Devastated vision: The Khmer Rouge scopic regime in Cambodia

Poetic justice? on April 15, 1998, I saw from the comfort of my Berkeley apartment a photograph of Pol Pot's corpse on television. (1) Apparently, the man responsible for the genocide of 1.7 million Cambodians between 1975 and 1979 had just died a natural death. Although I had experienced Pol Pot's atrocities firsthand, I learned his name only in 1979, after Vietnam had overthrown the Khmer Rouge regime, for until then we Cambodians had been obeying the orders not of a man, but of Angka--"the Organization." Recently, an international tribunal has investigated the crimes committed by Pol Pot and other Khmer Rouge leaders, and trials are currently being conducted in Cambodia. The names of many have come to light, but whether just verdicts will occur is still a question. (2) For those of us Cambodians who lived through that bloody era, during which entire families disappeared overnight, these acts of public justice leave us still asking ourselves: What happened? Should we remember or try to forget? If we remembe r, how do we envision the past?

Utopian Vision

We enjoy heaven's delights,
So can dispense with earthly things.
No worldly turmoil
Is to be heard in heaven:
Everything lives in peace and calm.
We lead the life of angels
Yet are gay about it;
We jump and dance,
We skip and sing ...

--from Des Knaben Wunderhorn, trans. Lionel Salter; text of Gustav Mahler, Symphony No. 4, fourth movement, "Sehr behaglich... (3)

When sung by a boy soprano, these lyrics from the fourth movement of Mahler's Symphony No. 4 capture the utopian vision of my childhood in Cambodia: a young boy's innocent vision of his protective family--paradise on earth. Ironically, the Khmer Rouge regime also had a utopian vision of Cambodia, one that rapidly degenerated into a nightmare. Hence, the word utopia is used throughout this text to embody these highly incompatible ideals and to capture these ironies. (4)

I was born on February 14, 1967, in Phnom Penh, where my family had lived for generations. Because of a civil war that was fought continuously from 1970 onward, mostly in the countryside, the political situation in the city became increasingly unstable as I grew up. My mother's worries about the future of her children increased accordingly.

In 1975, in the midst of this political turmoil--and the horrifyingly sporadic drop of a bomb--arrived the annual celebration of the New Year, which that year fell from April 15 to April 17. As we customarily did on the first day of the New Year, my brother and sister and I helped my mother, grandmother, and aunts prepare festive foods. In addition, all the women and children in my family (with the exception of my eldest brother, who was studying in Paris) participated in the preparation of baisei (ritual offerings made of banana-tree trunks, banana leaves, marigolds, and incense sticks) to be placed on an altar set up on the balcony to greet the new devata (a deity who annually descends from his heavenly realm to look after the well-being of the Cambodian nation).

While we were making baisei, I overheard my mother, a fervent believer in the power of visionary monks to predict her future, tell her mother and sisters that in a distant province a few months earlier she had consulted just such a monk, who foretold Cambodia's destiny: "The water of the Mekong River will turn blood red and rise up to the height of the elephant's stomach." The tone of my mother's voice became more somber as she continued to describe her visit. Little did I know that this cryptic prediction would foreshadow the most horrific event of modern Cambodian history.

At about noon on April 17, the last day of the New Year celebration, Khmer Rouge troops arrived in Phnom Penh and jubilantly declared their victory over General Lon Nol's regime. From our balcony we saw a parade of tanks and Jeeps proceeding down the boulevard in front of our house. My grandmother immediately rushed into her bedroom and cut up a white cotton bedsheet, which she transformed into a flag that she hung from the balcony to welcome the troops, but even more to signify surrender. The rest of our neighbors did the same. On the front of each house appeared a white flag and, in some cases, a white shirt.

At the same time, the radio in the living room was blasting loudly: "King Norodom Sihanouk will return from his exile in Peking, China, to save all of us from this political chaos, and His Majesty has already declared an additional three days to celebrate the New Year!" I vividly remember the smiles of optimism on the faces of my parents and grandmother. I later realized that the report was propaganda released by the Khmer Rouge regime, which had already taken control of the radio station. The king did return but not until 1991. (5)

Shortly thereafter, the Khmer Rouge troops opened fire on the government soldiers. To avoid being struck by bombshells and bullets, my entire family descended to the dark bomb shelter below our house and hid. My mother tightly embraced me, the youngest of her four children, in her arms. Every time we heard a grenade or bullet explode in the street, she would whisper in my ears, "Don't be afraid; they're only firecrackers." Half an hour later, a loud knock reverberated on our front gate. Two Khmer Rouge soldiers, each holding a gun, told us to evacuate. "Don't worry. You will be back in three days," they assured us.