Killing Fields Living Fields

Faith in Cambodia

Don Cormack

• Publisher: Christian Focus Publication
• Year: 2014
• eBook ISBN: 9781781914526

Part I

1923–1975

Chapter 1
The Fallow Ground

O land, land, land, hear the word of the Lord!
(Jer. 22:29)

The long torturous dry season of 1923 was finally at an end. Signs of a new season were all around them as the four men quickened their pace along the dirt lane winding out from the small village of Dountiew, and on down the seven or eight kilometres to the big market town of Battambang in Northwest Cambodia. They walked with a strong sense of purpose, as though on an errand of considerable importance. On either side sun-baked and cracked rice paddies were softening, and a fresh green hue tinged the brown fields of last year’s stubble. They greeted a passing farmer leading his bulky grey water buffalo by a rope through its nose. Over the farmer’s right shoulder hung a single furrow wooden plough.

‘Where are you going, son?’ they asked.

‘To awaken the earth, uncle, to awaken the earth.’

Uncle Has and his three companions, Uncle Moeung, Grandfather Pum and Grandfather Bou paused to exchange views with the other farmer. They spoke mainly of the good spring rains and the work of repairing broken-down paddy embankments and preparing special beds for the young rice seedlings. Uncle Has looked out across the waiting fields, a broad expanse of flat farmland dotted with spindly sugar palms suddenly culminating in a languid green tuft mushroomed against the vast azure sky. Here and there makeshift open-sided thatch shelters up on stilts interrupted the landscape, a checkerboard of empty paddies, each surrounded by low earthen dykes about eighteen inches high. Has’s dark eyes narrowed and he pointed with his lips towards the bank of great rolling cumulus clouds billowing up on the western horizon.

By early afternoon the sky would turn dark and heavy. Then a fresh wind would sweep across the land, whipping up dead leaves and grass in swirling clouds of red dust till the great wall of the approaching storm overtook it and beat everything back down into the earth, as torrents of cool lashing rain inundated the parched land. After a few hours, the storm would pass and the clean rain-soaked air would reverberate with the croaking of myriads of frogs unseen in the flooded paddies.

The men were determined to reach Battambang before the storm broke. They did pause once more to eat the dry salted fish and rice which their wives had wrapped in a cloth for the journey. Eating time is not the time for talking and so they sat in silence in an open-sided wooden sala, or shelter, situated at a place where an old rutted lane led down to a Buddhist temple set back from the road. A few saffron-robed monks, shaven-headed and barefooted, moved noiselessly about the compound. Ubiquitous brown mongrel dogs lazed and scratched in the heat of the late morning sun. The monks had been out at dawn, walking slowly in single file around the nearby villages, their begging bowls clasped in both arms in front of them. On this daily ritual they said nothing, acknowledged no one, looked neither to left nor right, but simply paused momentarily before each home where someone stood with a bowl of rice from which she ladled a portion to each monk. The people greeted the monks with a gesture of high respect – head lowered, palms placed together just in front of the nose. The monks were not really begging, but allowing each person the opportunity to make merit for the future and outweigh the accumulated misdeeds of former lives. Even the ragged little boys who followed the monks were making merit by carrying the containers of surplus rice.

Now it was about time for the festival marking the beginning of the Buddhist Lent which coincided with the wet season. This annual festival began on the first night of the waning moon of the sixth month, according to the Buddhist calendar. There would be a great requiem for all the departed spirits of deceased relatives and ancestors, more merit making, monks chanting the Dharma or law, candles and incense sticks burned for departed ones. During Lent the monks would be largely confined to the temple in order to study the ancient Buddhist writings. Lent would end when the rains stopped several months later, with yet another great festival, more merit making and so on.

Nothing had changed in Cambodia for centuries. Buddhist monks from Sri Lanka had brought Theravada Buddhism to the great Khmer Brahmin kingdom of Angkor during the 14th century when it was in a state of moral, economic and military collapse. The national conversion to Buddhist tranquillity and passivism thus coincided with the beginning of the disintegration and collapse of this mighty kingdom stretching outwards from its monumental capital of Angkor in Northwest Cambodia. There, unapproachable priest-kings with names like Jayavarman, Indravarman and Suryavarman had ruled as gods over the vast Khmer empire. What a magnificent city was Angkor with its extensive and richly ornamented temple complexes and highly-developed system of reservoirs for irrigation and rice production. Even now it was a spectacular sight as it lay in ruins waging a new war, not now with its ancient enemies the Thai and the Chams, but with nature, as the relentless jungle growth undermined it, slowly strangling and tearing it apart.

Successive Angkorian kings erected grand and costly temples to honour their divinity, and in so doing drained the nation of its wealth and energy. With the fall of Angkor in the fifteenth century, Cambodia entered into a long dark age of self-destruction and national suicide as three centuries of warring, palace intrigue, treachery, internal feuding and corruption brought Cambodia to the brink of extinction. Cambodia might easily have been swallowed up by neighbouring Vietnam and Thailand in the mid-nineteenth century had the French not annexed it to their Indo-Chinese colonies in 1863 during the reign of King Ang Duong. Now, in 1923, Cambodia had been a French colony for 60 years.

And so the endless cycle of festivals and merit-making ceremonies continued round and round year by year. Called ‘Buddhism’, it was in fact an all-embracing synthesis with Brahminism, animism and ancestor worship, all under the inscrutable smile of the Buddha. Everything centred around the Buddhist temple whose influence dominated every community, and permeated every aspect of the social, political, intellectual and spiritual life of the Khmer people. The temple was not there primarily for worship, but for housing the Buddhist idols. It was a place where merit could be made. The very building of it, preferably in a high and difficult location, would afford the builder much merit. It was inconceivable that anyone would question this inexorable system; each sought rather to live in harmony with life’s circumstances, passively accepting his fate. Everything had been predetermined by the spontaneous law of Karma, the law of cause and effect. In this life every person was reaping the fruit of good and bad deeds in past lives, living perpetually in the shadow of past demerits. The hope was to build up sufficient merit to be better off in the next reincarnation, and move a step closer to Nirvana. One would continue to die and be reborn, moving up and down in an all night game of spiritual snakes-and-ladders, through the many levels of hell, the world of animals and humans and heaven, until at some distant time, having quelled all the desire and ‘thirst for life’, the cause of suffering, one might gain access to ‘Nirvana’ - the ultimate state of blissful non-existence.

Thus the seasons came and went, punctuated always by the merit-making festivals, the ploughing, sowing, harvesting, marrying, dying and being reborn in the infinite and impersonal ceaseless cycles of existence, round and round, and round and round. As the familiar Cambodian proverb says: ‘The waters rise, the fish eat the ants; the waters fall, the ants eat the fish.’ To follow in a different direction or seek to swim against the ebb and flow of this fathomless ocean in which everyone else was drifting and being absorbed was unthinkable, even dangerous.

Uncle Has stared blankly at the temple building before him as the sunlight played crazily on the spangled roof tiles. Heedlessly his jaws opened and closed on the salty fish. He was a Khmer Buddhist rice-farmer, from generations of Khmer Buddhist farmers. If he sensed that he was being beckoned to walk in another unknown way, even to take a few faltering steps upon it, he did not show it. If he had any sense of destiny, that he would mark the beginning of a great watershed in the history of the Cambodian people which two generations later would become a floodtide, it was not apparent as he sat there on his haunches in the coolness of the sala.

This sala was shaded by a huge spreading tree. The old tree was considered sacred and held in fear and respect lest any offend the spirits which inhabited its roots and branches. No man would dare lay an axe to it lest a terrible tragedy befall him. About its girth was tied a strip of saffron cloth, and various colourful trinkets and other paraphernalia hung about the lower limbs. Half-burned incense sticks and votive candles stuck out from the surface roots where they had been lit and pushed into the ground to appease underground spirits. At the base a little red spirit house stood, like a miniature temple. Offerings of rice and fruits had been placed in little blue-painted china bowls just at the door of the wooden spirit house, but now it had all dried out and some had been spilled by foraging dogs. They had also knocked over a tall container full of charred incense sticks, scattering them among the tattered remains of once beautiful and heavily perfumed garlands woven from orchids and jasmine blossoms.

It was a common enough sight to Uncle Has. Spirit houses were set up outside many homes, in city compounds, outside public buildings, government offices, along the cart tracks, out in fields under trees and bushes or up on high rocks and hills. Each place had its spirits and some were very formidable, controlling lesser spirits in a given area. It was awareness of these spirits and people’s required behaviour towards them that composed the everyday religious thought and experience of most rural Khmers. Pure Buddhism with its philosophical attitude to life and its high ascetic demands was little understood and largely irrelevant to the daily practical needs of ordinary people. They had reduced it all down to one simple dictum: ‘Do good, get good; do bad, get bad’.

None of these things before him - the Buddhist temple, the spirit tree and everything they represented - stirred any attentiveness within Uncle Has. They struck only a muted chord of passive indifference, and, possibly, an increasing weariness of spirit. They were dry like the blowing chaff, empty like the withering wind which was just now beginning to swirl through the open sala. Recognising together this unmistakable sign of the approaching rain, the men exchanged nods and set off again down the road to Battambang. Uncle Has was quieter now, walking alone just ahead of the others who chatted amiably together as they followed him. What was he taking them to see? Why was he setting off for Battambang like this when all the other men in the village were about the routine tasks of the ploughing? And what was this nagging restlessness within him which compelled him to go in search of an obscure foreigner who, according to the gossip of those returning from the Battambang market, was teaching some new thing about a living creator God, and something about a man named Jesus dying on a cross for the Cambodian people?

Uncle Has was highly respected in the village. He was a sober sort of a man, reliable, faithful to his one wife, and had raised a good family. People had noticed when he listened so attentively and asked probing questions of the travellers from Battambang before starting out that morning to hear for himself. His companions were perhaps more intrigued by Has’s strange curiosity than by any personal desire to meet the tall white stranger and hear his new teaching, this ‘Good News’ as the wandering peddlers had called it. The fields could wait another day. The rains were only just beginning to soften the hard ground.

The hubbub of buying and selling at Battambang market held little attraction for Uncle Has today. He only smiled and nodded at a few people who called his name, ignoring the calls of the hawkers and the many wares over which people haggled noisily for bargains. With occasional hesitations here and there over directions, he made straight for the place where the teacher was said to have set up a stand with posters and booklets.

Then Has saw him: just as the people had said, a tall foreigner standing right at the edge of the bustling market amidst a small crowd of curious listeners and passers-by. The others had seen him too. Bowing low, they apologetically pushed their way past the talkative onlookers standing around on the periphery of the gathering, laughing and chattering together about the speaker’s ‘big nose’, ‘light hair’ and ‘such fair skin’. The four men squatted comfortably down on the ground among those who were listening more intently, just a few metres from where the stranger stood speaking.

At first Has’s attention was taken up with the foreigner’s build and strange features. The man spoke Cambodian quite well, though with the unmistakable sound of excessive air on his lips the way the white people always did. He must be a good man as well as a clever one, thought Has, talking about God and religion so openly like this. Then he began to listen more intently to what the teacher was actually saying. As he spoke he was pointing to pictures and diagrams on a chart which showed all mankind as having a sinful nature and so being separated from a holy God. The teacher explained that this was the one true God of all people, because He was the uncreated Creator of the universe. As he listened, Has found himself nodding in agreement with the statement that everyone he knew, including himself, was imperfect and far from meeting the standard of this great and holy God. Then the teacher indicated a great cross extending down from God to man and linking them together. On the cross was nailed a bleeding man dying in awful agony because, the teacher said, He knew and loved each one of us and sacrificed himself to redeem us from our sin.

From this point on Has understood very little. He was engrossed in the awful portrait of Jesus impaled on that cross. The crowd had surged forward when the teacher uncovered this gruesome spectacle. Some emitted two or three sharp clucking sounds with their tongue, expressing shock at the sight of such a cruel death; others laughed nervously, pointing at the nails which pierced the feet and hands. After that it was hard to concentrate on all the meaning and significance of this event, but Has tried hard to take it all in, squatting there in the early afternoon heat and the cacophony of noise in Battambang’s central market.

The foreboding sky, now leaden with lowering clouds, threatened an imminent deluge. Windy blasts swept through the diminishing huddle of listeners. The first few drops fell very gently. Lifting his gaze skyward and commenting on the significance of reading nature’s signs, the missionary brought the meeting to a close. Has observed him as he stood there, very still, the wind tugging at his shirt, eyes closed, palms pressed together in front of his face as Cambodians did when greeting a king. Then he began to talk to his God as if He were right there beside him, as one speaking with a friend. Finally, smiling kindly, he handed some leaflets to all the people who remained around him, including Has and his companions, with exhortations to take them home, read them carefully and come again.

Despite the impending storm, Has lingered with further questions, and a desire to examine the posters more closely. The missionary therefore invited the four friends to come back to his home and join in a meal with his family. And so the discussion continued as the skies opened, releasing torrents of rain. They talked over things about which Has had rarely voiced an opinion, though these questions about life and death struck a familiar chord. He was impressed too by the obvious kindness and humility of this man and his wife. As they prepared to leave, backing toward the door with profuse smiles and nods, the missionary took from a cupboard a little book and pressed it into Has’s hand, pointing out and then underlining certain portions for them to contemplate further. The book was entitled The Good News according to Luke. (As yet only a few parts of Scripture had been translated into Khmer ¹.)

The rain had eased up now to occasional light squalls, and inky clouds scudded across the sky between sudden gleams of brilliant sunshine. The hint of a rainbow lingered behind a passing shower. It was already late as they hurried back up the muddy road towards their village. Murky yellowish water filled the pot-holes and cartwheel tracks. The air was clean and alive, vibrant with the sound of innumerable tiny creatures and water dripping from trembling branches, and the trickling of a thousand rivulets.

One by one kerosene lamps flickered on in the dusky gloom of evening from within the clusters of thatch dwellings along the way. Without stopping, the men exchanged a word or two with weary ploughmen returning from their fields, plodding silently along behind their buffaloes on which sat young boys stripped to the waist. All alike were muddied to the knees from guiding the plough round and round water-logged paddies turning over the heavy brown earth.

Arriving home at last, the four men stopped to splash water over their mud-spattered feet, dipping with a piece of coconut shell into a stone jar standing at the foot of the ladder which led up to the house. All the homes were on stilts so that they would remain dry when the floods came at the height of the rainy season. In the dry season this kept out much of the red dust which billowed across the scorched landscape, as well as the intrusion of various dogs, pigs and chickens which lazed, scratched and rooted under the houses.

Seeing that the men were finally home from their day in the city, several curious neighbours and relatives as well as the Has household itself had gathered to meet them. Normally the conversation would have centred around the latest market prices of this and that or where the best bargains might be found, and always spiced with various pieces of market gossip. But this time Uncle Has had nothing with him for them to examine or inquire the price of, nor any new tales to tell. He simply pulled from his shirt the bundle of leaflets which the missionary had given him and passed them round to the inquisitive assembly. As carefully as he could, Has began to relate everything the teacher had said about the living God who had created all things: the land and the sea, the hills and trees, the animals, and finally man, uniquely made in the very image of the Creator himself.

As he talked on, the neighbours began to chatter together and interrupt him. They wanted to know how much money this teacher made, if he had a wife and children, how old he was, why he had really come to Battambang – for money? for women? politics? When they saw that Has was not interested in satisfying their curiosity but rather intent on continuing to impress this new teaching upon them, some began to grow tired of the discussion. Noisily they excused themselves, calling out to one another and jesting over what they suspected the foreign white man had really come for, or over the disconcertingly sober and uncompromising countenance of their old neighbour.

Now that most of the crowd had departed, Has’s wife Pos prepared some rice, vegetables and fish for the men to eat. A small group comprised mostly of family members had remained, and now listened respectfully as Has repeated and explained in greater detail all he had learned that day. Occasionally he would stop and read slowly and deliberately from the booklets and gospels spread before him. Predictably, there was immediate interest when he turned to a picture of Jesus nailed to the cross. Has wished he could remember more of what the teacher had said about this man and the meaning of His death, but he recalled at least that somehow with His blood, Jesus had paid the price to redeem mankind, releasing them from the heavy yoke of sin and death. It was, the teacher had added, rather like what happens after a thief comes and steals your buffalo. The farmer has no choice but to go with money in hand to buy back his own highly valued possession from the thief. But Jesus had paid the price with His own life blood to ransom men from an evil taskmaster called Satan, the source of all evil, who enticed men away from their Creator God. What was more, this Jesus had come back to life three days later, proving beyond doubt that He was God–as man.

Has began to feel a little out of his depth, so he decided to read to them the texts which the missionary had underlined. As he did so he became aware of a strong conviction taking root within him, that finally in his hands he held answers to questions and internal longings he had been aware of for many years. And he knew that this new life germinating within him could in no way be kept hidden or contained. Even more awesome was the growing awareness that he was abandoning all he once held secure, and surrendering himself to this crucified and risen Lord Jesus to whom he was being inexorably and yet so blithely drawn ...

Unnoticed, just beyond the glow of the single lamp light around which the men were sitting cross-legged and absorbed in conversation, sat a slender young woman in her late teens, her hands resting lightly on her rounded stomach as the unborn child stirred within her. Rose was listening intently to all that was being said. Her warm dark eyes, bright with interest, followed every expression and reaction of her husband Koeum, one of her father’s most engrossed listeners. He was a good man, different from most of the village men who had other girls and squandered their earnings on gambling and excessive drinking at the festivals and temple fairs which followed each harvest. She had grown to love him increasingly ever since her father, to whom she was devoted, arranged the match. She considered herself a fortunate woman to be a member of this household where the menfolk were not only industrious but kind. Such was her respect for Koeum and her trust in his judgement that she would unhesitatingly follow him anywhere, all the days of her life.

Meanwhile, the animated conversation among the men continued as they pored over the verses of Scripture. Like Has, they were fascinated by these strange new truths. One by one, lamps in each of the village dwellings were extinguished. Some young men returning home late noticed a lamp still glowing in the Has household. Emboldened by rice whisky yet fearful of the lurking spirits of the night, they called out loudly to each other. The village dogs prowled in small packs, snarling and barking whenever one encroached on another’s territory. But in the home of Uncle Has the light continued to burn, and low voices murmured on into the small hours. Outside, beyond the sleeping village, the first seedlings were beginning to push their way up out of the mud of silent paddies into the darkness of the night.

---

1 Ethnic Khmers and their language account for over 90 per cent of the people of Cambodia. Others are Chams, Chinese, Vietnamese and tribal. The word ‘Khmer’ therefore is virtually synonymous with ‘Cambodian’.

Chapter 2
The Implanted Seed

He who observes the wind will not sow;
and he who regards the clouds will not reap...

Table of contents

• Title
• Indicia
• Contents
• Dedication
• Foreword
• Author’s Preface
• Map
• Prologue
• PART I 1923–1975
• PART II
• PART III 1975–1996
• Appendix I - 1995: A Sermon for VJ Day
• Appendix II - 2000: Millennial Reflections
• Appendix III - 300 BC–2009: Timeline
• Photo Gallery
• Index
• OMF International
• Christian Focus