Figurehead (25 page)

I was barely trained: my editor, Clarrie Jenkins, had waved me off with
this advice: ‘Commie propaganda is a woman, my lad, a woman with red
lipstick. Need I say more? And don’t go getting killed. If you die you become
the story and that’s sloppy reporting.’

So I did what I believed to be the right thing. I took UN transport to set-piece
battles. I attended official news conferences as if my life depended on
it. I scribbled down the creative interpretations and the bare-faced lies of
officials and I wired them home. I called absolutely everybody ‘sir.’

I was deeply impressed with myself.

My smugness – not to mention my view of the world – came crashing
down during the drawn-out peace negotiations of 1953. At first I got into a
good routine. I went to the daily news conference of the UN spokesman. I
copied down what he said, his complaints and expectations, his forlorn
hopes, his artful alliteration. I took him at his word because he was negotiating
peace, a laudable aim after all, and because I understood that he was
the sort of person who Clarrie considered sound. Besides, my mother raised
me to respect authority.

One day, behind the shed that was the foreign correspondents’ bar, I
stumbled upon a different news conference. It was being held by the legendary
Australian journalist Wally Ball – ‘Aussie Pinko,’ as the Americans
called him. Wal was a true rebel. He had reported the whole war from the
North Korean side, offering up a wholly distinct version of events. Now he
was offering a radically different version of the peace negotiations. I listened
to him and I began to think that we had been watching different wars. From
that moment my routine changed: first I attended the daily UN briefing and
then I sought out Wal, who told me the truth.

Less than ten years my senior, Wal was a veteran. In 1945 he had taken
the train to Hiroshima and broken the story of radiation sickness: A WARNING
TO THE WORLD, his famous headline screamed.

‘You know what?’ Wal told me. ‘I got back to Tokyo and the Americans
still called me a liar. Since that day, I haven’t taken anybody’s word for anything.’

‘I asked Clarrie about you. He says you’re not a reporter. He says you’re a
partisan, a propagandist.’

‘He’s right, mate, but think about it: I’m hardly alone. Clarrie’s a partisan,
too, because he believes, at least he tries his hardest to believe, that
there’s a difference between independent experts and Western apologists.
You’re a partisan, too. Listen, here’s the truth: objectivity exists so reporters
can claim they don’t have opinions and so people who only have a spare fifteen
minutes a day can pretend that they are informed. Balance is for acrobats.
Look around you: do you see anyone, can you find me one person, who
is neutral? The only difference is that I don’t mind admitting it.’

Filling in gaps – that’s what Wally Ball did. And that’s what I’ve
devoted my life to doing, upending headlines and seeking out the treasures
– the hard and awful truths – that lie underneath. The world is constructed
by – no, the world has become – a series of episodes, snapshots, clichés, slogans,
triumphs and tragedies, assumptions. Everybody has their own history
of the world, their own personal history. Everybody has their own
history of Angola, of Korea, of Iraq, of Vietnam, of every war zone and holiday
getaway on earth.

Take Cambodia. Your history of Cambodia is probably a few lines,
regurgitated simplicities and absolutes, boxed-in summaries written by
play-by-the-rules journalists. You might be content that these ‘simple facts’
tell you everything you’ll ever need to know. But my history of Cambodia
has lasted a lifetime. I have tried and tried to explain the messy truth but
you have hugged your headlines and let your minds stray. Shame on you.

All my life I took sides, just like Wal taught me. You think you’re being
neutral by living in a world of headlines? Think again: you have as much
blood on your hands as the leader of any army.

People say I chose to support communism. But all I really ever did was
ally myself with the underdog. In Cambodia, in the 1960s, I believed in
Sihanouk and, yes, I believed in the Khmer Rouge. How was I to know
what Pol Pot’s mob would become?

* * *

Ready to mingle, keen to be seen, Nhem Kiry arrived early at the International Conference on the Rehabilitation and Reconstruction of Cambodia. When he entered the room – a spacious hall in an exclusive Tokyo hotel – the crowd spread. Even his friends and allies stared at him with open contempt. Kiry had expected as much. It was obvious that the world was ganging up on the Khmer Rouge. But Kiry knew his mission.

Behind him Akor Sok hissed and moaned about their reception.

‘Control yourself,’ Kiry said.

‘But—’

‘We are the one clothed man who is inevitably shunned by the naked mob. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Take your seat and wait for me.’

Kiry smiled at an Englishman, one of those officials who met him frequently in private but refused to shake his hand before witnesses. The Englishman bared his teeth like he was a dog then looked around to make sure his peers had noted his display of loathing.

Kiry gazed intently at Wang Jen-chung from the Chinese foreign ministry. He considered standing in front of Wang until he acknowledged him. After all, they had shared food and showed each other their family snapshots more than once. But then he decided that Wang, who was suddenly fascinated by his brogues, was only following orders. Instead, Kiry caught the eye of a Romanian fellow who had once said to Kiry, admittedly under the influence of vodka, ‘You’re just about the most impressive men I’ve ever met.’ Today the Romanian shook Kiry’s hand and said hello but declined to stop and chat.

Next Kiry entrapped General Tran Quang Hai from Vietnam in a staring competition. Eventually Kiry blinked and nodded his head in defeat. But he had played to lose. He hadn’t found the general to be at all frightening. He was podgy and what teeth remained in his mouth were green. He squirmed and itched like a child in his business suit.

Then Kiry attached himself to a circle of delegates. He stood by as the Singaporean head of a Christian aid agency shook hands with the New Zealand minister for defence and international development, who squeezed the shoulder of the leader of the Mozambique delegation (‘As if
they
have money to spare
us
,’ Kiry thought) who offered to show the deputy director of the WHO the sights of Maputo when she was next in town. ‘Yes, you must go. It’s a fine city,’ Kiry said. ‘Make sure you visit the Bazaar Central. And the Museum of the Revolution is an absolute must.’ The circle splintered, leaving Kiry standing alone.

The organisers placed Kiry next to Prince Ranariddh, Sihanouk’s son, who sat next to Hun Sen who sat next to Son Sann of the KPNLF. The leaders all embraced. And Kiry raced across in front of the lectern to genuflect with such gusto before Sihanouk that even Sihanouk knew that Kiry was making fun of him.

The Japanese minister for overseas aid, Hiroshi Yamaguchi, beckoned Kiry to come to him. Kiry nodded, then turned and spoke to Akor Sok for a full minute before he approached Yamaguchi, who set about politely haranguing him.

‘Please think hard about the merits of giving up your weapons. This is the only way for you now, I repeat, the only way.’

‘Can you guarantee me that the Paris Agreements will be fully implemented by all parties?
Fully
implemented, do you understand? Because you know as well as I do that this is not yet the case.’

‘This is a marvellous occasion for you to atone. To rehabilitate.’

‘Atonement is irrelevant. I am about justice.’

‘Please: might I announce that the Khmer Rouge have agreed to disarm? It would set a wonderful example for the remainder of the conference.’

‘You may report what a fine city I think Tokyo is. Beyond that, what you ask is impossible.’

Yamaguchi sighed. He turned and walked to the podium and stood waiting for the room to settle and for Kiry to take his seat. Then he began to speak.

‘This is a golden chance for all of us to do something concrete rather than to talk vaguely about a better future for Cambodia. Cambodians have suffered egregiously for many decades ... but especially in the mid to late 1970s. It is time for the international community to do what it can to help fix these problems. Today we talk of practical responses: the challenge of effective health programs, clean water, the eradication of land mines, the development of essential infrastructure. But as we all know, one of the Cambodian parties still refuses to comply with the disarmament timetable. That same party is not allowing UN personnel to access areas of land still under its control. Let none of us forget what is at stake here on a day when I ask the global community to affirm its commitment to Cambodia.’

Kiry leant past Ranariddh. ‘What’s the Japanese word for egregious?’ he whispered in Son Sann’s ear.

‘I think it’s
daisoreta
, but don’t quote me on that.’

‘I never do,’ Kiry said.

‘Stop playing around,’ Prince Ranariddh hissed.

‘Please don’t concern yourself, Your Majesty,’ Kiry said. ‘We are four partners in peace sharing a joke. Surely that is good for business.’

‘It’s all very well for you, but after the election I expect to be prime minister.’

A hint of a smile appeared on Hun Sen’s lips. He folded his hands neatly in his lap. Kiry took note.

‘I grant you,’ Kiry said, ‘that a road built by Japanese engineers, with all the extra business for that new Australian brewery and for the brothels, is better than no road. Fine. Good. But Your Majesty, today is cosmetic. First the French, then the Americans, then the Russians, then the Vietnamese butchered us. Now they gang up to taunt us, while claiming they are helping us. We four sit here for their benefit; do not fool yourself that it is the other way around. In a few years’ time, when our economy is still shambolic and our people are still impoverished, these people will tell us it is all our own fault because they gave us peace and, what’s more, one day in Tokyo they gave us a great big pile of money.’

Ranariddh fidgeted. Son Sann’s eyelids flickered – the stuffy room and his arthritis medicine were making him drowsy. Hun Sen licked the faint smile from his lips and assumed a neutral gaze. He looked like a schoolboy, Kiry thought: innocent and eager to learn. But he was as hard as a diamond.

‘You want Cambodia to be like France or like America, Your Majesty?’ Kiry said. ‘That is impossible, I tell you, because the West has built its glory on the systematic abuse of the rest of us.’

‘But still, today is a day for getting what we can,’ Ranariddh said. ‘Today we are in a shopping arcade with another man’s Visa card. And we will get a great deal more for a great deal less if you tell them what they want to hear.’

‘You may well be right, Your Majesty,’ Kiry said.

As speeches came and went, as grand promises and fine intentions heavied the air, Kiry imagined that a cloud might form up in the ceiling, amongst the lights hanging from silver threads, and that a thunderstorm might wash all the hypocrisy away. Build new roads, someone said ... so Thai trucks can import vegetables, Kiry thought. Rehabilitate the agricultural infrastructure ... plant more rice. Take note of this malaria-modelling software ... some laboratory in Oxford wants its research funding doubled. Contribute to the easing of the global epidemic of anti-personnel ordnances ... there are already so many landmines in the ground that manufacturers are being forced into stockpiling: dig ’em up so we can plant some more. Improve sanitation infrastructure and engage in educational programs ... Cambodians shit into holes and wipe their arses with their hands and then wonder why they get sick. Improve basic literacy ... children should be able to read all about the meritorious work of the United Nations. Kiry sat seething, outwardly calm.

After lunch, a nuggety American man rose to speak. Franklin Faludi was a deputy to the deputy secretary of state, which Kiry supposed made him the most important – and definitely the loudest – person in the room.

Faludi began his speech by making what Kiry considered a spurious connection between literacy and nutrition and democratic change. He made no mention, Kiry noted, of blanket bombing or of the crimes of the CIA or of napalm. Then Deputy Deputy Faludi paused for effect, folded his prepared speech into a square and jammed it into his inside coat pocket.

‘The time for airy-fairy chat is over. We all know that we are here today to repair the damage – to infrastructure, of course, but more so to the very fabric and to the collective psyche – inflicted upon the Cambodian people by the past genocidal behaviour of the Khmer Rouge, that same group who today do most to obstruct our efforts to bring a lasting and comprehensive peace to this country.’

‘I’m all in favour of exuberant fundraising, but this is too much,’ Kiry whispered.

‘Don’t do anything rash,’ Prince Ranariddh said.

Kiry let out a full-throttled yawn. He swivelled in his chair. ‘It’s true what people say,’ he told Sok loudly. ‘Americans do make the best evangelists.’

After Faludi finished, Sihanouk rose to speak. Emboldened by the American, his whole body was so energised that his movements became jerky. His face shone: too much moisturiser, Kiry thought. From time to time he’d been guilty of the same crime himself (he knew he’d done it whenever Akor Sok came at him brandishing a damp towel).

‘I love my beautiful, beautiful children, all eight million of them. And they love Sihanouk back, every single one of them. They have deep faith in his capacity to fulfil their every need, to keep them safe and warm. It is this love that keeps Sihanouk virile and keeps him searching for a peaceful and prosperous outcome to my country’s woes. So let us face facts: it is impossible for us to meet the various demands of the Khmer Rouge. It is ridiculous for us to try to accommodate them because they hate peace. Mr Pol Pot, via his puppet-men, tells all of us – from the mighty United Nations of America to tiny insignificant Sihanouk – that we must do this, do that, climb a mountain, dig a hole, fly to the moon on an elephant. We try our hardest because we decide that we need Mr Pol Pot and his friends to achieve peace. Tee hee, can you imagine the irony? But all we want is peace so we say, “Thank you, Mr Pol Pot, we agree with everything you say. What a decent fellow you are. Handsome too.” Then Mr Pol Pot’s slaves put a screen in front of his mouth so he can laugh at us. And then he thinks up a new set of rules so he can accuse us of not keeping our promises. Don’t misunderstand me: Sihanouk barely knows Mr Saloth Sar, who you know as Mr Pol Pot. But Sihanouk knows how Mr Pol Pot’s people – his immaculately dressed lackeys – behave. Sihanouk has seen all this before and he doubts that we will ever be able to fix their bad behaviour because they cannot change and they do not want to change. They will talk sweetly and when that doesn’t work they will start the killing all over again.’