• Loung Ung (1970) is een Cambodjaans-Amerikaanse mensenrechtenactiviste. Haar herinneringen aan haar jonge jaren in Cambodja zijn verschenen als
First they killed my father. In augustus 1977 werd de zevenjarige Loung doorgestuurd naar een trainingskamp voor kindsoldaten. Hierdoor werd ze gedwongen haar zus Chou achter te laten.
March 1979
A few days later, Meng arrives at the tent site all flushed and out of breath, telling us he has just returned from the Youn jail. He says somehow the Youns have captured a Khmer Rouge soldier and are holding him there. He reports that when the villagers heard about this, hundreds of them rushed to the jail and demanded that the Khmer Rouge soldier be released to them. Men, women, and children blocked the entrance to the jail, threatening to riot if their demands were not met. They carried steel bars, axes, knives, wooden stakes, and hammers—all the weapons used by the Khmer Rouge soldiers to kill their victims.
Meng says the villagers at the jail have only one thing in mind: blood for blood, life for life. They want a public execution of the prisoner. They screamed threats to the Youn soldiers and questioned why the prisoner should be protected. They are ready to break down the jail if they must to get to the prisoner. In the end, the Youns opened the door and handed the prisoner over to the people. The crowd raised their weapons in the air and cheered with satisfaction. Finally, they have the power to seek revenge for their suffering.
He describes how two Khmer men in their early thirties stepped forward and took the prisoner from the Youns as the crowd cheered again. The men dragged the prisoner away while people were pushing and shoving around them. They took him to the middle of a field on the edge of town. Someone brought forth a chair and put it in the middle of the crowd. The two men thrust the prisoner into the chair, and tied his hands behind his back and his legs together.
Hearing this, my heart races with excitement. Finally, a chance to kill for Pa, Ma, Keav, and Geak. “Come, Chou! Let us go and watch!” I plead with her.
“No. Please don’t go,” Chou pleads with me.
“I have to go. We get to kill one of them for once.”
“Meng and Khouy won’t like it when they hear about this.”
“Don’t you tell them then. Don’t you want to see the execution yourself?”
“No.” When Chou makes up her mind, there is no changing it.
Failing to convince her, I head off on my own. To get to the field, I have to wade across the river, climb a tall hill, cross a broken bridge, and walk thirty minutes in the scorching sun. When I arrive hundreds of people are already there, standing around the prisoner. Their bodies block my view. I shift, trying to find an open space between them, but I cannot. Frustrated, I wedge my small body between theirs and push my way through, calling out loudly, “Sorry, I cannot see.” The tall bodies snort and huff in annoyance but let me through anyway. I am in the middle of the crowd, totally surrounded by people. I cannot see anything. I look up to the faces of the adults who are all looking in the same direction. Breathing a sigh of relief, I follow their gaze. Sorry, I cannot see.” I repeat my pleas as I nudge and step on their toes trying to get to the front. Finally, I see a clearing between people’s legs. I try to push my way through, but they are so engrossed in what’s going on that they do not move. Determined, I get on my hands and knees, and crawl through the brown forest of legs up to the front.
There he is. I stand and find myself almost face-to-face with him, separated by only fifteen feet. Automatically, I raise my scarf to cover my head and face. My heart beats wildly. Fear seeps into my body. He is looking at me. He can see me. What if he escapes and kills me? I take a step back, leaning into the crowd for protection. The crowd vibrates with anticipation and energy, closing in around the prisoner, glaring at him. I have never seen an execution before. Rage heats up my body, seeing only one of them killed is not enough!
His face reveals nothing. His lips do not beg for mercy. He sits propped up on a highback chair on a gravel hill that serves as a stage. He is dark and wears the black clothes of the Khmer Rouge—the black clothes I still wear. His matted hair is sweaty and he hangs his head to focus on his feet. The rough hemp rope that binds his feet together is so tightly tied that it draws blood. More rope straps him to the back of the chair, it coils around him from the chest down to the stomach.
“Murderer! You deserve to die a slow, painful death!” someone yells.
That is what we have planned for him. I hope he knows his life is about to end. I hope he knows we are here because we want his blood and will soon rip him apart for it. People talk loudly about the best way to kill him. They argue about how to make the execution as drawn out and painful as possible. They discuss which tools to use to crack his skull, to slice his throat. Someone says we should let him sit in the sun, shave his skin open little by little, and rub salt into the wounds. Someone else wants to strangle him bare-handed. The discussion continues for a long time, but the people cannot agree on what to do.
Finally, two middle-aged men step up in front. The crowd hushes. The prisoner glances up. He looks scared now. His eyes are squinting and his lips move as if to mutter something, but he decides against it and purses his lips shut. Sweat pours from his face, slides over his Adam’s apple, and soaks his shirt. He bends his head, looks down at his feet again, knowing there is no way out. His government has created a vengeful, bloodthirsty people. Pol Pot has turned me into someone who wants to kill.
