Christa Hillstom / MedillClaires Ung Kay never saw her parents again after the fall of Phnom Penh. Although her personal connection to Cambodia perished under the regime of the Khmer Rouge, she continues to help her people today as a founding member of the Cambodian Association of Illinois.
Cambodians wait outside the entrance to the secluded Wall of Remembrance at the Cambodian American Heritage Museum and Killing Fields Memorial. The community mourns its losses, but expresses hope for the future.Reports - Chicago
by Christa Hillstrom
Apr 22, 2008
Like most teenagers excited to go abroad for the first time, Claires Ung Kay was thrilled to get the chance to study in Paris.
But when she left Cambodia in 1970 she didn’t know she would never see her home again. Nor did she know that in five years her mother would be killed for trying to feed chicken to her starving husband.
The Cambodian Association of Illinois, based in Albany Park, hosted a Day of Remembrance on Sunday to help Cambodians honor relatives lost in the genocide of the 1970s. April 17th marked the 33rd anniversary of the fall of Phnom Penh to the Khmer Rouge, when the pogroms began.
“We do this to remember the tragedy of 1975,” Nen Sok, the association’s board president, addressed a crowd of about 150. “But also because we need unity in our community here.”
Organizers said the ceremony helps Cambodians work through grief that continues to affect individual lives and infuse wider community life. They hope such ceremonies will help survivors share with new generations how the experience of atrocity has shaped their collective identity.
“Our younger generation craves that—they want to have that picture,” said Elizabeth Keo, the association’s program director. “They want to know about their identity.”
An estimated 2 million people were killed by the Khmer Rouge between 1975 and 1979. The regime, in ruthless pursuit of a utopia without class or cultural differences, stormed cities and forced urban populations into agrarian labor camps.
Prime Minister Pol Pot and other leaders isolated the country from the rest of the world and re-set the clock to “year zero” in an attempt to restart history, erasing both personal and cultural identity.
Several generations attended Sunday’s Day of Remembrance, where Buddhist monks led participants in prayer. Everyone observed a moment of silence to honor the spirits of family members.
A line of people wove through the association’s Cambodian American Heritage Museum to the Killing Fields Memorial, where the families of those who survived lit incense for those who didn’t at the Wall of Remembrance—glass plates inscribed with the names of lost relatives.
Kay, 55, said that honoring her loved ones arouses memories of when she first heard the news of Phnom Penh: “I felt sick, sick. I couldn’t believe it.”
Charged with running an orphanage, her parents fared better than some in the beginning. But then her father fell sick.
“He had weakness, tiredness,” she said. “He was dying of ‘starving disease.’”
In a country where food rations were minimal and often non-existent, starvation was a leading cause of death.
Kay moved to Chicago in 1977 and helped found the Association, which now serves 3,000 Cambodians. She married and raised two children, but neither of them learned to speak Khmer.
Genocide continues to be a part of the Cambodian cultural identity, even for young people, according to Keo. But, she added, there is a gap between what first- and second-generation Cambodians learn from books and what their parents and grandparents share with them.
Cambodian refugees were forced to pile the stress of immigration and cultural assimilation on top of trauma, Keo said, and that has prevented many from opening up. Some still suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.
Keo said that for a long time her own understanding of the genocide was primarily academic, defined by facts and numbers rather than stories. It was not until she was an adult that her mother enriched Keo’s understanding through sharing personal experience.
“She compares herself to a bird,” said Keo. She then quoted her mother, “‘The Khmer Rouge cut off my wings.’”
The challenge and the goal, according to the association, is for people to start talking and helping one another understand how the experience has shaped them all, even when it hurts.
“You can’t look forward without having your past behind you,” she said. “I would like to see that history is being told to young people—not just in a factual way, but as an experience.”
The association will hold a fundraiser Saturday to address health issues in the Cambodian-American community.
by Christa Hillstrom
Apr 22, 2008
Like most teenagers excited to go abroad for the first time, Claires Ung Kay was thrilled to get the chance to study in Paris.
But when she left Cambodia in 1970 she didn’t know she would never see her home again. Nor did she know that in five years her mother would be killed for trying to feed chicken to her starving husband.
The Cambodian Association of Illinois, based in Albany Park, hosted a Day of Remembrance on Sunday to help Cambodians honor relatives lost in the genocide of the 1970s. April 17th marked the 33rd anniversary of the fall of Phnom Penh to the Khmer Rouge, when the pogroms began.
“We do this to remember the tragedy of 1975,” Nen Sok, the association’s board president, addressed a crowd of about 150. “But also because we need unity in our community here.”
Organizers said the ceremony helps Cambodians work through grief that continues to affect individual lives and infuse wider community life. They hope such ceremonies will help survivors share with new generations how the experience of atrocity has shaped their collective identity.
“Our younger generation craves that—they want to have that picture,” said Elizabeth Keo, the association’s program director. “They want to know about their identity.”
An estimated 2 million people were killed by the Khmer Rouge between 1975 and 1979. The regime, in ruthless pursuit of a utopia without class or cultural differences, stormed cities and forced urban populations into agrarian labor camps.
Prime Minister Pol Pot and other leaders isolated the country from the rest of the world and re-set the clock to “year zero” in an attempt to restart history, erasing both personal and cultural identity.
Several generations attended Sunday’s Day of Remembrance, where Buddhist monks led participants in prayer. Everyone observed a moment of silence to honor the spirits of family members.
A line of people wove through the association’s Cambodian American Heritage Museum to the Killing Fields Memorial, where the families of those who survived lit incense for those who didn’t at the Wall of Remembrance—glass plates inscribed with the names of lost relatives.
Kay, 55, said that honoring her loved ones arouses memories of when she first heard the news of Phnom Penh: “I felt sick, sick. I couldn’t believe it.”
Charged with running an orphanage, her parents fared better than some in the beginning. But then her father fell sick.
“He had weakness, tiredness,” she said. “He was dying of ‘starving disease.’”
In a country where food rations were minimal and often non-existent, starvation was a leading cause of death.
Kay moved to Chicago in 1977 and helped found the Association, which now serves 3,000 Cambodians. She married and raised two children, but neither of them learned to speak Khmer.
Genocide continues to be a part of the Cambodian cultural identity, even for young people, according to Keo. But, she added, there is a gap between what first- and second-generation Cambodians learn from books and what their parents and grandparents share with them.
Cambodian refugees were forced to pile the stress of immigration and cultural assimilation on top of trauma, Keo said, and that has prevented many from opening up. Some still suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.
Keo said that for a long time her own understanding of the genocide was primarily academic, defined by facts and numbers rather than stories. It was not until she was an adult that her mother enriched Keo’s understanding through sharing personal experience.
“She compares herself to a bird,” said Keo. She then quoted her mother, “‘The Khmer Rouge cut off my wings.’”
The challenge and the goal, according to the association, is for people to start talking and helping one another understand how the experience has shaped them all, even when it hurts.
“You can’t look forward without having your past behind you,” she said. “I would like to see that history is being told to young people—not just in a factual way, but as an experience.”
The association will hold a fundraiser Saturday to address health issues in the Cambodian-American community.
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