Demonstration in Phnom Penh

Southeast Asia figured heavily on many front pages in September 1998. There was an embarrassment of stories. Anti-government protests, tear gas and detention without trial in Malaysia. Anti-government protests, stand-offs on a lonely bridge and detention without trial in Burma. Anti-government protests, stand-offs against riot police and unexplained shallow graves in Cambodia.

I'm not a seeker of such excitement. I don't go out of my way to get involved in anti-government protests, least of all in a foreign country. But I was in Cambodia in September, playing the tourist, and there was no avoiding the disturbances.

Thursday, September 10, 1998. Preah Sihanouk Boulevard is a busy street. At 5.30 p.m., it would be rush-hour. Traffic was heavy in both directions. I had just arrived and checked into my hotel in an unpaved street about 200 metres south of the Boulevard. With only an hour or so of daylight left, there was not much I could do except take a walk in the vicinity of the hotel to get a measure of the city.

According to my map, the city centre and the Mekhong river would be to the east; I decided to walk in that direction along the Boulevard. About 400-500 metres ahead would be the Victory Monument and that, I thought, would be a good landmark from which to get my bearings for the rest of my stroll.

The sidewalk was as busy as the traffic lanes. People were gossiping with neighbours, walking home, or buying small things from vendors -- and then the first clue struck me. I realised that in fact the most common thing people were doing was none of the above. Most people on the sidewalks -- on both sides of the Boulevard -- were just standing around, but turned to face the Victory Monument, the top of which one could see above the buses and trucks streaming down the road. They were craning their necks, watching for something over there. They didn't talk much to each other, they weren't waiting for transport. And then I saw a young man, with his motorbike stationary on the sidewalk, raise himself by standing on his footrests to get a better view over others' heads... ah, now I see, they're all watching for trouble.

And trouble seemed to be going on at the Victory Monument, precisely where I was headed.

For at least a week before I flew into the city, Phnom Penh had been front page news in the Bangkok newspapers, and probably around the world too, seeing how it featured on CNN International and BBC World TV. The two opposition groups were loudly disputing the results of the July elections, in which Hun Sen's Cambodian People's Party had won a simple majority of seats. The opposition cried foul, alleging election-rigging. To press their point, the protesters set up camp in a field outside the National Assembly building. After about a week of noisy defiance, the riot police moved in to clear the rowdy encampment. In the fracas a few people were killed, and a few more were unaccountably missing. Following the eviction, more street demonstrations occurred, but this time, they were mobile. The protesters would change location from day to day, and play a hide-and-seek game with the authorities. Every day, from the news reports, the demonstrations ended in rock-throwing, shooting and more casualties. In a new escalation, Buddhist monks also began to participate.

Reacting to the monks' involvement, government forces made searches through a number of Buddhist temples for activists. The troops jackbooted in, pointing firearms at the monks and poking into their private quarters. According to the press, this defilement of sacred ground outraged more people -- though I personally doubt it had that much effect -- which further fed the protesters' cause.

That was the background when I arrived: a tense city that had known daily demonstrations, beatings and shootings for over a week, with no sign of calming down. And sure enough, on my first walk-about after checking in, I found myself in the thick of things. Oh, this is going to be fun, I said to myself.

Halfway, about 250 metres, to the Victory Monument, I could hear above the traffic noise, someone making a speech through a loudhailer with boos and cheers punctuating each sentence. I was now able to make out a crowd gathered around its steps. The monument stood in the middle of a round-about, a major traffic node, and with the rally crowd spilling from the steps onto the roads, it was gridlock in the area. I was too far away to be able to estimate the size of the protest, but it would have had to be at least a few thousand to create this much blockage of traffic. In any case, the crowd was growing steadily. By this point on Preah Sihanouk Boulevard, much closer to the monument than when I started my stroll, people were not standing and watching. People by the thousands more were streaming towards the demonstration. In fact, I was more carried along by the crowd towards the monument, than deliberately making my way there.

Realising this, I hesitated for a moment. I was no longer among neutral spectators, as I had been further up the Boulevard. I was now mixed up with anti-government types. I decided to cross the road and make a big detour through other suburbs, around the monument, rather than continue towards it. I'm not a foolhardy person. I don't want to take undue risks.

Just as I had decided to do that, I saw two Buddhist monks -- they caught my eye because of their bright saffron robes and the suddenness of their movements -- scramble down the steps of the Victory Monument. A few civilians followed them excitedly. This is real trouble, I said to myself in half a breath. Get across the road into the quieter suburbs, now. NOW. But the moment I stepped onto the road, the gridlock of vehicles suddenly roared to speed. Where they had been stuck facing the monument, they now pivoted 180 degrees in the space of a pinhead, and vrammed to flee the rally. In trying to cross the road, I found myself nailed to the bitumen by hundreds of accelerating motorbikes, scooters, cars and vans, pouring past me in a motorised rush to escape. Other pedestrians who had been around me were running back up the sidewalk. There was no time to see what was causing this massive and urgent change of mind. One could imagine well enough.

Somehow I managed to make my way across the road without a motorbike running over my feet. I chose a leafy side street and walked briskly into it. There were a number of shops there, and they would be useful for ducking into if necessary. More reassuringly, the shopkeepers and their friends were still standing outside their shops, craning their necks to see what was causing this panicky flight up the Boulevard. They were only 50 metres from the torrent of revving vehicles and sprinting legs, but 50 metres seemed to make a world of difference between the culpable and the inquisitive. With a few more steps I reached the margins of the inquisitive, and paused to join them as spectators.

Within a minute, the Boulevard was empty. All the participants had fled. Only the (slightly edgy) spectators half-hiding in the side streets remained. And then we saw it. We saw what had caused the monks to begin running down the monument steps, sparking the mass flight of everyone else. Three trucks filled with about 30 riot police each, drove past. They didn't appear ready for any action. They looked like they were merely being transported from one place to another, except that their route took them through the Victory Monument round-about, but I guess the average demonstrator wasn't going to take any chances with their appearance on the scene.

And then the spectators showed their true colours. As the trucks drove down the near-empty Preah Sihanouk Boulevard, the people in the side streets booed them. You could hear the rolling wave of hisses and boos as they went past the mouth of each side street. Oops, I said, this is not a neutral crowd after all. I am out of here!

I walked a big loop and made my way to the Mekhong. It wasn't what I had expected. There wasn't any riverside promenade; it was just a muddy flank of grass sinking gradually into the darkening water. It was also poorly lit, with shadowy clumps of vendors and dating couples scattered around the field, and then further on, the homeless and street urchins. It was depressing to see such poverty and languor. Kids weren't going to school, they were barely clothed, and families were cooking pathetic scraps of fish they had just caught from the river, over makeshift fires, outside their makeshift tents.

Then one beggar child came towards me. He started tagging along, and then asked for a hand-out. Seeing at least 30 other beggar kids around, it was not a practical option to give this one anything; you would have got all 30 swarming around you in an instant. So I ignored him, but he wouldn't go away. Worse, his pestering began to attract the attention of the others, some of whom were not really kids but young adult vagabonds. This is interesting, I thought to myself. I am feeling more unsafe next to this kid half my size and unarmed, than when I was on Preah Sihanouk Boulevard caught in a stampede with who knows how many armed police around the corner. But I guess instincts are instincts, and being targetted by one kid was personal. Yes, that's the difference. On Preah Sihanouk Boulevard, it was impersonal, and you could see yourself in a detached sort of way, like watching CNN. Here the danger was personal, and you had to anticipate how you might have to fight off this kid and his allies with kicks and blows. The threat was a lot more direct. Not a good situation to be in. So, once again, I am out of here.

I reached Samdech Sothearos Boulevard and was glad to be within the ambit of streetlights once again. The sky was rapidly turning to night by now, and I was half-surprised by my own sense of relief just from having an occasional vehicle drive past, compared to being surrounded by begging urchins on a dark field. I stopped to let a motorbike pass before crossing the road. He slowed down, looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. He drove on. We both did the three-count. Then he turned back to smile at me again, and caught me turning to look at him. Aha! we both said to ourselves!

I crossed the road and continued walking. Reaching the next intersection, another motorbike was coming towards me again, so once again, I stopped to let it pass. No, it wasn't another motorbike, it was the same guy. He had made a circuit around the block and timed himself to reach me just as I reached this intersection. He was smiling broadly again. This time he slowed to a stop.

Isn't it remarkable how we're always receptive to sex? In the midst of politics, protests, poverty and personal danger?

Half an hour later, I was back at the Victory Monument. Incredibly, the rally had resumed, the crowd as large as before. This time I got close enough to be able to estimate their numbers. I would say, about two to three thousand, with another few thousand in the nearby side-streets. The latter looked like bystanders, but now I know, they're not quite neutral in their opinions. They were careful not to participate, but they're weren't exactly uninterested.

I didn't stop to mingle with the crowd. It would be foolish, and anyway I didn't understand a word. I made my way up Preah Sihanouk Boulevard westwards towards the Monivong Boulevard junction, about 800 metres away. According to my map, there were a number of restaurants along that stretch and I could have my dinner there. I'd still be within walking distance of my hotel.

All along the Preah Sihanouk Boulevard, people were still standing outside their shops and homes carefully watching the events at the Victory Monument, though in the dark (it was past 7 p.m.) one couldn't see very far. At best, one could listen for any ominous change in the noise from that direction.

Reaching the upper restaurant stretch, I minded my own business, looking at the menus placed outside their front doors. They were all quite simple affairs, and seemed very affordable. I shortlisted them to two. First choice was a slightly more decorated joint on the north side of Preah Sihanouk Boulevard. Second choice was opposite, on the south side, the same side where my hotel was, except that my hotel didn't front the Boulevard but was about 200-300 metres deeper along a side street.

Well, I needed only one dinner, not two, so first choice was it. But just as I was walking back to the restaurant having finally made up my mind, I heard rhythmic chanting and horn-tooting. Turning around, I saw the demonstrators marching up the Boulevard. In the vanguard were about 300-400 young men on foot holding a banner high in front of them. They were followed by a convoy of a few hundred tooting motorcyclists, most with pillion riders shouting slogans and waving fists. They took up the entire width of Preah Sihanouk Boulevard (4 lanes) and all other traffic had to stop and give way to them. This time I was close enough to get a good look at some of them. I was after all, on the very sidewalk, and they were marching past me. They were all male, mostly in their twenties. From their attire and the fact that they had motorbikes and mobile phones, they were clearly the middle-class and the elite, which was not surprising with this kind of political opposition. There were a few leaders who were noticeably in command of the proceedings. They appeared to be giving signals to move forward or to stop, and they kept the chanting in rhythm. And yes, there were a few Buddhist monks among them. Rumour also had it that there were agents provocateurs from the government mixed up in the group as well, but of course, they wouldn't want to stand out from the crowd, so I couldn't say if it was true.

As the protesters came through, the bystanders got a lot more jittery. The shopkeepers dashed about, moving their wares indoors and bringing their shutters half down. Parents collected their children and insisted they stay indoors, though they themselves stood at the doorways and balconies to watch. However, there were no police in sight, and the procession passed without incident. They marched to the intersection with Monivong Boulevard, and there, about 150 metres ahead of me, they stopped and intensified their chanting.

Then in quick succession, 10-15 shots rang out, and the procession on the Boulevard reversed direction in an instant. They roared down the avenue back towards the Victory Monument, motorcyclists yanking up their 2nd or 3rd pillion riders as they flew past, helping their friends get out of danger. Bystanders scurried into the shops, pulling down their shutters behind them. I slipped quickly into a side alley and stood behind a tree, thinking -- the mind has strange ways -- how similar the sound of rifle fire was to the last time I heard them, while serving National Service years ago. I don't think they use the same rifles in Cambodia, but they sure sound exactly the same. Puck, puck, puck-puck, it went on. I know this is absurd. There was near-panic all around me, and all I was doing was standing under a tree, as if avoiding a passing shower, reminiscing about long hot days spent at rifle ranges and trying to compare my memory of gunfire sounds with the present experience.

Half a minute later, all was quiet. The Boulevard had emptied -- again -- and bystanders half-raised their shutters and gingerly ventured out to get a better look, all the while telling their kids to stay indoors, do as I say, don't do as I do. I too stepped forward to the sidewalk of the Boulevard, but couldn't see anything unusual at the Monivong junction, 150 metres away. It looked empty. I couldn't see the police, I couldn't see any barricades, but then it was night, and the streetlights weren't that bright. The riot police were probably just beyond the junction, since the protesters never quite got beyond that point. No, I wasn't going to walk there to verify my theory.

A few people started to cross the road, probably to get back to their homes, having been caught on the wrong side of the Boulevard when the first shots rang out. With their example, I decided it would be a little wiser to eat at my second choice restaurant instead. It was on the same side as my hotel. Should the police come charging down the Boulevard, at least I wouldn't have to cross the road again.

So I went across the broad street, now devoid of vehicles, and walked toward the restaurant. As I reached its front steps, 3 or 4 new shots shattered the night again. I dived into the restaurant; the manager grabbing my shoulder and pulling me in at the same time. He then swung his arm overhead to grab the handle of the roller-shutter and hanging on with his own bodyweight, brought it down in double-quick time.

"I hope you're still open," I said with a big grin. "I need to eat."

"Sure, sit here and order," he said, passing me the menu.

He recommended. I ordered. Drink? Coke, please.

Outside, the sporadic shooting continued. Then another fusillade of 10 or 15 shots. All the other waiters had run into the kitchen long ago. I spied them peeping through the hatch. The other diners -- there were only 4 others at another table -- just couldn't eat anymore, their appetite had knotted up, but they continued to sit at their table, not knowing what to do next.

The manager stood at the door most of the time, carefully eyeing the Boulevard through the roller-shutter's peepholes. I couldn't see the outside from my seat; I could only watch his reaction for any sign of approaching danger.

Somehow, they still cooked in the kitchen, and my order of noodles came out quite well. I was hungry. Meanwhile, the manager spoke with the other guests and suggested they could leave by the back door if they wanted to, a suggestion they took up after some discussion among themselves. Firing never quite stopped all this while. There would be 2 or 3 rounds every other minute or so. In fact, I thought this was more ominous than a barrage of 10-15 rounds. With the barrage, they were most probably firing into the air to stop a march. But when there were individual shots every now and then, it resembled what I had seen on CNN International a few days earlier. In that newsclip, the demonstrators were throwing stones at the riot police, who then crouched and picked them out one by one with individual shots. So these occasional shots that accompanied my meal were, in my mind, deliberate, aimed shots, in response to continuing provocation. Somewhere out there, a few demonstrators were taking this very very personally, and were likely to be getting hurt, if not killed, tonight.

It wasn't long before I finished, and I decided to try to get back to my hotel. The staff would be relieved to see me go so they could lock up and get home themselves.

While waiting for my change, I took out my map -- thank heavens I have this preference for very detailed maps, to scale of course, showing all the small alleys -- to figure out the route back to my hotel via the backlanes. There was no question of getting home along the Boulevard. I would have to leave by the kitchen door, and doing so, I would find myself in a back alley which I had never been in before in my entire life (remember: I had only landed in this city 3 hours ago). For all I knew, it could be a muddy track (it was the rainy season), strewn with garbage, and almost surely without any street lighting. Once out there, it would be too dark or too dangerous to refer to the map again. I'd have to commit the route to memory now and stride confidently once I stepped out of the kitchen. So memorise: first right, then 2 blocks (about 100 metres) south, then a left turn ... then memorise an alternative route just in case the first proved impassable.

My change came. I readied my flashlight, zippered my bag securely, then for some reason, looked at my watch. 7.40 p.m. As I walked through the kitchen, saying thanks and goodnight to the staff huddled there, I was surprised at how clean it was. Then I was out through the back door, and just as I did so, another 3 shots ricocheted through the darkness. I swore quietly.

As I expected, the back alley was narrow, wet and felt like clay underfoot. I had to pick my way around the puddles, scaring a stray cat and getting a bit too much attention from a few suspicious men loitering in shadows. All the while, I paid close attention to the frequency, direction and distance of rifle shots still ringing out repeatedly. I had to look out for people running hurriedly anywhere, because if people started doing that around me, it could mean the riot police were chasing them and I'd have to hug the banana trees on my right. But I still had time to ponder: Why, in Southeast Asia, does dissent so often reach this point?

© Yawning Bread 

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