The Master of Confessions

by Thierry Cruvellier

  According to Communism, loving others means giving the proletarian class an absolute monopoly on power, says Duch. When he lost his faith in Communism, he realized that Christianity’s teaching to love one’s neighbor as oneself could be beneficial. “I thought converting to that religion would be a good idea because it allows you to love your enemies. I wanted to make sure to only follow a religion that treats everyone as equals, with no regard to class. I believe that Christianity is that ideal religion.”

  Confession in Communism, confession in Christianity: in both cases, salvation depends on a preliminary interrogation during which, Duch knows as well as anyone, one’s ability to conceal is paramount. Does baptism, which washes away sin, presuppose total sincerity? Fortunately for his mission, Pastor LaPel doesn’t appear too concerned about such scruples. Duch appeared at the mission of his own volition, saying he understood the meaning of baptism and was ready to receive Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior. He was baptized and saved. Amen.

  I remember when I first met Duch, or Hang Pin, in late 1995. I saw a man steeped in sadness, living without peace or joy or any purpose in life. But I saw him change completely after I baptized him. He turned around 180 degrees and is a completely different person now. He’s a man who lives in peace, who lives with joy and purpose. I remember his baptism very clearly. He looks like a different person now. He dresses well and wears glasses. He listens, preaches, and teaches; he asks questions about God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit; he wants to know about sin and redemption . . .

  Hang Pin returned to the village to open a new church for fourteen families. From homo sovieticus to born-again Christian, his miraculous journey continued. It turns out that Judge Lavergne, however, is not a believer. He’s confounded by the speed with which one can be ordained a lay pastor. “It seems to me that Duch’s conversion happened extremely fast. Do all the people you baptize convert as quickly as that, Pastor LaPel? Or was Duch an exceptional case?”

  It’s hard to describe. When they hear the Word of God, it pierces their hearts. I have no control over what happens inside their hearts after that. After Duch received the training and learned the Word of God, he couldn’t wait. I could see how impatient he was. He wanted to go back to his village to bring Jesus Christ to his friends and family.

  “So his mission was to share his newfound faith in Christ with his friends and neighbors. Did his mission go beyond that? Could he teach? Could he baptize people? Could he hold services?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. He had the opportunity to lead worship services. He had the opportunity to teach the Word of God. As leader of his church, he had the opportunity to pray and to receive communion with the believers in his village.”

  “Were you never concerned that there might be shortcomings in this recent convert’s faith?”

  “I’m not concerned insofar that, so long as he teaches the Word of God, people experience the Word. That is the only answer I can give you, Your Honor.”

  “Can you tell us how many people have been baptized into your church here in Cambodia? How many people belong to it?”

  “I have lost count. There have been many thousands of new believers during my trips to Cambodia over the past eighteen or nineteen years.”

  “Thank you, Pastor LaPel. I have no further questions for the witness, Mr. President.”

  The prosecutor asks:

  Did you not ask yourself whether Duch converted for psychological comfort, or because it was convenient, or for pragmatic reasons? Did you not wonder, for example, whether he converted in order to benefit, immediately and unconditionally, from the forgiveness offered by the Christian god, and so avoid having to face the Buddhist cycle of reincarnation?

  “It is difficult to grasp the power of Our Lord Jesus Christ,” replies the pastor, perhaps sensing the general disbelief in the court.

  The prosecutor gives up. Another judge takes over.

  “Were you not concerned that in this entire process you had been manipulated from the outset by someone who had hidden his real identity and his past from you and who, furthermore, is responsible for the deaths of more than twelve thousand people at S-21, including people very close to you?”

  I lost close friends at S-21, and I lost my parents, my brother, and my sister in the killing fields. When I saw Duch again in June 2008, I told him that I loved him and that I forgave him for what he did to my parents, my brothers, my sister, and my close friends at S-21. I spoke for myself as a Christian, as a follower of Jesus Christ. In that moment, I felt peace. I was filled with joy. When I told him that I forgave him and that I loved him, the healing was mine. I hate the sin, not the sinner. When you are a true believer, when you understand the Word of God, you understand what forgiveness truly means. I speak simply as a believer.

  There are at least two reasons why Maître Roux, who hails from the predominantly Protestant Cevennes region in France, might understand Pastor LaPel better than others do: his Protestant background and his duty to defend his client.

  “Would you agree with the notion that, above and beyond any theological training that a person might acquire, what matters most is a person’s direct, intimate contact with God, and that such an encounter doesn’t necessarily require in-depth study?”

  The pastor agrees.

  “Does the Bible not contain examples of people who converted very suddenly, some of whom had committed crimes?”

  The pastor can’t seem to find any. He seems content to simply reiterate that “when a person gives himself to God,” etc. The man of law tries to guide the man of faith.

  “To be precise, isn’t it true that every man and woman might one day travel his or her own way to Damascus?”

  But Paul of Tarsus doesn’t seem to strike a chord with, or matter to, the pastor. Christopher LaPel’s theology, like Communism’s, doesn’t require any great learning. It requires only that a person understand what happens when he receives and understands the Word of God (or the Party), and that a person give thanks and praise. All that counts is absolute faith.

  The pastor is proud of his former parishioner for admitting to his crimes and presumably accepting his punishment. He encourages Duch to continue spreading the Word of God, because “Jesus is the Prince of Peace and our only answer.” Duch stands when the pastor leaves the courtroom, a gesture of respect toward his new master.

  ONE OF THE TRIALS I followed while covering the international tribunal for the 1994 Rwandan genocide was that of a kind young man, a civil servant with the Belgian social security service, who went to Rwanda and turned into a murderous, rabble-rousing radio presenter who supported the militia in its quest to systematically exterminate every Tutsi it could find. After the génocidaire forces were defeated, the international authorities went looking for this Belgian, who changed not only his identity but his religion. Originally Christian, he converted to Islam. The ideology that had caused him to commit the crime in the first place was discredited. Now it gave way to another cause, which the man embraced with equal passion. Just as this Belgian has forsaken his faith in Hutu Power for that of the teachings of the Prophet, so Duch renounced Communism for Christianity. Many people experience an inescapable urge to believe. Fortunately, most don’t find themselves in the kind of extreme historical circumstances that might lead them to follow that urge to its worst possible end.

  Duch told the psychologists, “You can’t live without faith. At first I believed that the Communists would save my homeland. Now I know that it’s God.”

  He says that religion is what defeated Communism in Poland and elsewhere behind the Iron Curtain. He also hoped that by converting, he would escape his karma. Furthermore, it meant that he would be joining the winning team, just as he does by cooperating with the international justice system. Yet the psychological expert sees another side to Duch’s conversion, one that bears witness to something more profound than an expedient shift of allegiance.

  He changed group. The choice of group is certainly an interesting aspect of the d
efendant’s development, but what is most interesting is that he chose a group that allows for the individual. In Christianity, each person has direct contact with God. So it’s a completely different system. In Communism, the individual disappears. But now he has joined a group where the subject exists in his or her union with God. It seems to us that joining this group is of some therapeutic value to the defendant.

  From 1996 on, Hang Pin the Christian resolutely endeavored to be as much like the pre-Revolution Kaing Guek Eav as possible. His boss at the school speaks of him in the same glowing terms as his former students and his classmates from the 1960s did: Duch is a humble, meticulous, and hardworking man, much appreciated by his colleagues. He is punctual, rigorous about deadlines, has fine teaching skills, and never talks politics. Duch—biddable, discreet, irreproachable—melts into the community. “He was gentle and he didn’t talk much. He did what was asked of him; if someone asked him to clean, he cleaned.”

  At the end of 1996, Duch was asked to teach French and was entrusted with distributing textbooks. He was an ordinary man again. He had aged. At fifty-four, he was an elder, and people called him krou ta—“master” or, literally, “grandfather teacher.” Duch smiles while the civil servant tells his story.

  Whenever a former colleague of Duch’s or his former head teacher is in the courtroom, Duch stands respectfully, watches intently, nods in agreement. He always has a smile for witnesses who knew him before or after he was Duch. None of them are tormented like those who suffered under Duch. Their perception of Kaing Guek Eav neither frightens nor intimidates them.

  Then one day, without warning or explanation, Hang Pin disappeared. The school’s head teacher learned that he had gone to work in Samlaut.

  “Even today, I find it hard to accept that he was implicated in these crimes. He was such a perfect teacher. He was gentle, generous, and friendly. He was exactly the opposite,” the man says.

  The defection rate among the top-level Khmer Rouge leadership accelerated. In 1996, Brother Number Three, Pol Pot’s brother-in-law, deserted, taking with him thousands of men. In June 1997, Pol Pot killed Son Sen, Duch’s mentor. In Samlaut, Duch hoped that his superior, Sou Met, would take him along when he surrendered with his men. But Duch was stuck with the last remaining rebels of Democratic Kampuchea. Pol Pot died in April 1998. In August, Duch was finally repatriated to government-controlled territory. Toward the end of 1998, Brother Number Two, Nuon Chea, Duch’s boss at S-21 from 1977 to 1979, surrendered. Thirty years after it had started, the civil war was over. In March 1999, the Khmer Rouge hardliner Ta Mok was arrested and jailed. Hang Pin was expected to take charge of education at a district level. He readied himself for his new promotion. Around that time, Kaing Guek Eav, alias Yim Cheav, alias Duch, alias Hang Pin, became a grandfather and seemed at least partially reconciled with his identity at last. He gave his real name, Kaing, to his grandson, as well as his Chinese name, Yun: Kaing Yun Cheav.

  “But everything was compromised when Nic Dunlop found me,” he says, struggling to hide his bitter regret.

  Nic Dunlop is a charming, thoughtful, and reasonable man. So much so it is funny to imagine this young Irish photographer’s curious habit of carrying what was then one of the few existing photos of Duch around in his pocket during his trips through the region. One day in April 1999, on the outskirts of Samlaut, the tenacious journalist recognized the former head of S-21. The chameleonic Hang Pin was working for an American refugee-assistance organization. When Dunlop confronted him with his past, Duch immediately conceded the truth.

  “I firmly believe that nothing can be kept secret forever. You can keep something secret for a while, but not for very long,” he tells the court.

  On May 10, 1999, Duch was arrested and transferred to the military prison in Phnom Penh.

  CHAPTER 28

  WERE CIRCUMSTANCES DIFFERENT, Mam Nai would be sitting next to Duch in the dock. He was part of the entire murderous undertaking, from M-13 to S-21. Though ten years older than Duch, Mam Nai remained his subordinate throughout the Revolution. Mam Nai isn’t and has never been a talkative man. Unlike many other former S-21 staff, he has steadfastly refused to talk to those researching the Khmer Rouge killing machine. Unapologetically severe, Mam Nai lives in the countryside. He grows surly the moment anyone criticizes the Revolution; he is not targeted by the purely symbolic justice required by the Cambodian government and opportunistically promoted by international law activists. At seventy-six, the only still-living chief interrogator from S-21 can spend his last years at ease, discreetly, and leave it to his former boss to deal with the burdens of shame and public remorse. Mam Nai has just one difficult moment to get through: he’s been summoned to testify before the tribunal.

  Mam Nai is about 1.75 meters tall, a lofty figure among his countrymen. On the first day of his deposition, he’s wearing a dull, bottle green jacket. The Khmer Rouge used to wear kramas thrown casually around their necks, the ends hanging down their chests. The kramas were the only colored items of clothing allowed with the otherwise strictly black revolutionary uniforms. In court, Mam Nai always wears a krama.

  Mam Nai’s krama perfectly matches his jacket. He has suffered from a skin condition since childhood, and multicolored fingerless woolen gloves protect his hands. The hair on the top of his head and temples has grayed, while that on the sides and the back of his neck is still dark. Oddly, it looks as though someone has tonsured a circle the size of a tennis ball into the back of his head. The following day, he wears a high-necked blue-gray shirt, again with a matching krama. Mam Nai exudes an outdated, almost psychedelic, sense of style. In a rasping voice, his head and hands and upper body continually in motion with those slight movements common among the elderly, Mam Nai quickly makes it clear that he has no intention of divulging Party secrets. “I was assigned to interrogate low-value prisoners. That’s all.”

  What about torture? “I don’t know. From what I saw—and speaking in general terms, torture may or may not have been used—I didn’t see any sign of it. I wasn’t paying close attention. It’s possible that torture took place. But I can’t give any details about it.”

  Mam Nai’s notebook was found at S-21. It is 396 pages long. It contains an account of staff meetings and training sessions. There are numerous references to the use of torture. This is typical of Mam Nai. He claims that no one ever gave him an order to torture a prisoner, that he confined himself to simply making notes of the meetings, and that he was and remains completely unaware of the other interrogators’ methods.

  What if the prisoner didn’t confess? “I would tell the guards to take him back to his cell, to give him more time to think it over.”

  And what about the executions? “That subject isn’t clear to me. I have no knowledge of this. The prisoners were simply taken back to their cells.”

  Mam Nai says he knows nothing about how S-21 was organized, nothing about the identities of the other interrogators or even how many there were, nothing about the conditions in which the prisoners were held, nothing about the number of them being held, including the Vietnamese, of whom he was in charge. “There might’ve been ten or twenty of them,” he says.

  What about Duch’s instructions? “I don’t remember anything about them.”

  Ot dang te—I don’t know—he says curtly, over and over.

  “We acted as though we could see or hear nothing, like the kapok tree,” he says, referring to a tropical tree whose seedpods are covered in a silken, cotton-like fiber that is both water- and rot-proof. “That is why I am still alive today.”

  The public gallery reacts angrily to Mam Nai’s denials. But the glass wall dividing the courtroom from the gallery prevents the witness from hearing the disapproving murmur that then rises into a collective nervous laugh.

  “Do you have trouble with your memory?” asks an irritated Judge Lavergne.

  “It’s been a habit ever since my studies. I don’t remember dates. Sometimes I can’t even remember the names of my childr
en,” replies the witness, unabashed.

  Mam Nai, aware of all the traps that interrogators lay, tries to keep his answers short. But attack him and he bursts to life, revealing a man still committed to the very beliefs that have misled him. “The country was under attack from American imperialists, therefore detaining prisoners was a necessary measure. Living conditions were horrible for all of us. Everyone ate the same thing, more or less.”

  Sometimes he blames the hierarchy: “As a subordinate, I was told to put it in writing, that’s all. Of course that’s my writing. But I didn’t know what tricks my superiors were up to. I was their subordinate and I simply had to follow orders.”

  Or else it’s on account of that vexing problem, a poor memory: “Do you remember anything about these documents, Mr. Mam Nai?” asks the judge, referring to interrogation reports bearing Mam Nai’s signature.