A Birthday Wrapped in Cambodian History

TODAY is my birthday. April 17 is what's 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 the early 1970's, 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 pants. 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 my 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. On the trucks, men in uniforms were yelling into bullhorns, ordering us to leave our homes, telling us 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 72 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, 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 7 years old.

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 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 birthday. 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 20's, I stopped celebrating my birthday, hoping to leave Cambodia and the dead behind.

It wasn't until 1995 - 15 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, saying 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 25 times. My heart still breaks when I think about the Khmer Rouge - their corruption, their cruelty, their murders and the devastating poverty they left behind. The sadness turns to anger when I think that, 30 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 away from the genocide to its survivors, I am immensely proud. Our people have been waiting 26 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.

Loung Ung, a spokeswoman for the Cambodia Fund, a program that helps disabled Cambodians and amputees, is the author, most recently, of "Lucky Child."

Jordin Isip
Seeing how the NY Times was part of effort to undermine the attempt by the United States to stop the spread of communism in Indochina, I find it odd that they went to print with this guest OpEd, let alone have it accompanied by this morbid piece of modern art as a tribute to the murderous Khmer Rouge.

What a sad story.

LOUNG UNG, AUTHOR OF "FIRST THEY KILLED MY FATHER": Yes. My father at that point was my everything, and after my father was killed, my mother knew that if we stayed together, we would all be killed together. I was 7, my sister was 9, and my other brother was 12, and my mother basically gathered us together and said, "You have to leave and just go away -- walk away from me. I cannot handle you. Once you get to a place, tell them you're orphans." And a year later, I found out that I didn't have to pretend to be an orphan anymore, because a soldier did come for my mother and my 5-year-old sister.

(2000 interview with CNN anchor Kyra Phillips)

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