Welcome
to the Daily
By
Jeff Smith
The cambodia daily
| By
early evening, the explosions are more distant. Amid
this confusion, another priority comes to the surface:
Where can we get dinner? |
Explosions
rock the area. It’s Saturday, July 5, 1997, only a
week since my arrival from the US to work as an associate
editor at The Cambodia Daily.
A belated 4th of July, US-style celebration had been planned
along the riverfront. But it’s not fireworks we are
hearing, it is the sound of fighting between the forces
of coalition partners Hun Sen and Prince Norodom Ranariddh.
My housemates gather on the balcony of our house. During
each round, the Cambodian family across the street rushes
to their balcony—two of their young children aim their
fingers like guns over the ledge.
“This is bad, this is becoming too regular,” says
Guy
Nicholson, the Canadian foreign news editor.
The fighting had started near Pochentong Airport in the
early morning. But my first inkling hadn’t come until
eating dumplings at a Chinese shop near Phsar Thmei, when
I overheard a woman at a nearby table say there was fighting
10 km from downtown.
Now, back at the house, I am unsure what is happening and
where. Our landline had been taken out shortly before because,
I was told, somebody had made unauthorized long-distance
calls. None of my housemates has a cell phone.
At about 4:30 pm, the monsoon rains begin. Shortly after,
I see our guard rush to open the gate. In bounds Chris Nutter,
a housemate working as an architect.
“I know all,” he declares. He describes bullets
and shells whizzing near the Hotel Inter-Continental. He
describes military generals’ houses nearby fortified
with bunkers and gun turrets. He describes the chaos of
fighting being played out in the streets of a capital city
of nearly 1 million people.
“I don’t feel anyone would target me for any reason.
But there’s a lot of random stuff flying around,”
he says.
My journalistic instincts tell me to hit the streets, and
report the story. Isn’t this what a journalist strives
for all his life? But after just a week of being here, I
don’t feel vested enough in this alien land to risk
my life.
And I certainly don’t know the streets well enough
to avoid getting caught in a crossfire. Only later will
I learn that my Cambodian colleagues, rather than expatriates
like myself, risk more in exercising the freedom of the
press.
I have been assigned to the night copy-editing desk. That
had been a sore point to me since I had 15 years of reporting
experience. Now it is a convenient excuse.
By early evening, the explosions are more distant. Amid
this confusion, another priority comes to the surface: Where
can we get dinner? Our cupboards are bare.
A group of us head cautiously out on the street. Most businesses
are closed, with their gates locked. One favorite expatriate
restaurant nearby is open just a crack, serving only takeout.
A few muscular guys dressed in green fatigues, from a demining
agency, are waiting for a big order. Their white Toyota
Land Cruiser is parked near the entrance, and one man is
talking on his cellular phone when suddenly there is a rush
to close the gate.
Two armored personnel carriers full of soldiers rumble down
the street. They pass us and everyone relaxes again and
waits for their hamburgers.
As the shelling eases, I finally make it to the office the
next night, walking with a couple of colleagues on eerily
deserted streets. I feel bad vibes. Or is it my paranoia?
I work well past midnight with a Cambodian colleague translating
a Hun Sen speech as reporters continue to try to sort out
what happened and why. Later, I learn, that’s a recurring
theme of covering news in Cambodia: What is the truth?
Because of a curfew, we sleep in the office, on the floor,
under desks, wherever we can find space. Planks of wood
and other materials are propped against the windows facing
the street.
I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. But I stay in
Cambodia for three more years, having some of the best times
of my life.