Chapter Eight
On Life in Cambodia:
The best time in Phnom Penh is 6:30 in the morning. The chaotic city is already bustling this early in the morning, but is not yet overwhelming. At 6:45, I set out to walk ten minutes to my bus stop. This walk is one of my favorite parts of the day.
My street itself is a small oasis—rather quiet and small. But while the air is still cool, the street is filled with food stands and people dragging carts of ingredients to the local restaurants. When I first arrived, I viewed these carts as the most frustrating part of Cambodia. Pulled by old ladies, the trolleys have a speaker that announces the items they are selling, in a perpetual loop. Beyond the repetitive calls, the women carry squeak toys, and squeeze them rapidly to let the motorbikes know when they are crossing the street. When jetlagged, the cacophony of sounds was jarring, but as I have gotten used to the noise, I smile as people run down from their balconies to buy their morning meals.
The intersection I turn onto is usually flooded with people. On the city streets, roosters announce that it is morning from wire birdcages. Toddlers are already rushing in between the bright yellow tuk-tuks and sleek motorbikes, shrieking in delight. Two raggedy sand-colored dogs eye me for scraps of food, shaking out their matted coats, before resuming their goal of terrorizing the roosters.
After stopping for a daily espresso, I reach my final street. Gaining confidence to weave around the flying scooters, I cross the last intersection before the bus stop. On the other side of the street, I am greeted by the sound of eggs frying in a black wok. The crackling applause emanating from the eggs is only broken when the man throws heaps of noodles and pork into the pan, before serving the fried noodles to the line of customers eagerly awaiting breakfast. Then, the street is filled with the sweet smell of oranges. A family makes and bottles juice to sell to passersby, behind a mountain of dark green oranges. A boy peels and slices the thick leaf-colored rind off of the orange before handing them to his teenage brother, who squeezes the juice out. Their parents rush around the children, bottling the juice into plastic containers and arranging the bottles in buckets of ice. Amidst the commotion, the family’s grandmother—the apparent matriarch—gazes upon her family and occasionally shouts directions their way. Her critical eyes miss nothing—glancing my way as I walk past. “Aroun Suostei,” good morning, I recite, nodding my head towards her. She always smiles, and nods back towards me, before instructing her family to do something else.
The bus arrives, a large coach bus that takes the court employees to the tribunal. The bus is the exact opposite of the city—silent, cool, and peaceful. From my seat, I sip my coffee and watch the city pass us by.
Last Week at the Khmer Rouge Tribunal:
Recently, Nuon Chea filed his Request for Extensions of Page and Time Limits. Instead of a 30 page appeal brief that is filed 60 days after the notice of appeal, Nuon Chea request a 970 page extension for a 1,000 page appeal brief against the Trial Chamber’s conviction and sentence. He also requested a 8.5 month extension, to allow him to file 10.5 months after his notice of appeal. The Co-Prosecutors and the Civil Parties opposed the similar request filed by Khieu Samphan. While acknowledging that some extensions should be granted to allow the defense to appeal the 2,500 page judgment, they stated that Khieu Samphan’s request was excessive and urged the Supreme Court Chamber to take their interests into account for their decision.