Though it was written almost like an action-adventure story towards the end, this book was painful, pitiable to read-- the author trying to apply cool logic to the arbitrary, absurdly methodical Khmer Rouge regime while he's stripped bit by bit of everything and everyone that defines his life. As the story goes on Yathay lists his possessions several times, each list more impossibly small than the last, a metaphor at the end for the relationships equally stripped piece by piece, each loss impossibly great.
... a few glimpses into patriarchal standpoints that subtly remind of absent narratives. Sometimes autobiography is the hardest to reflect on and critique-- when do the judgments of story end and person begin? Because here I would like to judge the storytelling, but not the life or indeed the choices. But I will dwell on the choices-- uncomfortably, the way few books force you to confront ideas like the justifiable selfishness of survival and different ways to manifest strength.