A Mother’s Story of Child Lost in Chaos Burns Into Memory

Mothers never forget. They remember their child’s first walk and their first words. They tuck away these memories and never let them go.

I met Rann Luk, the mother of five children, about a month ago for a story on Cambodian women. She will never let the memories of her child die.

My story focused on Luk and nine other Cambodian mothers. They meet each Thursday to cope with the memories of losing their families during their country’s fierce civil war.

I heard about their meetings when I was pursuing another story in the Santa Ana neighborhood where they live. The women welcomed me by bowing, a Cambodian greeting. They fed me fruit punch and cookies and sat me on a chair in the middle of their circle. I listened to their discussion with the help of a translator. I watched their faces for their feelings.

Luk had few words to share when I attended two of their meetings at the Neighborhood Service Center. She was not like Kim Yon, who liked talking about her shopping sprees at the dime shops. She was not like Yan On, who is learning English at age 54. Yan On enjoys throwing in an occasional English word during discussions to show off her newly learned skill.

Instead, Luk hardly spoke. When she did, it was always in a whisper. She was more of a listener. She only gave information when it was asked of her. But I remember looking into her face whenever someone else spoke. I saw pain in her eyes whenever memories were shared about the massacres in Cambodia.

I waited until the end of one meeting to talk to Luk. I asked her and two other women to stay so I could learn more about them. I wanted to know her story.

Luk was very shy. But she wanted to share her story. Like the other women, she did not want the world to forget about the children, the ones missing, the ones killed in the terror of the Khmer Rouge.

Luk told me about her son, 6-year-old Thoeung. He died more than 10 years ago, left alongside a granary. He had been beaten by Khmer Rouge soldiers after he had gone to get the family’s daily ration of rice. Luk found her son’s body when he did not return to their hut. She then had to bury him or face death herself.

She told her story in short bursts, one sentence quickly after another. She stopped only to catch her breath or to wipe her tears with a paper towel.

Stories like Rann Luk’s write themselves. I bowed my goodbys to the women and went back to my office. I emptied her tale along with the others onto the computer screen. And my job as a reporter was seemingly done.

Not exactly.

After working on other stories, I can usually sleep easily at night. Press conferences and city council meetings do not replay themselves.

But because of Luk’s words, I saw her son’s body bloodied and bruised. Because of her words, I heard her screams of grief. And through her words, I felt the pain of a mother who has lost a child.

I hardly slept that night.