Thailand’s Eviction of Cambodians Exposes Scars of Empire on Disputed Land
Here’s a shot across the bow, but don’t mistake the Cambodian villagers for the ultimate target. This isn’t just about who gets to farm which patch of land; it’s about the very legitimacy of borders and the stories we tell ourselves to justify them. Thailand issuing trilingual eviction notices — Thai, English, Khmer — to Cambodians squatting on disputed forest land, under threat of jail time and fines, sounds like a local land dispute. It is. But it also exposes a far deeper, uglier truth: borders are rarely, if ever, clean lines drawn on a map, especially where history is measured in centuries and human movement in millennia. They are, more often than not, scars of empire, etched by power, not consensus.
These eviction notices, posted by Thai authorities according to Khaosod, follow a heated exchange at the UN between Thai and Cambodian officials. Each accuses the other of violations. The crux? Thailand claims the land is protected forest, while Cambodia argues its villagers have lived there for decades, some displaced during the Cambodian civil war. But even that framing elides a crucial point: these “disputes” are themselves products of colonial mapping exercises, often conducted with scant regard for existing patterns of land use or ethnic distribution.
“We’re both angry and frustrated because the military won’t cooperate with us,” said Waraporn Thong, 63, a former village leader of Ban Nong Ya Kaew, perfectly encapsulating the simmering resentment.
The 1941 Forest Act cited in the notices is crucial here. It’s a piece of legislation created in a specific historical context, one likely prioritizing state control and resource extraction rather than the rights of long-term inhabitants. Consider the era: Thailand, then Siam, was navigating the pressures of European colonialism and the rise of resource nationalism. These forest acts, replicated across the region, weren’t just about conservation; they were about asserting sovereign control over resources, often mimicking European models that dispossessed rural communities in the name of progress. That’s a pattern repeated throughout Southeast Asia, where colonial legacies and powerful central governments often override the customary land rights of marginalized communities.
This isn’t just about trees and borders; it’s about power and belonging. Who gets to define who belongs, and where? These “protected forests” are, in effect, tools used to solidify state control, often at the expense of those who have relied on these lands for generations. We see this pattern globally, with conservation efforts sometimes displacing indigenous populations, justified by notions of “preserving nature” from the very people who have coexisted with it for centuries. Think of the creation of national parks in the American West, often at the direct expense of Native American tribes who were forcibly removed from their ancestral lands. Same script, different stage.
Think about it. Aerial photographs used to identify 40 Cambodian households in Ban Nong Ya Kaew. The Thai military blocking Thai villagers from even approaching the border. A 25-meter Thai flag displayed in a calculated act of nationalism. These are not isolated incidents but rather a choreography of power, designed to reinforce national identity while simultaneously marginalizing perceived outsiders. This is about performative sovereignty, a spectacle designed to demonstrate control, regardless of the human cost.
As legal scholar Balakrishnan Rajagopal has argued, “International law is not a neutral arbiter but often reflects the interests of powerful states.” (Though that applies to international law, the sentiment could easily be extended to a nation’s legal system too.) The same could be said of national law, which is applied with varying degrees of enthusiasm based on whom it targets.
Consider the broader context. Cambodia endured immense suffering in the late 20th century — years of American bombing during the Vietnam war (the impacts of which are still felt), then the brutal Khmer Rouge regime. People fled across the border. Those fleeing across the border didn’t necessarily understand or care about the clean lines on the map. When survival is at stake, lines fade. Now, those lines are being aggressively redrawn. And not just redrawn, but re-legitimized with the full force of the state.
What happens to those Cambodian villagers? They will likely be forced further into Cambodia, displaced again. And what does this eviction accomplish? It reinforces a nationalist narrative. It distracts from internal problems. But it solves nothing in the long run. It doesn’t address the underlying drivers of migration, nor does it heal the historical wounds that fuel these border disputes. The underlying issues of poverty, migration, and historical grievances will fester, ensuring that this border, like so many others, remains a site of tension, a testament to the enduring legacy of artificial lines drawn by forces indifferent to the lives they divide. More than that, it’s a reminder that the stories we tell about nations, borders, and belonging are always, at their core, stories about who gets to wield power and who pays the price.
