Introduction
Summary of the Book First They Killed My Father by Loung Ung. Before moving forward, let’s take a quick look at the book. Imagine standing on a quiet balcony, sunlight warming your face, until armed strangers storm the streets below and order everyone to abandon home. Picture losing your father, mother, sisters, and all that anchored your world, forced to survive where kindness is rare. First They Killed My Father by Loung Ung tells the true story of a Cambodian girl whose childhood was shattered by the Khmer Rouge regime. The account reveals not just historical facts, but how it felt to live under total terror. Here, families are torn apart, children starve in labor camps, and love is tested in unimaginable ways. Yet, through these dark times, courage, loyalty, and resilience burn softly, guiding survivors toward a distant future. By immersing yourself in these pages, you will feel the depth of human endurance and the unyielding hope shining in the darkness.
Chapter 1: When a Sunlit Childhood Shattered Suddenly Beneath Marching Soldiers’ Boots of Fear.
Before the swirling chaos of battle-torn streets and cruel commands blaring from megaphones, Loung Ung’s life seemed pleasantly ordinary, even delightfully privileged. She was just five years old in 1975, a bright child enjoying a middle-class life in the Cambodian capital of Phnom Penh. Her family lived in a comfortable apartment building, many stories above the dusty roads where countless poorer families struggled in makeshift tents. At that young age, Loung was lucky enough to attend school regularly, venture out to the cinema, and delight in simple indulgences such as meals in restaurants or visits to well-stocked shops. Her father’s status as a high-ranking military official under the old government allowed for a steady income, a certain degree of admiration from neighbors, and even a sleek Mazda car that symbolized their well-to-do position. This was her childhood: secure, stable, and as warm as sunshine.
All that comfort and normalcy was about to vanish. On an April day, with blazing sunlight reflecting off the apartment’s balcony rails, Loung Ung witnessed a scene that would transform her life forever. She stood peering over the edge, watching as throngs of Khmer Rouge soldiers—a strange army of grim-faced young men and women dressed in black—poured into the streets. Their boots struck the pavement in a rhythm that was both mesmerizing and terrifying. Nothing about their arrival felt ordinary; their presence was like a storm cloud rolling in, blocking out the familiar warmth of everyday life. Loung could sense something was horribly wrong, though she couldn’t fully understand it yet. The city’s hum of daily routines abruptly quieted, replaced by the sharp bark of orders through crackling loudspeakers. The old world was slipping away, one step at a time.
Within hours, the previously calm and modern apartment was filled with frantic movement. Chairs scraped floors, cabinets flew open, and hurried whispers replaced the laughter that once drifted down the halls. The adults in Loung’s family stuffed clothes, blankets, and cherished trinkets into suitcases, as if fleeing a sudden, unstoppable flood. There was no time for careful decision-making or tearful goodbyes. Outside, the Khmer Rouge’s announcements blared: everyone must leave the city immediately. It was a direct command, backed by the promise of death for disobedience. Along with countless neighbors—once city dwellers who felt safe behind sturdy walls—Loung’s family prepared to abandon their home. The steady world of a secure childhood, with its soft beds, proper schooling, and delicious treats, was being replaced by the unknown. By afternoon’s end, Loung Ung’s old life would become a distant, unreachable memory.
They piled into an aging truck, rumbling away from the comfort of Phnom Penh. The roads teemed with people, thousands upon thousands, all heading nowhere and anywhere. The journey did not feel heroic or adventurous; it felt forced and dreadfully uncertain. There were no kind words from the soldiers who pressed them onward. Instead, grim faces and sharp rifles guided them toward the countryside. The family’s wealth, education, and status were now dangerous liabilities. No one knew how long they would travel or what sort of life awaited them. Loung huddled close to her siblings, staring silently at the scenes passing by: abandoned homes, scattered belongings, and fearful eyes. In that moment, the family’s world had narrowed down to a single desperate hope: if they stayed together and did what was demanded, perhaps they could survive whatever came next.
Chapter 2: Concealing Truths and Inventing Farmer Roots Beneath the Regime’s Piercing Gaze.
As the Ung family continued their forced journey away from Phnom Penh, their privileged past began to feel like a terrible secret. Under the Khmer Rouge’s harsh new rules, anyone associated with the old government or displaying evidence of education, refinement, or a city background was in grave danger. Loung’s father, once respected for his military service, now had to deny that part of himself at all costs. When they reached the first checkpoint, where soldiers in black uniforms and red scarves demanded to know everyone’s past, the stakes could not have been higher. Admitting the truth meant death. Loung’s father calmly claimed to be just a simple farmer. Her mother said she sold clothes at a market. They offered no detail that could raise suspicion. In those tense moments, each false word weighed heavily, but it kept them alive.
Living behind a mask soon became a permanent necessity. The Khmer Rouge wanted a country of uniform peasants—no wealthy merchants, no intellectuals, no officials from the old regime. Anyone who did not fit into their twisted ideal of a rustic, obedient worker was viewed as an enemy to be eradicated. For Loung’s family, this meant constantly watching what they said, how they held themselves, and even how they reacted to events around them. A careless comment or a subtle sign of sophistication could lead neighbors to report them. Everything they once took pride in—education, modern comforts, and refined manners—had to be buried deep beneath forced smiles and feigned ignorance. Day after day, this draining performance prevented them from revealing their true identities and histories, creating a sense of walking on a razor’s edge without any safety net.
What made their predicament even worse was the thin thread by which their lies hung. The Khmer Rouge did not rely solely on written records. They encouraged neighbors to spy on neighbors, children to report parents, and friends to betray friends. Rumors were dangerous currency; envy, fear, or personal grudges could lead someone to whisper a deadly truth into the ear of the authorities. Knowing this, Loung’s family tried to fade into the background. They avoided attention, asked no questions, and offered no opinions. Their clothes, once a sign of status, were now dirty and worn—just like everyone else’s. Their habits and gestures had to resemble those of genuine peasants. It was a life stripped of authenticity. The cost of survival meant never truly relaxing, never laughing openly, and never reminiscing about happier times.
Yet, even while lying to survive, Loung’s family had to grapple with the deeper reality. They were ethnic Chinese-Cambodian, which alone made them suspect. Combined with their city past and the father’s former government role, it painted a target on their backs. The Khmer Rouge wanted to erase difference and complexity; they yearned for a flat, obedient society. To achieve this, they would punish anyone who reminded them of the old ways. Meanwhile, Loung tried to understand these changes through a child’s eyes. Why had grown-ups become so fearful? Why hide who you are? Why had a life of comfort transformed into a silent battle for survival? These questions, unanswered, hovered in the air. Concealing their true identities was not simply a tactic—it was the family’s fragile lifeline, keeping them just one step ahead of death.
Chapter 3: Enduring Backbreaking Labor and Endless Hunger in a Hostile Rural World.
Once settled in the countryside, the Ung family confronted a new reality so brutal and punishing that their old life in Phnom Penh felt like a distant dream. Hundreds of uprooted city dwellers were herded into small villages where they were forced to perform exhausting agricultural work. They toiled under the blazing sun, bending their backs to plant rice seedlings in muddy fields or shovel dirt into ditches, never allowed a break without risking the guards’ wrath. The rural communities they joined were ruled by Khmer Rouge cadres who imposed strict controls. Every effort was aimed at producing food for the regime, yet bizarrely, the laborers themselves starved. Scarce rations left their bellies hollow and rumbling. Familiar flavors of family meals vanished, replaced by thin rice gruel or whatever insects and wild greens they could secretly scavenge.
Time blurred into an exhausting repetition of dawn-to-dusk labor. Sundays offered no respite; laughter and relaxation were foreign luxuries now. The notion of equality the Khmer Rouge had promised turned out to be a sham. Society had been split into three classes: the ruling cadre and soldiers on top, longstanding rural villagers in the middle, and, at the bottom, the new people from the cities—families like Loung’s. This lowest class was despised, treated as less than human, and deliberately starved. Amid the stench of sweat and mud, people died quietly, their bodies too weak to resist disease or overcome hunger. Within months, many who had once enjoyed urban comforts lay buried in shallow, unmarked graves. The stinging irony was clear: these people, forced to farm, could not claim enough nourishment to keep themselves alive.
For Loung and her siblings, survival meant finding any tiny advantage. Her older brother Kim managed to secure a position as a servant for the village chief’s household. Although this meant daily humiliation and beatings from the chief’s children who treated him like a toy, it also meant he could sometimes bring home scraps of leftover food. This meager arrangement helped keep the family from the brink of starvation. In this world turned upside-down, basic decency was almost nonexistent. Fear and suspicion poisoned every interaction. Once-friendly neighbors withheld help, too frightened that showing compassion might attract unwanted attention. The Ung children learned to keep their voices low, their heads down, and their dreams hidden. If hard work and suffering were the only currencies allowed, then they had no choice but to endure them silently.
Loung was still a child, but this new environment demanded she grow up quickly. The sights and sounds that once filled her life—movies, markets, and comfortable routines—had vanished. Now, it was the rhythmic sound of hoes striking dirt, the distant moans of the starving, and the watchful glare of armed guards that dominated her senses. The only link to the past was the family’s unwavering bond, their silent understanding that they must survive together. Yet, as days passed into weeks, and weeks stretched into months, even that bond was tested. Hunger gnawed at their bodies, hope flickered like a candle in the wind, and uncertainty draped itself over their future. In that setting, small acts of kindness became precious treasures—an extra spoonful of rice, a gentle smile—and each family member struggled, heart and soul, to keep holding on.
Chapter 4: When Hope Faded as a Beloved Sister Vanished Into the Regime’s Iron Grasp.
Despite the crushing workload and the constant fear that defined their daily lives, at least the Ung family remained together, side by side against the storm. Their shared presence was a faint echo of the love and warmth they once knew. Yet, even that fragile comfort was ripped away when the Khmer Rouge decided to separate teenage boys and girls from their families. These youths were needed, the regime claimed, to bolster work camps, toiled like oxen in distant fields, and, supposedly, help ward off the Vietnamese threat. One morning, the soldiers marched into the village to take the adolescents. Fourteen-year-old Kiev, Loung’s beloved older sister, was among them. She assured her father not to worry, insisting that she would survive this ordeal. The family could do nothing but watch helplessly as Kiev disappeared into the unknown.
Kiev’s absence was a wound that refused to heal. She had been a quiet strength within the family, her presence a reminder that they still belonged to each other. Now, her departure left a heavy emptiness behind. Days turned into weeks, and the Ung family learned that she had been placed in a labor camp with over a hundred other teenagers. Life there was even more grueling than what they endured in their village. The children labored under brutal conditions, building, planting, and hauling under the merciless sun. Worse yet, the regime considered teenage girls particularly expendable, feeding them even less and pushing them harder. Kiev tried to hold on, to remain strong, but her body and spirit were under relentless attack. Her family, far away, could only imagine her struggle and pray for her safe return.
After several months, grim rumors reached them. Illness ran rampant in the labor camps, where filthy water, spoiled rations, and a total lack of medicine doomed many children. Kiev fell ill with dysentery, a debilitating condition that drained her strength and hope. She was taken to a makeshift hospital, although calling it that was a cruel joke. The Khmer Rouge had systematically murdered trained doctors and nurses, replacing them with pretend medics who had no medicine, no bandages, and no real knowledge. Kiev lay there, abandoned, her body weakening as she endured unspeakable suffering. Without proper care, infected with disease, and given no meaningful comfort, she passed away. Her death was unceremonious, unmarked, and unknown to her family in that moment. The once-close bonds they shared were stretched thin by the regime’s ruthless brutality.
For Loung, the loss of Kiev was a silent, choking grief. They had not even the solace of a funeral, no chance to say goodbye. The sudden absence weighed heavily in the air, another reminder that the Khmer Rouge had torn their world to pieces. Huddled in their cramped, dirty hut, the family felt the reality of their circumstances. If they dared to mourn openly, they risked drawing attention. Tears had to be swallowed, words of sadness silenced. Life had become an unending exercise in quiet endurance. Still, as the family tried to carry on, a painful truth sank in: they were standing on shifting sand, where nothing was secure. Kiev’s fate was a warning. The regime would not stop at one act of cruelty. The depth of their suffering might yet grow darker.
Chapter 5: The Terrible Moment a Father’s Hidden Past Returned to Steal Him Away.
Kiev’s death cast a dark shadow, but the family tried to cling to one another. They still had each other’s voices, quiet encouragement, and subtle gestures of care. Yet, the most devastating blow was yet to come. Loung’s father, who had carefully hidden his past as a government official, was their anchor in this storm. He had protected them by weaving careful lies, holding his trembling children close with steady hands. But secrets cannot be protected forever in a land governed by fear and cruelty. Whispers drifted through the night air; someone must have spoken, someone must have revealed the truth. One cold evening, two Khmer Rouge soldiers arrived outside their hut, calling for him. There was no trial, no explanation. He was simply taken, disappearing into the darkness, never to return. The family’s pillar was gone.
No one needed to say what fate awaited him. The Khmer Rouge had refined cruelty into an art, often killing those linked to the old government with brutal, primitive methods. People were led to mass graves, sometimes struck with hammers or blunt tools to save precious bullets. Many died instantly; others were left partially alive, buried under bodies, suffocating in a mass of flesh and soil. Loung could only pray that her father did not suffer long. That the man who once drove a sleek car and held his children in protective arms found some merciful release. But in truth, they would never know. He vanished without a trace, leaving a hollow ache in their hearts. With him gone, their fragile cover stories and the thin armor of their family’s unity seemed to shatter into pieces.
This loss spiraled into an even more terrifying fear. The Khmer Rouge had made it clear: they would not hesitate to eliminate entire families of those they deemed enemies. Children were not spared. The regime’s twisted logic declared that if they left the children of traitors alive, those children might someday seek revenge. This threat now weighed heavily on Loung’s mother. With her husband gone, it was only a matter of time before soldiers returned for the rest of them. She had to act decisively. Despite unimaginable heartbreak, she instructed her remaining children to leave the village separately. By scattering in different directions and posing as orphans, perhaps they could slip through the cracks. Perhaps they could survive as individuals rather than be slaughtered as a single doomed family line.
Loung’s mother’s decision was the ultimate act of love—heart-wrenching and cruelly necessary. Telling her children to go out alone into a hostile world shattered every maternal instinct to keep them close. Yet, she saw no other way. The mother would remain behind with the youngest daughter, a toddler too small to navigate the world alone. Meanwhile, Loung, along with two surviving siblings, would vanish into the anonymous crowds of orphans and refugees, each forging a lonely path. There was no farewell feast, no loving embrace at the end. They simply separated, carrying only what they could, hearts heavy with fear and sorrow. The family that once thrived in a city apartment had now dissolved into scattered fragments, drifting on the winds of war and terror, hoping beyond hope that at least some among them would endure.
Chapter 6: Walking the Earth Alone as an Orphan and Sensing Unseen Shadows Everywhere.
Loung now found herself alone in a world that made no sense. She was a child forced into the role of a survivor, wandering through landscapes stripped of mercy. After leaving her mother and younger sister behind, Loung came upon a camp that sheltered orphaned children—kids just like her who had lost everything. This camp offered neither comfort nor abundance, but it gave her a place to exist. She worked there, followed orders, and tried to blend in, always careful to hide any sign of her past identity. She watched other children who had become numb and withdrawn, each trapped in their own silent nightmares. Every day was about avoiding trouble, hoping not to catch the attention of watchful guards or informants who might question her origins. Survival meant embracing invisibility.
But Loung could not stop thinking about her family. She worried about her brothers and sister who were scattered elsewhere. She was haunted by the absence of her father and Kiev, their faces flickering in her memories. Most of all, she felt a gnawing unease about her mother and youngest sister. Had they managed to remain safe? Did the regime spare them? The uncertainty ate at her. One morning, gripped by a trembling sense of dread, Loung decided she had to find out. She secured permission to leave the orphan camp temporarily and raced back toward the village where she had last seen her mother. She followed familiar paths, her heart pounding as she stepped over broken branches and muddy trails. The world outside was silent, as if holding its breath, waiting to reveal some terrible truth.
Arriving at the village, Loung’s fears were confirmed. Her mother and baby sister had been taken by soldiers just a day before her arrival. Neighbors, wary of attracting attention, spoke in hushed tones about what they had seen. While they lacked details, Loung knew the fate that likely awaited her loved ones. The Khmer Rouge did not spare women or children. Bodies were often dumped into mass graves, their names and stories erased. Loung’s heart clenched painfully. She imagined her mother’s final moments, her sister’s frightened cries. She wondered, with sickening dread, who died first. Did her mother have to witness her youngest child’s murder, or did the child’s last memory contain her mother’s terrified face? These questions twisted inside her mind, the kind of torment that no child should ever bear.
There was no one to offer comfort, no shoulders to cry upon. Loung stood alone in a world where unspeakable cruelty had become routine. Grief hollowed out her insides, replaced by a numb resolve to survive. If she had stayed, if she had not left when her mother commanded it, she too would be lying in an unmarked grave. Instead, her mother’s heartbreaking choice had given Loung a chance to live. This insight was a heavy burden. She carried it with her as she turned away from the village, tears burning her eyes, head bowed beneath an invisible weight. Each footstep felt uncertain. She had no home, no family, no certainty of tomorrow. Yet, somehow, she must keep moving, keep breathing. She refused to let her story end in that cursed place.
Chapter 7: Enduring the Last Torturous Days of the Regime as Silent Hope Flickered.
The Khmer Rouge’s grip on Cambodia, once brutally tight, began to loosen as the years dragged on. Vietnamese forces pressed in, challenging the regime’s dominance. Even from the orphan camp, Loung sensed a shift in the wind. The authorities were no longer as certain or omnipresent; whispers of change drifted through the air. Still, danger lurked around every corner. Starvation, disease, and violence did not stop overnight. Loung, blending into the crowd of orphaned children, witnessed the slow unraveling of a monstrous system that had stolen her childhood. She did not know what a liberated Cambodia would look like, but she prayed it would bring an end to the endless killings. Nothing could return what was lost—her father’s wise counsel, Kiev’s gentle presence, her mother’s comforting voice—but perhaps she could step out of these years of darkness into something else.
Even as the regime’s power waned, each day still felt like walking through a minefield. Loung learned to read subtle signs: the sudden quiet when soldiers passed, the tense way older children hunched their shoulders, and the desperate glances from adults who clung to life by a thread. Nobody dared to celebrate too soon. The Khmer Rouge might become more vicious if cornered. Rumors suggested that camps were being abandoned, that some villages tasted freedom. But Loung was accustomed to caution. She remembered how quickly happiness could be snatched away. She had learned this lesson repeatedly—on the balcony the day the soldiers marched in, at the village when her father was taken, and upon hearing the devastating news of her mother’s fate. Hopes rose timidly, like small green shoots pushing through barren earth.
As the regime weakened, a few foreign charities and brave individuals started creeping back into the countryside, offering minimal relief. Sometimes there were small amounts of medical help, a handful of extra rice, or whispered guidance on where one might find safer ground. Still, trust was scarce. So many people had been rewarded for betrayal and punished for kindness that it was hard to believe in compassion again. Yet Loung yearned for something more than just surviving. She wanted a future where she could rebuild her shattered sense of self. Perhaps one day she could learn to trust again, to sit with others without fear of hidden motives. For now, she remained quiet, watchful, and alert, as the dark shadow of the Khmer Rouge slowly began to recede, leaving scars that would never fully fade.
It was a strange feeling to outlast the storm. When Vietnamese troops finally secured large parts of Cambodia in 1979, the Khmer Rouge’s machinery of death was disrupted. The systematic killings lessened, and the surviving population emerged as if from underground tunnels. Loung was still young, but old enough to understand that this was not an instant paradise. The country was in ruins, families torn apart, education shattered, trust demolished. Yet, the murdering had slowed, the fear no longer absolute. Loung looked around at the wreckage of her homeland—fields planted with sorrow, towns emptied of laughter—and realized her entire childhood had been overshadowed by terror. That she was still alive felt almost miraculous. She understood she must carry the memories of lost loved ones. Even if the regime’s end brought no immediate joy, it brought a chance to move forward.
Chapter 8: Sailing Toward an Unknown Tomorrow, Guided by a Brother’s Courageous Choice.
In the aftermath of the Khmer Rouge’s fall, many Cambodians tried to piece together some semblance of a life from the shards of their shattered world. Loung’s elder brother Meng managed to do something extraordinary. Through resourcefulness and sheer determination, he saved enough money to seek passage out of the country. He could not take everyone with him; the cost and logistics were impossible. But he chose Loung, his youngest surviving sister, because she still had the potential to start anew, to attend school, and heal in ways older siblings could only dream about. This was not an easy decision. Leaving their homeland meant leaving behind the spirits of the dead, the memories of those they had loved. Yet, it promised freedom from the lingering dangers, a chance for Loung to reclaim a life that had been stolen from her.
In 1980, Loung found herself on a journey across oceans, heading to the United States—a place she knew only through fragments of imagination. She boarded planes and boats, each step taking her further from fields of forced labor and piles of unmarked graves. Every mile put greater distance between her and the regime that had sought to destroy her family and identity. In America, she would face new challenges: language barriers, cultural differences, and the weight of trauma carried inside her mind. Yet, these were challenges that offered growth rather than doom. In a new country, she might find classrooms instead of work camps, kindness instead of cruelty, and opportunities instead of suffocating fear. The years under the Khmer Rouge had taught her what it meant to be strong, even as a child, and that resilience was now her guiding light.
Adjusting to life in the United States was no simple task. The noise of bustling streets, the abundance of food in stores, the casual friendliness of strangers—all these things felt otherworldly after the terror she had endured. She would have to learn English, attend school, make friends, and slowly reveal fragments of her past. The memory of her family lingered in every thought. She would remember her father’s seriousness, her mother’s gentle care, her sister Kiev’s resilience, and the final sacrifices that allowed her to stand here today. It was painful, but also a reminder that love had not vanished with the pulling of triggers or the swing of a hammer. Love remained in her heart, a quiet strength urging her forward, assuring her that survival had meaning and that life could be pieced back together, one memory at a time.
In this new setting, Loung would discover that rebuilding oneself after unimaginable loss is a slow, tender process. She would realize that while the Khmer Rouge had stolen her childhood, they had not succeeded in breaking her spirit. The haunting images and unanswered questions would still surface, yet she could face them with growing courage. Over time, she might put words to her story, ensuring that the world knew what happened in Cambodia. By doing so, she would honor the loved ones who never had the chance to speak again. As years passed, Loung would learn that her story, painful though it was, could inspire others to understand the depth of human cruelty and also the miraculous power of human resilience. In that realization, there was a quiet, determined hope that the future, at last, belonged to her.
All about the Book
Experience the harrowing true story of Loung Ung, a survivor of the Cambodian genocide, as she navigates loss, resilience, and the quest for identity in a world torn apart by war.
Loung Ung is a powerful voice in literature, sharing her experiences as a Cambodian genocide survivor through captivating storytelling and advocacy against human rights abuses.
Historians, Educators, Psychologists, Human Rights Activists, Social Workers
Reading memoirs, Exploring history, Volunteering for humanitarian causes, Advocating for human rights, Participating in cultural studies
Genocide, Childhood trauma, Survivor’s resilience, Cultural identity
I want to be a girl again, but how can I? I am not in a war anymore, but the war is in me.
Angelina Jolie, Ruth Negga, Diane Keaton
Asian/Pacific American Award for Literature, California Book Award, Maine Literary Award
1. How does trauma shape identity across generations? #2. What role does memory play in healing from conflict? #3. How can resilience manifest in extreme adversity? #4. In what ways does childhood inform adult experiences? #5. How does cultural identity influence survival strategies? #6. Why is storytelling vital for preserving history? #7. What impact does war have on innocent lives? #8. How can forgiveness aid in personal recovery? #9. What lessons can be learned from loss and grief? #10. How does fear affect decision-making in crisis? #11. Why is it important to remember past atrocities? #12. How does family influence one’s sense of self? #13. In what ways does hope persist during despair? #14. How can love and compassion flourish in hardship? #15. What is the significance of education in conflict? #16. How do human rights violations affect community bonds? #17. Why is acknowledging pain essential for progress? #18. How can empathy bridge cultural and historical divides? #19. What can we learn from a child’s perspective on war? #20. How does personal narrative contribute to collective memory?
First They Killed My Father, Loung Ung, Cambodian genocide memoir, historical nonfiction books, survivor stories, childhood during war, Cambodia history, books about resilience, autobiographical narratives, memoirs of trauma, books about Cambodian culture, literature on human rights
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