L.B.: A Base for Cambodia Rebels’ War

For years, few outward signs betrayed the true nature of Tea Chamrath’s new American life.

Having fled the turmoil of his native Cambodia, he found an apartment in North Long Beach. He got a job as a map-maker, practiced his English and saved his money. He brought his family over, a couple at a time.

He appeared to be building a future here. But Tea, who had been a marine commander in Cambodia, had other plans. He was getting ready to go to war.

The clues were there but were hardly noticed by those who did not know him well. He slept little--”mental preparation,” he explained. He searched dozens of newspapers for dispatches about Southeast Asia, pored over maps and attended meetings with other refugees nearly every night.

Eventually, he knew, the call would come from overseas. When it did, he obeyed, returning to the nation he had escaped, leaving his parents and siblings behind in America.

Tea had joined the rebel troops fighting against long odds to topple the current regime in Phnom Penh, a government installed by Vietnam.

The resistance is receiving active help from Cambodians in the United States, who send money, medicine, even manpower, when they can. The hub of the American front--which includes Cambodian communities throughout the United States--is Long Beach. That is not surprising, in light of the 10,000 refugees who have settled here and the 15,000 more in neighboring cities in southeast Los Angeles County and northern Orange County.

Many of the refugees were high-ranking military officers or cabinet ministers in the governments of Prince Norodom Sihanouk and his successor, Lon Nol (now a Fullerton resident). They came here to escape the takeover by Cambodian communists in 1975 and then an invasion by the Vietnamese, who set up a figurehead government in Cambodia in 1979. (See story this page.)

Though the resistance movement, which is made up of three factions, is recognized by the United Nations as Cambodia’s legal government, the refugees’ non-Cambodian neighbors and colleagues know little about it. To them, the Cambodians are doughnut bakers, welfare counselors, owners of corner markets and jewelry stores--immigrants trying to make a living like everyone else.

“My co-workers don’t even know where Cambodia is,” said one Orange County woman employed by a bank. Her husband, Sak Suthsakhan, was Lon Nol’s commander-in-chief before the fall of Phnom Penh in 1975; she does not mention that to outsiders.

Her husband, like Tea, is one of about 30 exiles who have been recruited during the past four years for leadership positions in the resistance. They visit their American homes only when they need to recover from illness or renew their U.S. residency documents.

The rebel commanders are not asking for foot soldiers; there are more already in Cambodia than can be armed and fed. It is skill that is needed--in military strategy, in radio communications, in medicine.

Preoccupied With War

Among the refugees here, a preoccupation with the war is evident. Everywhere in the Cambodian community around 10th Street in Long Beach, countertop cans are set out to collect coins for the rebels. Battle updates are provided in locally published Cambodian-language newspapers.

Hundreds participate in whatever ways they can: attending rallies in public parks to express support for the resistance; selling incense and popcorn to raise money; signing up to send a monthly stipend in the “Sponsor-a-Guerrilla” program launched by one of the three rebel groups.

In recent months, the effort has become even more visible. Harsh Vietnamese attacks upon the rebels along the Thailand-Cambodia border have heightened interest and concern among the local Cambodian community.

Retreat to Thailand

Overseas, most of the rebels have retreated into Thailand to regroup and decide on a new strategy after Vietnamese troops last week overran Tatum, their last major base.

The resistance is not without controversy here. In February, for example, 11 former military and political figures refused requests from the rebels to join the battle.

One was disillusioned by the squabbling among the leaders of three resistance factions, recruiters said. The others gave various reasons: Their health is poor or they want to stay in America to support their families here.

Still, since the Vietnamese offensive began in December, at least 25 others have approached the local resistance liaisons, offering to go back. More volunteers are expected to come forward after an upcoming visit by Norodom Ranariddh, son of the rebel coalition’s president, Prince Sihanouk.

Their experiences will mirror those of the exiles who have already chosen to commute to war. For them and for their families, the separation means continued upheaval in lives that have been marked by turbulence for more than a decade--first in Cambodia, then in the United States, and now in both countries at once.

More than three years have passed since Tea Chamrath first left for the front. He has been back to Long Beach three times. The first two visits, from March to June of 1982 and from January to March of 1983, were for convalescence. He had caught malaria.

The most recent visit began Dec. 14, 1984. He needed to renew his re-entry permit--a document that allows a resident alien to travel between the United States and other countries. He was not happy about being so far from his rebel base once again, and his parents knew it.

Their usually talkative son did not have much to say. And he spent little time at their apartment in a gray clapboard house near 10th Street.

One week, he traveled to San Jose, Seattle and Portland. Cambodians in those cities paid his air fare; they wanted to hear about the rebels’ plans. Maybe, Tea thought, they would donate more money if they could be convinced that the Vietnamese offensive would not crush the guerrillas.

In Long Beach, Tea went out to dinner every night, updating the military situation for local recruiters and telling wives about their husbands at the camps.

During the day, he could often be found in the office of a 10th Street market that doubles as headquarters for some local recruiters and fund-raisers.

At 39, he is thin, almost gaunt, with angular features and close-cropped hair that gives extra prominence to his ears. One January morning, he sat in the office, on the edge of a folding chair, leaning forward with his hands clasped, chewing gum methodically. He wanted to explain his impatience to leave.

“All the Cambodians must fight for Cambodia. If we stay here we have good jobs. I would have a car, but in mind, all is not calm,” he said, searching for the words.

In Charge of Logistics

He was an important man at Tatum, a camp in northern Cambodia near the Thai border. Tea was responsible for logistics, the procuring and transportation of soldiers and supplies.

The camp was a new one, with about 4,000 soldiers defending about 30,000 refugees from the Vietnamese-controlled interior. Its predecessor had been destroyed in 1983 by the Vietnamese, who forced hundreds of refugees back under the puppet government’s control. And Tea Chamrath was sick in Long Beach during that defeat.

He didn’t want that scenario repeated. During the next attack, he wanted to be there to help. And though Tatum had so far been spared by the latest Vietnamese mortar fire, he worried that the next round would come soon.

The Wrong Place

When he is at the camp, he still worries about being in the wrong place. Then, he said, “I miss Long Beach a lot, especially my family. My mom and my father, they are old, they are sick. I think something bad (will) happen and I cannot be there to see.”

For their part, Tea’s 66-year-old mother, Yon Heng, and 70-year-old father, Tea Sman, say they are coping in America better than they had expected to. They had been frightened at first when Tea announced, one month after their arrival from a Thai refugee camp, that he soon would be leaving.

But they found that they can depend upon welfare payments for their food and rent, and knew that no matter what, life in Long Beach was easier than at Tatum, where Tea lived in a bamboo hut that he built. Refugees there fasted six days a month to conserve food, and children often went unclothed.

Tea’s parents have accepted that they will not return to their rice-farming village in Battambang province. Whatever happens in Cambodia, they say, they are too old to make the trip back.

They are even growing used to their son’s line of work. They are proud of him. But they cannot help fearing for his safety. They lost another son in Cambodia. Missing since 1977, he is 47, if he is alive.

Other Long Beach relations are having a far more difficult time. One woman’s marriage has foundered since her husband went overseas. Another was laid off twice from jobs, with three children to support.

Another woman, Lim Siv, has found herself a victim of her husband’s success. A politician in Cambodia, 47-year-old Lu Laysreng had prospered in America as an entrepreneur, establishing a movie theater, a restaurant and a seafood market in Long Beach, a second restaurant in Westminster.

Then Lu left to set up a radio communications network for the rebels. He charged Lim, 33, with supervising the six children, the two homes and the businesses.

Speaks Little English

She does not speak much English. She writes none at all. “The money runs away from me,” she said.

For a time, she telephoned Bangkok whenever she needed advice. The rebels maintain an office there and she could leave word for her husband.

Someone would get the message to him: Call home. The grill at the Mekong Restaurant is broken.

But “if I call him too many times, he gets mad,” Lim said. “The phone’s not free.”

During one visit over the summer, her husband sold the Long Beach restaurant. After he left, though, Lim still floundered.

Last fall, she heard that Prince Sihanouk was coming to San Diego; Cambodians from all over the state prepared to go there for his lecture. Lim wanted a private audience. She got one, and told Sihanouk’s son that she needed her husband to come back home “to fix the theater. Two weeks is all I need.”

The rebel commanders allowed her husband four weeks’ leave. And she extracted a promise from Lu: “My husband, he told me when Cambodia be good, he will come to the United States and go to work again.”

The California connection began years ago at a wedding, with guests who could not celebrate. Instead, they agonized about their country’s takeover by the Khmer Rouge, the Cambodian communists. And so, the next evening, Aug. 1, 1976, a handful of men gathered in a Lakewood garage.

The notion seemed far-fetched, but they vowed to return to fight, christening their group “Seiha”-- the Cambodian word for August--in honor of their inaugural meeting.

Every evening, after work or school, they headed to the garage to talk about regaining their homeland. Eventually they made contact with their counterparts across the country and in France, Australia and Canada.

Two Visas Obtained

After three months’ effort, they got visas to Thailand for two of their number: Teap Ben, a former army general, and King Men, a one-time colonel. The pair went to the Thai-Cambodian border for three months to study the situation.

But at that point, Seiha’s members concluded they couldn’t do much. As one member’s wife explained: “We thought, this is between Cambodian and Cambodian. Maybe this is good and the fighting has stopped. Maybe we let them rule for awhile.”

Then word of mass executions and widespread starvation filtered from Cambodia to Seiha. Founding members say the group’s roster grew to about 250 residents of California, Washington and Oregon.

In December, 1978, the Vietnamese invaded and then set up a figurehead government. The fight was no longer Cambodian versus Cambodian. And Seiha directors were glad they had organized and made themselves known to other refugees around the world.

In 1979, the refugees held what they still call “the first Cambodian convention,” though there has not been a second, at Cal State Long Beach. More than 1,000 Cambodians met to decide who should be their leader if a resistance should be established. They chose Prince Sihanouk. Lon Nol, who was aged and ailing, gave his consent.

In 1980, a letter arrived from Prince Sihanouk, informing Seiha that he had formed the Front Uni National pour un Cambodge Independent, Neutre, Pacifique et Cooperatif --The National Front for an Independent, Neutral, Peaceful and Cooperative Cambodia. The former ruler asked for help in wresting control of Cambodia from the Vietnamese.

Everything changed then. The Front set up a Bangkok office; Thai government policy changed; visas became easier to obtain.

Next came negotiations between husbands and wives, sons and parents.

Teap Ben’s wife, Sokha, 36, said: “We have a talk. But I decided already I have to let him go. Even if I’m sad, I don’t want him to know. Not too much. I want him to be clear to go there.”

Besides, she added, “If I said no, he would go anyway, just delay the time.” Teap, 54, left Aug. 1, 1981.

Tea Chamrath’s parents say they also knew better than to argue. Their son had been headstrong “since he was a little boy,” the father said. Tea left Aug. 7, 1981.

Lu Laysreng and Lim Siv had a more emotional discussion. “I get scared,” said Lim Siv, who lived for five years under Khmer Rouge rule in Cambodia, hiding much of that time in the mountains. “I did not want him to go.” In the end, she gave in because “my husband, he cry. He cry a lot.” Lu left in February of 1984.

Yang Sem stayed in America while his friends went off to war. He volunteers many hours to Seiha, so much time that his colleagues at a Los Angeles consulting firm look askance at his “terrorist activities.” He travels to Long Beach nearly every night from the Alhambra home he shares with his wife and three teen-age children to attend meetings and cable Bangkok and organize fund-raising jobs.

He knows there are many who gossip that he should do more. “People say I should go back” to fight alongside the others, said Yang, 42.

Frequently, Yang does travel to the camps--about a dozen times since 1981. But his function is merely to observe and report back to the local Cambodians.

“When people give money, they want information. They want you to give them some hope,” he said.

Even the families of the fighters know little about the progress of the war. Mail delivery is sporadic. When a top commander travels from the camps in Cambodia to Bangkok in Thailand, telephone calls are possible--but they are expensive.

Said Sokha Teap: “When we talk, my husband says he’s OK; his friends are OK; he says, ‘How’s the family?’ Then he says, ‘OK, we have to cut’ ” the call short.

For quick updates, whenever there is a battle, she telephones Yang or his cousin, Nil Hul, who owns the 10th Street market that is now Seiha’s office. The two men are in contact with the Sihanouk group’s office in Bangkok.

Fund raising is constant. Sokha Teap knocks on friends’ doors for money and hands her collection over to Seiha for the Sihanouk troops whenever the pot reaches $500.

Another of the three resistance factions, which also has supporters in the United States, has asked Cambodians in the United States to donate $40 a month to “adopt” a soldier overseas.

It is rare when a rebel who has visited California departs with less than $1,000 for his cause.

Tea Chamrath left Long Beach bound for Singapore, Bangkok and Tatum on Jan. 30. That last day, he reserved for his family.

About 35 of his relatives live in California now; about noon they crowded into his parents’ home for his favorite meal--his sister’s Cambodian sausage and a sweet and sour vegetable dish. The afternoon slipped into evening; they stayed for dinner. Nobody talked about the war.

The whole group formed a convoy, heading up the freeway to Los Angeles International Airport about 6:30 p.m. Tea did not want to be late for his 10:15 p.m. plane.

His family waited with him; friends began to arrive. Tea went from one to the other, saying goodby as each handed him $20 or $30 to take to the rebels. One sister’s eyes misted over. His parents resolved to stay calm.

When it was time to board Singapore Airlines Flight 15, he picked up his luggage: one suitcase, one garment bag. And then he was gone.

No one in Long Beach has heard from him since. Last week, Tatum fell to the Vietnamese.