Like many exiles in America, Chhun became a Republican supporter, drawn by the party's anticommunist rhetoric.
Long Beach was in the process of becoming the world's largest Cambodian city outside of Southeast Asia, now with more than 50,000 Khmers. Many are former "boat people" or refugee-camp survivors who lost everything and, in some cases, everyone. Even though they were Angelenos, many remained obsessed with the fate of their homeland and the relatives who didn't get out.
Yasith Chhun
Chhun in the heady days before the attack
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In the mid-1990s, Chhun began to engage in activism on behalf of a rising reformist party in Cambodia. His newfound political engagement might have been empowering if it hadn't coincided with a wave of political violence, as Hun Sen further consolidated his grip on power at the expense of democracy.
On March 30, 1997, grenade throwers working in cahoots with Hun Sen's bodyguard troops nearly assassinated an opponent, Sam Rainsy, when they threw four grenades into a crowd of peaceful protesters he was leading against the nation's corrupt courts. The attack killed 16 people, while hit men fled into one of Hun Sen's bases across the street; his bodyguards, armed to the teeth, protected their flight.
Several months later, Hun Sen drove his co–prime minister, Norodom Ranariddh, who had won the U.N.-sponsored elections, from Cambodia after several days of pitched battles on the streets of Phnom Penh. Soon after, dozens of corpses of tortured prisoners — Hun Sen's political and military enemies — surfaced in shallow pits.
For Chhun, Cambodia's democratic experiment was over. He created the Cambodian Freedom Fighters and started to prepare Operation Volcano.
That last step — regardless of its ineptitude — helped him to recover a portion of his dignity, according to the psychiatric report. "I heard the voice of my father saying, 'I'm proud of you. You can stand up and be a man again,' " Chhun told the psychiatrist. That restored man, Dr. Sacks summarized, "had fantasies of being a new General Washington."
THE FBI
Operation Volcano became a tool of Hun Sen soon after its failure. Less than two months later, he accused the United States — "the master of the fight against international terrorism" — of ignoring a terrorist attack on Cambodian soil that was planned in America. "What is the real value of the U.S. suggestion to Cambodia to offer cooperation against international terrorism?" the prime minister asked.
Hun Sen even cited past U.S. bombing campaigns against Libya in the 1980s and Afghanistan in the '90s that were intended to punish them for sheltering terrorists. The strongman insisted the United States must hand Chhun over to Phnom Penh. Despite the rhetoric, Hun Sen's uneasy relations with Washington meant there was little hope of retrieving one of his opponents from U.S. soil.
At the time of Hun Sen's comments, Chhun was settling back into life in Long Beach. After all, the 2001 tax season was approaching. Agents from the FBI's Los Angeles bureau dropped in on Chhun, who openly admitted that he was the CFF leader — no surprise, given that he had issued a press release immediately after Operation Volcano sputtered. He didn't merely explain the details and goals of Operation Volcano; he told them he hoped to continue his efforts.
In Chhun's recollection, the FBI warned him against traveling to Cambodia, for his own safety. (He chuckled about their advice and noted that he was more concerned about Hun Sen sending an assassin to kill him in California.) At the end of the friendly meeting, Chhun saluted the FBI's Don Shannon and told the agent that he was always welcome.
Chhun's office was located north of downtown Long Beach in an area known as Little Phnom Penh, featuring a temple and an array of shops and restaurants. When I stopped in shortly after the FBI did, the accountant wore a crisp white business shirt and eyeglasses. More cheerful than any revolutionary I had ever met, Chhun still believed he might one day succeed in ousting Hun Sen.
"Even though I am in Long Beach, I can do it by remote," he said, gesturing to a cellphone. Chhun argued that all Cambodian people crave a society like the one he lived in here in Los Angeles. "There is a good chance that we can start building a freeway of freedom, so that the Cambodian people can walk on that freedom."
The FBI visited Chhun again in 2003, for another chat, even though there was no indication that Chhun — never a discreet man — had been involved in any new revolutionary activities. The statute of limitations on an array of possible charges was ticking away. But clouds were gathering.
In the months and years that followed the 9/11 attacks, the Bush administration oversaw a massive overhaul of security, intelligence and foreign policy. Washington's emboldened "war on terror," to the exclusion of many other American interests and values, included an emphasis on preventing Southeast Asia from becoming a "second front."
In short order, cooperation between Washington and Phnom Penh surged. President George W. Bush removed Cambodia from the list of major illegal drug–producing countries despite little substantive progress. In 2002, with the United States, Cambodia joined a regional antiterrorism agreement that involved sharing information and intelligence, destroyed three dozen SA-3 air defense missiles (so that they wouldn't end up in the hands of terrorists) and brought its border stations into the computer age. Phnom Penh also arrested a handful of alleged members of Jemaah Islamiyah, a group that Washington had linked to al-Qaida and that the Bush administration hardly wanted to see develop a foothold in the region.