First They Killed My Father_ A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers - Loung Ung [106]
His face reveals nothing. His lips do not beg for mercy. He sits propped up on a highback chair on a gravel hill that serves as a stage. He is dark and wears the black clothes of the Khmer Rouge—the black clothes I still wear. His matted hair is sweaty and he hangs his head to focus on his feet. The rough hemp rope that binds his feet together is so tightly tied that it draws blood. More rope straps him to the back of the chair, it coils around him from the chest down to the stomach.
“Murderer! You deserve to die a slow, painful death!” someone yells.
That is what we have planned for him. I hope he knows his life is about to end. I hope he knows we are here because we want his blood and will soon rip him apart for it. People talk loudly about the best way to kill him. They argue about how to make the execution as drawn out and painful as possible. They discuss which tools to use to crack his skull, to slice his throat. Someone says we should let him sit in the sun, shave his skin open little by little, and rub salt into the wounds. Someone else wants to strangle him bare-handed. The discussion continues for a long time, but the people cannot agree on what to do.
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 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