story
Volume 35, Number 4

The Cambodian Ghost

Daniel Gauss

The young monk sat behind a mahogany executive desk in his saffron robe. I expressed a significant concern I had about taking the teaching position he had offered.

“I don’t see any hope for your country under the present dictator. Every educated young person in Cambodia wants to flee to some Western country. Few educated people want to stay here. Your children come from poverty, the countryside. They can’t get a quality education and then flee to a Western high school or college. I would be educating children who will have very limited opportunities afterwards. There are no meaningful jobs here. There won’t be with this current guy in charge.”

It was impossible to rattle these monks. You could be more frank than usual, knowing you were not going to get a punch in the nose as a response. They really did know how to refrain from returning pettiness for pettiness or aggression for aggression. This is what I wanted for myself, frankly, and hoped to learn from them. That was one reason why I had come over to interview from a lucrative teaching position in China.

I was tired of pettiness and malice and conflict, and I thought living with these monks might help me learn better responses to less than genuine people and situations. Yet, I recalled the admonition of Joan of Arc in Shakespeare’s Henry VI: “Because you want the grace that others have, you judge it straight, a thing impossible.”

“I understand,” the monk began. “There is a tradition in Cambodia of poor, rural children coming to temples to receive basic literacy. I want to do more, in case opportunities do open up or they can create opportunities someday themselves. I understand how unsavory you feel living under a dictatorship might be, but you are in the minority of expats, as most seem to enjoy living here.”

Oh, the monk was pushing back? How dare I find a problem living in a country with an unshakable dictatorship, classified as severely underdeveloped by the UN and also scoring astronomically high on corruption, poverty and human rights violations indices!?

With the calm I had developed teaching in the Bronx, I said, “I have no truck with many of the expats in Cambodia. I asked an expat whether it bothered her that she was living in a 4th-world country run by a dictator who threw political opponents in prison and kept most of the population poor for the past 40 years, while he and his cronies lived high off the hog. It didn’t bother her at all. She told me Cambodia was quite convenient for her and that she could live like royalty while teaching English. I have no tolerance for that kind of attitude.”

The monk smiled to signify he understood. “Then come and teach with us. We won’t ask you to talk to other White people since they upset you so.” The monk maintained a serene smile on his face while uttering this sarcastic comment, waiting to see whether he had irritated me. He had not, but I wondered how well he had learned to take a punch in the nose.

He continued, “It’s hard for us to find a really good foreign teacher out here, one who grew up speaking English and who has your credentials and experience, especially one who will volunteer. We find a lot of people coming to Cambodia to live comfortably due to the living standard, to enjoy our red-light districts and gambling casinos, to live well because the country is poor. I can tell that you have a good heart, albeit with a cynical attitude. You certainly know how to teach. We would hate to let you get away.”

Despite the monk’s kindness and humor, I was still uncertain whether I would take the job.

“I have to admit, the idea of living with you folks appeals to me. I could learn so much from you. I have enough funds to take care of myself for at least a couple years before going back to paid teaching. I would like nothing better than to be of service to your people who have suffered for so long. But this dictatorship worries me. The limitation of life opportunities for your kids under this dictatorship worries me.

“The guy just appointed his son to be dictator after forty years of his own misrule. Dictators can still economically develop their countries—look at Chiang Kai-shek, look at that guy from Singapore, Lee Kwan Yew. This guy in Cambodia had forty years and kept his people wallowing in dirt. The best you’ll have is super rich and super poor, which means the economy will look relatively good to tourists and foreign investors, but the people will continue to have very little.”

With patience and the awareness that I was probably an emotionally driven person, the monk tried to hook me.

“The children would love you. Parents would love you. You would be swarmed with love and gratitude every day. I can tell you need this, to be surrounded with love and kindness. You told me you struggled a lot in your life. You can rest and recover here. Then, when you want to, you leave and go back to New York or China or wherever. Do as much good for these kids as you can.”

I needed time. “It would break my heart every day to think of the future of these kids under this insane regime.”

The monk countered, a little more animated than usual. “I am optimistic. The Chinese are here working on projects, the government is trying to lure the Japanese now. I see a lot of Germans in Phnom Penh. If foreign companies come in, it has to lead to something good, no?”

I could have laughed. “My country’s athletic shoe companies came in here to hire workers for their sweatshops. Please don’t rely on foreign governments or companies too much. These are not charitable institutions. Strongman Jr. really can’t possibly ever get things right because his goal will always be to fill his pockets and those of his dad’s cronies. This leaves a whole nation suffering. It’s too horrible. I admire you for being able to stand it and continue working with youth here.”

Now with a grim expression he said, “I think about the little ones who come to me to read and write and to have some hope of becoming more than a tuk-tuk driver, small-restaurant owner or bar girl. I think deep down inside you understand this. I have to give you some time, but I hope you will join us.”

I finished by saying, “People need a sense of hope and opportunities beyond sweatshops, casinos and red-light districts.”

*

In 1979 Vietnam invaded Cambodia to eliminate the Khmer Rouge, who were committing genocide, but then Vietnam appointed a Khmer Rouge officer to become a puppet leader. By 1993 he was solely in charge, his opponents dead, in jail or in exile and Vietnam had left Cambodia to its own devices. Vietnam saved and destroyed Cambodia at the same time. Everything about Cambodia broke my heart.

*

In Phnom Penh there was a coffee house I would go to each morning. It had many tables and electrical outlets so that I could do some work for the magazines and websites I wrote for while also getting some real coffee. One day a young woman sat down across from me. She told me she was a student at the nearby Royal University of Fine Arts, on summer break.

“May I practice my English with you? I hope I am not intruding.”

I was grateful for the intrusion. “Of course you may. I am here in Phnom Penh all by myself and I’d be happy to have your company, thank you. You might be able to give me some recommendations of things to do or see.”

I had booked an inexpensive hotel room for three weeks, and I agreed to meet with her whenever she felt like it, as I would be in the coffee house anyway every morning. She was very inquisitive, always seemingly in quite a joyous mood. It made me feel good to see her come to my table in the morning with a wide, genuine smile because she was happy to work with me.

Her English was quite good, just a few minor grammar errors here and there, a slight accent. I suspected that she was another young Cambodian whose parents had saved some money and who were going to ship her to a place with better opportunities at some point in the future. Good for her. I didn’t want to think of young people growing to be complicit with this type of dictatorship.

At one meeting she asked me: “Have you been enjoying our numerous tourist attractions?”

I wasn’t sure whether she said this with irony or not.

“Well, I’m not exactly the kind of guy for any of your red-light districts…”

“I read your anti-trafficking article! So good!” she interrupted with enthusiasm.

“…but I have gone to some tourist hotspots. I went to the National Museum of Art yesterday.”

“And?”

I said with definite irony, “I hope I am mistaken, but it looks as if Cambodian art history begins and ends with the Ancient Khmer.”

She understood the irony and informed me, “This is why I’ll have to leave. I would not say that our leadership is fond of modern art. That museum was built by the French in the 1920s and there have only been a few acquisitions since. Sometimes foreign museums return ancient pieces to us. There is always a big government ceremony. By the way, in Cambodia history sometimes does end for a while, but the suffering is pretty continuous.”

“Ah,” I said, “you are one of those. Cool; I am tired of talking to expats who rave about the local cuisine and low cost of living.”

When pressed, I continued about my tourist adventures although I knew I didn’t have many good things to say, and I hated to be so negative. Cambodia just rubbed me the wrong way.

“Since we first met, I also went to S-21. I was surprised to learn its real function. It looks as if the people who were processed for death through S-21 were primarily members of the Khmer Rouge who were being purged from the party.”

Again, she wanted to fill me in. “Yes, almost 2 million people died because of starvation and other causes, but S-21 was primarily for about 20,000 Khmer Rouge members tortured and murdered through paranoia. Lots of tourists are not aware it was a Khmer Rouge inner-cleansing thing. They know people were tortured under Pol Pot there and that 2 million people died but that’s it. Just a vague awareness that something ‘bad’ happened there.”

I cynically quipped, “Well, maybe it’s better for your dark tourism dollars if folks only have a vague idea of what atrocities occurred there. Leave stuff to their vivid imaginations. Your average American or Dutch tourist might be disappointed learning only 20,000 out of 2,000,000 passed through. You know, it is called Toulsleng Genocide Museum and not Toulsleng Torture Center for Suspected Khmer Rouge Traitors.”

She squinted her eyes at me. “You have quite a dark sense of humor… so I can’t wait to hear your impression of our national cash cow.”

I could not wait to vent about Angkor Wat to her. “You know, I would bet you that most people who go to Angkor Wat have no idea what they are looking at any more than they do at S-21. I’m wondering, in fact, whether people can ever get over this desire to see something just because it is old, fancy and huge.”

“And in the middle of a jungle filled with deadly snakes and tarantulas.” She added.

I continued, “They don’t come to Angkor Wat to derive some type of meaning. It’s a feast for the eyes. It is rare… people want to stand before something big, and old, and fancy and rare… so some magical something rubs off on them? Or so they can impress others by having been there? That’s why your country makes so much money from it that you guys don’t have to develop any other industries to keep your dictator rolling in the money?”

Pensively, she said, “I think it’s an indication of prestige. A type of showing-off. That someone had the financial means to get here, to get that selfie, is the key. Then what goes along with that is the need to act as if the old stones had a great spiritual impact on them, although they may still act like the same old lousy people they always were after being there. I wish going to Angkor Wat did change people for the better.”

I admitted, “I did not find much meaning in it, but I had irritating experiences with tuk-tuk drivers fighting over me and felt pestered by the multitude of guides who wanted to escort me around. It’s hard to get into a speculative or reverent mood given the number of unfortunate people who need to make money from you to survive. I wish your country had some jobs for people.

“I knew ahead of time it was built through slave labor. That doesn’t bother anyone else? That’s primarily what I was thinking about. Wondering how miserable and backbreaking the work had been. Also, it is more a funerary monument to an ancient despot than a temple. The complex was built to help some god-king gain immortality.” I paused, gauging whether I was going too far. Nope, she was listening.

I continued, “People want to be in the presence of something grand and seemingly important even if thousands of powerless people died to create it. As you said before, it’s conspicuous experience, ‘I could afford to travel to this desolate location and photograph myself with something rare.’ I’m too overly moral and disillusioned to be a good world traveler, I guess, and the tuk-tuk drivers are super aggressive, the guides don’t tell you anything of value, the statuary has been largely plundered and is distributed throughout the museums and homes of the world. I guess a person can go there and feel a sense of fake awe, ‘Wow, 1,000 years ago they could build such beautiful buildings with slave labor.’”

She changed the subject.

“You told me before that you are also a writer. I looked you up. As I said before, I enjoyed your anti-trafficking article. There are principles and convictions in what you write. Listen, I think I know of something you might want to write about.”

“Like what? Lots of people have probably already written about it.”

“No,” she asserted strongly. “Not this one. I promise, it is in no travel books. The travel books avoid things like this. They don’t mention controversial things, only how tourists can forget themselves at the beach and see big gaudy things built by oppressed human beings that should have rotted in the jungles with their god-kings. Nobody has ever written about it properly, because no foreigner has really wrapped their brain around it adequately. I am offering it to you. I want to see whether you have the guts to tackle it.” She said this last part laughing a bit. “But don’t tell anyone I took you to it. Say a ghost led you there.”

She led me back toward the area of the King’s Palace and the National Museum. At the very least, it was good to have someone help me chase the tuk-tuk drivers away. She was very good at it.

After a short walk, we reached a park and, smiling, she said, “See that little stupa-like monument?”

I could not believe she had brought me this far for something so small and seemingly insignificant.

“Yes,” she said, “You know tourists love seeing things that are big, fancy and old, in the middle of forests. I thought you might like something small, plain and relatively modern, in the middle of a city park. I will see you later.”

We were actually at Wat Botum Park close to the Royal Palace and Silver Pagoda. Off to the side of the park, on a little square area of cement, was the monument. On a rectangular base there was a gilded stupa-like structure pointing up to an immaculately blue sky that day. On a plaque on one side of the rectangular base was a very large “TO”. Under it, in smaller print, I read the line: “THE HEROIC DEMONSTRATORS WHO LOST THEIR LIVES ON 30 MARCH 1997.” Under that was the line: “FOR THE CAUSE OF JUSTICE AND DEMOCRACY.” Under that: “THE TRAGEDY OCCURRED 60 METERS FROM THIS MONUMENT.” Finally, the last line read: “ON THE SIDEWALK OF THE PARK ACROSS FROM THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY.” On the opposite side of the monument was a list of the names of those who were killed on March 30, 1997, 60 meters away.

This was strange. Cambodia was not a democracy. Political candidates regularly wound up in jail or fleeing for their safety. So how did some group get a monument to martyrs of democracy built without it being torn down by the dictator who has destroyed democracy? Who killed these people? The monument didn’t say.

The Vietnamese had appointed a Khmer Rouge guy as a puppet who wound up taking over the whole government, and he had been running it for 39 years. After he lost an election in the late ’90s, he threw a coup to gain absolute power. This was all documented history. So how did this monument get here, and why was it still standing? I almost thought it was a type of mirage, something I would want to see in Cambodia, something that would prove things had changed. A monument to martyrs of democracy implied one was in a democracy honoring those martyrs, but this was clearly not true.

Why would a dictator of 39 years, and now his kid, allow a monument to people who died for democracy, when they had effectively killed democracy?

I put aside all my plans for the rest of the day to do some research. I could not focus on anything else.

I learned that on March 30, 1997, a small group of people gathered near that park for a legal political rally ahead of the first real elections in Cambodia in decades. A leading opposition candidate was going to give a speech. It looked as if the dictator was going to get booted out. Soon Cambodia would be able to guide its own destiny and begin developing economically in a healthful direction.

Yet, members of the dictator’s bodyguard arrived and threw hand grenades into the crowd and at the opposition candidate. 16 people were killed, and scores were severely injured and maimed for life. A UN aid worker witnessed and wrote about a young girl who had shown up at the rally to sell a type of sugar-cane juice that Cambodians enjoy drinking. A grenade had torn her legs off. She lived for a while, in absolute horror, before dying in an ambulance.

A U.S. citizen had also been injured, and this gave the FBI the right to investigate. They identified the man they believed specifically behind the grenade attack, who was never arrested, and who is a high-ranking general in the Cambodian military today. It is conjectured that the dictator must have known about this plan to assassinate a rival candidate. He certainly did nothing to bring anyone to justice for the attack. The political candidate survived but is now in exile. When people run for office, to this day they are often arrested and thrown in jail for various alleged crimes. The dictator’s 45-year-old son will rule the country for the foreseeable future after another sham election.

There was only a little that I could find about this monument, which was built in 2000 by the political party of the opposition candidate the bodyguards were trying to kill. It was described online as a stone pillar with a stylized, gilded flame on top, with a plaque bearing the names of the dead.

*

The next day the girl arrived at the coffee shop, and I went with her to a flower stall. I told her I wanted to lay flowers at the memorial for the people who were killed and wounded. The story of the girl who only wanted to make a few dollars selling sugar-cane juice really upset me. All over the city were posters with the bloated, smiling face of the dictator who was probably responsible for killing her and covering her murder up. Placing flowers on the monument meant a great deal to me and so we set off. I laid the flowers on the memorial and said a silent prayer for those who were murdered because they believed in a good future for their country with opportunities for the people to finally live well. We sat down on a bench.

“Will you write about it?”

I realized that if I wrote about this memorial, and I really laid it on the line and told the truth, I could kiss my teaching job and life of relaxation in Cambodia goodbye. The article could be used as an excuse to wipe out the entire school and throw the monks, and me, in jail.

“I can mention it.” I said.

She laughed. “You have a chance to write about hypocrisy. Why a monument to people who got killed by a dictator is allowed to remain by a dictator, why he welcomes it. Nobody has done this. They don’t get it, and I was sure you would. It’s too subtle for most to even recognize. I really thought you’d get it and have the guts to do something.”

“But it’s good the monument is here. Who cares why the strongman left it alone? It stands as an embarrassment to him.”

She laughed in my face. “It’s used as camouflage. It makes it seem as if the current leader has been democratically elected and that he mourns the deaths of the people that he probably killed. Tourists see it and then think Cambodia is a democracy. Nobody has written about this. Nobody has thought this was worth the time. Few people care about us here. There is so much horror and corruption around the world, most of the people who come here don’t even know there is a dictator, they don’t care. They see this and think ‘Yes, Cambodia must be a democracy, or they would not have a monument to democratic martyrs.’

“I thought you would use this as a way to denounce evil because this monument is being used for evil now. The dictator allows this monument as if he were saying he grieves for the victims. He pretends to grieve for the people he probably allowed or ordered to be killed. I did not think you would let him get away with this. I thought you would be the one voice that said something. We are friends.”

I understood fully what was going on. I understood the ruse. The opposition party built the monument as an embarrassment and statement of defiance after the coup that ended democracy. They got away with it because there had been a UN protective presence at that time. But it backfired. The dictator had to allow the monument to be built—any attempt to stop it would have been evidence that he was involved in the murders and wished to cover this up. But he also realized the best way to cover up any involvement was to embrace the monument and pretend to grieve. It was sickening.

The dictator keeps the monument well maintained and uses it to confirm to the gullible that Cambodia is a democracy. And there are lots of gullible people who travel to Cambodia who don’t want to know the truth because it will ruin their vacations or jobs there.

The fact that he will not tear this monument down shows, to the gullible, that he loves democracy and feels pain for the dead ones who died to ensure it. I saw how evil this was. The guy who might have killed 16 innocent people allows a memorial as if to say, “What a shame they died! I thank all of them for caring about democracy.”

I had to decide whether to shut my mouth and teach poor Cambodian kids basic skills while focusing on my own self-development or to write about this bizarre monument, which was now serving a completely warped purpose. She wanted me to help people become aware of this whole bizarre situation that only could have developed in Cambodia. I could have cried since I had started gravitating toward the teaching position more and more. I also cared about her opinion of me, and I did not want her to lose faith in me and think I was just another lousy expat out to use her country for my own ends.

And, to my chagrin, I realized I had partly come to Cambodia to use her blighted country for my peace of mind and mental health. My motives were geared toward myself, not the kids. The monks were geared toward the kids. She had opened my eyes to the fact that I was on the verge of becoming another lousy expat looking the other way while millions suffered.

I said, “OK, I understand. I won’t disappoint you. I won’t turn away and pretend this doesn’t exist. I admire your strength and love for your country. But, listen, my platform does not reach zillions of people.”

“Nothing good reaches lots of people.” She countered. “Pictures of ugly kittens doing stupid things will reach zillions. You are honest, and your writing can be powerful and morally caustic. It’s important for you to do this, I want you to do this, to say ‘I see this is wrong, and I will say so. Even if nobody listens.’”

*

A couple of years of peace might have done me wonders, who knows. I love teaching, that’s for sure. Although I would have made no money, it might have been an amazing experience. I partially regretted not doing it. Deep down inside, however, I wanted to write about this monument. I could not disappoint her. I knew as she grew, she would not be a compromiser either.

My readership was relatively small, but I felt I had to write about this anyway. At least one person wouldn’t look away like the others who could live and work in Cambodia while keeping their mouths shut about an unacceptable situation. If I taught, I had to keep my mouth shut.

I knew I couldn’t just write an article about the monument; nobody would read that, so I couched that part within an overarching article on how we needed to use travel to increase our empathy bandwidths. I wrote that going to a 4th-world country and seeing the effects of political and economic evil was necessary; we needed to do this to be responsible world citizens. For example, Cambodia… for example, there is a monument there…

The article was read by a significant chunk of readers, but it is always difficult to assess the overall impact. Frankly, it might not have had much of any impact at all.

I laid it on the line about the dictatorship and the coup and the legitimate and innocent political opposition rotting in jail. I mentioned the girl who had just wanted to make a little money by selling sugar-cane juice who was horrifically murdered by a guy who was still alive and who had completely escaped justice.

There was no way I could step into Cambodia again after this article was published. I printed out a copy for the girl. I would leave the country before it got published. She met me one more time, and I showed her the article. I could see tears well-up in her eyes.

She said, “You are a gentleman. You keep your promises. You can be trusted. You have inspired me with this. You have guts after all.”

We exchanged social media addresses because this would be the last time we were to meet in person. I had prepared a little gift package for her that included a free VPN so that anything she wrote to me would be encrypted. I promised to continue to be her friend and try to help her as much as I could in the future from outside of Cambodia. I think I had needed her more than she had needed me though.

She said, “Teaching English here will not help much, and you know it. The world must reject the dictatorship here. The world must demand change, here and everywhere.” She knew I had come to Cambodia partly for the school interview and deduced I would now be abandoning the job.

“I’m kind of a lazy guy. I wanted to swing in a hammock and talk about karma with monks for two years.”

She said, “I am glad I saved you from that. You would not enjoy swinging in a hammock for long. You and the monks would have quarreled sooner or later. You have a bit of a temper you know. You would have punched one in the nose.”

That was true. I walked back to my hotel to submit my article and pack my baggage. I was gone within 24 hours.

I sent a brief e-mail to the monk telling him I had decided against taking the job. He responded by saying that he understood and that perhaps there might be a chance to work with each other in the future. I sure as hell hope so.

~