Justice eludes Cambodian acid attack victims

Cambodian acid survivor Morm Nheb sitting at the Cambodian Acid Survivors Charity (CASC) on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. Photo courtesy: AFP

The burnt hands of Cambodian acid survivor Morm Nheb as she sews at the Cambodian Acid Survivors Charity (CASC) on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. Photo courtesy: AFP

Cambodian acid survivor Som Bunnarith, 39, playing keyboard at the Cambodian Acid Survivors Charity (CASC) on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. Photo courtesy: AFP

A Cambodian acid survivor on a bed at the Cambodian Acid Survivors Charity (CASC) on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. Photo courtesy: AFP

Cambodian mother of Keo Savorn (R) looking after her daughter at a hospital in Phnom Penh after being injured in an acid attack. Photo courtesy: AFP

By Kounila Keo

PHNOM PENH, Wednesday 17 November 2010 (AFP) - Morm Nheb still remembers how her burnt flesh smelt when her ex-husband doused her face with acid, scarring her for life.

"It's not a good smell," said the mother-of-two, whose life has been a struggle ever since the day her ex-husband vented his anger over their divorce.

"There's no going back after I was splashed with acid, and I am living like a dead body or a living ghost," she said.

She is one of a growing number of acid burn victims in Cambodia, where the caustic liquid is easily and cheaply available -- and attackers rarely brought to justice.

"We have difficulty in trying to get people to press charges because they are sometimes very fearful of the perpetrator," said Chhun Sophea, a programme manager at the Cambodian Acid Survivors Charity (CASC).

In other cases, such as Nheb's, the attackers go on the run and are never heard from again.

Since CASC opened its doors in 2006, it has helped around 300 people like Nheb by offering free medical and legal aid, counselling and skills training.

While there are no official statistics and many cases go unreported, Sophea said acid crimes are on the rise.

From January to October this year, CASC recorded 18 attacks, in which 34 people were injured.

Sophea said that was "definitely an increase on last year", when 33 people were treated overall, including some injured in accidents.

The Cambodian government has acknowledged the problem and is now in the process of drafting a law that would regulate acid sales and impose harsher sentences on attackers.

Drafting committee deputy chairman Ouk Kimlek told AFP that convicted perpetrators could face between five years and life in prison under the new law, expected to be approved by the end of the year.

"Acid is a horrible thing," he said. "We are looking to put those attackers in jail for what they have done to the victims, so we can curtail more acid crimes."

Acid violence is a serious problem in some other Asian countries as well.

Bangladesh has seen 86 cases with 111 injuries in the first nine months of the year, according to the London-based Acid Survivors Foundation (ASF), an NGO campaigning to make acid attacks a criminal offence in the country.

In Pakistan, women's rights group the Aurat Foundation recorded 20 cases of acid throwing in the first half of 2010.

The vast majority of victims in those countries are women, but in Cambodia men are just as likely to be a target.

"A lot of people think acid crimes are related to love triangle issues," said Sophea.

But that is not always the case, she said, and the motives for such attacks range from jealousy to anger and revenge.

"It's not focused on the women here. Men have their anger against men also and women get really upset with husbands too. The anger and resentment builds up over time and they don't have any way of letting it out," she said.

Som Bunnarith, 39, a long-term resident at CASC, is one of these male victims.

He was burnt by his wife five years ago when they were arguing over his many late nights out. The attack left him blind.

"I cry. I am very sorry about my eyes," said the former salesman.

He says he has forgiven his wife. They both work at CASC now, and he does not want to see her jailed.

Nheb, on the other hand, still wants justice.

She was unable to get her factory job back after the attack, and feels ostracised.

"When people look at you, whether it's pity or just a curious look, it's the most horrific thing," she said.

"When they see acid victims, they say, 'If you take someone's husband, here is the result.' That infuriates me."

In Scarred Land, a Haven for Victims of Acid Burns

An acid burn victim had her blood pressure checked at the Cambodian Acid Survivors Charity while recovering from a skin grafting operation. (Paula Bronstein/Getty Images)

Trapaeng Veng Journal
August 23, 2010
By SETH MYDANS
The New York Times

TRAPAENG VENG, Cambodia — Touch Eap stroked her husband’s scarred and discolored back as she described the night six years ago when she poured a tub of acid over his head, burning off his eyes and ears and lips and leaving him as dependent on her as a child.

“I wanted to kill him,” she said. “I didn’t want to injure him. He said he would kill me, and I thought, better to kill him first so that I can take care of the children.”

She smiled ruefully as she talked; his drunkenness and threats were an old memory. Her husband, Phoeung Phoeur, 45, opened his mouth in what may also have been a smile.

“I’m sorry for him,” said Ms. Touch Eap, 46, who grows vegetables to support her husband and three children, “and I try to take care of him.”

It was a moment of domestic tranquillity here in Cambodia’s only shelter for acid burn victims, where a dozen other mutilated residents napped or sang or hung their heads backward in an exercise to help keep their scarred necks flexible.

Cambodia, along with Pakistan, Bangladesh and Afghanistan, has a history of acid attacks — a rare and extreme form of revenge or punishment.

An increase in the number of reported attacks in Cambodia, with 17 so far this year, has drawn attention to this shelter, the nonprofit Cambodian Acid Survivors Charity, on the outskirts of Phnom Penh.

The center has been advising the government in drafting a law that is making its way slowly through the legislature. The proposed law would restrict sales of acid — now widely and cheaply available — require warning labels and impose sentences of up to life in prison for the most severe attacks.

The center’s residents, who receive medical and psychological care, physical therapy, and occupational training, are just a few of the more than 280 known victims in Cambodia of a form of revenge that illustrates an undercurrent of violence that courses through this wounded society. Experts say the true number is certainly far higher.

“This is a traumatized culture,” said Pin Domnang, chief of programs and administration at the center, referring to decades of mass killings and civil war. “When something happens, the only response is violence. Violence can solve their problems. Violence can make them feel better.”

Short of murder, advocates say, an acid attack is the most devastating form of aggression, transforming the victim into a figure of horror and an outcast in a society that often sees disfigurement as a form of karmic justice.

That thought is an unexpected comfort to one of the survivors here, Soum Bunnarith, 41, a former salesman whose wife blinded him with acid five years ago in a rage of jealousy. “I ask myself, ‘Why me?’ ” he said. “But then I think maybe I did terrible things in a past life, and that thought helps me to accept this.”

Some, rejected and without family members to care for them, take their lives in despair, Mr. Pin Domnang said. “Their identity changes, their whole life changes,” he said. “It is difficult to control the food in their mouths. Sometimes it spills out.

“Their families don’t want to see them, don’t want to come to visit them,” he said. “The trauma in their spirit is like they are gone. They don’t want to live on this earth any more.”

Others, spurred by anger, try to pursue their attackers in court. Under current laws, acid attacks are generally treated as civil assault cases in which the victim must press charges. In a system governed by power, money and influence, there have been few convictions. Nevertheless, the center’s medical and legal manager, Dr. Horng Lairapo, has been encouraging victims to file new cases and revive old ones.

One of those victims is Mean Sok Reoun, 35, who was attacked and blinded by her husband’s former wife 15 years ago. Until recently, she said, her attacker had lived freely after paying a bribe to the police, while Ms. Mean Sok Reoun endured 40 operations.

“I saw her clearly running away,” said Ms. Mean Sok Reoun, whose eyes moved rapidly behind a curtain of skin as she talked. “But then I saw only shadows. And then I was blind.”

Ziad Samman, the center’s project manager, said, “The attacks are not always the products of jealous rage; some grow out of other personal or business disputes.”

Acid is widely available for uses like maintaining machinery, clearing drains and polishing jewelry. It is used in the processing of rubber, and a high proportion of attacks have come in areas near plantations, according to the center. In rural areas where there is no electricity, acid fuels the car batteries that are used to power television sets.

It was battery acid that Ms. Touch Eap said she poured over her husband’s head as he sat drinking in their home six years ago, a large knife by his side.

“ ‘Do what I say or I’ll kill you’ — those were the last words I said to her,” said Mr. Phoeung Phoeur, joining his wife in the narrative as their 13-year-old daughter, Per Srey Ai, looked on.

If he was going to live, Mr. Phoeung Phoeur said, he realized he needed his wife. As soon as he reached the hospital, he begged a friend to pay the police to set her free. Ms. Touch Eap returned to him, and she has nursed and supported her husband ever since she tried to kill him.

She was with him at the hospital when doctors told him he had only hours left to live, and she walked alongside him as neighbors carried him home in a hammock to die. She lighted incense and prayed beside him as he slipped in and out of consciousness until, defying the doctors’ predictions, he returned to life.

“We called all the family around him,” she said, remembering that dark evening. “We were all waiting around him, waiting for him to die. I was so afraid he was going to die.”

Unforgettable faces: Survivors of acid attack in Cambodia

Former hair dresser, Um Dinay, 19, who is an acid attack victim, passes the time at a secure shelter run by non-profit organisation "Cambodia Acid Survivors Charity" outside Phnom Penh July 7, 2010. Um, who was attacked by unknown perpetrators six month ago is receiving shelter and medical treatment at the centre. After years of indifference to a rise in acid attacks across Cambodia, authorities are drafting up legislation to restrict acid sales and to punish perpetrators. The move comes as Cambodia seeks to tidy up its reputation for human rights abuses, rampant corruption, and lax law enforcement, some of many factors that have deterred foreign investors.(Xinhua/Reuters Photo)

Breaking the Silence: Addressing Acid Attacks in Cambodia

Released Date : 01 May 2010
Originally Posted at Sithi.org

The Cambodian Acid Survivors Charity (the “CASC” hereinafter) was established in 2006 in direct response to the lack of services and the limited options for medical treatment made available to acid burn survivors in Cambodia. CASC serves as the primary organization in Cambodia for acid burn survivors, dedicating its services exclusively to survivors of acid burns. This report on acid attacks in Cambodia - written for CASC by the Cambodian Center for Human Rights (CCHR) - considers the underlying causes of acid attacks and makes recommendations for improving the situation.

Click here to read/download this report at Sithi.org

Victims of acid attack in Cambodia

Oeng Sodine (L), a 18-year-old victim of an acid attack, rests near Som Bunnarith (R), a 39-year-old fellow victim, while receiving treatment at the Cambodia Acid Survivors Charity in Kandal province, west of Phnom Penh February 25, 2010. Cambodia's government is drafting a law to specifically target crimes involving acid attacks amidst a rise in such attacks this year. The government is reviewing similar laws in Pakistan, India and Bangladesh to draft tough sentences including life imprisonment for these crimes, police officials said. REUTERS/Chor Sokunthea
Cambodia Acid Survivors Charity's coordinator Ziad Samman (R), speaks to victims of acid attacks, 39-year-old Som Bunnarith (L), 36-year-old Keo Srey Vy (2nd R) and 18-year-old Oeng Sodine (2nd L) at the Charity in Kandal province, west of Phnom Penh February 25, 2010. Cambodia's government is drafting a law to specifically target crimes involving acid attacks amidst a rise in such attacks this year. The government is reviewing similar laws in Pakistan, India and Bangladesh to draft tough sentences including life imprisonment for these crimes, police officials said. REUTERS/Chor Sokunthea
A victim of an acid attack, 36-year-old Keo Srey Vy (R) looks on during lunch with fellow victims, 18-year-old Oeng Sodine (L) and 21-year-old Ith Mouy Neag (C) at the Cambodia Acid Survivors Charity in Kandal province, west of Phnom Penh February 25, 2010. Cambodia's government is drafting a law to specifically target crimes involving acid attacks amidst a rise in such attacks this year. The government is reviewing similar laws in Pakistan, India and Bangladesh to draft tough sentences including life imprisonment for these crimes, police officials said. REUTERS/Chor Sokunthea
A victim of an acid attack, 21-year-old Ith Mouy Neag (C), reacts while fellow victims, 36-year-old Keo Srey Vy (R) and 18-year-old Oeng Sodine (L) speak at the Cambodia Acid Survivors Charity in Kandal province, west of Phnom Penh February 25, 2010. Cambodia's government is drafting a law to specifically target crimes involving acid attacks amidst a rise in such attacks this year. The government is reviewing similar laws in Pakistan, India and Bangladesh to draft tough sentences including life imprisonment for these crimes, police officials said. REUTERS/Chor Sokunthea
Keo Srey Vy, a 36 year-old victim of an acid attack, receives treatment at the Cambodia Acid Survivors Charity in Kandal province, west of Phnom Penh February 25, 2010. Cambodia's government is drafting a law to specifically target crimes involving acid attacks amidst a rise in such attacks this year. The government is reviewing similar laws in Pakistan, India and Bangladesh to draft tough sentences including life imprisonment for these crimes, police officials said. REUTERS/Chor Sokunthea

Cambodia war survivors turn to music

Phun Ouern, landmine victim, and a member of a traditional orchestra, smokes while waiting for the next performance by the group, Friday, March 6, 2009, near Bantay Srey temple on the outskirts of Siem Reap, Cambodia. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)
Nov Rey, 50, an acid attack victim, looks on as she waits to sing during a performance by traditional Cambodian musicians, Friday, March 6, 2009, near Bantay Srey temple on the outskirts of Siem Reap, Cambodia. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)
Phun Ath, blinded by a B-40 rocket attack, pauses between songs, Friday, March 6, 2009, near Bantay Srey temple on the outskirts of Siem Reap, Cambodia. Phun is part of an orchestra, many who have lost limbs or have been injured by landmines, that plays daily for tourists who visit the temple at Bantay Srey. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)
Kham Ny, a traditional Cambodian musician looks on as he plays the 'tro' which is similar to a violin, Friday, March 6, 2009, near Bantay Srey temple on the outskirts of Siem Reap, Cambodia. Kham is part of an orchestra, many who have lost limbs or have been injured by landmines, that plays daily for tourists who visit the temple at Bantay Srey. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)
Traditional Cambodian musicians, many amputees from landmines, gather to play for tourists, Friday, March 6, 2009, near Bantay Srey temple on the outskirts of Siem Reap, Cambodia. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)
Kong Sam Ath, 51, lights incense and offers prayers as he and other traditional Cambodian musicians prepare to perform for tourists, Friday, March 6, 2009, near Bantay Srey temple on the outskirts of Siem Reap, Cambodia. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)
Khan Ny, 55, plays the "tro" a traditional Cambodian musical instrument similar to a violin, Friday, March 6, 2009, near Bantay Srey temple on the outskirts of Siem Reap, Cambodia. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)
Cambodia traditional orchestra leader and landmine victim Khieu Sarath leads this band near Ta Prohm temple in Siem Reap, Cambodia, Saturday, March 7, 2009. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)
Cambodia traditional orchestra leader and landmine victim Khieu Sarath prepares to lead this band near Ta Prohm temple in Siem Reap, Cambodia, Saturday, March 7, 2009. (AP Photo/David Longstreath)

04/12/2009
By DENIS D. GRAY
Associated Press Writer

SIEM REAP, Cambodia—By the walls of ancient temples, just as the morning sun dapples the jungle floor and birds sing, survivors of Cambodia's killing fields and minefields drop their crutches, put aside their artificial limbs or blindly grope for their instruments—and then play music that can break the heart.

A tentative, mournful melody floats from a two-stringed "tro" bowed by Kak Vy, whose right leg is gone. He is joined by a zither plucked by Khieu Sarath, who lost his parents and sisters to Khmer Rouge murderers and whose mine-shattered leg was amputated without morphine. Phun Ath, blinded by a rocket, taps a drum softly.

Now, the first tourists arrive at the wondrous temples of Angkor, and the 20 musicians—amputees, blind, scarred, all destitute—hope that by dusk their playing will have earned them enough to sustain their families for another day. Together, they support more than 100 children and wives.

The musicians' lives mirror Cambodia's agony: 3 million dead in three decades of a savage war, American bombing, the Khmer Rouge reign of terror, a civil conflict and now coping in a country where a third of the people earn less than one dollar a day.

Several members of Ankor's two orchestras say they teetered on the verge of suicide before finding hope by banding together to play the music of their ancestors.

"When I lost my leg, I didn't want to live on this earth anymore," says Khieu Sarath. "Before I lost my leg my friends called me 'friend,' but when I became a disabled man even my close friends would call out, "One legged-man, where are you going?'"

Like almost all the musicians, Khieu Sarath describes his trials beginning during the Khmer Rouge reign of terror in the mid-1970s when some 2 million of his fellow Cambodians perished.

The fanatic communists executed his father because he allowed cows he was tending to stray into a cornfield, and his starving mother because she stole a cup of porridge from the communal kitchen. His two sisters were killed for taking a nap after grueling hours building a dam.

In the civil war that followed the Khmer Rouge fall in 1979, Khieu Sarath set off a land mine during a firefight, writhing in pain for 16 days in a remote jungle until help arrived. Then they tied his hands to a tree.

"My leg was cut like raw meat with a hack saw, without any injections," says the 48-year-old former soldier.

"Life was difficult for a disabled man. At the beginning I did not particularly want to be a musician. But I had no choice. I had to find something that was not difficult for a disabled man and this job fits a lot of people like me," he says.

Khieu Sarath gathered some of the disabled in 1997 and now seven of them play at Angkor's much-visited Ta Phrom, a monastic complex where gnarled roots and soaring trunks of ancient banyan and silk cotton trees intertwine with crumbling, dusky temples—a scene out of Hollywood's "Tomb Raider," which indeed was partially filmed here.
"Victims of Landmines," reads a sign in five languages. If every passing tourist who clicked a camera donated, the group would be rolling in cash, but as it is they're very lucky to earn several dollars apiece, plus $4 daily saved in a communal pot for any among them in distress.

This help is also extended to the second orchestra, which plays at Banteay Srei, the "jewel of Khmer art," a 10th century temple of pinkish sandstone famed for its delicate wall carvings.

Here, the 13 musicians sit at the temple's edge on a blue plastic sheet spread over a forest floor strewn with winter's withered leaves. The buzz of cicadas and the wind's rustle accompany their sometimes bouncy, sometimes elegiac melodies played on instruments very like those depicted on the centuries-old friezes of Angkor.

Most are ex-soldiers, some even one-time battlefield enemies. Several desperate villagers from the surrounding area have joined them, including Nov Rey, the only woman among the 20 whose husband threw acid on her face for a reason she still can't fathom. A lovely smile shines from her scarred face as she relates what it takes to care of her five children alone.

The group was brought together in 1999 by Phun Saroeun, who lost his left leg and two fingers fighting the Khmer Rouge alongside his two brothers, one now blind, the other missing a leg and both also members of the orchestra. Six of their cousins, an entire family, were exterminated by the Khmer Rouge.

"I hope that a regime like the Khmer Rouge will never return to Cambodia. I hope that my children will not have to endure the same suffering as we did," says the 46-year-old father of seven.

The Angkor musicians say the long delayed, United Nations-backed trial of the top five Khmer Rouge leaders, which began in earnest last month, may bring some closure and peace to them and their country.

"As an ordinary person, I want all five of them to publicly admit before the Cambodian people that they are guilty. I want them to confess that they committed genocide," Phun Saroeun says.

But it's the daily struggle and the fate of their children in tomorrow's Cambodia which absorbs most of their energies, thoughts and dreams.

"There is no one to help us disabled people," says Khieu Sarath, who supports eight children, including an adopted son. "We have to rely on ourselves, help ourselves. If we don't sacrifice ourselves for our children, they will not have a bright future."
———
Associated Press Writer Sopheng Cheang contributed to this report.