Editor’s note: Chhang
Youk is the executive director of the Documentation Center of Cambodia. His
organization, which has for many years documented the atrocities of the Khmer
Rouge, has been key to the functioning of the Khmer Rouge tribunal. Below is an
essay he wrote recently to mark international Holocaust Remembrance Day.
On Nov. 1, 2005, the
United Nations General Assembly designated Jan. 27 as international Holocaust
Remembrance Day. The day is significant because it not only honors the victims
of the Holocaust but it also calls attention to the world community’s resolve
to not let such horrific events be forgotten. However, we would be mindful
to note that one day of acknowledgment does not necessarily equate to a
lifetime of respect, and the sincerity of gestures can never replace the
substance of actions. We must ensure that our passion for humanitarian
principles translates into a sincere compassion for the individual human being,
and our commitment to remembering the past is measured not by our knowledge of
the trite, but our appreciation for the individual human story.
It is in this spirit
that I relate to you a story that is deeply personal but nevertheless
representative of the struggle that many Cambodians still face today.
Just recently my sister
Keo Kolthida Ekkasakh, or Kol, passed away, after a long struggle with cancer.
She was born in 1959 in Phnom Penh to my mother, Keo Nann. Kol was deaf, and as
the youngest of five sisters, she was two years apart from me, so we were like
best friends. Lacking the ability to communicate with all but those
trained in sign language, she learned to depend on herself and the few
people who had the patience and love to know her. Yet, despite her
circumstances, she had an incredible spirit and a personality that could light
up a room.When the Khmer Rouge
took control of Cambodia in 1975, I lost contact with her, and while we
re-connected after the fall of the regime, both of us had already forgotten
much of our sign language. Over the years our ability to communicate decreased,
and it was not until last year that I began spending a great deal of time with
her. We discussed the death and disappearance of loved ones and her experiences
during the Khmer Rouge regime. Like many Cambodians during this time, she
worked in the fields, planting vegetables and clearing forest. Like all
victims, she learned to survive by sheer instinct: eating roots, leaves and
insects to forestall starvation. I was amazed by the description of her
experiences, and I was awed by the indescribable spirit and resourcefulness she
must have had to survive as a deaf person during this atrocious period.
The time I spent with
her in the last year meant so much to me, and it was why in her final days, I
prayed for a miracle in her health.
But, like many
Cambodians who suffer dire medical circumstances, she was at the mercy of an
under-developed medical system, in which inefficient and unethical practices
persist, as much as technological shortcomings. I spent many days and nights
and weeks without sleep, supervising her medical care and waking medical staff
during the night to ensure her proper treatment. Lacking immediate incentive or
a more professional responsibility to a patient’s care, medical staff are often
lax in their duties, particularly when the patient is poor. While in most
modern medical systems, the patient's wellbeing is of paramount concern, in
Cambodia it is the certainty of payment and thereafter the prospect for
additional gratuities that guarantee quality of care. Such a system fails the
impoverished, and it does a disservice to the generation that suffered so
greatly to preserve a country in the wake of the Khmer Rouge.
My sister died on Jan.
19 2015, but she did not die without a fight. On Jan. 13, nearly a week prior,
she was pronounced dead by her doctors. Her vital signs appeared to have
stopped, and she seemed to have no life. The doctors pronounced her dead and
had we not thought different, she would have been cremated alive. Upon the
doctor's advice we sadly took her to the Wat Langka pagoda, but rather than
cremating her, we prayed. We prayed and the monks chanted and burned incense.
We prayed over her body for hours and at one point a monk, Venerable Sao
Chanthol, noticed tears on the side of her right cheek. She began to move her
arms and open her eyes. I immediately showed her drawings of her memory for the
American deaf researcher Erin Moriarty Harrelson. If miracles happen, then one
occurred that evening.
My sister lived for
another week. She told us how she saw everyone who she knew in life and who
died during the Khmer Rouge regime. She met my father, sister and neighbor—all
who died during this time period.
My sister survived (and
thrived) for another week but then abruptly passed on the evening of Jan. 19.
I wish there was more
that I could have done to comfort her, just like I wish there is more that I
could do for victims of the Khmer Rouge. Cambodia continues to struggle to this
day with the history of this period. While we often look to politics, education
and religion as the prominent fields that harbor the residual effects of this
horrific period, the medical system as well bears this period’s scars.
While all societies
struggle with improving their respective medical systems, I don't believe my
sister’s circumstances were isolated or unique. Had we not been at her
side imploring the consistent attention to her care or inquiring into, with
secondary medical opinion, her actual condition, I question how long she may
have truly lived. The cool indifference to the poor or the casual triaging
of medical care based on economic circumstance disguise a deeper sentiment than
mere distraction, incompetence or laziness. The vestiges of horrific regimes
can often reside in our own understanding, empathy and concern for our fellow
human beings, in casual interactions as much as in professional services, and
it is in this light that Cambodia still has much more to do.
Indeed, our recognition
for victims does not begin and end with one day; rather, we should mark this
day as a symbolic gesture that our responsibility is not forgotten and we will
do more.
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