Don't You Regret Killing People?

About a month ago, I went to the post office in Phnom Penh with several postcards and a letter or two in hand. I hoped that sending my correspondence from the capital would expedite the shipment or at least increase the likelihood of delivery to the US. Unfortunately, the office was closed in PP, so I was forced to use my local post office in Kampong Speu. Afraid that my international mail wouldn’t be handled properly, I spent much time carefully explaining where I wanted to send the cards and letters and asking how much it would cost. As a group of about eight men scurried to find the proper stamps and began licking and sticking, I had an opportunity to chat with what I assumed to be several postal service employees.

Today, stopped along National Highway 4 to buy my daily Coke, an older man with a familiar face approached me. Recognizing him from the post office, I said, “sua-s’dai.” He responded with a “hello” and began questioning me in English about where I live and what I do. After a brief explanation of volunteerism and a gesture in the direction of my house, I told him that I recognized him as a postal employee. He laughed and said, “I don’t work there! I just go there to play chess. I am nearly retired from the army.” With pride unusual for a Cambodian, he then asked, “Do you know my rank?” Even if he had been dressed in his service uniform, I wouldn’t have been able to tell. “I’m a general,” he said. Unsure how to respond, I just uttered, “Wow, that’s very high.”

After this somewhat awkward exchange, he continued by telling me about his family which is spread across Cambodia and New Zealand. Twenty minutes later, I was about to say that I should get home for dinner, but before I could, he somewhat out of the blue mentioned Pol Pot. While most foreigners refer to the Cambodian genocide in the 1970s as the Khmer Rouge, Cambodians simply say, “during Pol Pot…” Associating all the tragedy, death, anger, blame, and hurt of that time with one man who has now been dead for years is part of a narrative which allows Cambodia to move forward without mental pause regarding the hundreds or thousands of past Khmer Rouge supporters living across the country today.

Surprised that someone I had just met was about to discuss such a personal and difficult topic, I stayed seated on my bike and listened carefully. “It was difficult during that time,” he said. Sparing the gruesome details which other community members have shared with me, he continued, “There were things you could not say. If you disagreed, you died. There were no teachers, no monks, and no doctors. They didn’t believe in religion, and they let people die.” He then explained that while he had been a good student in university, he decided to become a soldier because he wanted to fight against the people who sought to destroy his country.

Before we finished our conversation, my new acquaintance told me that during his visits to New Zealand many people have asked him if he regrets killing people in the war. He thinks that those who asked this question and many other westerners have misgivings about their actions in the Korean and Vietnamese wars. “They were fighting for what?” he asked. “I was fighting for my own freedom, for my family. I have no regrets for protecting myself.”

With that, he bid me farewell and sauntered down the road, leaving me to wonder when my country will grasp the message behind his simple but compelling words.