“We have no choice”: on compulsory evictions and elections in Cambodia

Voters gather round a noticeboard in Phnom Penh. Image: Getty.

“We have to go, we have no choice,” says the young woman. “They are watching me.”

It is end of July and election-day in Cambodia, and out of fear of repercussions, she will go to vote – despite the fact that, the main opposition party having been dissolved, she has no party left for her to support.

The woman, who requested to remain anonymous, stands next to her apartment building in Borei Keila, situated at the heart of the kingdom’s capital Phnom Penh. But it’s an apartment that might exist not much longer.

Borei Keila is one of the longest-standing land-disputes in the country, with company Phanimex laying claim to the lands of hundreds of families. Since the beginning of the dispute more than ten years ago, indeed, hundreds of families have been evicted or accepted compensation. The woman is one of a handful of people left at the site, holding out in hope of receiving adequate compensation.

Over the past few weeks, the Cambodia government has threatened legal actions against those who openly boycotted the vote. This comes after the authorities arrested the opposition leader Kem Sokha, and the Supreme Court dissolved his party, the Cambodia National Rescue Party, at the end of last year.

Seemingly trying to uphold some legitimacy, the government urged people to vote: a low turnout would show the disillusion many voters felt since the dissolution of the CNRP, which won more than 40 per cent of the popular vote in last year’s commune elections.

In the lead-up to the elections, more than 30 news outlets were forced to shut down or taken off air, critical voices arrested, and 118 opposition members banned from politics for five years.

Afraid she will be denied compensation, so as to punish her as a non-voter, the woman is on her way to vote, so that she can show her finger, darkened by indelible ink, for the next few days.  “If I don’t go, I will have pressure,” she says. “I feel quite terrible. This is not what I want to do.”


Despite feeling forced to vote, the woman says she might quietly show her discontent by invalidating her ballot sheet.

A floor down, her neighbor Ming chose a different kind of protest and speaks openly about boycotting the elections. “I think there is no democracy. That’s why I don’t go to vote. There is no party I love, no one I’m satisfied with,” she says.  Ming says going to vote won’t make a difference to her case. “If I vote for them they will still put pressure on me. If I go to vote, they will still evict me.”

Community leader Sar Sorn agrees. “I don’t go to vote because the party I love doesn’t exist anymore, because today’s leadership is destruction. They destroy the nation, they destroy resources, they violate people’s rights, they make people unemployed, and they evict people,” she says.

Her boycott didn’t go unnoticed, however: authorities were monitoring her, Sorn says. That morning, she recounts, she had heard a security personnel saying into his walkie-talkie that she was on her way to the polling station. But she only went there to see how many people showed up, and when she left the school-turned-polling-station, she was followed again. “Wherever I go, I’m monitored,” she says.

Further up north in Boeung Kak area, another woman tells CityMetric how the fear of losing her land might push her to vote. She strongly opposes the government – but says she hasn’t made up her mind yet whether she’ll make her way to the polling station nearby before it closes at 3 pm.

“I will see at 2 or 2:30 pm whether I want to vote,” she says.  “I feel sad and I don’t know what to do. One heart wants to go to vote, one heart does not want to. If I go to vote, it’s equivalent to supporting the Prime Minister and supporting him treating people badly.”

She has also found herself in a land-dispute for several years. The Boeung Kak community used to live around a 90-hectare lake in the north of Phnom Penh. But when Shukaku Inc., the real estate developer owned by ruling party senator Lao Meng Khin, came in in 2007 and filled it in, many saw their houses flooded or destroyed; others were evicted.  Protests turned violent; several activists were arrested.

Tep Vanny, a prominent and award-winning human rights defender from the community, has been in jail for two years based on charges that rights groups say were political.

One woman in her mid-fifties, who also requested to remain anonymous due to fears of repercussions, tells me that she has only been offered a land title for half of the land she is entitled to. She did not receive any compensation when her house was flooded.

 “If I don’t go to vote, they will not give me the land title and accuse me of wrongdoings,” she says. She is also afraid of not receiving public services from the municipality anymore – of being blacklisted if she doesn’t show up at the polling station.

But like Borei Keila residents, she says she will not vote for the ruling party. “Maybe I will leave the ballot blank,” she says.

Later that day, the National Election Committee (NEC) announces turnout. In Phnom Penh, the preliminary turnout grows from 58.4 percent in the morning to 69.7 percent in the afternoon, to a final count of 80.0 percent in the evening – this despite reports of empty polling stations from observers and journalists all afternoon. The same day the ruling party declares a landslide victory; in the coming days, it announces having won all 125 parliamentary seats.

For the Boeung Kak and Borei Keila residents, this was a predictable . “It’s like a single-boxing game,” says Sar Sorn. “A sportsman is hitting alone.”

 
 
 
 

A brief history, and the murky future, of Britain’s almshouses

The Hibbert Almshouses in Clapham, south London. Image: David Curran/Flickr/Creative Commons.

On a slightly meandering walk through south London, I was surprised to stumble across a row of almshouses. I thought these institutions had been left in Dickens’ London, abandoned in the rise of social housing during the 20th century, yet there I was admiring the striking line of terraced homes that is the Hibbert Almshouses.

London is in fact dotted with similar such buildings. Long before social housing became a responsibility of the state, it was almshouses that provided a home for the most vulnerable members of society.

We know the tradition stretches back over a thousand years, with St Oswald’s Hospital in Worcester, the oldest almshouse still in existence, established in 990. Having originally had deep connections to religious institutions, the almshouses took a battering during the dissolution of the monasteries. Yet they were always needed, meaning benefactors would ensure some could stay open.

It was during the Georgian and Victorian eras, when the UK underwent rapid urbanisation, that these institutions really developed. Some 30 per cent of the country’s almshouses were built in this time.

Usually set up at the behest of wealthy donors, they were a direct answer, along with the more notorious workhouses, to the rampant urban destitution of the time. Of course the donors would then bag the glory by lending the almshouses their name; the Hibberts, for example, were two sisters, local to Clapham, who named the houses after their father.

Often there were eligibility requirements imposed; the Hibbert Almshouses were built solely to house elderly impoverished women, but as the years have passed these requirements have somewhat relaxed. But not entirely.

Most almshouses still require people to be from the local area and over the age of 60, which is very understandable. More worryingly some still have requirements of religious beliefs, which you can imagine was far less problematic in the 19th century than in the multi-cultural society in which we live today. Despite the best intentions in the world, the fairly opaque selection process involving a board of trustees and relying on constitutions established in a different era, means government-organised social housing will most likely be more egalitarian.


The country’s current tapestry of almshouses is patchwork at best. Around 1,600 individual charities run 35,000 homes – each with their own management structures. The smallest charities run one or two dwellings, while the largest, the Durham Aged Mineworkers’ Homes, owns 1,700 in the north-east of England. The Almshouse Association unifies these groups, offering advice and lobbying for policy change through the All-Party Parliamentary Group on Almshouses.

The number of almshouses may appear small compared to the four million social houses provided by local authorities and housing associations, but they are still an important contribution to the texture of the UK’s social housing landscape, as well as being an important aspect of the country’s heritage (over 30 per cent of almshouses are listed buildings).

Pretty buildings aside, in the face of a housing crisis that is magnified in regards to social housing, almshouses offer an essential home to thousands of people in need. The failing in governance of the individual charities were identified in an independent report as one of the key threats to their longevity.

A more involved Almshouse Association could not only ensure the survival of these important housing providers, but also insist on fairer eligibility requirements: bringing this ancient and valuable institution into the 21st century whilst ensuring its future.