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Becoming an Adult in a Country at War

It was June, 1970, and time for me to take my final examinations for my high school diploma. For weeks, my classmates and I had been reviewing our lessons in preparation for the three days of tests. I stayed up late studying the night before the first day, and still had difficulty falling asleep when I finally went to bed.

I was awake early the next morning, very anxious. I tried to relax as I went about my daily morning tasks. As always, after breakfast, I went to my grandmother’s room to greet her and tell her I was off to school. On this day, she was busy praying to the Buddha to give me good luck. It was her custom to bless me before going to school, and she did so even more intently this morning.

I left home at six o’clock, a little earlier than usual, because I had to check the bulletin board for directions to the room where my exams would take place. I arrived at Indra Devi Secondary School with plenty of time to spare, and found my name listed for Building C, Room 36 on the second floor. I sprinted up the stairs and found the room nearly filled with students. I found a seat in the fifth row near the windows, and quickly sat down, taking a few deep breaths to relax. I counted sixty-five candidates, including myself, seated for the exams. All together, there were approximately a thousand students from throughout the country gathered in Phnom Penh to take this examination. A professor sat at a table in the front of the room, and two others sat in chairs at the back of the room keeping a watchful eye on us.

After the examination papers were passed out, I was relieved to see that the subject to be covered on the first day was Khmer language. I was confident of my knowledge in this area, and I did well. The next day’s subjects were French literature and mathematics, which were more difficult. Although I was a good student, was used to cramming before examinations, and had spent many hours reviewing the material for the examinations, these subjects always gave me a hard time, especially algebra and geometry.

To make matters worse, my French professor, Madame Aimee Brel, was one of the observers. Rather than keeping her seat at the back of the room, she walked up and down the aisles between us, saying in French, “Don’t peek at your neighbors’ work. Don’t talk! If I catch you cheating, I will confiscate your exam and throw you out of the classroom!” Fiercely, she repeated again and again, “Do you understand?”

By the beginning of the third day, I was exhausted. All I could think about was what a waste of time it would be to have studied so hard all these years, only to fail these examinations. I was a nervous wreck. I had to read the questions over and over to form a clear idea of the correct answer. I fretted that I wouldn’t have enough time to finish and my worrying made my thinking even slower. By the time the exams were over, I was convinced I had failed.

The only thing that made me feel a bit better during the weeks of waiting for the results was that all my classmates were equally afraid they had failed. When results day arrived, I raced to my school and stood anxiously before the same bulletin board. My heart stopped beating until I found my name listed among those who had passed the exams. I was so happy that I nearly flew home to tell my family. My father was so excited he was speechless. When he did manage to say something, he congratulated me, and then began counseling me about possible future career choices. These lectures continued for weeks.

My grandmother also was proud of me. Her prayers to the Buddha had been answered. She presented me with a brand new 90cc Honda motorcycle. My father enlisted the aid of my grandmother in career counseling, and we had lengthy daily discussions about my future. My father was adamant that I become a businessman. He told me that, since I was the eldest child and smart in math, I should go to business school and become a merchant. He told me that Chinese-Cambodians admired merchants, and we could become rich. He often added that although he knew I could become a wealthy businessman he was only making a suggestion, and not trying to control my future. I had different ideas. I wanted to work for Cambodia, helping people overcome the many problems they faced in our society. I hated government and police corruption, and didn’t understand why the rich had so much and the poor so little.

I was exceedingly fortunate to receive an education, but the majority of our people were uneducated. They had no means for coping with the changes taking place in Cambodia. Most Cambodians were frightened of the future and unsure of how they were going to deal with it. I told my father that I greatly respected his advice, but that business wasn’t for me. I said there was a shortage of people concerned about our country’s social problems, and I wanted to learn more about these social issues. I could earn a degree in four years, and be fairly certain of finding a position with the government. I could then surely earn a salary sufficient to repay Papa for the years of support he had given me, and to allow him to retire from the factory.

During the many discussions we had, Papa was unsuccessful in getting my grandmother to take his side in the argument, and her neutrality was effective in calming his concerns. Thus, I continued at Indra Devi, studying for a degree in philosophy, equivalent to completing two years of post–high school education.

Meanwhile, war in Southeast Asia had reached far into Cambodia. By 1972, horrible stories of the war had become a daily reality for Cambodians. Cambodia was now involved in a three-pronged war against North Vietnam, the Vietcong of South Vietnam, and the rapidly increasing Cambodian communist group called the Khmer Rouge or Red Cambodians, that was supported by China.

Meanwhile, America continued providing aid to the Lon Nol government. In 1970, Cambodia had approximately 35,000 troops. Two years later, this number had grown to 200,000, at least on paper, and the war grew worse day by day. The Cambodian government instituted the draft to feed the insatiable army. Soon, hundreds of thousands of young Cambodians, many still students, were quickly trained and then supplied with stylish new uniforms and weapons provided by the Americans. Most of these unsuspecting and poorly trained youngsters would soon be slaughtered by seasoned Khmer Rouge soldiers.

The Khmer Rouge troops were also young, primarily illiterate peasants recruited by the Cambodian communist party, or Angkar, as they referred to their organization. In contrast to the government troops, however, they were expertly trained and thoroughly indoctrinated by a strict disciplinary code. Based on the theories of Mao Tse Tung, their code consisted of the following rules:

You shall love, honor, and be loyal to Angkar.

You shall give the people a hand, with all your heart.

You shall never act in an improper manner, or show disrespect to any woman.

You shall respect the people, as you respect Angkar.

You shall quickly apologize to the people for any mistakes you make.

You will not steal nor even touch anything belonging to the people.

For use of pepper or a grain of rice, you must ask the owner for it.

You shall observe the principles of the Angkar revolution, when sleeping, speaking, walking, standing, sitting, and during your leisure time.

You shall willingly work closely with the peasants, and you shall teach them to hate and oppose Lon Nol, his regime, and the American imperialists.

You shall struggle against the enemies of Angkar without rest.

You shall overcome every obstacle with determination and courage and be ready to make any sacrifice for your revolution and Angkar.

You shall never commit adultery, or have an affair with a woman.

You shall not be allowed to drink alcohol or gamble at any time.

Strictly adhering to their code, Khmer Rouge soldiers had been living and working in every province, district, village, and in Phnom Penh for years, concealing their identity as communists. They preached their ideology at every opportunity, trying to convince professors, teachers, Buddhist monks, students, and peasants to join the struggle against the Lon Nol government and its American allies. In addition, the Khmer Rouge waged their campaign of terror against urban populations by setting off bombs and tossing grenades into crowded streets, markets, theaters, and schools.

To combat the terrorists’ acts, the government and educational administrators instituted new security regulations at Phnom Penh’s schools, trying to protect the lives of students and teachers. Each school was required to choose a group of students called commandos to watch the school twenty-four hours a day, and to provide some assistance to the population. I was apprehensive about the on-going war in Southeast Asia and the increasing involvement of Cambodia in it, but I didn’t want to become a soldier in the mobilized forces. So, I volunteered to be a school commando.

From the villages and countryside, people were fleeing their homes in terror, seeking refuge in the provincial cities and in Phnom Penh, many because their homes and businesses were reduced to ashes. Others came because the factories or farmlands where they worked were destroyed. Each time Lon Nol’s forces fought the Khmer Rouge soldiers or American B-52s rained bombs down along the Cambodian border, innocent villagers were killed and wounded.

The Khmer Rouge soldiers had an enormous advantage over Lon Nol’s pathetic troops. They were more disciplined and completely committed to their cause. Since they had been working among the civilian population for some years, the villagers didn’t consider them to be enemies. The Khmer Rouge won the respect of Cambodians by respecting them and their possessions, especially their women. Lon Nol’s soldiers were bullies in comparison, taking what they wanted from the villagers, destroying food supplies so they couldn’t be utilized by the enemy, some raping women. In fighting the Khmer Rouge, they were killing their own people.

At the same time, the Khmer Rouge were systematically cutting supply roads to government troops and urban populations, severely restricting the movements of Lon Nol’s forces and endangering the lives of civilians. Worried about losing the war, Lon Nol asked America for increased assistance. In return, he promised to continue supporting their struggle against North Vietnam. The United States increased their support of Lon Nol in the form of bombs that included B-52 saturation bombing, napalm, and dart cluster-bombs that killed tens of thousands of Cambodians.

Along with the thousands of Khmer Rouge soldiers killed by those bombs, thousands of civilians became casualties. Those who didn’t die immediately from flying bomb fragments suffered from concussions, bleeding from their ears, eyes, noses, and mouths. Many were shell-shocked, having no idea what had happened to them. All they could do was get in lines to travel to a refugee camp. Many died before reaching one.

My job as a commando was to lead a team to collect donations of money, food, clothing, and supplies for the thousands of refugees fleeing from the bombing in the rural areas into Phnom Penh. These people were like a river flooding the outskirts of the city. They put up tents, shelters, and huts covered with sugar palm leaves along the national highways and around the fences surrounding Buddhist temples. When my team delivered the donations we had collected, I spoke with many of these people. Some had lived in poverty for years because of the war. Others had no idea of the whereabouts of their relatives. Many people were alone, searching for their spouse, parents, children.

I recall a day when my team delivered supplies to a refugee camp located just outside the fence of a Buddhist temple called Wat Champou Voan about twenty-five kilometers from the center of Phnom Penh. I walked through the camp, listening to the refugees. They complained about the corruption of Lon Nol’s government, and openly stated their dislike for him. They longed for the days of peace, freedom, and economic stability that had existed in the Kingdom of Cambodia, the days when merchants had no worries about rising or falling prices. Since Lon Nol took over the country, they said war controlled the life of every Cambodian.

The people at this particular shelter were also witnesses to the devastation caused by the American bombing. Their buildings and farms were now turned to ash-filled craters. Their schools, infirmaries, and businesses were gone. Their farming villages were battlefields. Their rice paddies were destroyed, they couldn’t make a living, and they had no food. Many of them were suffering such mental depression from the bombs exploding every day that they could no longer carry on with their daily activities.

As the days and weeks passed, I watched many of these people die from lack of medical attention. They’d lost their loved ones. Many were wounded, more were invalids. In these refugee camps, there was no work and not nearly enough food. Those with money could eat until the soaring price of food made that impossible. Those without money waited for government food rations, which were increasingly scarce.

I still managed to study, but it was a difficult time for students.

American aid allowed Lon Nol’s government to institute new regulations that increased the number of soldiers fighting the Khmer Rouge. One Sunday afternoon, my friend, Sokram, and I went to see a movie at a theater in central Phnom Penh called Chenla. As we exited at the end of the movie, we encountered a group of military police waiting outside. People immediately scattered.

Just as we turned to ask one another what was happening, the military police grabbed us and herded us to a large truck. Other young men already in the truck, many of whom were students, told us the military police had set up similar ambushes throughout the city to commandeer as many military recruits as possible. As soon as the trucks were full, we were driven to a large compound nearby, Chamkar Mon, a recruitment center for the infantry.

We were held there to await medical examinations. Those who were medically cleared were going to be transported immediately to a military training camp, without the knowledge of their families. Sokram and I grew worried, certain that we wouldn’t see our loved ones again. Soon, however, we noticed that a few young men were leaving the camp before their medical exams, and found out that their parents had bribed camp officials to release them.

The day passed slowly as Sokram and I waited for our names to be called. His was called first. We said our goodbyes, hoping we’d see one another again. But it was not for the medical exam that Sokram had been called. His father, a captain in the army, had come for him. Sokram persuaded his father to request my release, also, and it was granted for a bribe. As he left the compound, Sokram’s father told us both that we should be very careful not to get caught up in another military police ambush. “It won’t be easy to get you out next time,” he said somberly.

I continued attending college but it became increasingly difficult. I was ambushed by the military police several more times, but eluded them by hiding in a sewer. I missed a number of classes while evading the police. In order to study, I was forced to ignore the circumstances around me, at least to an extent. I finally managed to earn my degree in June 1972.

My classmates and I were constantly discussing the war in the country, and what careers we were going to choose. But all of us continued to face the threat of being forced to join the infantry. Sokram suggested that we try to get help from his father. One day he said to me, “Since my father is a captain in the army, we should ask him to take us on. I’m sure he would! If we were in his unit, we could easily be lieutenants. And we could stay in Phnom Penh.”

I told Sokram that I didn’t want to be a soldier. Our friend, Noch, said, “You’re right, Pa Chileng. Many of our friends have died or been badly wounded on the battlefields.”

I explained, “I’m not afraid to join the army, and I’m confident that I have the courage to go into battle.” My friends felt the same way. I continued, however, saying I was reluctant to sign up because I knew it would mean being away from my family for a long time, possibly years. My grandmother was having health problems, and I felt the need to be close to her. I loved her very much. I couldn’t break her heart by going off to war.

My friends and I debated what to do. Then I heard that the government was looking for people with associate or bachelor degrees to be police officers. I told my friends about this, and tried to get them interested. We were tired of running from the military police who chased us toward their trucks as if they were prodding cattle into a livestock truck. In addition to solving our worries about the draft, we would earn a good salary and be able to help our families.

My friend, Sokram, was initially against the idea. He was concerned about the rumors he’d heard of corrupt police officers. Noch agreed with him. But my friend, Dara, and I were able to convince them that, as long as we did our jobs and didn’t take bribes, we would be fine policemen. I was anxious to have a job near home, and I wanted the opportunity to work among civilians. I was certain my friends and I could help people because we were familiar with the problems they faced.

We finally agreed. Sokram, Noch, Dara, and I went to the police department at Toul Kok, Phnom Penh, located near our college, and applied for jobs. We soon discovered that three hundred applicants were competing for one hundred and fifty positions, so there was going to be an entrance examination. Fortunately, all four of us passed the exam. We also passed the medical exam and were admitted to the police academy for training. Thus, was my schooling in Phnom Penh ended.

At seven o’clock on the morning of Monday, August 7, 1972, we appeared at the police department compound. Lieutenant Chum blew the whistle calling for the attention of the new officers, and instructed us to form lines and wait for the trucks which would take us to the Kompong Chhnang Police Academy. Soon the trucks arrived, and we were on our way, traveling up National Highway Five. When commuters on their way to work in the city saw the trucks approaching them, they stopped their bicycles and moped scooters and stood on the side of the road cheering and waving at us. We were surprised and encouraged.

After that, we were in good spirits. We sang songs and laughed at one another’s jokes. My seat in the truck was high enough so I could see the countryside as we traveled. Cambodia is small, but it is beautiful and the scenery on this morning was picturesque. This was the rainy season, and the color green, in a multitude of hues, flourished everywhere. Cattle grazed on the dikes, which were lined with sugar palm trees. The dikes were low earthen causeways built to hold back water from the large rice fields. Some farmers were repairing their dikes, while others relaxed, having a smoke. Naked children played in the narrow irrigation ditches, bounded by the dikes. Everyone waved as we drove by.

My thoughts were interrupted by our truck’s sudden slowdown, accompanied by much bouncing up and down. The road ahead was filled with bomb craters, and construction workers were busy filling the holes. In some places, the damage was so severe that bridges had been built over the damaged sections. It was mid-afternoon when we finally arrived at the police academy. We climbed out of the trucks and hurried to form ranks, as the officer in charge barked orders at us. We marched into the compound and formed a couple of lines, and were then sent on to the mess hall where we were fed a much needed meal.

After we ate, we were issued uniforms and bedding, and given dormitory assignments. Noch and Dara were assigned to the same cubicle in the same dormitory to which Sokram and I were sent. By the time we finished making up our beds, we were exhausted. We slept for two days and then began our training.

Each day began at 4:30 in the morning with the obtrusive sound of a bugle. We dressed in our new long-sleeved khaki uniforms and put on our black neckties and shiny black shoes. Physical exercises began at 5 sharp. Anyone not lined up had to do push-ups or crawl on the ground for a hundred meters or more. The drill instructor, Sergeant Sina, a no-nonsense officer, ran us through drill after drill for two solid hours each morning. He didn’t listen to anyone who complained, and he showed no mercy. Then, we had to shower, eat breakfast, and dress for class at 8:00 A.M.

Lieutenant Yann then arrived at the lecture hall to face us, all of us dressed in our new uniforms. At the first lecture, the lieutenant informed us that our class would be rushed through the academy in only thirteen, rather than the usual twenty-six, weeks because of the war and the tremendous increase in crime. We were the tenth class of police recruits, so he called us his tenth promotion. He warned us not to talk while he was lecturing, and to raise our hands if we had questions. He asked if any of us had been forced to become police recruits.

No one moved a muscle. The lieutenant then explained the basic concepts of crime prevention and police tactics. He told us he would be teaching us all he knew from many years as a police instructor, and told us to take notes.

For the next nine weeks, we learned, taking notes furiously. We were taught the philosophy, theory, and practice of police work. What I learned during the day, I dreamed of at night. The weeks passed quickly. Never once was there a problem with discipline. All of us were well aware that if we failed at the academy, we would be sent directly to the infantry.

During the last four weeks of training, we learned basic martial arts techniques, the theory and practice of self-defense. Practicing on one another, we learned the proper methods for making an arrest, controlling a suspect, conducting searches, and protecting ourselves and others. We also learned how to use and care for a variety of weapons, and we practiced for hours at a time on the shooting range. The last four weeks also passed quickly and, presently, it was time for graduation.

This occurred on Monday, November 6, 1972, and the ceremony was scheduled to begin at 9 in the morning. It was like any other day of the thirteen weeks of training, but without the unending, exhausting, and painful hours of standing and working under the hot sun. Instead, although we still arose early, most of us used the time to iron our uniforms and shine our shoes.

At 9 o’clock, we stood in rank in the center of the academy compound, below the flagpole that now flew the blue flag of the Khmer Republic with a white image of Angkor Wat in a red square in the upper left hand quarter of the flag and three white stars on the upper right hand side. The chief addressed us, welcoming the guests of the graduating class. My friends and I had no family or guests present because of the time and inconvenience involved in traveling to the academy. The chief complimented us on our efforts, saying we were under more stress than other graduates because our training was compressed into half the normal schedule. He congratulated us on our endurance, and urged us to adhere to the principles of law enforcement we had learned. He wished us all good luck, and told the audience that the country would be well served by its new police officers.

The next speaker was our feared instructor, Lieutenant Yann. As he spoke, we were surprised to see him smile for the first time. He said he was confident we would use the strategies and techniques he had taught us and become responsible, effective policemen. He thanked us for being such good students, and then made way for the final speaker. Captain Tak, the commander of the troops, stepped forward to administer the oath of allegiance. Then, as music began to play softly, he called each of us by name to step forward and receive our certificates of rank and achievement. This was done while the audience applauded continuously. The ceremony ended, and we all congratulated one another and departed, eager to return to our families.

I got home late that afternoon to the waiting arms of my father and grandmother. They were happy to see me, and they had a special dinner to celebrate my graduation. I was delighted to be home and to see my beloved grandmother in such good spirits. Both Father and Grandmother had a hundred questions for me, and I spent hours answering them. I had my father laughing so hard I thought he would cry when he heard about the pushups and crawling I had to do when I was late for morning exercises. I told my father there were many candidates who did more pushups and crawling than I did, but he was just happy hearing about me. I will always remember that dinner as one of the happiest moments of my life.

I went to work immediately as a police officer. By January, 1973, Noch and I were working with the secret police. My friends, Sokram and Dara, were assigned to work as patrol officers in the Toul Kok section of Phnom Penh. I was assigned to work undercover in Phnom Penh, posing as a taxi driver and riding a motorcycle pulling a small trailer. My task was to conduct undercover investigations of criminal activity, such as robbery, rape, and kidnapping without revealing my identity as a police officer. Thus, I wore civilian clothes rather than my police uniform; in this case, the shorts and short-sleeved shirt of a taxi driver.

By 1973, one of the many problems that created the need for more police officers was the rash of crime being committed by youth the Cambodians referred to by the American term, “hippie.” With long hair streaming behind them, these children of the wealthy, high-ranking elite rode their Honda motorcycles through the city robbing tourists, picking pockets, and running illegal gambling operations. Occasionally, they kidnapped someone and demanded a ransom. I wanted to arrest as many of them as possible.

Most people in the city had a poor opinion of the police, believing they were corrupt. This opinion was particularly prevalent when it came to undercover officers. But I didn’t care what people thought. I had a job to do, and I was determined to do it honestly. Most important to me was to maintain my cover. I was young, idealistic, and naïve.

One day, I followed a hippie whom I’d driven many times on my taxi. He unknowingly led me to a place I suspected was a gambling site. I watched the place for several days, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. When I was certain there was illegal activity taking place there, I reported this to my chief and arranged for a raid to be conducted at a time when I thought most of the criminals could be caught. I participated in the raid, and most of the leaders of the gambling ring were arrested. I was proud to have the credit for busting the operation.

My happiness was short-lived, however, because the very next day all of those arrested were released on bail. As soon as they reached the streets, my identity as a police officer was revealed to everybody. My cover was blown. Normally, the men who’d been arrested would have been held until they went to trial. In this case, there was no explanation for their release. When I questioned my superior officers about this, they quickly chastised me, telling me to stop asking so many questions. After that day, my enthusiasm for the job was never the same.

By 1973, President Lon Nol had no idea what was happening on the battlefields, and his staff had no control over the generals commanding his armies. Corrupt generals were quick to take full advantage of a stroke Lon Nol had experienced in 1971, which left him increasingly senile and confused. They cheated the troops out of their pay, and sold weapons and ammunition to the enemy. Battalion and company commanders cared so little for their men that they embezzled the monies that should have been used to pay benefits to the families of soldiers injured or killed in battle. Instead, the commanders hid their money for their own use, and the soldiers suffered constant shortages of food, supplies, and pay.

Because of the corruption in the military chain of command, there was no discipline. Lack of food and supplies (and knowledge of the reasons for this) left the infantry with low morale and little desire to fight. Those who actually fought in battle returned to their units to find no food, no supplies, and paychecks two months in arrears. Many low-ranking soldiers became so desperate they simply walked away from their units.

Determined to survive and support their families and still in uniform, fully armed, with hand grenades hanging from their belts, many became terrorists against their own people. Some entered the crowded marketplaces and demanded money and food from the vendors. If their demands were not met, they splayed bullets into the market, sending people scattering in panic. Security police were often quick to respond, but when they encountered the gruesome, heavily armed run-away soldiers, they also panicked and fled for their lives.

In a few minutes, squads of military police inevitably arrived, since they were organized to respond to these marketplace raids. The deserter soldiers hated the military police, and the military police hated the deserters. The military police considered them traitors, lacking knowledge of the conditions under which they had lived. The deserters considered the military police pampered babies who had never fought in a real battle and who spent every night home surrounded by their contented families.

The confrontations between these soldiers-turned-terrorists and the military police were heated and caustic. Both sides cursed the other and shouting matches often ensued. Most often, the deserters intimidated the military police to the point of inaction by threatening to use their hand grenades if they were captured. Eventually, however, the military police learned to wait, and call for more backup. When reinforcing police arrived and the fugitive soldiers were surrounded, the deserters had to give up. Those who refused to do so were shot. The rest were arrested, loaded into trucks, and hauled away to be imprisoned in metal cages.