On Monday night my friend Christine, who also works at Friends-International, came over to the apartment to watch the Mith Samlanh documentary “What I See When I Close My Eyes.” It had taken some diplomacy to secure a copy, since the film is only used for fund raising, and a good fight with my sorry corrupted and waning laptop to play the disc-- so we were chomping at the bit for our viewing experiences to prove that our efforts had not been in vain.
Indeed, they were not. We watched the computer screen with widening eyes and open mouths as the kids we know and aim projects at talked about their lives and dreams, painting black outlines of their bodies on cloth and illustrating their words with brightly colored pictures. It was the first time for both of us hearing the kids’ thoughts translated from Khmer, and we were floored by the depth that emerged with the English. At Mith Samlanh and on outreach, it is possible as a non-Khmer speaker to understand a substantial amount of communications from expressions and situations. But this new comprehension was like nothing we had imagined the gargle of words we hear meaning.
One girl who was about eight years old said while swishing her paint brush playfully on her cheek, “What I see is me in the future making pretty clothes. I want to learn sewing so I can create beautiful things –and I see a proper closet for the clothes I will have to hang in, in the home I will live in, where I will have enough to eat.”
A boy of around ten said, “I see a real family, like what other people have. A mother who is kind to her son and a father who comes home, where the family eats together at night.”
Two of the older boys who I work with on the video project talked about the heavy drug use among their friends not at Mith Samlanh, and how sad it makes them to know that their friends put needles in their arms because they are poor, and they are dying from those needles. I learned about an obstacle that the Mith Samlanh counselors face when helping kids start coming to the center: the perception in youth street communities that those kids who come to Mith Samlanh are “uncool.” This made sense to me as Christine and I discussed means of bringing Mith Samlanh outreach into the age of video games and MP3 raps.
The frame that stuck in my head was a group of boys outside the center’s gate talking about what was taught at Mith Samlanh: “Oh, loads of stuff.” “Yeah. Welding, and hair, and electricity, and motos, and…” “Hey, can I have a go?” “Lots of welding. And motos.” “Hair!” “It’s really my turn; you’ve been talking for forever!” Their hilarious, layered conversation shown in bright subtitles that popped up over each speaker’s head brought the boys into a light of clarity in my mind as I so naturally pictured the conversation among a group of American boys at my own high school—and then the piercing of thinking about their previous words wishing for a family and their friends to not use hard drugs.
That night my friend Charlotte moved into the apartment with me, meaning I get to have the experience of having a roommate for the first time, if only for a week and a half. But the experience is in a developing country, making the change a lucky novelty nonetheless! We set up cushions and an air mattress up in the “everything” room, dealt with a sick tummy and biting-ant outbreak on the first night, and have been enjoying sharing banana-buying responsibilities and joint CNN breaks since.
Living with another person, I have found myself slipping into depressive and homesick stretches less and less. My extroverted side is finally being fed, and the going isn’t quite so shaky and frightening when there’s another person I know I can unconditionally ask for advice or help. It has set the final piece into the puzzle of making a life here and becoming a true local. I’m proud that I accomplished discovering what those necessary pieces are for creating a life for myself away from home, which bodes well for my future. I don’t regret finding the last piece so late, because learning to be alone, self-sufficient and forced to make peace with introversion is another big accomplishment that I have worked for since the moment I waved goodbye to my life in Minneapolis.
Charlotte is now not just my roommate but has continued to be my fellow explorer. I found out on Wednesday night from an Aussie law intern working at the United Nations International Tribunal Court for the trials of surviving Khmer Rouge members that there was a free public bus taking civil observers out to the court the next morning at 7. Charlotte and I worked out the location and hopped on the bus Thursday morning without a reservation, making our way past the first obstacle caused by lack of sufficient information (which is so normal here, I have no idea why we were surprised.) We bounced out past the airport to the Cambodian military headquarters 20k outside of the city, officially annexed a part of Phnom Penh to satisfy the UN’s requirement that the court be held “in” the capitol.
We stood in line before identification and security checks with reporters and television cameras buzzing about, gawking at important-looking men in black suits and laminated badges on lanyards around their necks. Soon we discovered that our passports were required for entry into the court…which we incredibly bypassed by writing fake passport numbers by our names in the sign-in book, as we realized there was no way to locate and contact us if we were found out. This was a scary sign of the pretension of the Cambodian court as high-functioning and up to international standards, but truly a mess of confusion and inefficiency behind the façade.
Successfully passing through security and surrendering our cameras, water bottles, motorbike helmets, and cell phones (although we saw a man texting away inside the court just a few minutes later) we joined the line for headphones and radio transmitters of interpretation of the proceedings on English, French, and Khmer channels. The Extraordinary Chambers of the Courts of Cambodia are held behind a wall of bulletproof glass shielding the judges, lawyers, interpreters, guards, and the accused from the rows of civil observers. Flags and banners upholding the Cambodian nation and UN and ECCC ideals are abundant, accompanied by flat screen televisions with close-up feeds of the proceedings. The two rows of international judges were robed, as well as the prosecution, defense, and civil parties’ lawyers.
The pomp and circumstance was well-deserved, as the trial Charlotte and I were attending was the public hearing on the defense’s Appeal Against Decision to Deny the Request for Translation of Khieu Samphan’s Case File. The case is less stunning than the persons involved, Khieu Samphan, defendant, and Jacques Verges, his French co-lawyer. Mr. Khieu was president of Democratic Kampuchea (Cambodia) from 1976-1979, making him head of state during the rule of the Khmer Rouge—the figurehead to Pol Pot’s position of power. He succeeded Pol Pot as leader of the Khmer Rouge in 1985, and has consistently upheld the movement’s beliefs and actions. He was arrested and is being tried for crimes against humanity and war crimes (grave violations of the Geneva Convention.) Mr. Verges is the infamous defense lawyer of murderers, with documentaries made on his arguments of atrocious cases and peculiarities like his still-unexplained 14-year disappearance (oddly and ironically spanning the Khmer Rouge years.) He is arguing that Khieu Samphan never denied that people in Cambodia were killed under the Khmer Rouge, but as head of state Mr. Khieu was not directly responsible.
It was flooring to see men of actions like theirs in living flesh. Mr. Khieu needed the arms of two guards to stand and state his name, birth date, and the names of his parents, his white hair reflective in the harsh light. Mr. Verges ignored every person who approached him but his co-lawyer, and stroked his large belly as he eyed the prosecution and civil parties. The appeal being presented was ridiculous to most standards, and seemed to be a blatant bid to buy time. However, the highlight of the proceedings was Mr. Verges’s skilled argument for the appeal for translation, quoting the UN Secretary General and daringly calling out the cloaked shortcomings and failures of the ECCC. What was striking was comparing his argument about ineptitude of translators going from Khmer to English or French to the frequently incomprehensible translation coming through my headphones—a deservedly famous lawyer indeed, although appalling.
I wondered many times how a case like this is even defensible, turning over the concept of due process of justice many times. I looked at Khieu Samphan and then at the audience, wondering just how many of their family members’ blood was on his hands. How could judges sit and listen and debate, “Oh, hm, here’s a reason why murdering thousands of one’s fellow human beings is an excusable deed?”
Charlotte and I left early for her to make it to work on time, worrying over finding a motodups on the mostly industrial National Road 4. As we were leaving we asked a guard wearing a UN hat if there were any drivers available. He shook his head unhelpfully, but then called after us in French as we walked away, “Mais, parlez-vous francais?” Oui! I cheerfully flexed my francophone muscles once again as I arranged with the guard to have another guard drive us back into Phnom Penh and leave us at the Java café for lunch, thinking about how cool it was that I had the skills to do that. We were given free “commemorative” t-shirts as we left, squeezed again three-astride on our helpful driver’s motorbike down the dusty road.
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