‘It was all fiction, Edward. You of all people should know that.’
‘You must be disappointed at not being allowed to address the Non-Aligned Summit.’
‘Off the record? No, I’m not at all disappointed. I have found the last few days to be most revealing. And I have been gratified by the majority show of support for me and my country’s sad predicament.’
‘I have heard that Castro invited Mr Hun Sen, the new foreign minister of the People’s Republic of Kampuchea, to a private dinner at his home. I believe that they ate steak. What do you think of that?’
‘I have nothing against carnivores. I myself have been known to eat steak myself. Although only very occasionally, of course.’
‘What about Castro?’
‘No, I have no desire to eat President Castro. You’ve been listening to too many nasty refugee rumours.’
‘But what’s your opinion of Castro?’
‘Off the record, I think Castro was once a fascinating man. But his time has long passed. I never thought I would see a revolutionary hero use base political tactics to prevent a legitimate and honourable government from taking its place amongst the family of nonaligned nations. Still, I would not dream of telling him with whom he should eat. I would have thought you’d be more worried about this than me: from what I hear, Castro’s not so fond of you these days.’
‘And what do you think of Hun Sen?’
‘The poor boy. I feel sorry for him. Young minds are so pliable. I think Master Hun Sen is an ideal foreign minister in a Kampuchea so overrun by Vietnamese imperialists.’
‘Are you in contact with Prince Sihanouk?’
‘Ah, the prince. What wonderful talks we had during the years of the Democratic Kampuchea regime. Now, alas, he pretends not to know me. But what about you, Edward? Are you in contact with your old ally?’
‘He won’t take my calls.’
‘You seem to be struggling to hold on to your friends at the moment.’
‘Mr Prime Minister, how do you respond to the widespread claims – to the mounting evidence, to the inescapable truth – that the Khmer Rouge committed horrible atrocities between 1975 and 1979?’
‘I do not respond to misinformed rumours.’ Kiry smiled. ‘Not even off the record.’
‘But I’ve been to Phnom Penh since the Vietnamese liberated Cambodia and—’
‘Liberated? Truly, Edward, that’s a curious way to describe a foreign invasion.’
‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes.’
‘You’ve seen misinformed rumours with your own eyes? Yes, I’ve heard that you have been spending too much time in Hanoi. Well, you should not believe everything you read about the government of Democratic Kampuchea nor about me personally.’ Kiry pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his breast pocket, glanced at Ted, winked, and read a quote from a recent best- selling book: ‘“In trying to understand the worst excesses of the Khmer Rouge let us look first to the psychology of Nhem Kiry, their leading intellectual. Nhem Kiry has been diagnosed with chronic impotence, which can result from profound hostility to an individual’s environment. Nhem Kiry was a sickly child, a friendless, bewildered youth, and a meek, persecuted man. When power came his way in 1975 he was overcome with vengeance.”’
‘Would you care to respond?’ Ted said.
‘Fervour is the weapon of choice for the impotent,’ Kiry murmured, apparently for his own benefit. ‘Needless to say, my wife was shocked to learn of my condition. She cannot now understand how our two beautiful daughters came to exist. It must be Immaculate Conception, I tell her, because books published in America never lie.’ Kiry stood up. ‘But please excuse me, Edward, I am late for my appointment with Mr Hemingway.’
‘Mr Prime Minister, what can you tell me about the whereabouts of Mr Bun Sody?’
‘Bun Sody is missing. That is all I know.’
‘Missing? What does that mean?’
‘Exactly what I say. As I understand it he has been missing for quite some time. Several years, in fact.’
‘You don’t seem too worried about it.’
Kiry bent down so close to Ted that their noses nearly touched.
‘Bun Sody was my very good friend. My colleague, my confidant. He disappeared a few weeks before our great victory. It was a time of great confusion and activity. When I think of it, I am sad. Of course I grieve for him. How dare you – you, of all people – suggest otherwise? But do you want to know the truth about him? He could not bear the idea that people might suffer. He was always going on about suffering because he wanted everybody to know how much he cared. But he wanted a perfect revolution without hard work. Without sacrifice. He claimed that the revolution meant everything to him, yet he did not have the willpower to commit to the revolution.
‘Maybe he realised the truth about himself – that he was weak – and the shame of it destroyed his will to live. Or maybe he got caught up in a dispute of the heart. He liked women, after all, all sorts of women. Maybe an enraged husband assaulted him. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Or maybe he stepped on a landmine. Or maybe he walked across the path of a stray bullet. If you want my opinion – but I’m only guessing – I suspect an accident befell him. Perhaps he went to wash in a river and floated out to the middle – don’t you remember how he loved to pretend he was Mao swimming the Yangtze? – dived and got tangled up in a sunken tree branch. Or hit his head on a rock. Or maybe he stole away to Vietnam. He was always fond of the Hanoi boulevards. And the food. And the women. And the Politburo. Scan the streets the next time you are there, why don’t you?’
Kiry stood, buttoned his suit jacket and stalked away. After a moment he turned.
‘The world is full of misery. Millions of people are hungry and oppressed. Why are you so worried, I wonder, about the fate of one man?’
Ted recoiled. His mouth twitched and formed into a silent snarl. He tried to speak but he couldn’t think of a thing to say.
‘I can ask you that – I have the right – because Bun Sody was my friend. A true friend, not some informant I leeched off,’ Kiry continued, but then his expression softened. ‘By the way, I never thanked you for what you did for Sody and me that time. If we hadn’t left Phnom Penh when you warned us to, we would have been dead within the week.’
Kiry smiled, turned and left. Ted peered at the people scattered about the foyer, desperately hoping that nobody had overheard Kiry thanking him. He sunk back in his chair and tried to silence the rattling laughter that filled his head.
On my way home from Cuba in ’79, stuck in Changi airport waiting for a
connecting flight, I invented an interview with Nhem Kiry. I was beside
myself that he’d thanked me for saving his life. Not with rage exactly. Not
guilt. I don’t know what it was: grief maybe. It was as if I’d donated bone
marrow to him and now I wanted it back.
EDWARD WHITTLEMORE: How do you respond to the mounting evidence, indeed to the inescapable truth, that the Khmer Rouge committed massacres and other acts of atrocity in Cambodia between 1975 and 1979?
NHEM KIRY: The claims are ridiculous and unfounded. I will admit that we made some mistakes. We are not perfect. Many Kampucheans, maybe as many as one million, lost their lives during the war. But talk of massacres is propaganda spread by the Vietnamese to hide their own crimes. And by traitors who fled Democratic Kampuchea out of self-interest.
EW: Mr Prime Minister, would you comment on the claim that Democratic Kampuchea was excessive in its execution of so-called war criminals from the previous Lon Nol regime?
NK: Why must I answer this question again and again? Those criminals committed heinous crimes against our former head of state, Prince Sihanouk, and against the Kampuchean people. When we were victorious it was of course regrettably necessary to execute a few war criminals from the previous regime. The people expected no less of us. But any other killings were the work of Vietnamese agents and infiltrators and their supporters. I became a revolutionary because I love the people of Kampuchea. Why would I want to kill them?
EW: My suggestion is that the purges, once begun, found their own momentum.
NK: How many times do I need to say it? People die in wars. Boo hoo.
EW: What about your policy of emptying Phnom Penh and the other cities and sending all the people into the countryside?
NK: Please remember that when we arrived, Phnom Penh was full of refugees. The war had driven more than two million people into the city. Many of those who left the city were simply peasants returning to their homes. They were ecstatic to go. And never forget that Phnom Penh was riddled with vice and corruption. We gave the place a spring clean.
EW: Mr Prime Minister, you must have been disappointed at not being permitted to address the non-aligned conference in Cuba?
NK: I was not surprised. Some countries are neutral in name alone: Vietnam and Cuba colluded to keep the Kampuchean seat empty, to exclude us from our rightful place as a fully committed member of the non-aligned movement. Cuba’s active discrimination against Democratic Kampuchea, the sole legal and legitimate government of the Kampuchean people, is a blatant attempt to legalise Vietnamese aggression against the Kampuchean people, who suffer gravely. Of course, I was heartened by the attitudes of so many sympathetic friends and colleagues gathered together in Cuba.
EW: Who is now supporting the Khmer Rouge and helping the Khmer Rouge to improve its strategic position within Cambodia? Is China aiding you? The ASEAN nations? What about Western governments?
NK: We have so many friends in the international community. The world loves Democratic Kampuchea, but I am too humble to name names.
EW: And what of Prince Sihanouk?
NK: You must understand that the real heroes of the resistance are the Kampuchean people, ordinary patriots living and breathing the illegal occupation. But all patriotic forces should come together. If Prince Sihanouk ever deigns to take an interest in Kampuchea, I would be delighted to work with him.
EW: If you win the war against Vietnam, can we expect a repeat of your past policies?
NK: Oh no, not at all. Our country had its chance for socialism but that time has passed. When we free Kampuchea from the imperialists, we will support capitalist enterprises, we will encourage local entrepreneurs and we will welcome foreign aid and foreign investment. Please understand that it is impossible to scramble an egg twice.
I was so pleased with the interview that I bribed a Qantas official to type it
up for me. I whacked it straight into an envelope and posted it to my old
friend, Malcolm Macquarie, long-time publisher of
Radical Papers
. I
wasn’t Malcolm’s favourite bloke by then, but I hoped he’d rise to the occasion
and see my scoop for what it was.
I was subletting an apartment in Phnom Penh. It took weeks and weeks
for Malcolm’s reply to find me. On the back of a postcard of the Statue of
Liberty he scribbled ‘Thanks but no thanks.’ I got myself a little portrait of
Ho Chi Minh, glued it to a piece of cardboard, wrote ‘Asshole’ on the back
and sent it off.
Several weeks later Malcolm replied
: ‘My dear Ted, You must know that I have stopped publishing your work because you have abandoned all objectivity. When I want official comment from the government of Vietnam I will print their press releases and quote their spokesmen. If this observation offends you, please feel free to demonstrate your displeasure by submitting your rubbish elsewhere. As for this ‘interview’ with Nhem Kiry, what do you take me for? It is so blatant a fabrication that I hope it is a joke gone wrong rather than a serious attempt to sneak fraudulent material into the public domain. A word of advice: if you’re going to write fiction, at least put some time and effort into it. I’m sorry, Ted, and I say this with our memorable association and our long friendship in mind, but the fact is I have been far too tolerant for far too long. All of us here remember your outstanding and brave dispatches from Cambodia and Vietnam. But this behaviour is reprehensible. Sordid, even. Apart from anything else, you do great damage to the cause you are so over-eager to serve. Regretfully, Malcolm.’
I read and reread Malcolm’s letter. Couldn’t help myself. There is nothing
worse in life than getting caught red-handed doing the wrong thing.
Still, I couldn’t let him have the last word
.
‘Dear Mal
,
’
I replied
. ‘Sordid certainly is the word. I can remember a day, not so long ago, when the editorial position of
Radical
Papers
was to support the Khmer Rouge. I know this to be true because, to my eternal shame, I authored several of those articles. I cannot comprehend how any decent editor or publisher – any decent human being – would not now do everything in his power to recant that previous position, again and again and again. It is callous of you to deny me my right to reflect on the true nature of the Khmer Rouge, given that I once praised them in your pages. And I cannot believe that you are so indifferent to your reputation, which you surely realise requires immediate rehabilitation. You seem to believe that the war in Vietnam and Cambodia finished when Henry Kissinger says it finished. I never thought I would say this about you, Mal, but you have turned out to be an American first and a radical second. Just like all the others. Your little magazine would have faded into obscurity if it wasn’t for me, you ungrateful bastard. If
Radical Papers
was essential Vietnam War reading, I made it so. Sordid doesn’t come close to describing you. With my best wishes, despite everything, to you and to Jenny and the children, Ted.’
In the days that followed I wrote Malcolm another letter, a meandering,
painfully honest
mea culpa
that ran to twenty or so pages. I spilled my
guts. I gave voice to my confusion about the Khmer Rouge and Stalin and
Mao and Christ knows what else. I even owned up to a little bit of misconduct
(the details of which don’t matter now).
But I never posted the letter. I ripped the pages to shreds and threw them
in the Sap River.