One Million Landmines. One Hundred Families. One Victim.

by Kathleen Tan


Picture this: a young boy, around eight years old but small and skinny for his age, is sitting by a window in his house. His eyes are trained on the children playing outside, children with whom he too used to play. But the children no longer call him to join them; when once he was their closest friend, now they avoid him like the plague.

Sadness and wistfulness flood his heart as he continues to watch them – while he unconsciously nurses the stump that was once his right leg. As surreal as that sounds, it is unfortunately a real story. And that young boy has grown up to be twenty-one-year-old Hort Hak, merely one out of the hundreds of landmine victims in Cambodia.

Hort’s tragic tale is a common one in Cambodia, where between six to seven million active landmines remain hidden all over the country. With so many yet to be detected, it is no surprise that landmine accidents occur frequently, resulting in the deaths of at least two people per day. And those who manage to survive wind up spending the rest of their lives on crutches or in wheelchairs, having lost an arm or a leg or even both at the same time.

The sad truth is that for many, the loss of their limbs is often considered a fate worse than death. By being “incomplete”, so to speak, it becomes very hard for them to find jobs, which subsequently leads to the lack of any steady income, the lack of any “normal” sort of lifestyle, even the lack of any real hope – and most eventually resort to begging on the streets in search of a handout.

Nevertheless, there are others who view their loss of limbs in a more positive manner. While their lives may no longer be the same as they were before their accidents, they are still able to find ways to retain their sense of dignity and self-respect.

And Hort is one such example.

Hort Hak

That is not to say his life has been a bed of roses. In a village of one hundred families, which is surrounded by fields containing one million active landmines, Hort happens to be the first and only landmine victim among them. That kind of notoriety brought him to the attention of non-governmental organizations (NGOs) who consequently provided him with aid. Yet, at the same time, it was a long time before he was accepted by his own fellow villagers, who shunned and ignored him because his missing leg made them uncomfortable – and for some, even fearful.

Despite it all, however, Hort considers himself very, very fortunate: fortunate to be alive, as the same mine which took his leg also took the lives of his older brother and sister; fortunate to be educated, as his schooling – where he also began to pick up English and fortunate to walk again, as he was presented with a free prosthetic leg by Handicap International when he was fourteen. Lastly, Hort is especially fortunate for the chance to make a decent living again.

In fact, Hort has been working since he was twelve. His first job was with the landmine museum in Siem Reap, where he worked as a guide for the tourists. It was an experience he very much enjoyed, as the interaction with the tourists did more to boost his spirits than anything else ever did. Furthermore, not only was he able to practice his halting English by conversing with these tourists, he was also able to share his story with them, thereby spreading awareness on the dangers of these landmines in Cambodia.

Spreading awareness is indeed something very important for Hort, as his dream is to ultimately start a special education and training fund for children who, like him, are surviving landmine victims. He knows just how difficult it is for landmine victims to live independently in Cambodia, so his intention is to start educating and training young children with the knowledge and skills that will ensure their future, regardless of whether they are without a limb or two.

“It won’t be easy, I know,” he says. “But in future, I like to help my country, just like how people help me.”