Thoughts on Cambodia

Before I ventured into Cambodia, it was hard for me to conceive of it being anything beyond the images left behind by the Killing Fields.

To me, Cambodia was a country forever shadowed by the Pol Pot years of famine, torture, cruelty and unbelievable political stupidity. It was difficult to see the face of the country beyond its history and its problems.

Seeing a country and its people face to face speaks volumes beyond what you read on paper. While people want sympathy in their brokenness, nobody wants to be remembered solely for their mistakes, their tragedies, their dark times. Similarly for countries. Cambodians want to move on. They do not want to just be remembered as the tragic playground for Pol Pot's egotism.

Everywhere I went in Cambodia, it was getting progressively harder to see the fingerprints of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. The poverty was still there. The many landmine victims were still there. Toul Sleng was still there. The pyramids of Cambodian skulls were still there.

But the real Cambodia seemed to call out to me to be heard. She did not want to be stereotyped as just another case study of political horror. She whispered, "Look at me. Look. At. Me. Know who I am. Not who you want me to be."

In Toul Sleng - the infamous school turned interrogation and torture centre of the Khmer Rouge, I walk past panel after panel of mugshots of the thousands who passed through the gates and never emerged again. In a room full of discarded rusting leg irons, I suddenly find a crumbling plaster bust of Pol Pot. It is moulding away, defaced and ignored by most of the tourists. I stand over it and stare at it. The feeling of helpless anger over all that Pol Pot did is overwhelming. I find that I am crying as I take photos of it. I curse it. Bastard - I think - you bastard.

In Phnom Penh, a new painfully white NOKIA shop mushroomed in the midst of a dirty street, screamed crassily, "Capitalism is here!" Fresh new billboards advertising luxury goods and dainty cafes in ubiquitous dark wood and cream leather agreed. The many street stall vendors offering fresh steamed corn, Vietnamese noodles, voluptuous milkfruit agreed.

A lovely Cambodian woman tells me in impeccable English that she works as a maid in Malaysia. She dishes out her delicately flavoured coconut fish stew for all people - me, the awkward Singaporean tourist, the sweet-faced Chinese student, the sullen decorated military officer, the construction workers. A Khmer Literature teacher sits next to me and tells me about how difficult it is to teach teenagers these days. I look at him in wonder: 20 years ago, this man would never have been able to declare aloud his affection for Literature. The Khmer Rouge would have bludgeoned him to death for that.

In the rural area of Kratie, giggling Cambodian village children ran freely in the mud - their clothes and bags are obviously donations from the First World. I count at least three shiny F4 schoolbags on my trip. Jerry Yen's beaming white mug is disconcerting in this place. Do these children know that thousands of Chinese girls swoon and scream before the feet of those four pretty boys? They do not. And they don't care. They run barefoot and bare-bodied, next to the swollen pigs and sulking cows. Their feet are fleet, their dirty teeth break out into easy grins, their eyes have not learnt the light of cynicism or boredom. Older children naturally lead the younger, admonishing them to say thank you for the little gifts we give out. These village children know riches of childhood that I suspect their wealthier counterparts have forgotten in their sterile, clean, perfumed cocoons.

A Cambodian orphan boy with the gentle eyes motions to me to make him a balloon sculpture cross. I motion to him to wait as I make balloon dogs for his friends. He waits in patience and quietly watches me twist the balloons clumsily as I pore over the instructions. The boy gracefully picks up a stray balloon and tries to mould his own cross. He fails and tries again. Fails and tries again. And succeeds, displaying his cross to me with a sweet smile. With deft, agile little movements, he shows me how to sculpt it. Then in silent partnership, he joins me and starts making balloon crosses and balloon crowns for all his little friends.

I take him aside to give him a little toy and tell the translator to praise him - that he of all the children will get this special prize because he knows how to be generous and give instead of take all the time. The boy smiles quietly and shyly wanders downstairs. The next time I see him, the little angel has given away his crown, his cross AND the little toy to the other gleeful children. I look at him in wonder, marvel at his charity and think of how Christ loved the poor old woman who gave away her copper coins.

All along he has not said a single word, but he has given me volumes to think about.

Cambodia is not Pol Pot. It is not Toul Sleng. It is not S21 or the Khmer Rouge or the Killing Fields.
It is not poverty. It is not famine.

It is all that but it is much much more.

Something of the real Cambodia is in the smile of that young boy - serene, quiet, trusting, at peace.
Something in his smile says Blessed. It is for such as him that Christ preached the Sermon on the Mount.

I think of Psalm 37:

"For evil men will be cut off, but those who hope in the LORD will inherit the land.
A little while, and the wicked will be no more; though you look for them, they will not be found.
But the meek will inherit the land and enjoy great peace.
The wicked plot against the righteous and gnash their teeth at them;
but the Lord laughs at the wicked, for he knows their day is coming."

Somewhere I romanticise. I dream, I hope - Cambodian children are laughing because the Lord has taught them to laugh in defiance at the wicked.

Evil men might have held Cambodia ransom for four bloody years. But they shall never inherit the land.