“I risked my life to get here, and I have
done nothing with my time in America.” Says taxi driver,
Matt Sindvith. “I have seen women who were raped, or
people who survived the war in Bosnia or Sarajevo. They
were able to put that behind them. But I cannot. And,
until I do, I can’t get on with my life.”
The generation of Khmers, aged twenty-five and over,
share a history of survival, loss, and suffering. But
for many, the trauma was never dealt with. And the scars
of a war, which ended more than two decades ago, are
still open wounds, which prevent them from advancing.
Stuck in traffic on the Washington Beltway. I can only
see the back of the driver’s head, but the man in the
photo on the license, dangling from the sun visor, looks
like a Khmer.
“Sua Sedai,” I begin, going out on a limb. “Da nyat
junjet Khmer dey?”
Slowly, he answers me, and we begin a rudimentary
conversation. “I’m sorry.”
He says, switching to heavily accented English. “I have
nearly lost my language.” His tone of voice conveys his
embarrassment.
By the time we reach my home, Matt has given me a brief
summary of the events of his life. Not only had Pol Pot
and the Khmer Rouge driven him from Cambodia, robbing
him of his language, culture, and way of life, but they
had also murdered both his mother and father.
“My dream, before I die,” Says Matt, “Is to find my
sister.”
The last time Matt saw his younger sister, Sok Pola, was
in 1980, when he escaped to a refugee camp in Thailand.
“A few years ago, I heard she was still a live.” He told
me. “A Khmer friend in America said that he had seen my
sister working in a garment factory in either
Sihanoukville or Koh Kong. I was told she is married…”
Matt trailed off. He radiated a sadness that was of an
intensity I had never seen before.
Thinking about his baby sister obviously
filled him with deep emotions, loss, anger, and
loneliness. In anyone else, tears might have come. But
after getting to know Matt better, I would discover that
if he had moved beyond the stage of grief. Years of
privation and hardship had drained him of his tears.
What are the odds, that some strange Karmic force would
bring together a Khmer speaking journalist, just
returned from Phnom Penh, and a Cambodian holocaust
survivor, in need of a friend?
Not quite believing that I was interested in helping
him, Matt wrote out the names of his parents and
siblings.
“I don’t know how to write them in English.” He told me.
“It’s OK,” I encouraged him. “Just write it in Khmer.”
He paused again. “I almost don’t remember how.” He said.
“Can you imagine not remembering how to write the names
of your family members?”
Matt and I agreed to meet a few days later, and over a
bowl of Burmese
soup, the closest thing to Khmer food we could find in
the District, he told me his story.
“I don’t trust people.” He began. “And I don’t like to
talk about those things.” He meant the Pol Pot time.
It was obviously difficult for Matt to talk. Like so
many Khmers, he has been walking around with the
horrific story of his life bottled up inside of him.
Under the best of circumstances, Khmer culture teaches
that you are never supposed to talk about a problem.
With reference to the Khmer Rouge regime, this policy
becomes even more extreme. Having a selective memory and
an absolute refusal to dredge up the past is the only
way that victims and perpetrators are able to live
side-by-side in modern Cambodia, without revenge
killings happening every day.
Many people compare the Cambodian auto-genocide to the
Holocaust of Jews, under the Nazis. And, while there are
many similarities, there are two fundamental
differences, which make it even harder for Khmers to let
the past go. First of all, twenty percent of the Khmer
population was murdered, not by an outside force, but by
other Khmers. Second of all, not a single Khmer was
excluded from participation in the genocide. Every
single
Khmer, living in Cambodia between 1975 and 1979, was
either a victim, a perpetrator, or both.
Matt’s father was a military officer, under the French
and under Prime Minister Prince Sihanouk. After he
retired, he served as a high ranking police official in
the Lon Nol government.
“He received two pensions.” said Matt proudly. “One from
France and one from Cambodia.”
In 1975, when the city fell to the Khmer Rouge, Matt’s
family was living in Tutapong, Phnom Penh. According to
Matt, when the Khmer Rouge soldiers marched in, they
gave everyone just twenty-four hours to evacuate the
city.
“We didn’t want to leave.” He said, “But they kicked us
out.”
As an observer to the aftermath of the Cambodian civil
war, the question I always ask is “Why didn’t you escape
to America in 1975?”
“In 1975 people didn’t talk about escape. They were just
happy the shooting had stopped. Also, we didn’t want to
leave Cambodia.” Said Matt, echoing the sentiments of
most Khmers. Of all of the peoples I have met in my
years of living abroad, I have never seen a people so
completely bound to their homeland.
“Even in 1979, when the war was over, I didn’t think of
leaving the country. If I had wanted to leave I would
have left in 1975. My family had money and connections.
They tried to send me with American evacuation. But I
wouldn’t go.”
Matt’s older brother and sister, who were already
married, went off with their families.
“By chance, my whole family met up at a temple a few
days later. It was the last time I saw most of them.”
Matt’s mother had wanted to go west, but his father
wanted to go back to his homeland, of Kompong Cham.
“This was a mistake.” Said Matt. “Too many people knew
my father there. And because he was a former soldier and
a police officer, he was singled out.”
His father was taken away, and Matt never saw him again.
Soon afterwards, the Khmer Rouge separated the children
from the
adults.
“I only saw my mother once more, in 1977.”
The Khmer Rouge favored the country people, who they
called Khmer Ja,
or old people. Conversely, they hated the city people,
who they called Khmer Tmai, or new people.
“We tried to hide the fact that we were from the city.”
Said Matt. “But everything we did, we gave ourselves
away. Even the way I talked, they knew I was a city
boy.”
“When they took my mother in 1977, my sister wanted to
go with her. But I told her not to, or she would die
also.”
I asked Matt just how well the average Khmer understood
the situation, while it was happening.
“At the time I didn’t understand anything I only wanted
to survive. The average person at the time didn’t have a
global understanding of what was happening. And we had
no idea how bad the future would be. I had never
considered running away to America. In fact, before
1979, I had barely even heard of America.”
The entire population of Cambodia was organized into
work groups, and toiled at forced labor, constantly in
fear of execution.
“It was like Auswitch. We woke up at 6:00, no breakfast,
and walked an hour to where we had to work. We worked
till lunch, and walked back. Lunch was a little bit of
watery porridge. To supplement our diet, we ate anything
we could find; water grass, stewed or steamed with salt.
We ate too many strange things; grasshoppers, rats,
lizards…”
“My sister got more food, because she was a girl and
younger. She tried to give it to me. But I wanted her to
have it. After we ate, we walked back, and worked until
6 or 7. We ate dinner, another small bowl of porridge,
then we had a criticism meeting. After that, we slept.”
“At the meetings, I was always singled out and beaten,
because I was a city boy, and I could read, and speak
French. A village boy used objects to beat me, but I
didn’t resist. It is good I didn’t resist, because I
would have been killed.”
“I don’t know how anyone could survive. American kids in
general would die.”
“When you were sick, you would tell them, but there was
no medicine. Don’t be a lazy bastard, they would say,
get back to work. Your illnesses were never treated.”
“Pol Pot was not well-known at that time. When I was in
the city, we never knew that name. We knew the name Ieng
Saray, but not Pol Pot. He was like a godfather, the man
behind the scenes.”
“The name we heard every day was Angka (organization).
When they wanted you
to do something, they always said, Angka wants you to do
this or that. And if you didn’t do it, you were
betraying the party, Angka, not the individual.”
“Angka was a faceless organization, who issued all the
laws and edicts.Who were they referring to? It could be
some idiot over there who made up his own rules.”
In the final year of the regime, Angka began feeding on
itself. Paranoia in higher echelons caused major purges,
resulting in the execution of thousands of Khmer Rouge
cadre.
“Hun Sen ran to Vietnam to avoid being killed.” Said
Matt, referring to the current Prime Minister. “Hun Sen
pretended to be the savior of Cambodia. He lead the
Vietnamese troops into Cambodia, ending the Khmer Rouge
Regime.”
“I think there must have been some kind of deal there.”
“Vietnamese soldiers got no pay or food from their
government. They had to steal from the people. The
Vietnamese soldiers randomly killed people.”
“My sister knew a teacher who survived, and took us into
his house. He was the mayor of the province, appointed
by Hun Sen. But, when some guerillas were killed by the
Vietnamese, the mayor was accused of collaboration, and
he was killed. So, we lost our place to live.”
His siblings went to the coast to look for work in a
factory. Matt’s was recruited into Hun Sen’s army, under
Vietnamese control.
“They were rounding up Khmer Rouge and killing them. You
think you would want
revenge for what had happened. But even when I had a gun
in my hand, I couldn’t kill the Khmer Rouge. I was not a
murderer.”
The only hint at vengeance Matt aver made was “If I had
money and time I want to find out who killed my
parents.”
“My younger brother was very street smart, much more
than me. If I had to live in the ghetto or hustle, I
would never survive. He went with the Vietnamese army,
and he was happy.”
“The commander liked me and trusted me not to run away.
The next day, we were supposed to go on a large
offensive, and I ran to Thailand. Two other boys went
with me, but they turned back. Most likely, they were
arrested and killed.”
In a camp in Thailand, he began doing volunteer work for
aid organizations. Originally, he had been planning to
go back to Cambodia, join the Khmer Serey, and fight
against the Vietnamese occupation.
“But working for the aid organizations opened my mind. I
realized I had been living in a tiny fish bowl. And, I
never wanted to live like that again.”
Matt began writing random letters to people in the west,
asking them to sponsor him for immigration. One day, he
got a response from a judge in North Dakota.
“The judge was Jewish, a survivor of the Holocaust. So,
he was very interested in helping me.”
“I remember it vividly, when he picked me up at the
airport. It was a completely different world. There was
a blizzard when I arrived. It was the first time I ever
saw snow.”
One the psychological impacts of the trauma which Matt,
and other refugees, experienced is that he tries to cut
all of his ties with the past.
“I lost contact with the judge. He is most likely dead
now, because would be very old.”
Matt found it impossible to live in North Dakota. On the
recommendation of some Khmer friends, he moved to
Maryland, and lived in a home with several other
refugees. He finished high school, graduated from a
college, and then studied at George Mason University,
majoring in Engineering.
Matt was on his way to coming one f the major success
stories for the
Khmer
community, when suddenly, in his final semester of
school, his years of
suffering caught up with him.
“I just snapped.” He said. “I quit university. My father
had been a
devout
Buddhist, but I stopped going to temple. I broke off
with all of my
friends,
and I didn’t want to know anyone.”
Matt went from job to job, working in restaurants, doing
security, and
driving taxis, never getting close to anyone. Obviously
desperately
looking
for a family he had said, “The judge was like a father
to me.” And,
“The
military commander was like a family to me.” And, “The
people I lived
with
in Maryland were like a family to me.” But he broke his
ties with all
of
them.
As we talked, I felt honored that Matt trusted me enough
to open up and
share his story. At the same time, I felt he probably
NEEDED to talk.
And, I
wondered how many Khmers must be walking around with
some type of
post-traumatic stress disorder, and are desperately in
need of
counseling,
which their cultural norms would prevent them from
seeking out.
At age 41, Matt is still single, with no marriage in
sight. “I can’t
even
deal with myself. I take life too seriously. I see a lot
of sadness.”
I cherish where I come from.” Said Matt. “But, I have
tried to distance
myself from anything that reminds me of the Khmer Rouge
time. I tried
to
watch the film, The Killing Fields, but I couldn’t. I
lived through it,
why
did I need to watch the movie?”
“Right now, I can’t believe that for 20 years I had
little or no
contact
with my people. I even lost my language. When I meet old
people, I
don’t
remember how to communicate with them. You have to
address them a
certain
way, according to age and class, to show respect.” He
shook his head.
“You
speak Khmer better than me. I thought that could never
happen. I was so
good
before.”
“I used to write well. Now I struggle to write the names
of my family
members. If I found them I would enlist a translator to
communicate
with
them.”
He kept asking me about modern Cambodia, and would shake
his head
remorsefully when I told him about the lawlessness, low
levels of
education,
joblessness and lack of hope.
“They were born in a period of time when they
experienced no normalcy
and no
stability.”
Matt had this to say about the proposed Khmer Rouge
tribunals. “The
trial is
a travesty and a waste of time. By the time they start,
these people
will
all be dead. And the ones who are alive show no remorse.
Hun Sen hasn’t
pushed for the trial, maybe because he is one of them.”
“We lost too much, everything…”
“Sometimes I dream about helping the Cambodians, but I
have nothing to
offer. I know what it is like to be destitute and
hopeless I struggle
with
my own conflict those people right now need so much
help. Its not a
good
feeling.”
“I feel I failed myself. Earlier, all my friends
expected me to do so
well.
When you lose your culture, it is hard to restore your
pride. They all
expected me to do well. The best student in my group, I
quit the
university
and ties with all my old friends.”
Matt’s life is a lonely one.
“At home only did homework, play chess, and read books.
My parents
didn’t
want me to play or ride a bicycle. I never had any
exposure to the real
world. So, now I have no social skills. I live with a
Philippine family
who
treat me like a son. They want me to go out and
socialize, but I dot
want
to.”
“In this country, when you meet people, they ask, what
do you do for a
living? I am shy. I don’t want to say I am only a taxi
driver. If they
gave
me an hour to tell my story, I could explain what I have
been through.”
“But, they never give you an hour.”
“In 1975, we had burned all of our other photos so that
the Khmer Rouge
wouldn’t discover my father in uniform. Only one photo
of my mother
survived. My sister carried it, secretly, and kept it
safe from
1975-1979.
She gave me that picture when I left for Thailand, and I
have always
carried
it with me, thinking my mother would protect me.”
“If my parents had lived, I would have been motivated to
succeed. But
now, I
have no reason to push myself.”
“I have no family, no one to care for me.”
“We think, why me? But, the same thing happened in
Rwanda and Bosnia. I
have
to let it go. I can’t move on in my life till I let it
go.” |
