The War and More

I’m closing out my month of travelling with a stop in the city formerly know as Saigon – now Ho Chi Minh City.

Having been to crowded, chaotic Hanoi, it was quite a surprise to arrive in a sprawling city that has a modern look to it. HCMC, with 12 million residents, shades more toward Hong Kong than Hanoi, with a number of upscale shops and fancy hotels mixed in with mom and pop establishments and the central markets common in Asia.

I am here as the city prepares for Tet, the lunar New Year, and everywhere I turn, there are workmen and landscapers preparing the public spaces for the major holiday of the year. Neon and more neon, as well as flowers galore seem to be the order of the day, and it’s so colourful.

This is the city that was the stronghold of the republic during the Vietnam War – or American War, as it is called here. In fact, a coordinated attack throughout the country during Tet in 1975 led Saigon to fall to the communists and to the U.S. withdrawal.

The war and the government’s attitude towards it are very much in evidence here at the War Remnants Museum, where displays talk about the American Imperialists, show the genetic damage done by Agent Orange – something that continues to be ignored by the U.S. government and the chemical manufacturers – and present the tiger cages where U.S. prisoners were often held. No real attempt at balance here!

Nor does one get and understanding of both points of view during a visit to the Cu Chi tunnels outside the city. These amazing underground structures were the hideouts for the North Vietnamese as they wrecked havoc on Saigon and U.S. military bases in the south. Dug deep in the ground and not large enough for us super-sized Westerners to inhabit, they were places where the guerillas ate, slept  and manufactured weapons. They are dark and stuffy and a tribute to the determination of the North Vietnamese, who lived and worked here for a decade, booby-trapping the ground above the tunnels so that U.S. forces couldn’t get to them easily.

Our visit to the tunnels started with a 1967 North Vietnamese propaganda film – very interesting from a historical perspective – talking about the peaceful village of Cu Chi and how its residents were fighting back against the evil Americans and were rewarded for their kills. Egad. There was a retired U.S. Navy man in our group and he was having a difficult time not choking as the film played on.

The war is also a presence at the city’s Fine Arts Museum, an amazing colonial structure that is as beautiful as the art it contains. Many of the paintings and sculptures from the past 50 years have a war theme, whether depicting brave fighters or villagers uprooted and brokenhearted by the conflict.

Although Communism may have won the day, capitalism is very much in evidence, as a visit to the Ben Thanh Market quickly proves. The hundreds of stalls under the roof of this centrepiece sell fruits and vegetables, meat and seafood, as well as everything a tourist might desire: leather goods, shoes, T-shirts, lacquer ware, silk – you name the articles made in Vietnam and they’re certain to be on display. The hawkers aren’t shy, either. Thousand of cries of “Madam, madam, what are you looking for?” reverberate as I walk the aisles. There’s no such thing as discreet browsing!

It’s a lively place, and I’m glad the war is over so I am able to see that first-hand.

The King and I

The King and I

No, musical fans, this story isn’t about Yul Brynner and Thailand; it’s about Cambodia in mourning.

By sheer accident, my trip to Phnom Penh coincided with the ceremonies leading up to the cremation of King Norodom Sihanouk, a beloved father figure to Cambodians. He died in October, apparently, but the state funeral was postponed until February. In fact, he has been lying in state at the Royal Palace for the past few weeks as his subjects pay their last respects.

I was in the capital for the procession that kicked off the events preceding the funeral. The parade of people accompanying the king’s casket wound through the streets, to a Buddhist temple for prayers and back to the Royal Palace. My hotel was a couple of blocks from the palace, and it was right at the start of the procession route, so I made sure to be there.

It has been interesting to watch the preparations for the procession and the funeral/cremation. The Royal Palace has been readied, draped in white – the Buddhist colour of mourning -- and adorned with huge bouquets of white flowers, with platforms erected to seat dignitaries.

Throughout the city, billboards draped in black and white, featured the likeness of the late king, and many buildings, both public and private, displayed his photo draped with mourning colours. 

Bomb-sniffing dogs were checking the street Friday and along the nearby riverfront, a search for hidden bombs below buildings was also underway.

The area was crawling with police and military, some of whom were stationed on the roof of the hotel for the procession. Men with machine guns were not an unexpected sight. Loudspeakers were set up along the route so mourners could listen to the television/radio commentary as they waited.

And wait, we did. The original word was that the procession would start at 6 a.m. I awoke at five, and since I was restless, I dressed in my official Cambodian mourning gear -- white blouse and black pants or skirt -- and went downstairs. Women were already seated on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, and uniformed troops were gathering: army, navy, bodyguards and others, ready to march in the procession.

My group of onlookers was  joined by some elderly Buddhist nuns with shaved heads dressed in flowing white robes. Soon, some of the hotel staff joined us, too. I was the only Westerner in the group, and few of my compatriots spoke English, but it didn’t matter. Sign language and smiles ruled the day.

By six, we were more than ready, and so were the troops. But word came that the action was delayed, probably until 8 a.m. I slipped into the hotel to fortify myself with breakfast, but returned in plenty of time. The actual procession didn’t start until 9! We were waiting patiently on the sidewalk, and the troops – in uniform in the hot sun – gave in and sat down in the street.

The procession lasted about 45 minutes, with contingents of military, civil servants and scouts in uniform following the army band and the palace guards, who wore glittering regalia. 

Then came the golden floats with open pagodas sheltering their guests, who were also shaded by attendants holding lotus leaf-shaped fans: the prime minister and some high-ranking officials and the late king’s coffin, golden, too, and borne on a massive pedestal high above the crowd.

His daughter-in-law  came afterward, wearing mourning robes and blessing rice, which she threw on the street to the people. 

Finally, the other female family members passed by, followed by more dignitaries, and the procession had passed. (The current king, Norodom Sihamoni, son of the late king, stayed at the palace with his widowed mother, waiting to welcome the procession’s return.) People waved their pictures of the king, and one of the nuns sitting nearby broke out in sobs. People felt a real connection with him.

The event lasted until about four hours as it moved slowly through the area, and most stores were closed until it was over. Even then, many places remained closed out of respect. In the tourist district, where I’m staying, there were many locked doors. But by evening, the promenade was even more crowded than usual, since so many people had the day off. Many still wore their mourning clothes for their stroll along the river. A welcome respite from the sad tone of the day, I imagine.

Today, as I left Cambodia for Vietnam, people were wearing mourning clothes, hoping to gain entry to the palace in a final chance to pay their respects. Vendors were selling mourning badges and photos of the late king, and police were preparing for the arrival of numerous dignitaries.

Here’s hoping this marks the beginning of a new era for Cambodia, one of prosperity and peace. It's long overdue.

Bearing Witness

Once my colleagues convinced me that Angkor Wat should be on my travel agenda, it made sense to make a stop in Phnom Penh, too. After I researched it a bit more, I realized that I would have the opportunity to visit the Killing Fields, site of many horrors perpetrated by the Khmer Rouge. Being Jewish, I knew it was a responsibility to do so -- it’s so important to ensure that victims of genocide don’t go unnoticed and are not forgotten.

It’s so sad to think that genocide continues, even after Hitler and after Rwanda. Apparently, evil does walk among us, and it knows which buttons to push to ensure its plans are carried out. Past horrors provide different lessons to different people: the decent ones want to prevent genocide from recurring; the dictators learn how to kill efficiently. Pol Pot’s regime took lessons from the Nazis, recording the names and photographing every victim and burying them in mass graves.

Yesterday, I visited Tuol Seng, site of S-21, a former elementary school turned into a prison where supposed traitors, people with an education and those involved in cultural pursuits were imprisoned and tortured. It’s a shocking juxtaposition: a seemingly benign series of concrete school buildings around a verdant courtyard where trees are blooming, but inside, narrow cells, shackles and instruments of torture.

I happened to latch onto a tour being given by a woman of about 40 or 50 whose two young siblings disappeared, never to be seen again. More than two million people – one quarter of Cambodia’s population at the time – were murdered by the Khmer Rouge in fewer than four years during the late 1970s. Anyone with an education, anyone who wore glasses (looking smart), anyone in government ... they and their families were rounded up and killed. Lots of little children were included, because Pol Pot didn’t want anyone left to seek revenge. Eventually, he even turned against segments of his own army.

This morning, I went to the Choeung Ek Killing Fields, one of 300 or more such sites throughout the country. The prisoners who didn’t succumb to torture or who were otherwise left alone at S-21were blindfolded and handcuffed, shoved into trucks in the dark and driven to these sites, where they were executed, either immediately or the next day. Bullets were too expensive for the Khmer Rouge, so they used whatever was at hand: clubs, hoes, machetes.  ...  Those who weren’t dead were still pushed into the mass graves and covered with DDT, thus killing them. Soldiers didn’t waste weapons on babies; they simply smashed them against trees.

Horrified? I certainly was, and saddened, too. Such a waste of life, so much pain and suffering for both victims and survivors. Such a waste of human potential, both on the side of the victims and that of the killers, often young men and women without education who were easily brainwashed.

Cambodia has not forgotten – and I won’t either.