“They call me crazy man”, he said, as we stood in front of him waiting for our tour through the Cambodian War Museum. His left side had obvious effects from the war. I could see the evidence in his tattoo on his arm and a wooden left leg. He had good enough English, but his second statement after introducing himself, something about justice and injustice was not clear enough. He was able to see the confusion in our faces, but the more he tried, the more we were lost in translation… at least me.

He took us to a site full of old rusty artillery that almost looked fake from the dull brown color. Behind him was a bulletin board with horrific photos of children in a war scene and others carrying bombs, weapons and dressed in bullets. I also got a glimpse of famous people doing humanitarian work with children. Very confidently he explained the history of the wars that Cambodia had been through up until 1998 [so many!]. My purpose with this memoir is not to rewrite what historians had studied but to narrate the simple story of a man who touched my life in a matter of minutes.

So here he was, this man giving us a brief history lesson of his country which was told through his own painful childhood experiences. This is not like when you go to a history museum and a well studied person narrates what happens with articulate phrases and fancy language. This was raw, as it was the story of someone who lived every moment of it since 1970. His dad was killed when he was 14 by the Khmer Rouge army who then forced him to join. He was recruited without any other option. He had no choice, no saying, no chance for another life. He was given ammunitions without being trained. There was no time for tears. To me what was worse, was not the fact he had to shoot the “enemy”, his own people; it was the fact that he had no mourning, no chance for a simple, gratifying life, no love, no nurturing, no protection.

In the middle of his passionate and painful narrative his attention got misplaced by a young tourist who rudely started taking photos of the guns, dismissing what this infamous hero had to tell. I could see the fury in our storyteller as he ferociously scolded him, and asked him to leave. I can only imagine how one would feel if anyone would take this kind of memory, of history with so much lightness. Once we got back on track after a scared apology from the naive but childish tourist, he finished his story. He explained how he was a man of no one, to say the least. Soun had been rejected by his own people (The Cambodians) after his recruiters (The Khmer Rouge) had been defeated. He was a traitor in the eyes of his country. But how can a child without a choice be an enemy, a traitor?

After becoming a mother in 2012 I started seeing the inner child in all people, and right then I thought Soun could have been my son [he was someone’s baby]. I was terribly moved by his story. He is homeless, and every now and then serves the museum with his own history. He lives off of tips and scraps. He had no choice. He is a stranger in his own land. A man of nowhere. After he left us in silence, and everyone walked around to see the rest of the photos and artillery in this “War Museum”, I took Gaia and went to see Soun. As I approached him he stood up in a bit of disbelief or doubt (perhaps). I introduced myself and told him I had no words to say after what he had shared. I apologized for everything that had happened trying to hold a straight voice as he started crying like a little boy, and then we hugged and cried. Gaia was overwhelmed about this special but painful moment, and she also started crying. I gave him the money I had and left with the highest respect and empathy for the “crazy man”, hoping that my daughter can continue to have kindness for the souls who need it the most. Because under his heart of stone, and sad eyes, there is a kind, yet naive boy, who misses his family dearly. Someone who wishes to be part of a country where he is not an invisible traitor, but a boy who did what he had to in order to survive. May you be in our prayers. 

Image by pixabay

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