A fter losing much of his family to the Khmer Rouge, the author made his way to Oregon to become a U.S. citizen, a successful entrepreneur, and a Rotarian. In 1999, he returned to Cambodia’s killing fields only to face a powerful moral dilemma.

As I write this, my heart is pounding, my eyes are welling up with tears, my chest hurts, and my hands are trembling. After I first came to the United States, I tried very hard to erase the images and names of the Khmer Rouge I knew. For decades, they haunted me in my sleep. Among them, Mok has been the hardest one to forget. Let me tell you what happened.

1975-76

I was exhausted from farm labor but awoken by stabbing hunger pains. Yesterday, I had eaten nothing more than two rationed bowls of watery rice porridge. Dazed, tired, and starving, I saw my youngest sister, Ali, heading out toward the village’s common well. As if the Khmer Rouge weren’t brutal enough, my village had been punished by a drought. For months, our only source of water came from the drips at the bottom of the well. Every day, my sister collected three pails of water to share among my extended family.

Ali was barely 11 years old, but a much brighter and more mature child than I was. Her body was covered by a ragged sarong rolled at the waist. Through her exposed skin, I could see her vertebrae and the back of her ribcage. I could have counted every rib above her bloated stomach. With one pail in each hand, she turned and forced a tired and heartbreaking smile my way. I walked back to my family’s straw hut and awaited the whistle to start another day in hell. When the Khmer Rouge took over Cambodia on 17 April 1975, I had just completed seventh grade in Battambang, the country’s second-largest city. My family, which included my seven sisters, made ends meet and was considered middle class. Several of my older sisters and their husbands were university educated.

The Khmer Rouge soon mandated the mass evacuation of Battambang Province and cities throughout Cambodia, telling us that the Americans were going to attack. We packed what we could carry on foot, burying valuable items such as family china and silver in the backyard. I was anxious for adventure. There was a good chance that I might be armed as a boy soldier to protect my Cambodia against neighboring countries and the “Tiger Enemy” USA. I thought my father was crazy to predict that the Khmer Rouge regime would be modeled after Mao’s Red Army.

We marched in the mass evacuation for two days. During the march, I witnessed brutal executions. At night, the foul odor from dead bodies along the highway made it impossible to sleep. At the end, I felt I had matured as much as 10 years.

After less than a week, we were evacuated again. This journey was far more difficult. We traveled barefoot for days through inhospitable, barren rice paddies. By this time, money had no value. A can of rice, a handful of salt, or a piece of dry fish were worth more than an ounce of gold. Straw hats made from palm leaf and scarves were in high demand, especially among the city folk trying to blend in and protect themselves from the scorching April sun.

When we had settled in a remote farming area, the Angkar (the new name for the Khmer Rouge government) called a public meeting to declare Cambodia a communist nation that was to become an agrarian utopia. Angkar declared everyone equal. Angkar decreed that everyone must farm. Money, jewelry, books, and photos were the source of immorality and corruption. Such items were banned, and anyone found possessing them would face torture or execution. From this day on, no one owned anything, and everyone owned everything. The system of rationing began that day. The labor camp started the next day.

We worked to make the barren land into a massive rice farm. Each of us could suffer death or torture for stealing, speaking a foreign language, speaking to the opposite sex (this included my talking to Ali or my six older sisters). City folks like us had to work harder to prove themselves worthy of living. I also was regarded as a “chen” (my father was Chinese). That was a double crime. Every night, I attended meetings for children, where the Khmer Rouge instructed us to patriotically report our parents for breaking the rules.

As days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, the Angkar forced people to work harder for less food. Before the first year was over, scores of people were starved, tortured, or executed. Without a clock or calendar, I lost all sense of time. I cannot remember when we were moved to Phoum Khsouy (“fatigue village”), where I was ordered to leave my family’s hut and join an all-male labor camp.

I cannot recall whether the day was hot, cold, or rainy – or even the month – when I heard that my father had died. At about age 16 and as the only son, I had become the man of the family. I gathered my courage and headed to the leaders’ compound. The top leader, Mit Bong (comrade brother) Mok, was waiting for me. He was lying on the bamboo floor on his right side, propping his head on his right hand and elbow, gazing coldly at me. I asked permission to attend my father’s funeral – a primitive burial without any religious connotations. His response lives within me today. He advised me that it would not be productive for me to go. “Besides,” he added, “your father was buried a few days ago.”

1977-78

Some months later, I was informed, in the middle of my work in a rice paddy, that my youngest sister, Ali, had died that afternoon and my nephew, who was about six, had died that morning. I was too callous to care. Life went on. My grandmother died next, then my mother. I do not know exactly where her body was buried. They all died of starvation.

There is no way I can accurately describe what it is like to wake up to excruciating hunger. The main reason some of us survived is that there was always something to eat, if one were willing to eat anything – rats, snakes, geckos, beetles, tree ants, leaves. One day I found myself alone in an abandoned village. I decided to climb a coconut tree. Halfway up, someone screamed at me. When I looked down, I was staring at the two barrels of AK-47 rifles, held by two Khmer Rouge boy soldiers. I relaxed my grip and slid down. I did not feel the abrasions on my legs, arms, and chest.

I was shackled for a day and a night with several other boys for my crime of stealing coconuts. Shortly after the sun rose, the soldiers returned and, to my surprise, freed us. One soldier kicked me, backhanded my head, and told me to get the hell out. Without turning around, I ran, anticipating a bullet piercing the back of my head. When I stopped and looked back, I was alone in the middle of an open field. Everything but my pounding heart was peaceful. I thanked my father for watching over me. Then I cried. I picked up hard pieces of dry clay and threw them at the ignorant trees, the oblivious birds, the insensitive breeze. Facing a weaker person at that moment, I would have ripped him to pieces. I hated the world, I hated myself, and I hated my lack of dignity.

1979

One day I woke to an unusually peaceful morning. No whistle. No wake-up bell. No roll call. I was confused and afraid. My curiosity finally overcame my fear. I stepped out of the straw hut. No Khmer Rouge leaders were in sight. By about noon, without realizing we were celebrating our freedom, the other guys and I were singing songs from the days before the Khmer Rouge came into power. We beat on pots and pans and feasted on looted spoils. Later we learned that the Khmer Rouge had run away in the night because they had learned the Vietnamese army was coming. A new panic came over us, given the long acrimony between the Vietnamese and Cambodian people.

In the mid-afternoon, two soldiers approached on horseback. They were Cambodian and introduced themselves as freedom fighters aided by the Vietnamese army. They encouraged us to join them. I went from a slave, cowering in fear, to an angry and bloodthirsty avenger. I would do much worse to the Khmer Rouge than they had done to me, my family, friends, and countrymen. I would chop off their heads, rip off their ears, slice open their stomachs, rape their women, and kill their babies.

I joined a mob armed with machetes, picks, and sticks. We did not find any Khmer Rouge, but we burned homes they had occupied. Weeks later, the Vietnamese army was ready to enlist us and I found myself in line to sign up. My destiny of becoming a torturer and killer ended abruptly when a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the slowly moving line. I turned and saw the face of my sister Pech. She ordered me to step out of the line. I reluctantly surrendered to her wish. She brought me to three of my other sisters. We were orphans, but we were family. Together, we would start a new life.

Our reunion lasted until my sister Phon insisted I escape to Thailand with her and a friend, Van Mealy Touch. My other sisters decided to stay behind. As we left on foot, I had only the clothes that I wore. We did our best to catch fish, eels, frogs, and grasshoppers along the highway, but food was scarce because everyone was scavenging. After days of clandestine travel, we joined a group of about 30 other escapees. Our anxiety escalated as we squatted in an abandoned farmhouse near the Thai border. Mealy, the only English-speaker in the group, monitored an underground radio broadcast in English. He told us to wait a week or so because the Thai government was sending the refugees back into Cambodia through the treacherous Phnom Dongrek mountain range, which was infested with minefields. Rumors also were flying that scores of Cambodian refugees had been shot dead by Thai soldiers for refusing to be repatriated. Days, perhaps a week or two, went by. One morning, the good news arrived. The international community had decided to expedite the process of moving all refugees out of Thailand. We planned to resume our border crossing the next day. The short wait seemed like an eternity. I kept looking anxiously at the eastern horizon. We would have to postpone the trip if we could not make it across the open fields and into the woods before dawn. Vietnamese soldiers routinely patrolled the fields to prevent escape into Thailand. We marched as quietly and as fast as we could. The sun had barely reached a 45-degree angle above the horizon when the Vietnamese patrols fired bullets and small rockets at us. I ran as fast as I could. I neither slowed down for people who stepped on land mines nor cared what happened to anyone else (including my sister). The sound of mines exploding and screams for help only urged me to run faster and farther.

We must have run for over an hour. About two-thirds of the people survived the attack, including my sister and Mealy. Everyone marched on. Every time a baby cried, I wanted to strangle it. I wanted to kill the baby’s entire family for putting me at risk. My eyes constantly scanned my surroundings. I looked up. I looked down. I looked left and right. We had to stay on the path to avoid stepping on the land mines. We were deep into the jungle, unsure of where we were. The repetitious scenery of the jungle made me feel like we were going in circles.

As the sun set, we saw farmers in a rice paddy. Overcoming our fear that they were Khmer Rouge communists, we approached them. I was happy to hear the farmers speak Thai instead of Cambodian. I knew then that I had reached the safe haven. The farmers took us to a makeshift refugee camp.

The next morning, Thai soldiers told everyone to hurry up and get on one of the waiting buses, which would take us to the Mai Rote refugee camp. The clean, cushioned seats; glass windows; and painted pictures on our bus were surreal; I had not seen such things since the Khmer Rouge took over Cambodia. At the camp, for the first time in nearly five years, I felt like a normal teenager. I played all day. Meanwhile, Mealy made friends with an American World Vision worker, who won approval for us to come to the United States.

1999

The final Khmer Rouge stronghold crumbled in 1998, after leader Pol Pot died. Cambodia was still a dangerous place, but Phon and I decided to return. In the 20 years that had passed, I had earned a bachelor’s degree at Reed College in Portland, Ore., USA, and a master’s degree at Bowling Green State University in Ohio; worked at Andersen Consulting and United Data Processing; and married and had a young son named Kilin, after my father. I spoke English better than Cambodian.

As we traveled toward Cambodia, Phon constantly reminded me of my posture and mannerism. My American confidence could be misinterpreted as arrogance and put both of us in danger. My stomach churned, and my imagination ran wild. I was about to re-enter Cambodia – hell, heaven, foreign land, and home.

As I reunited with long-lost family in Phnom Penh and then in Battambang, nothing could bring me down. And then a man who was with me in the Khmer Rouge labor camp approached me. He knew the whereabouts of Mok, the leader who executed one of my brothers-in-law and put me and my family through hell. My old acquaintance offered to murder Mok for $800. I had frequently fantasized vengeance for all that the Khmer Rouge did to my family. But I never thought that there would be a chance to take out my revenge.

That night I went to bed with a heavy thought: In the next couple of days, I had to decide whether to end a man’s life at the cost of $800 or forgive the Khmer Rouge for their atrocities against my family. I thought of killing the man myself. I thought of torturing him first. I questioned my true identity. I struggled to fall asleep. Finally, I wondered how I would face my son if I went through with the deal to murder Mok. I reached no conclusion.

The next day we held a ceremony for my relatives who had died. It took place in a Buddhist temple named Wat Kompheng. The monks faced us, chanting. I sat on a rice mat next to my sisters. My eyes were closed, my hands clasped in front of my forehead, my head bowed down to the ground. During the Khmer Rouge, I had called out to God every day for help, but I received none, and I had no religious faith left. Now, however, I asked God to take care of my parents’ and youngest sister’s spirits. I whispered thanks to my father for watching over me throughout his life. I let my spirit drift and connect with my parents’ spirits. I thought about my friend’s offer. I could no longer hold back my tears. I decided what to do with my $800.

Shortly after dinner, my friend came by to check on whether I had decided to accept his offer to kill Mok. Without hesitation, I politely declined and gave him $50 to feed his family. I gave the $800 to my sisters Sim and Peak to help purchase their new home.

2000-2008

When I returned home, I continued working long hours, starting a successful consulting business. On weekends, I worked in the yard of my dream home. But I became depressed and suicidal, until I began a nightly dialogue with the spirits of my father and mother. I decided to sell our luxury home and 80 percent of our family’s belongings and move to a small rental apartment. Since then, I have spent much more time with my family, which now includes a daughter. I also became president of the Cambodian American Community of Oregon. Shortly after I found myself, other people discovered me. Among them was then Portland Mayor Tom Potter, who knighted me as a Royal Rosarian, or goodwill ambassador (Portland is the City of Roses), and Michael Cottam, a business associate who invited me to join the Rotary Club of Portland in 2006. I became committed to Rotary club projects in Cambodia, including missions through Medical Teams International.

2009

I like to think that I have forgiven Mok and the others, but sometime when my post-traumatic stress disorder is triggered, deep and painful anger returns, and I have an urge to hunt down these murderers and kill them. My PTSD was triggered by the 30th anniversary of Cambodia’s liberation from the Khmer Rouge (7 January). After work that day, I went to the Eastmoreland Golf Course driving range. I imagined crushing Mok’s skull with my driver as I took a swing at one ball after another. When I got home, I had dinner, wrote an essay, and did 30 push-ups. I diverted my anger and depression. That’s a way for me to cope. I am not sure whether I have forgiven Mok. I think I have chosen to forget him. I have accepted that I cannot change the past. But what I do today and tomorrow matters. I believe that Rotary represents humanity at its best. My faith in humanity was nearly destroyed by the Khmer Rouge. Whenever I meet a kind, considerate, and compassionate person, I regain a little of that faith. I remain a genocide survivor. But the atmosphere of Rotary energizes me and gives me courage, strength, and hope.