Where grief was a luxury

I mentioned in my previous post that I was moved by Loung Ung's memoir, "First They Killed My Father." Loung was 5 when the Khmer Rouge came to power in 1975, the second-youngest child in a wealthy family in Phnom Penh. She recounts their rapid descent: in weeks, she changed from the girl in the red dress who loved trips to the movie theater, to the hungry skinny girl on forced marches, to the silent girl who only seeks anonymity, who couldn't afford to cry.

I'd love to think that victims bond together in their suffering, that they bear one another's burdens. But that's often not how it works, and in Loung's case, her fellow victims increased her sorrows rather than sharing them. She spent the years from age 5 to 10 channeling her terror and grief into rage and anger. Amazingly, Loung overcame these patterns and now works from the US as an advocate against land mines, testifying to their destruction in her native Cambodia.

In one pivotal scene, her mom splits up the family, hoping that it will increase the chances one of them will survive. She convinces her kids that she's too spent by grief to love them anymore:

“Remember,” Ma whispers, “don’t go together and don’t come back.” My heart sinks as I realize Ma really is sending us away.
“Ma, I’m not going!” I plant my feet to the ground, refusing to move.
“Yes, you are!” Ma says sternly. “Your Pa is gone now, and I just cannot take care of you kids. I don’t want you here! You are too much work for me! I want you to leave!” Ma’s eyes stare at us blankly.
“Ma,” my arms reach out to her, pleading with her to take me into her arms and tell me I can stay. But she swats them back with a quick slap.
“Now go!” she turns me around by the shoulders and bends down to give me a hard swat on the butt, pushing me away.

Later, Loung tries to obey the family who has temporarily taken her in, by bringing food to their dying grandmother:

When the nurse leaves, the grandmother’s face darkens and she turns her attention to me. “What are you doing? Give me my food!” she barks at me and unwraps the banana leaves to find rice and salted pork. “Stupid girl! I know you ate some on the way. I am old and I need this more than you.” I say nothing and continue to stand there. “You are a little thief – I know you are. You are not even grateful we took you in. Stupid little thief!” Hearing her hateful words, I cannot find it in my heart to feel sorry for her anymore, and I leave her with her cries and moans and the stench of impending death.

Just after the Khmer Rouge surrenders, she and a strange girl find a body in the river while fetching water. To avoid painful emotions, she assumes he's an enemy:

“The water is too shallow. On the count of three, you push the body and I’ll push the head,” I direct. After a concerted effort, the body finally floats down the river, his long hair spreading around. The picture tugs at my heart and knots up my stomach. For a few brief seconds I think of Geak and hope the soldiers did not put her in a bag and throw her into the river. I nearly cry at the thought of someone poking at her body, but I push the tears down. “Another damn Khmer Rough,” I mutter under my breath. “I hate them. I hope they all die.” We wait a few minutes until we believe the body fluids have all floated past us before fetching our water.

The Khmer Rouge's reign of terror ended thirty years ago, but trials for their crimes against humanity are just beginning this year. Nearly everyone in Cambodia today either endured this themselves or was raised by someone who endured this. How long does it take, after crimes of this magnitude, for justice to come? And where the average citizen was both a victim and a perpetrator, how long does it take for an entire society to find healing?