Each country I visit I try to pick up a book about the local history, culture, people or related areas—either fiction or non-fiction. Reading these books while traveling in the countries they are about really brings the stories and history to life. I’ve read a number of great books so far and a few terrible ones. The best ones I’ll leave recommendations here.

Special thanks to my friend Chivy (a native of Cambodia who now lives in San Francisco) who recommended Loung Ung’s book First They Killed My Father. This short read recounts Loung Ung’s experience as a child in Cambodia when Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge army stormed into Phnom Penh in April 1975. Written in simple language but with a powerful storytelling sense, this book not only gave me a glimpse into Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge, but gave me a bit of the history and cultural context for my travels there. More than once, as I read her descriptions of the countryside, I’d glance out the window to see a scene reminiscent of what she described in the book. If you have no knowledge of what went on in Cambodia during the 1970’s under Pol Pot, I’d suggest you pick up this book, as its a story the world should not forget. See excerpt below.

First They Killed My Father
Author: Loung Ung
256 Pages
Language: English
ISBN: 0060931388
Available at your local library or for $1.88(USD) from Amazon***

***if you buy via the link above, I will get a small piece of the sale from Amazon.com to put towards my future travels

---

What you can do now:

• Leave a comment in the reply box below.
• Read an excerpt from the book below.
• Purchase First They Killed My Father from Amazon.com, by clicking the image of the book cover above***.
• Read an interview with the book’s author Loung Ung on CNN.com
• Read my story about Window Shopping in Cambodia.
• See photo from my trip in Cambodia
• Read some of my other book recommendations from my travels:
  • Hitching Rides With Buddah by Will Ferguson (on Japan)
  • Vagabonding by Rolf Potts (on independent travel)

---

Excerpt from the First They Killed My Father, courtesy of Harper Collins and CNN.com Phnom Penh, April 1975

Phnom Penh city wakes early to take advantage of the cool morning breeze before the sun breaks through the haze and invades the country with sweltering heat. Already at 6 A.M. people in Phnom Penh are rushing and bumping into each other on dusty, narrow side streets. Waiters and waitresses in black-and-white uniforms swing open shop doors as the aroma of noodle soup greets waiting customers. Street vendors push food carts piled with steamed dumplings, smoked beef teriyaki sticks, and roasted peanuts along the sidewalks and begin to set up for another day of business. Children in colorful T-shirts and shorts kick soccer balls on sidewalks with their bare feet, ignoring the grunts and screams of the food cart owners. The wide boulevards sing with the buzz of motorcycle engines, squeaky bicycles, and, for those wealthy enough to afford them, small cars. By midday, as temperatures climb to over a hundred degrees, the streets grow quiet again. People rush home to seek relief from the heat, have lunch, take cold showers, and nap before returning to work at 2 P.M.

My family lives on a third-floor apartment in the middle of Phnom Penh, so I am used to the traffic and the noise. We don’t have traffic lights on our streets; instead, policemen stand on raised metal boxes, in the middle of the intersections directing traffic. Yet the city always seems to be one big traffic jam. My favorite way to get around with Ma is the cyclo because the driver can maneuver it in the heaviest traffic. A cyclo resembles a big wheelchair attached to the front of a bicycle. You just take a seat and pay the driver to wheel you around wherever you want to go. Even though we own two cars and a truck, when Ma takes me to the market we often go in a cyclo because we get to our destination faster. Sitting on her lap I bounce and laugh as the driver pedals through the congested city streets.

This morning, I am stuck at a noodle shop a block from our apartment in this big chair. I’d much rather be playing hopscotch with my friends. Big chairs always make me want to jump on them. I hate the way my feet just hang in the air and dangle. Today, Ma has already warned me twice not to climb and stand on the chair. I settle for simply swinging my legs back and forth beneath the table.

Ma and Pa enjoy taking us to a noodle shop in the morning before Pa goes off to work. As usual, the place is filled with people having breakfast. The clang and clatter of spoons against the bottom of bowls, the slurping of hot tea and soup, the smell of garlic, cilantro, ginger, and beef broth in the air make my stomach rumble with hunger. Across from us, a man uses chopsticks to shovel noodles into his mouth. Next to him, a girl dips a piece of chicken into a small saucer of hoisin sauce while her mother cleans her teeth with a toothpick. Noodle soup is a traditional breakfast for Cambodians and Chinese. We usually have this, or for a special treat, French bread with iced coffee.

“Sit still,” Ma says as she reaches down to stop my leg midswing, but I end up kicking her hand. Ma gives me a stern look and a swift slap on my leg.

“Don’t you ever sit still? You are five years old. You are the most troublesome child. Why can’t you be like your sisters? How Will you ever grow up to be a proper young lady?” Ma sighs. Of course I have heard all this before.

It must be hard for her to have a daughter who does not act like a girl, to be so beautiful and have a daughter like me. Among her women friends, Ma is admired for her height, slender build, and porcelain white skin. I often overhear them talking about her beautiful face when they think she cannot hear. Because I’m a child, they feel free to say whatever they want in front of me, believing I cannot understand. So while they’re ignoring me, they comment on her perfectly arched eyebrows; almond-shaped eyes; tall, straight Western nose; and oval face. At 5′6″, Ma is an amazon among Cambodian women. Ma says she’s so tall because she’s all Chinese. She says that some day my Chinese side will also make me tall. I hope so, because now when I stand I’m only as tall as Ma’s hips.

“Princess Monineath of Cambodia, now she is famous for being proper,” Ma continues. “It is said that she walks so quietly that no one ever hears her approaching. She smiles without ever showing her teeth. She talks to men without looking directly in their eyes. What a gracious lady she is.” Ma looks at me and shakes her head.

“Hmm …” is my reply, taking a loud swig of Coca-Cola from the small bottle.

Ma says I stomp around like a cow dying of thirst. She’s tried many times to teach me the proper way for a young lady to walk. First, you connect your heel to the ground, then roll the ball of your feet on the earth while your toes curl up painfully. Finally you end up with your toes gently pushing you off the ground. All this is supposed to be done gracefully, naturally, and quietly. It all sounds too complicated and painful to me. Besides, I am happy stomping around.

“The kind of trouble she gets into, while just the other day she-” Ma continues to Pa. but is interrupted when our waitress arrives with our soup.

“Phnom Penh special noodles with chicken for you and a glass of hot water,” says the waitress as she puts the steaming bowl of translucent potato noodles swimming in clear broth before Ma.

©2000 Loung Ung. Excerpt courtesy of HarperCollins publishers.

Recommendation: First They Killed My Father