Narrator: Imagine you are five years old, living a comfortable, happy life in a bustling city. Your world is filled with the laughter of your six siblings, the scent of your mother's cooking, and the security of your father's presence. Then, one day, soldiers in black uniforms storm your city. They are initially cheered as liberators, but the cheers quickly turn to screams. You and your family are forced from your home at gunpoint, told you have three days to evacuate before American bombs fall. You join a terrifying exodus of millions, leaving everything you know behind. This is not a hypothetical scenario; it was the reality for Loung Ung in April 1975. Her harrowing memoir, First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers, is a raw and unflinching account of her survival through the Cambodian genocide, a period when the Khmer Rouge regime systematically murdered nearly a quarter of the country's population.

Narrator: The Cambodian genocide did not begin with overt mass murder, but with a monumental lie. When the Khmer Rouge entered Phnom Penh, they presented themselves as saviors ending a civil war. The promise of a temporary, three-day evacuation was a calculated deception designed to empty the cities and initiate their radical agrarian revolution. For Loung Ung’s family, this lie marked the abrupt end of their world. Her father, a high-ranking government official, immediately understood the danger. He knew the soldiers' crude sandals, made from car tires, were a sign of "destroyers of things."

The family was forced to abandon their car and join the endless river of people marching into the unknown. The journey was a descent into chaos and despair. The weak, elderly, and sick were left to die on the roadsides. The soldiers' cruelty was absolute; they confiscated valuables and enforced their will with the threat of death. The collapse of the old world was starkly symbolized in a moment of grim absurdity. When Loung needed to use the toilet, her mother handed her crisp new banknotes, explaining, "Use it, it is of no use to us anymore." Money, status, and the rules of civilization had become worthless overnight. The family, once privileged, was now reduced to the same level as every other refugee, their survival dependent on their ability to hide their identities and endure the unimaginable.

Narrator: The Khmer Rouge's goal was not just to control Cambodia, but to remake it entirely by erasing the past. Their ruling body, the Angkar, demanded absolute conformity. Individuality was a crime. Upon arriving in the labor village of Ro Leap, the Ung family and other "new people" from the cities were met with open hostility. They were branded "capitalists," spat upon, and told they deserved to die.

The regime's rules were designed to strip away every vestige of personal identity. The village chief announced that colorful clothes were forbidden, as they "serve to corrupt your mind." Loung watched in silent horror as her beautiful red New Year's dress was thrown onto a bonfire with all the other city clothes. Everyone was forced to wear the same black pajamas and cut their hair short. Religion was abolished, and ancient temples like Angkor Wat were desecrated. The Angkar sought to create a classless society, yet a brutal hierarchy emerged. The soldiers and "base people"—the original rural peasants—were at the top, while the "new people" were at the bottom, given the hardest labor and the smallest food rations. To survive, Loung's family had to become invisible, to bury their education, their memories, and their true selves under the guise of being simple, uneducated peasants.

Narrator: In the brutal world of the Khmer Rouge, innocence was a luxury that could not be afforded. After being separated from her remaining family, seven-year-old Loung was sent to a work camp for orphans. Driven by a burning hatred for the soldiers who had destroyed her family and a desperate will to survive, she made a chilling choice: she volunteered to become a child soldier.

The training was a systematic process of dehumanization. Loung and the other children were indoctrinated with propaganda, taught to chant slogans glorifying the Angkar and to despise the Vietnamese, or "Youns." They were trained to set traps, handle rifles, and kill without hesitation. Loung’s small hands learned the weight of a gun, and her mind was filled with lessons on how to inflict pain. She became hardened, desensitized to the violence that surrounded her. This transformation was a necessary adaptation for survival, but it came at a terrible cost. The little girl who once lived in a loving home was forged into a weapon, her grief and fear channeled into a potent, all-consuming rage. Her story is a devastating testament to the regime's exploitation of children, who were robbed of their childhood and turned into instruments of war.

Narrator: Throughout the memoir, the most profound losses are those of family. The title itself sets the tone: "First they killed my father." His abduction by soldiers, under the false pretense of needing help with an ox cart, was a quiet, terrifying moment that ripped the heart out of the family. His absence left them vulnerable and exposed. Soon after, Loung’s beautiful older sister Keav died of dysentery and food poisoning in a teenage labor camp, denied proper care and left to die alone.

The ultimate test of the family's bonds came when Loung's mother, Ma, made an impossible decision. Realizing that families of former officials were being systematically executed, she chose to separate her remaining children to increase their chances of survival. "If we stay together, we will die together," she told them, forcing Loung, Chou, and Kim to flee in different directions. The final, devastating blow came when Loung learned that Ma and her youngest sister, Geak, had been captured and executed. The news shattered Loung, leaving her in a state of emotional oblivion. Yet, even in the face of total loss, a flicker of the human spirit remained. Loung’s journey with her brother Meng to a refugee camp in Thailand, and eventually to America, was fueled by a deep-seated resilience. Her survival is a testament not only to her own strength but to the enduring power of the love and hope her family instilled in her before their world was torn apart.

Narrator: First They Killed My Father is more than a memoir of survival; it is an act of bearing witness. Its single most important takeaway is the profound resilience of the human spirit in the face of state-sponsored evil. Loung Ung’s story demonstrates that even when a regime attempts to annihilate identity, family, and humanity itself, the core of who we are—our capacity for love, memory, and rage—can endure.

The book leaves us with a difficult but necessary challenge. It forces us to look into the abyss of human cruelty and not turn away. It asks us to remember the two million Cambodians who perished and to recognize that their story is not just a historical event, but a timeless warning. How do we ensure that such atrocities are never repeated? And for those who survive, how is it possible to rebuild a life from the ashes of such profound loss? Loung Ung’s journey suggests that the answer lies in telling the story, in transforming pain into purpose, and in never, ever forgetting.