Murder, She Wrote

The scene is pretty typical. I’m riding my bike somewhere and I see a crowd of people. True of any event where mob mentality is involved, there’s pandemonium everywhere. All the motos are stopped, kids are gawking around in the street, and everyone else is huddled around some unfortunate (and usually gruesome) traffic accident. At that point, I pretty much give up on getting to my destination in a timely fashion. This morning was no exception. I was on my way to Sustainable Cambodia when I saw a huge group of people huddled around the entrance of an adjacent hotel. I didn’t think much of it because, frankly, I see so many accidents here that I usually pass them without a second glance. In a place where such tragedies occur almost daily, any more than that will send you into a funk about how casually Cambodians accept death … and traffic laws. And trust me, you don’t want to go there. It was only later that I found out what I thought was a traffic accident … was actually a murder.

The Lily Hotel is located roughly 100 yards from Sustainable Cambodia. Many of the NGO’s employees and volunteers rent rooms there and I, myself, have stayed there on several occasions. The owner’s daughter is in one of my classes and her mother sometimes does my laundry. It’s certainly one of the best hotels in town. You can understand why I hardly believed when one of the volunteers came into the computer room and asked if we had heard the news. A man had been murdered. He was axed to death by a prostitute and then robbed early this morning. The body was just found. The police say the culprit escaped.

I sat in dumb shock for a few minutes thinking this over in my mind. I wish I could say this was the first of such incidents in my town … but it’s the fourth. Around Christmas, a man was killed at a concert by a jealous rival, and a few weeks ago two little girls were raped and brutally mutilated before being killed. In each of these cases, no one was convicted, and the general response from the public was, “these things do happen.” Now, I’m the first to say I think judgment is reserved for God alone, but while we all live together on Earth, there must be some way of sleeping soundly at night. The responsibility of maintaining this fragile tranquility usually falls on the strong arm of the law. But here in Cambodia, the police have neither the means nor the desire to pursue such incidents beyond what can be covered up by bribes, some good tale spinning, and a few words of caution.

I don’t feel unsafe in my town. Pursat is not much bigger than Small Town, U.S.A. and, as the resident foreigner, it’s much more likely that I would be robbed than accosted. After all, Westerners are all filthy rich … or so I’m told. More than that, the community has taken it upon itself to act as my guardian and cicerone. Cambodians are rightly known for their hospitality and warmth. They take this code of welcoming so seriously that some of the earlier volunteers had to have Peace Corps talk with their hosts, reminding them that the volunteers did not need a companion every waking hour of the day. Of course, that doesn’t make me feel any better when I really think about these tragic events.

The general attitude towards the passage of life in Cambodia is very different than in the United States. As I mentioned earlier, Cambodians tend to treat death more casually than we do. Perhaps it has something to do with the lack of modern medical facilities in the rural areas, the fury of tropical illnesses, the history of recent genocide, or the laisse-faire attitude so easily adopted when poverty leaves you with nothing to loose but your life. From my perspective, I certainly can not say. But I will say, it has been one of the most difficult things to adjust to since my arrival.

Never in my life I have contemplated mortality more seriously than during my time here. I’ve seen two motos crash before my eyes, resulting in a flurry of broken glass, twisted metal, and blood. I was confronted with my own fragility while lying on a hospital bed in Thailand, weak and alone with dengue. And now, I’ve seen the vendettas men wreak upon each other without the placating knowledge that someone will be held accountable. I don’t want to wax too philosophical here, but as someone who has lived in bubble of general honesty - where the biggest offenses are plagiarism and underage drinking - this all comes as a bit of a shock to me.

In my heart of hearts, I like to think that men are inherently good, and that good people lead fulfilling and happy lives. I’d certainly like to believe that I will continue to be so blessed. But all this evidence to the contrary reminds me that God is ineffable and that I can’t begin to understand the caprices of fortune. It also reminds me that life is too short to waste on petty differences, that when you love someone you must tell them, and when you are up, you should share your good fortune because someday you might not be so lucky. In honor of all my quixotic hopes and beliefs, I send a prayer out to those who are suffering and have lost someone they love - or themselves - in this life.