by Loung Ung
Loung describes her writing process this way: “I handwrite my story in my journal, then flesh it out on the computer.” She relies on an improbable source of inspiration while writing: “Long grain, white rice. Rice is my homing device and my security blanket. When I travel or work on a book I must have at least one bowl of rice every day. Where there is rice, I feel at home.”
“She relies on an improbable source of inspiration while writing: ‘Long grain, white rice.… I must have at least one bowl of rice every day. Where there is rice, I feel at home.’“
A featured speaker on Cambodia, child soldiers, and land mines, Loung also serves as spokesperson for the Cambodia Fund—a program that supports centers in Cambodia that help disabled war victims and survivors of land mines. She has been the spokesperson for the Campaign for a Landmine Free World (1997-2003) and the Community Educator for the Abused Women’s Advocacy Project of the Maine Coalition against Domestic Violence.
“‘I have tiny hands and fingers, which allow me to fold little paper cranes and other creatures.’“
Loung has spoken widely to schools, universities, corporations, and symposia in the United States and abroad (including the UN Conference on Women in Beijing, the UN Conference Against Racism in Durban, South Africa, and the Child Soldiers Conference in Kathmandu, Nepal).
She was named one of the “100 Global Leaders of Tomorrow” by the World Economic Forum.
In her spare time, Loung makes origami earrings for her friends. “I have tiny hands and fingers, which allow me to fold little paper cranes and other creatures,” she says. “When my fingers get tired, I go out and ride my purple Huffy bike around the neighborhood. My bike has a very cool bell that looks like a huge eyeball. I like to ring my bell a lot.”
Lucky Child is her second book. She is currently working on a historical novel.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
About the Book
Loung Ung on the
Inspiration for
Lucky Child
WHEN I WROTE First They Killed My Father in 1999, I was at the beginning stage of my reconnection to my sister, my family, and Cambodia. The political situation in Cambodia was unstable, poverty and disease were widespread, and the scars of war were still very raw due to ongoing battles and the continuing presence of the Khmer Rouge. I was very angry when I wrote First. I wanted to purge the war from my body and throw it in the faces of readers, decision makers, and people I thought should have heard my cries. I didn’t want readers to have an easy read because I didn’t have an easy life. In First I plunged readers into the depths of man’s inhumanity to man—and left them there.
“In First They Killed My Father, I plunged readers into the depths of man’s inhumanity to man—and left them there.”
As a book, First They Killed My Father had existed within me long before I knew English. When I finally sat down to write, I knew what I wanted to say. Still, I was ill-prepared for the emotional difficulties of writing, and thought many times that I should give up. What kept me writing during those moments was the realization that I was an activist first and a writer second. The activist in me understood that I did not suffer alone the deaths and murders of my loved ones, but that I shared the pain of families from Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Sudan, and other countries. My activism enabled me to tap into my anger and passion to tell the larger stories of injustice and war when the writer in me was too heartbroken over my personal losses and pain. The act of writing eventually became a key vehicle for my activism—it enabled me to put a human face on the many innocent civilian casualties of war, to spread the word about the Khmer Rouge genocide and to raise money to help Cambodia. The surprise success of First They Killed My Father kept me busy doing just that.
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.
TODAY 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.
“My Cambodia today is beautiful, even as it continues to recover from the killing fields.”
Reprinted by permission from the New York Times.
Food, Good Food!
Loung Ung’s Favorite Restaurants
I LOVE TO EAT. Be it at my home, friends’ homes, restaurants, ball games, or carnivals—anywhere and everywhere—I love to eat. Sadly, I was not born with any cooking skills. I am, however, blessed to be surrounded by wonderful people like my sister-in-law Eang, my sister Chou, brothers Khouy and Kim, and friends like Susan Bachurski, Jim Trengrove, Sophie Wright, and Gail Griffith who are as fabulous in the kitchen as they are elsewhere in life. And more important, they never seem to mind feeding me when I show up at their front doors.
For all you foodies out there, here are a few of my favorite restaurants and eateries in America. Check them out if you’re in the area.
Boston, Massachusetts. Every time I’m in Boston I try to get to the Elephant Walk (http://www.elephantwalk.com/main.htm).
This fusion French-Cambodian restaurant serves some of the freshest food I’ve ever tasted—and the décor is lovely enough to be a date place. I like their French stuff, but it’s the Cambodian dishes that I really go for. If you’re in the mood for something special, order their Somah Machou sweet-and-sour shrimp soup or their Cambodian signature dish Amok Royal.
“This fusion French-Cambodian restaurant serves some of the freshest food I’ve ever tasted—and the décor is lovely enough to be a date place.”
Seattle, Washington. The atmosphere is casual and the food is authentic and delicious. If you’re in the area don’t miss the Phnom Penh Noodle House on 660 S. King Street, Seattle, WA 98104-2938; (206) 748–9825.
If I lived in the area I would have their number on speed dial. For a true taste of Cambodia order the Chha Khreoung—a dish made of a mixture of lime leaves, garlic, tumeric root, galangal, and lemongrass.
Cleveland, Ohio. Cleveland is my new hometown. When I’m not on the road I can usually be found sitting at my favorite table at Phnom Penh Restaurant (http://www.ohiorestaurant.com/). The owners are newly immigrated Cambodians who serve very authentic Khmer food. Everything is great, but make sure you try their Cambodian Crepe (Banh Cheiv).
If you’re not in the mood for Asian food visit McNulty’s Bier M
arket in Cleveland’s hip new West Twenty-fifth Street district (www.bier-markt.com/or216-344-9944). I lobbied the owners hard about serving fried crickets with their Belgian beers but unfortunately they didn’t go for it. Don’t be surprised if you see me behind the bar serving drinks. I get free food for working there.
“I lobbied the owners hard about serving fried crickets with their Belgian beers.”
Washington, D.C. There are so, so many fabulous restaurants here, but my all-time favorite is Thaiphoon in Dupont Circle (www.thaiphoon.com/). When I lived in D.C. I ate there four or five times a week. No kidding! Their Drunken Noodles is my absolute favorite!
Los Angeles, California. I admit I am biased on this one. My brother Kim is a wonderful cook and baker specializing in French pastries. Whenever I visit him in L.A. he sends me home with Tupperware and bags full of French baguettes, little cakes, and other goodies. If you want to try my brother Kim Ung’s delicious food, visit him at his store: Max Bakery, 4233 W. Century Blvd., Inglewood, CA 90304.
Have You Read?
More by Loung Ung
Don’t miss the next book by your favorite author. Sign up now for Author Tracker by visiting www.AuthorTracker.com.