If the attack was destined to fail, it isn't just that the rebels were poorly trained, insufficiently armed and far too few, or even that the plan was absurd. (News reports indicated that some insurgents got high on rice wine and perhaps even opium to screw up their courage. That couldn't have helped.)
The real problem was that Operation Volcano blew into a trap. The government obtained the ragtag bunch's attack plan well before they arrived; Kiri Kim made the mistake of sharing copies of the plan with some of his men in a country where selling such information to authorities is lucrative.
The revolutions HQ in Long Beach
Chhun plots the coup.
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Hun Sen wasn't just ready to defeat them; he was ready to use them. A day after the attack, authorities had rounded up at least 58 people, some of whom Chhun referred to as his heroic colleagues. Cambodia's strongman quickly raised the specter of terrorism emanating from U.S. soil, warning his enemies in both countries that they would be put on trial. "Do not think that you can escape," he warned. "The United States is cooperating with us."
Officials at the American Embassy in Phnom Penh, however, were circumspect. One official there told The Cambodia Daily that the rebels were "the gang that couldn't shoot straight." Many of the supposed insurgents testified in court that they had been physically intimidated into making false confessions.
American skepticism only increased in September 2001, after the 9/11 attacks, when Hun Sen promised to collaborate with Washington in the antiterror fight — and then he arrested another 64 "terrorists," including a host of peaceful political opponents who supposedly were linked to Operation Volcano. (Chhun didn't know who they were.) At least five members of the political opposition remain in prison more than a decade later. Chhun's attack was, as democratic opposition leader Sam Rainsy tells the Weekly, "the greatest gift to Hun Sen."
CAMBODIA'S PRINCE OF EGYPT
I contacted Yasith Chhun soon after Operation Volcano. Speaking via cellphone from a "secret location" near the Cambodian border, he told me he was "very regretful" about the deaths in Phnom Penh, but he didn't see any other way to change Cambodia.
A zealous anti-communist, Chhun was convinced that Hun Sen — who had already morphed into a nouveau riche, postcommunist, Mafia-style kingpin — remained a Maoist ideologue. "We will never change the nature of the Communist dictatorship with rallies," Chhun said. "Communists are like cows. The cow never respects what we say. We sing a song, the cow never listens, never understands, so we have to use force or guns."
His peculiar bovine theme likely made more sense to rural Cambodians. But the odd mix of Chhun's Cambodian and Angeleno lives became even clearer when I asked him what triggered a Long Beach accountant to launch the overthrow effort. It was, he said, "God's mission" for him to free his people. God communicated to Chhun, a Buddhist-born convert to the Seventh-Day Adventist Church, via the animated 1998 Disney film The Prince of Egypt. Chhun interpreted the film's message as he saw it: "Moses tried to liberate the slaves of Egypt. Like him, I am not afraid of anything."
If necessary, Chhun could handle punishment for his efforts, he said, but he doubted it would be necessary. He was fighting against tyranny, and what could be more American than that?
THE SCARS
In California, Chhun ate to his stomach's content, drove an air-conditioned car, raised his children and tallied the incomes of American taxpayers, but he was haunted by Cambodia. "I have a business in Long Beach with 3,000 clients," Chhun told me. "I earn almost a million dollars a year. I have kids, a wife and a family to take care of. So why am I coming here to suffer? Because I cannot ignore the bloodshed of my people."
Perhaps more than anything, the fate of Chhun's father, Yem Kong, defined such bloodshed for him. Upon seizing power in 1975, the Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia ordered the executions of nearly every person linked to the previous U.S.-backed military regime. Yem Kong was particularly vulnerable. He hadn't merely been an active supporter of that government: He had reported on the Khmer Rouge revolutionaries' rural activities.
Chhun's family were evicted from their home in a town in Banteay Meanchey province in the northwest, and his siblings were sent off to work camps. Chhun was a sickly child, so he was permitted to stay with his parents. They moved to a collectivized farm and labored there until one day, while Chhun was bathing in a nearby river, a dozen armed Khmer Rouge soldiers arrived. "They pulled my father out of the hut," Chhun wrote in a letter to the judge, "and beheaded him."
It wasn't a clean beheading, Chhun told Dr. William H. Sacks, who provided a psychiatric report to the court. The head was "almost severed but still partially connected by skin." Chhun's mother collapsed onto her husband's corpse in grief, but the Khmer Rouge warned her not to cry for a man who deserved such a fate. They told her that she would be executed, too, if she acted as an enemy spy.