Memoirs of a survivor.

• Author: Mouth, Sophea
• Position: Survivor of the 1975 Khmer Rouge massacres in Cambodia wants questions answered - Column

I was twelve years old when the Khmer Rouge seized power in Cambodia in 1975. I managed to survive. Others in my family were not so lucky.

I saw the Khmer Rouge shoot my mother dead. They decapitated my uncle and his entire family, including his pregnant wife. They killed another uncle of mine.

The recent trial of Pol Pot by his fellow Khmer Rouge members has brought some relief to me and other Cambodian survivors in the United States. But justice has not yet been done. Pol Pot should be tried by an international tribunal for crimes against humanity.

Most of us are still coping with the horror we suffered during the Khmer Rouge's rule from 1975 to 1979. Between one million and two million people were killed during those four years. The trial of Pol Pot has brought back painful memories.

Many Cambodians actually welcomed the Khmer Rouge forces when they marched into Phnom Penh, Cambodia's capital, on April 17, 1975. The euphoria turned out to be short-lived.

I was in Battambang, Cambodia's second-largest city. Within twenty-four hours, I heard on the radio that everybody had been told to evacuate the city. In the midst of the chaos, my siblings and I grabbed whatever food we could carry and forced our way into the crowd. Khmer Rouge soldiers pushed us and shoved us throughout the trek from the capital to the countryside. Soon, Khmer Rouge trucks were busy moving prisoners to the execution sites.

I stood behind a tree some distance from the main road and saw several truckloads of prisoners turn onto a dusty gravel track. I then heard a succession of shots. Soon, another truck arrived with more prisoners. More shots followed. This continued for several days.

Finally, I made my way to the place where the trucks had turned off the main road. I could scarcely believe my eves. I had discovered piles of bodies lying in bomb crates on the side of the road. My knees weakened and I limped my way back to the village. I finally knew the purpose of all these trucks.

Sitting in our shanty, my family and I could smell a foul odor from the bomb crates when the wind blew our way. Sometimes the stench interrupted our meals, and we gagged and vomited. But we were so busy trying to fill our stomachs with the little food available that...