In that context, federal agents showed up at Chhun's home on a June day in 2005 and arrested a man whom they had left free to fill out tax forms for four and a half years after Operation Volcano.
A federal grand jury indicted Chhun on four conspiracy charges on May 31, 2005 — a day before the statute of limitations ran out on several charges. The accusation involved the Neutrality Act, a 200-year-old law that prohibits working from American soil to overthrow a foreign leader or government that the United States is at peace with. It could lead to a maximum prison sentence of three years. (Chhun had suggested to me that, since he wasn't involved in securing weaponry and because his significant actions were conducted in Thailand, there was no violation.)
Yasith Chhun
Chhun in the heady days before the attack
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But the indictment included more menacing charges: conspiring to kill and damage property in a foreign country, and the use of weapons of mass destruction outside of the United States. ("Weapon of mass destruction," it turns out, can refer to any explosive or incendiary device, bomb or even a grenade.)
A new U.S. ambassador to Cambodia, Charles Ray, communicated his gratitude, via the FBI legal attaché in Bangkok, to staff in the Los Angeles division of the U.S. Attorney's Office.
Beyond issues of justice, Ray's note says, "This case is a very important achievement for U.S. relations in Southeast Asia, and is key to building regional cooperation in counterterrorism."
Soon after Chhun's arrest, Deputy Director of the FBI John Pistole visited Phnom Penh, where he told senior Cambodian officials that the FBI would train local police on counterterrorism matters, and he gave a number of awards for "important contributions" to the prosecution of Cambodian Freedom Fighters.
Defense attorney Callahan argues that pre-9/11, American officials saw Hun Sen as a "murderous despot" and Chhun's efforts to oust him were tacitly accepted, until Washington pivoted and Chhun became "an expendable pawn" in U.S. efforts to gain an antiterror ally in the region. "Hun Sen didn't change," Callahan summarizes, "the world did."
In 2008, Chhun was found guilty on all four charges.
THE MESSAGE OF LIFE
The following year, the prosecution prepared a court brief that called for a harsh sentence: "The United States cannot allow her citizens and residents to plan and execute violent attacks against foreign citizens or governments. U.S. foreign policy must speak with one voice and unauthorized violent attacks against foreign entities, no matter how well intentioned, subject the United States to broad international and political ramifications, including possible retaliation."
The defense argued for a five-year sentence, which would amount to time served, citing Chhun's tragic history, his exemplary time in jail and his law-abiding years between his return from Cambodia and his arrest.
But, like the prosecution, the judge wanted to send a message — not to potential émigré revolutionaries from repressive countries, ranging from Algeria to Zimbabwe, but to foreign governments themselves. "We, as a great nation, cannot send the message to other countries that it's OK to be lenient when people attempt to kill Americans," the judge concluded, noting that the United States must therefore reciprocate by treating homeland-focused revolutionaries on American soil "very, very harshly." So last June, Judge Pregerson sentenced Chhun to a lifetime behind bars.
A lifetime. That's what made no sense to Callahan.
The irony that the judge was calibrating the scales of justice to induce foreign leaders to cooperate with Washington was particularly salient in a case in which Chhun was convicted for getting in the way of the United States' evolving foreign policy
But there was a far more cruel irony in Chhun's life sentence. Just one month later, a mixed Cambodian and international tribunal focusing on crimes against humanity in Phnom Penh finally sentenced the first Khmer Rouge figure for horrific crimes committed more than three decades earlier.
Kaing Guek Eav, known as "Duch," was the meticulous overseer of an elementary school turned torture center, the notorious Toul Sleng, where 12,273 prisoners died. Most were executed — including with shovels, to spare bullets. Some were pulled apart on medieval-style racks. If the sadistic prison boss lives 19 years beyond the moment when he was sentenced, he will be free.
Yasith Chhun, meanwhile, isn't known to have ever fired a bullet to overthrow Hun Sen, a man who has thrived thanks in part to well-documented coercion, torture and the assassinations of his enemies.
I wrote to Chhun after his sentencing. I wanted to know whether the contrast between his sentence and the one given to Kaing Guek Eav shook his faith in American justice.
"It breaks my heart to say it, but yes," Chhun wrote from the jail cell at the Metropolitan Detention Center downtown. "I continue to believe in the American system of justice with all my heart."
But, he added, "In my case, it failed."
THE PRICE OF FAILURE
A decade after 9/11, Washington is in the midst of another epochal sea-change in regard to its interactions with autocrats. The Obama administration is offering various levels of support for popular movements seeking to topple repressive regimes across much of North Africa, the Middle East and countries farther afield.