On the Land of Gods and Demons

1

The mountains, utterly silent.
Darkness has lost its tension.

On the roof of the world, I stand, lonely as a god.
Looking down upon the floating earth beneath my feet.

Faint stars peer through thin drifting clouds.

Dawn breaks. Morning arrives without my noticing,
and suddenly I realize the earth is no longer pitch-black…

The Glory of Cambodia: The Secret of the Lost City
—Thornton Butterworth, London, 1936

        Once, Angkor forgot the world, and allowed the world to forget it.
Lush forests isolated Angkor from civilization, deepening its mystery.

        Later, after centuries of absence, the temples re-emerged, radiant and astonishing, making one marvel not only at the vicissitudes of history, but also at the sheer improbability of its rediscovery.

        Yet for nearly half a century, the god of war lingered here.
       Naturally, few travellers had the chance to visit.

        With Pol Pot’s mysterious death in the forest in 1998, the arrest of Khmer Rouge leaders Ta Mok and Nuon Chea in 1999, and Khieu Samphan’s surrender, the political situation finally stabilized.

In May 2000, I was at last able to make a pilgrimage to Angkor.

There were no direct flights from Singapore to Angkor then; one had to transit through Phnom Penh.

        I arrived in Phnom Penh, where Xiao Xiang met me at the airport.

        Xiao Xiang is a friend of B.
       Through B’s enthusiastic matchmaking, Xiao Xiang took charge of hosting my stay in Phnom Penh.

        “Today, I’ll let you stand on the command platform,” Xiao Xiang said.

        The chaos was over, so why don a yellow robe now? Of course, it was a joke.

        He had arranged for me to stay at the Queen Hotel.
       In 1997, during Prince Ranariddh’s failed coup, this hotel had served as the command centre.
       The building opposite was the radio station at the time.

        The room was sparsely furnished.
       Cracks in the walls and water stains from leaks made me imagine the gunfire that once raged here.

        The narrow streets around the hotel were scarred and broken.
       The crude markets showed signs of revival yet to come.

        For the first time, I felt how close history could be.
       Close enough to touch, close enough to smell the acrid scent of gunpowder.

        Yet deep down, the Cambodia I longed for was another one entirely: a land of cultural brilliance, economic prosperity, flourishing confidence.

        Yes, the Angkor era.

        In 802, Cambodia cast off Indonesian political control and declared independence the ceremony held at Angkor.

        At its height, Angkor housed a population of one million, possibly the most prosperous city in the world at the time.

        Magnificent temples once stood here in abundance.
       Beyond the 39 kings recorded in history, countless gods, too, chose to descend upon this land.

        I longed to bend down among the ruins and gather broken bricks and tiles, to see them glow again with past pride and fullness.

        I waited for the next day’s flight.
       I lingered in Phnom Penh.

        Unwilling to waste time, I decided to warm up first.

        Thus began my prelude to Angkor.

2

If I were to meet Pol Pot today, I believe I would still remain silent.
He was a leader, far removed from me.
I did not know him.
I did not know whether the brutal laws were his idea.
I did not know what he truly did.

But if I were to meet one of the guards from S-21……

The Killing Fields: The Story of Vann Nath
—Sara Colm, 1995

        S-21 was originally a school.
       During Pol Pot’s era, it was converted into a political detention centre.
       Nearly 20,000 people were interrogated and executed there.

        Displayed in the classrooms are iron beds, buckets, handcuffs, chains, torture instruments……

        On the walls hang rows of black-and-white mugshots: Khmer Rouge archival records. Even today, the photographs still speak. They silently tell of helplessness, voicelessness, panic, fear, confusion before torture.

        Xiao Xiang accompanied me through several exhibition rooms. He always stood with his back to me, staring at different images; Gazing for long moments, lost in thought, absent-minded.

        Whenever he suddenly realized I was no longer beside him, he would call my name and hurry over.

        When his voice echoed in the empty rooms, I thought of companions searching for one another in dense jungles.
       Steady footsteps brought reassurance; the grim space suddenly felt brighter, more open.

        Then once again, he would turn away from me, stop before another image, and sink into another round of contemplation and distraction.

        Unintentionally, I noticed his eyes were moist.

        I suddenly felt cruel, forcing a wounded person to touch a scar that had not yet healed.

        I pulled him outside onto the lawn to get some air.

        The sunlight outside was brilliant. I said, “Wait for me at the exit.         I’ll come find you.”

        He refused, said he was worried.

        Looking around, I saw only a few young museum attendants.
       There were not many visitors.
       What was there to worry about?

        He said he needed to ensure my safety, to be responsible for me, and for B.

        He said his reddened eyes were because he couldn’t stand the lingering smell of blood in the classrooms.

        A lingering smell of blood, was there really one? I wondered.
       Was my sense of smell dull, or was it psychological?

        After some debate, we reached a compromise: he would sit in the corridor outside, and I would continue inside. If anything happened, I would call him.

        I continued my summoning of spirits.

        After each room, I would poke my head out to signal I was fine.

        Outside, Xiao Xiang applied medicated oil and smoked.

        Normally, I dislike medicated oil and smokers.
       I see them as weakness, avoidance, waste, excess, even distortion.

        But at that moment, toward Xiao Xiang, I felt only deep tolerance and understanding.

        Medicated oil and cigarettes remove odours while creating others; in doing so, they provide familiarity, comfort, emotional stability.

Before leaving S-21, I looked up. A clock hung on the wall; time frozen at 10:55.

        I thought of Vann Nath’s story.

        I recognized a former prison guard.

        “Fortunes turn. Today, I’ve caught you.”

        I dragged him into a small room and asked, “Do you recognize me?”

        The guard’s face turned pale.

        “If I were to announce your former identity in public today, you would surely be beaten to death.”

        The guard collapsed.

        “If you were me, what would you do?”

        He knelt and begged, “Don’t……”

        I stared at him for a long moment and said, “But I want you to know; not everyone is as devoid of conscience as you.”

        I let him go.

        S-21 time remains trapped in pain.
       But I had to move on.

        I didn’t want Xiao Xiang to keep consuming cigarettes and medicated oil.

3

Qin Shihuang and Han Wudi fell slightly short in literary grace;
Tang Taizong and Song Taizu lacked a touch of elegance.
Genghis Khan, the proud son of heaven,
knew only how to bend his bow and shoot eagles.
All are past;
to see true greatness, look to today.

Mao Zedong, “Snow”, 1936

        We crossed the Mekong River to dine on seafood.
       The restaurant, built by the riverbank, was enormous.
       No smaller than a football field.

        Every seat was filled.
       There was a stage where Khmer pop songs were sung and comedic skits performed.
       Judging by the enthusiastic audience response,
most diners were locals, or at least understood Khmer.
       Phnom Penh still had its wealthy class.

        Xiao Xiang said the dining complex had been developed only half a year earlier.

        Also at the table was Ming, another friend of B.

        We sat far from the stage, by the window.

        Outside, the sound of waves was drowned out by loudspeakers.
       Across the river, scattered lights flickered dimly.
       The river’s centre lay in total darkness.

        Below the floating restaurant, empty bottles, crab shells, and trash piled up — a veritable garbage dump.

        At that moment, were we singing and feasting atop a landfill?

        During intermission, I asked Xiao Xiang and Ming where they had been during the three years and eight months of darkness.

        Xiao Xiang corrected me: “It was three years, eight months, and twenty days.”

        He said he was in the north.
       Ming said he was in the south.

        “How did you survive back then?” I asked.

        Xiao Xiang didn’t answer directly.
       He said, “The shoes back then were very durable.
       I still have a pair.”

        He wore sandals made from old tires, rumoured to be issued only to those who worked well during times of scarcity.

        Ming said, “The south was peaceful. Nothing happened.
       There’s nothing to talk about.”

        He didn’t say more.
       But I had done my homework.
       B told me Ming’s wife and children had died during exile.
       Later, he remarried and rebuilt his life.

        “Let’s drink,” Xiao Xiang suggested.

        I was surprised.
       Before my trip, B had warned me that Xiao Xiang never drank alcohol and told me not to urge him.

        Why didn’t he drink?
       B said: Cambodia has too many stories.
       No one has the time to ask.

        By the Mekong River, amid fine dishes, we toasted with tea instead of wine.
       We talked of distant lands, romance, seasons.
       Words flying freely, avoiding politics.
       Crabs turned red, unrelated to drunkenness.

4 

Sweet, so sweet—your smile is so sweet,
like flowers blooming in the spring breeze.
Where was it, where did I see you before?
Your smile feels so familiar, yet I can’t recall……
In dreams —yes, in dreams I’ve seen you.
Sweet, smiling so sweet…

“Sweet Honey”
—Indonesian folk song, lyrics adapted by Zhuang Nu

        As I exited the museum, many disabled beggars waved at me.

        Moved by pity, before getting into the car,
       I emptied all the coins from my pockets and handed them out.
       There were more beggars than coins.
       I couldn’t help everyone.

        I felt guilty, yet powerless.

        I got into the car.
       The engine started.
       We drove about ten meters.

        Suddenly, I heard shouting behind us.
       I turned around and saw a beggar gesturing angrily, cursing us.

        I couldn’t understand. He was speaking Khmer.

        Was he upset that my donation was insufficient?
       Or that I favoured others?

        I felt naive.
       Had I seen things too simply, too superficially?
       Sometimes, good intentions produce negative psychological effects.

        I felt lost.

        Suddenly, Xiao Xiang lost yesterday’s gentle restraint.

        He reversed the car toward the beggar, opened the door, jumped out, bang! and shut it.

        I turned my head and saw him knock the beggar’s hat to the ground, waving his arms, scolding him righteously.

        I worried: would Xiao Xiang be surrounded and beaten?
       Should I intervene? Call the police?

        Thankfully, it didn’t escalate.

        The beggar dared not respond, only stared at the tattered hat on the ground.
       Other beggars stood around in silence.

        Everyone’s emotions were heavy.

        After a few minutes, Xiao Xiang returned to the car.

        Inside, Teresa Teng was still playing.

        “Sweet, so sweet……”

        The softness of pop music contrasted harshly with reality; its truth and beauty clashed with the distortion of human nature.
       I felt troubled, unsettled.

        No one spoke the rest of the way.

        I didn’t know.
       Was Teresa Teng singing an illusion?
       A longing?
       Was she weaving dreams, speaking dreams, or mocking them?

        People, demon-like in their agitation, are sometimes forced into it.

        People, demon-like in their ferocity, are sometimes forced into that too.

        Perhaps fragility and ferocity are separated by only a thin line; perhaps gods and demons change roles in a single thought.

5

“Using primitive methods, I can clear 50 to 100 landmines a day.
Clearing mines is like cooking; do it every day, and you get used to it.
When you have time, come clear mines with me.”

—Akira
Director, Siem Reap Landmine Museum, 2000

        I went to Wat Phnom to burn incense.

        Legend says that during a great flood, this was the only hill not submerged;
       Phnom Penh’s sole high ground.

        From the hilltop, rivers encircle the city.
       The temple houses Hindu gods, Buddhist deities, and even a deified Confucius.

        At the feet of the gods, we are touched by divinity; its nobility, tranquillity, transcendence.

        While resting, Xiao Xiang told me his story.
       A tale as legendary as myth.

        After Pol Pot fell, chaos remained.
       Amid the turmoil, he led his entire family on foot from the northern Banteay Mountains back to Phnom Penh.

        The journey took over ten days.
       By day, they avoided main roads, fearing capture and forced labour in the forests.
       By night, they walked in darkness.
the cooler air helping them endure.

        Upon reaching the city, they still dared not return to their old home.

        Penniless, he removed his ring; 18 grams in weight.
       He pawned it for 200 US dollars and started a small business.

        After the war, people wanted one thing most: to eat properly every day.

        So he began a barbecue business.

        In the 1990s, realizing the nation needed rebuilding, he opened a small hardware shop.

        What do people emerging from war desire most?

        Peace.

        So he named his company “Peace.”

        The story unfolded gently; woven with tears and resilience, revealing character and spirit.

        The road, after all, is walked one step at a time; carefully, earnestly, solidly.

        That afternoon, I boarded a plane for Siem Reap.

        There was still a stretch of road from the airport to Angkor.

        At the city’s edge stood a lone streetlamp.
       Its thin pole riddled with bullet holes, a witness to fierce battles of the past.

        A former frontline outpost before Angkor had been converted into a landmine museum.

        Akira explained that an estimated ten million landmines had been buried across Cambodia, with six million still uncleared.
       A number equal to half of Cambodia’s twelve million people.

        Akira had once planted mines for the Khmer Rouge.
       Later captured by Vietnamese forces, he cleared mines for them instead.
       In 1993, he worked for a UN demining organization.
       Now independent, he goes wherever mines remain.

        Angkor, once a Khmer Rouge command centre, is naturally surrounded by heavily mined forests.

        Data shows most victims are innocent civilians.
       In the first eight months of 1999 alone, there were already 757 casualties.

        Suddenly, I understood the rage of the amputee beggar.
       Yesterday, I felt wronged by his curses.
       But what of farmers diligently clearing forests, only to be struck by sudden disaster? Were they not even more innocent?

        Under the shadow of landmines, life and labour must continue.
       People, in truth, have few choices.

        The forest drifted with lingering resentment.
       Heavy-hearted, I passed through.

        I rushed toward Angkor.

        On the bridge over Angkor’s moat, 108 statues stand in welcoming rows.
       Gods on the left, demons on the right.

        At the temple gate, celestial dancers lift slender fingers gracefully, swaying in eternal motion.
       I was startled to find, on a nearby wall, several bullets left behind by accidental gunfire.

        Within Angkor’s ruins lies a complete record of its empire.
       People lived, traded, watched acrobatics, fought cocks, sought pleasure; and also faced wars of life and death.

        Cambodia’s battles with the Champa were especially fierce, involving infantry, navy, cavalry, elephant corps, and even Chinese military support.

        Once again, I was stunned.
       By my own naïveté.

        Where is the land of gods?

        Angkor’s golden splendour, brick by brick, was built upon countless human catastrophes.

        People, within predetermined environments, often rise and fall helplessly — struggling, drifting, sinking, carried by the tide.

        How many tried to transcend, resist, break free?

        How many lived their own lives?
       Lived as themselves?

        Wandering through Angkor’s ruins,
       I tried to distinguish:
Which statue was Shiva the Destroyer?
Which Vishnu the Preserver?
Which Brahma the Creator?

        Again and again I asked:
Where are the gods?
Where are the demons?

        Again and again I asked:
Where am I?

Postscript

        Returning from Angkor to Phnom Penh, I did not see Xiao Xiang.
       He had gone on a business trip to another province.

        I visited Xiao Xiang’s mother, a gentle elderly woman.
       That day, she rested contentedly at the doorway, watching people come and go.

        I also saw Xiao Xiang’s child, just beginning to babble.

        On the day I returned to Singapore, Ming saw me off on Xiao Xiang’s behalf.
       He welcomed me to return to Phnom Penh again politely.
       He said he hoped to see me soon.

      In August 2000, SilkAir began direct flights from Singapore to Angkor.
       On the eve of New Year’s Day 2001, Ming sold all his properties in Phnom Penh and emigrated with his family to Australia.

        I no longer expect Ming’s story to resurface.
     Like many stories in Cambodia, like landmines from past wars, it remains buried deep in the soil.

Background Appendix

• 802:  Cambodia gains independence from Indonesian political influence; Angkor rises as a major Southeast Asian political, economic, and cultural centre.

• 1432:  Facing Thai military pressure, the royal family relocates the capital away from Angkor.

• 1860:  Western scholarship on Angkor intensifies after French geographer Henri      Mouhot’s visit.

• 1970:  General Lon Nol seizes power; Prince Sihanouk seeks refuge in Beijing.  U.S. carpet bombing begins. Khmer Rouge wage guerrilla war; Angkor becomes a command centre.

• 1973:  U.S. forces withdraw from Vietnam.

• 1975: Khmer Rouge capture Phnom Penh; Pol Pot’s regime enacts chilling ideological experiments.

• 1979:  Vietnam invades Cambodia, installs a new government; opposing factions backed by China, Thailand, and Western nations go underground.

• 1989:  Vietnam begins troop withdrawal.

• 1991:  Prince Sihanouk returns to Cambodia.

• 1993:  UN-sponsored elections; Khmer Rouge lose and retreat into forests.

• 1998:  Pol Pot dies mysteriously in the jungle.

• 1999:  Khmer Rouge leaders Ta Mok and Nuon Chea arrested; Khieu Samphan surrenders; stability gradually returns.