[The following is an excerpt from Loung Ung’s amazing memoir about her experiences as a young girl who survived the Khmer Rouge atrocities in Cambodia during the late 70s. Here, the author witnesses the mob execution of a Khmer Rouge soldier. The soldier was a prisoner of the liberating forces of Vietnam. When the Cambodian refugees of the camp learned of his presence, they swarmed the guardhouse and demanded the Vietnamese release the soldier to them for justice, or they would attack. The Vietnamese eventually relented, and the crowd tied him to a chair in the middle of a nearby field, ready to decide his fate.]
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.
”Brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,” one of the two men yell. “We have decided that this Khmer Rouge [soldier] will be executed for his crimes. His blood will avenge the innocent people he has slaughtered. We are asking for volunteers to be the executioners.” The crowd roars. They look about, wondering who will be the first to volunteer. At first, no one raises his hand. For all the big talk, everyone stays silent. Then a few hands go up and the crowd comes to life again.
A woman, crying loudly, pushes her way to the front of the crowd. She is young, maybe in her midtwenties. Her straight black hair is tied back, giving us a view of her angular, thin face. Like me, she wears the Khmer Rouge clothes. Though tears fall from her eyes, her face is dark and angry.
”I know this Khmer Rouge soldier!” she screams. In her left hand she holds a nine-inch knife. It is copper brown, rusty, and dull. “He was the Khmer Rouge soldier in my village. He killed my husband and baby! I will avenge them!”
Another woman then pushes her way out of the crowd. “I also know him. He killed my children and grandchildren. Now I am alone in this world.” The second woman is older, perhaps sixty or seventy. She is thin and wears black clothes. In her hand she holds a hammer, its wooden handle worn and splintered. One man takes the women aside while the others continue to speak to the audience. I am no longer listening. I am fixated on the prisoner. He looked up briefly when the two women came forth, but now he is back in position, head down, eyes to the ground.
I watch without emotion as the old woman walks slowly up to him, her hammer in hand. Above us the black clouds move with her, shadowing where she goes. She stands in front of him, staring at the top of his head. I want to shield my eyes from what’s about to happen, but I cannot. The old woman’s hands shake as she raises the hammer high above her head and brings it crashing down into the prisoner’s skull. He screams a loud, shrill cry, that pierces my heart like a stake, and I imagine that this, maybe, is how Pa died. The soldier’s head hangs, bobbing up and down like a chicken’s. Blood gushes out of his wound, flowing down his forehead, ears, and dripping from his chin. The woman raises her hammer again. I almost feel pity for him. But it is too late to let him go, it is too late to go back. It is too late for my parents and my country.
Blood splatters the woman’s clothes, body, face. She screams and swings the hammer up above her head again. Blood droplets land on my pants and face. I wipe them off. Red smudges are still on my palms. Another scream comes from the old woman, this time her hammer smashes his leg. His leg jerks, but is held down by the rope. The hammer lands over and over again, on his arms, shoulders, and knees, before the younger woman moves toward him. Taking her knife, she pushes it into the prisoner’s stomach. More blood pours out, spilling over his chair. She stabs him again, this time in the chest. The Khmer Rouge body convulses and trembles, as if electricity is traveling to the legs, arms, and fingers, Gradually, he stops moving, slumping over in the chair.
Finally the women stand still. Their weapons drip with blood as they walk away. When they turn around, I see that they look like death themselves. Their hair trickles blood and sweat, their clothes drip, their faces red and rigid. Only their eyes look alive as they seethe with more rage and hate. The women are quiet as the crowd parts for them to pass through. During the execution, the crowd did not cheer but watched, silent and devoid of emotion, as if it were the slaughter of an animal for food.
Source:
Ung, Loung. “The Execution, March 1979.” First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers. Harper Perennial, 2017. 205-7. Print.
Further Reading:
សាឡុត ស (Saloth Sar) / ប៉ុល ពត (Pol Pot)
ខ្មែរក្រហម (Khmer Rouge) / “Red Khmer”
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