Lucky Child (43 page)

But then 9/11 happened, and the United States went to war in Afghanistan and Iraq. Like other Americans, I read the papers each day hoping the fighting would soon be over for everyone involved. But unlike other Americans, I knew that even after the guns had fallen silent, the war would not be over for the survivors. It was then that the idea for
Lucky Child
bloomed in my mind. In
First
I had told stories of how my family and I survived the war. With
Lucky Child
I wanted to share with readers how we survived the peace. Again, I was writing as an activist.

“When I sat down to pen
Lucky Child,
I knew I wanted to tell the larger story of surviving the ‘peace time’ through the parallel lives of Chou and me.”

When I sat down to pen
Lucky Child,
I knew I wanted to tell the larger story of surviving the “peace time” through the parallel lives of Chou and me. I did not know if readers would find our stories interesting—but as a sister I found them endlessly fascinating. Like in the movie
Trading Places,
Chou and I could have easily switched lives had Meng chosen her instead of me to accompany him to America. What if Chou was meant to come to America instead of me? How would I have fared in Cambodia in an arranged marriage—raising five kids instead of marrying in my thirties and choosing not to have children?

Although
Lucky Child
took root in my mind only recently, the book was actually
born the day I sat on the back of Meng’s bicycle holding Chou’s hands as we said our goodbyes. When Meng peddled his bicycle away, breaking Chou’s hold on my hand, I turned my back to her. I knew she would not leave until I was out of sight. In
Lucky Child,
I got to stay in the village with Chou and live as her shadow—our hands never parting.

But in the real world we were separated for fifteen years, and when our palms clasped together again at our first reunion Chou broke down in tears. For Chou, the joys of our first few reunions were always clouded with the fear that another war could erupt in Cambodia and keep us apart. For me, guilt hung heavily on my body like an old wet wool poncho. My physical presence was causing my sister pain. The poncho grew heavier every time the family’s talk turned to my rich and easy life in America. It inflamed my skin with shame when I remembered how I tried to erase Chou from my heart and mind. I was convinced that if Meng had chosen Chou instead of me to come to America, she would never have left me behind. She would have written, sent me dresses and food, and worried about me every day. I wondered if Chou could ever forgive me for leaving or if I could forgive myself for abandoning her. I wondered if Chou and I could have a relationship beyond the war and be together without the presence of guilt, shame, and pain. I dreamt of the day when I could throw the poncho off my body and fling it like a useless rag against the wall.

“My physical presence was causing my sister pain.”

If
First
was about getting lost, being lost, and losing, then
Lucky Child
was about
being found, finding, and gaining. Chou and I have traveled back into our lost fifteen years numerous times and come out holding hands each time. In the process of doing this—and before I was conscious of it—I had replaced my guilt, sadness, and anger with love, family, and community. My heart was healed even more when I realized that Chou is happy in Cambodia and harbors no anger toward me for being the “chosen one.”

“My heart was healed even more when I realized that Chou is happy in Cambodia and harbors no anger toward me for being the ‘chosen one.’“

When I approached Chou about doing a book that would tie our lives together she welcomed the idea. Before I began I showed Chou the detailed outline of the book and let her know she had final editing power. I am happy to report that she loved the book and gave me her blessing. I find it a truly wondrous thing when words and stories can heal the broken hearts of children and adults as this book has done for Chou and me. We hope readers will feel the same about
Lucky Child
and read it as another volume of our family’s love story—and our love story for Cambodia.

Read On

“A Birthday Wrapped in
Cambodian History”

The following Op-Ed piece by Loung Ung appeared in the
New York Times
on April 17, 2005.

T
ODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY
. April 17 is what’s written on my driver’s license and other documents. But I don’t know for sure and probably never will. All I know is that I was born in Cambodia sometime during 1970.

In Cambodia we didn’t celebrate birthdays, so while my mother and father knew the date I had no reason to remember it. Instead, my early years were marked by joyous events like the New Year, the Water Festival, and various Buddhist holidays.

“In Cambodia we didn’t celebrate birthdays, so while my mother and father knew the date I had no reason to remember it.”

In the early 1970s Southeast Asia was full of strife—the Soviet Union, China, and the United States were fighting in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. But my earliest years were wonderfully free of war and conflict. My father was a high-ranking military officer—which meant a privileged lifestyle. Our house was filled with food and toys and even had a washing machine and an indoor toilet. I spent my days fighting with my three sisters and spying on my three brothers as they danced to Beatles’ songs in their bell-bottom trousers. We went to school six days a week, and on Sundays we swam or watched movies at the international youth club in Phnom Penh.

On April 17, 1975, the Communist Khmer Rouge regime took over our country and my charmed life came to an abrupt end. I remember that day well. I was on the street playing hopscotch with one of my sisters when rows of mud-covered trucks drove by.
Men in uniform on the trucks were yelling into bullhorns—ordering us to leave our homes. They said that the Americans were going to bomb us and if we didn’t leave we would die. Chaos and fear swept through Phnom Penh. More than two million people were evicted in less than seventy-two hours. Later we heard that those who refused to leave were shot dead.

My family was forced to march to a remote village. There we lived without religion, school, music, clocks, radios, movies, television, or any modern technology. The soldiers dictated when we ate, slept, and worked. Desperate to eliminate any threats (real or perceived) to their plans for the country, the soldiers proceeded to execute teachers, doctors, lawyers, architects, civil servants, politicians, police officers, singers, and actors.

While children elsewhere in the world watched TV, I watched public executions. While they played hide-and-seek with their friends, I hid in bomb shelters with mine (when a bomb hit and killed my friend Pithy, I brushed her brains off my sleeve). I will never forget the day they came for my father. They said they needed him to help pull an oxcart out of the mud. As he walked off with the soldiers, I did not pray for the gods to spare his life. I prayed only that his death be quick and painless. I was seven years old.

“While children elsewhere in the world watched TV, I watched public executions.”

My war ended in 1979 when the Vietnamese invaded Cambodia and defeated the Khmer Rouge’s army. But it was too late for the 1.7 million Cambodians killed (almost a third of the country’s population of seven
million). Among the victims were my parents and two sisters. My birth date died with them.

In 1980, my oldest brother Meng found a fishing boat that would take us from Cambodia to a refugee camp in Thailand—from where we would eventually be sent to America. Because we could afford to buy only three seats on the boat, the family decided that Meng and I (along with Meng’s wife) would make the trip—leaving behind our three surviving siblings.

When we arrived at the camp Meng had to fill out the refugee papers—which asked for my date of birth. He chose April 17—the day the Khmer Rouge took over our country. With a few strokes of his pen he made sure I would never forget Cambodia.

Of course I knew April 17 wasn’t really the day I was born, but I loved the American custom of celebrating birthdays. I was excited as each one approached, but I also felt sad and guilty. It was hard to be joyful on a date so many associated with death. In my early twenties I stopped celebrating my birthday, hoping to leave Cambodia and the dead behind.

“In my early twenties I stopped celebrating my birthday, hoping to leave Cambodia and the dead behind.”

It wasn’t until 1995—fifteen years after leaving Cambodia—that I had the courage to go back. My anxieties increased and my nightmares returned. Though I was eager to see my relatives, I was also filled with guilt knowing that while I had enough food to eat, attended school, and played soccer in America, my sister and her family lived without electricity and running water and struggled to grow their own food in fields littered with land mines.

And when I emerged from customs in Phnom Penh—smiling and dressed like an American traveler in loose-fitting black pants, a brown T-shirt, and sporty black sandals—I was greeted by frowns. “You look like a Khmer Rouge,” a cousin announced, meaning my clothes resembled the uniform worn by the soldiers. I realized then that the Khmer Rouge will affect me forever.

Since that awkward first visit, I have returned to Cambodia more than twenty-five times. My heart still breaks when I think about the Khmer Rouge—their corruption, their cruelty, their murderousness, and the devastating poverty they left behind. The sadness turns to anger when I think that, thirty years to the day since the horrific takeover, the surviving Khmer Rouge leaders have not been punished (although an international tribunal is within tantalizing reach).

But when my thoughts turn from the genocide to its survivors, I am immensely proud. Our people have been waiting twenty-six years for justice, but we have stayed strong, resilient, and hopeful. On this anniversary date and on my birthday, these are the strengths that support me when the dark memories resurface. My Cambodia today is beautiful, even as it continues to recover from the killing fields. It is also filled with new memories of life and love shared by a new generation of Cambodians and a new generation of Ungs. I know now that no matter where I live or what my real birthday is, Cambodia will always be in my heart and soul.