Angkor Wat Copycat? Thailand Accused of Cultural Theft at UNESCO
Imagine two neighbors, separated by a fence. One, a master craftsman, spends decades perfecting a complex musical instrument, its every note, every curve meticulously planned and executed. The other, admiring the instrument’s haunting melodies, builds their own, borrowing heavily from the original — the same key signatures, similar wood, even echoing rhythmic patterns. Is it homage, artistic license, or a claim to the first instrument’s very soul? That question, a timeless tug-of-war over cultural dominion, reverberated at a UNESCO meeting this week, exposing a fundamental truth: the past isn’t history; it’s territory.
Cambodia accused Thailand of “shamelessly imitating” Angkor Wat, the breathtaking 12th-century temple complex, in its relatively new Wat Phu Manfa Khaosod. Cambodia’s Culture Minister Pheung Sakuna argued the imitation damages the “universal value” of the World Heritage site. Thailand’s delegate, Seehasak Phuangketkaew, retorted that the claims were politically motivated and dismissed the notion that Wat Phu Manfa was a copy. He claims it’s drawing inspiration from several locations in Thailand.
Cultural heritage should bring people together, not divide them.
That quote from Seehasak Phuangketkaew is, of course, precisely what should happen. However, cultural heritage is also a potent symbol of national identity, a source of tourism revenue, and a crucial element in negotiating trade deals, influencing international policy, and securing geopolitical alliances. Claims of cultural appropriation are rarely about the art, architecture or artifacts themselves, but about the control and ownership of their associated narrative — and the tangible benefits that narrative bestows.
The Angkor Wat dispute, in many ways, mirrors the tensions surrounding the Elgin Marbles, claimed by Greece from the British Museum. Or even the debates over repatriation of Native American artifacts from museums across the United States. Or consider the fight over the Benin Bronzes, looted by British forces in 1897 and now subject to intense pressure for return. These disputes often boil down to defining the term “cultural theft” and what constitutes rightful ownership of cultural objects, but beneath that lies the deeper question of who decides what is theft and what is legitimate inheritance.
To understand this, we have to zoom out. Angkor Wat is more than just a stunning architectural achievement. It is a symbol of the Khmer empire, which once dominated much of Southeast Asia. Cambodia, as the inheritor of that legacy, naturally feels a strong sense of ownership, particularly considering their traumatic recent history, including the devastating Khmer Rouge regime, which sought to erase much of Cambodia’s cultural past. The Khmer Rouge didn’t just target people; they targeted cultural artifacts, symbols, and traditions, recognizing that these were the building blocks of collective identity.
But Thailand, too, has its own rich history and architectural traditions. Wat Phu Manfa, constructed relatively recently, may be attempting to capture some of the grandeur and spiritual significance associated with Angkor, but it’s also part of a broader trend in Thailand of investing in public Buddhist architecture, according to researchers like Brooke Schedneck from Rhodes College, who studies contemporary Thai Buddhism. And, crucially, these investments often coincide with periods of heightened national aspiration and economic development, serving as visual representations of progress and cultural resurgence. So, where is the line between artistic influence and unacceptable imitation?
The stakes are much bigger than just two temples. As Professor Benedict Anderson, in his seminal work “Imagined Communities,” argued, national identities are often constructed and maintained through shared stories, symbols, and historical narratives. Control over those narratives translates to power and influence, both domestically and internationally. So, when cultural symbols are perceived to be replicated or misappropriated, it strikes at the very core of that national identity. It’s not simply a matter of aesthetics; it’s a challenge to the very foundation of a nation’s self-perception.
This isn’t just about the past; it’s about the future. As tourism becomes an increasingly important source of revenue for both countries, controlling the narrative surrounding Angkor Wat—and its perceived copies—becomes crucial. Whose temple draws more tourists? Whose version of history prevails? And, perhaps more subtly, whose cultural brand becomes synonymous with Southeast Asian heritage on the global stage? These are the questions lurking beneath the surface of this diplomatic spat.
Ultimately, the Angkor Wat imbroglio serves as a reminder that cultural heritage is rarely a neutral subject. It is always intertwined with questions of power, identity, and economic interests. To truly bridge divides, we must acknowledge the complexities of cultural ownership and engage in respectful dialogue that moves beyond accusations and toward a shared understanding of our shared past. And, perhaps most importantly, acknowledge the profoundly uneven power dynamics that shape not just the interpretation of that past, but also the very act of defining what constitutes “heritage” in the first place. We need to ask: Who gets to write the history, and who gets erased?
