible deportation ’cause of my crime. … Being able to obtain your book is one of the best things that happened to me in here.’”
“‘Unlike you, Bong srei, 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.’”
If given a chance I would like to tell you a little about my life and why after reading your book I become renew! Once again, thanks!
L.P.
Chump reap sour, Bong Srei,
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 m
onths 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.’”
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
“‘Though I wish to deny that they were tortured, your book forces me to accept this possibility. What a profound feeling.’”
Read on
An Excerpt from Loung Ung’s Lucky Child
“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
AFTER 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.”
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“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. …
PRAISE FOR
First They Killed My Father
“This book left me gasping for air. Loung Ung plunges her readers into a Kafkaesque world—her childhood robbed by Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge—and forces them to experience the mass murder, starvation, and disease that claimed half her beloved family. In the end, the horror of the Cambodian genocide is matched only by the author’s indomitable spirit.”
—IRIS CHANG, author of The Rape of Nanking
“This is a story of the triumph of a child’s indomitable spirit over the tyranny of the Khmer Rouge; over a culture where children are trained to become killing machines. Loung’s subsequent campaign against land mines is a result of witnessing firsthand how her famished neighbors, after dodging soldiers’ bullets, risked their lives to traverse unmapped minefields in search of food. Despite the heartache, I could not put the book down until I reached the end. Meeting Loung in person merely reaffirmed my admiration for her.”