photo by: Fred Field

Oak Fellow Chanthol Oung

Thousands of miles and several years away from the abuses that propelled her to fight for women's rights in her native Cambodia, Chanthol Oung cannot retell the stories without tears.

Now at Colby as this year's Oak Human Rights Fellow, Oung recalls the pregnant mother of two who tried to escape from her abusive husband; when her neighbors and family refused to take her in, and with nowhere to go, she returned to her husband, who burned her—and their children—to death. He was not arrested.

In her calm, gentle voice, Oung recalls the sexual slaves at a brothel who were beaten for refusing clients. "They ran to marketplace, they ran to newspaper office, and no one helped them, and the gangsters took them back," she said. But later Oung, a young law school graduate with a background in human rights, refused to turn a woman away, despite the danger of challenging brothel owners. "For the girl who ran to us, we hide her."

And so began a mission for which Oung has sacrificed her safety by putting herself in the middle of violent conflict and challenging corruption. What began as a hiding place for one woman escaping prostitution has become a refuge that offers nearly 2,000 victims a year far more than a safe place to sleep.

The Cambodian Women's Crisis Center (CWCC), which Oung founded with a small group of women in 1997, offers vocational training so women need not rely on their husbands financially. Since most of these women have suffered extensive trauma, the center provides counseling. And instead of addressing only the symptoms of the problem, CWCC strikes the heart of the issue, educating communities about rape, domestic violence, sex trafficking and women's rights. "I feel something wrong in the system, in the society," said Oung.

For a woman whose cause has taken over her life, her semester at Colby affords the opportunity to reflect on her work, share experiences and listen to ideas of American colleagues and Colby students, and enjoy a break from her turbulent life. In her high-ceilinged office in Miller Library, the woman whose facial features are as soft as her voice remembers her employees' reaction to the announcement of her fellowship award. "Yeah, you go," some of her 70 staffers said, "but you have to promise to come back."

Even after her husband's death last year left Oung with the responsibility of raising their two daughters, 12 and 14 (both have joined her in Waterville), she cannot stop what she started. Confronting the abuse of women is energizing, she says, as well as intimidating. "We have to be brave if we want to do this kind of work," she conceded. "I also feel afraid, but we have to do it."

Oung's need to take on this work is rooted in her childhood in the 1970s, when her father and brother were killed during Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge movement. "My whole life I live in war," she said in her almost-perfect English.

Oung wasn't the only one living with war. As a society, Cambodians were brutalized during the genocidal Khmer Rouge regime. This violence, she believes, led to today's injustices. She describes her country before the Khmer Rouge takeover as a peaceful one. But when children grow up witnessing nothing but violence, some begin to consider it normal. Oung did not. The violence moved her to work for change.

The context of her mission became clear in her first presentation to Colby students. On day one Oung showed her class the film Samsara, in which a Cambodian man, searching for lost loved ones on a wall of photographs of the dead, says, "Before Pol Pot we thought only of ourselves. Now if we want the spirits of those who died to rest in peace, those of us who are left must change our ways, we must stop being selfish, stop thinking only of ourselves, or we will betray the spirits of those who died here." That feeling of responsibility to make Cambodia a better place seems to have taken hold of Oung, who feels lucky not only to have survived but to have been educated.

Encouraged by her mother, Oung advanced through school but watched more and more girls leave to help at home. By the time Oung reached law school, she says, she was one of only eight women in a class of about 300. While most women in Cambodia rely on men to support them, Oung could stand on her own. Today, she wants to extend that independence to other women. Oung this year has set up a scholarship program to help 600 young women annually attend vocational and public schools.

Having witnessed violence for her entire childhood, Oung refuses to accept a violent world for her children. "I hope that my daughters would live in a peaceful society without harm, without any violence, and they could go to higher education," she said. But given the trauma Cambodians have encountered in the last three decades—and how devalued women have been in their society—she recognizes the challenges.

In a recent lecture, Oung explained that the shortage of educated women in Cambodia means few women hold positions of authority. The country does not have a single female prosecutor. And in a society that believes women should be obedient and that violence in the home is a private matter, male prosecutors often refuse domestic cases. "They still think it's not wrong, and all of them are men!" she said.

Oung's antidote: her organization hired lawyers to represent these women, to prosecute men like the one who burned his family alive. In response to the cultural acceptance of male domination, CWCC has begun educating communities with great success. "We think that attitudes have to be changed," she said. Until Oung and CWCC came along, there was no law in Cambodia prohibiting domestic violence. A law is in the process of being adopted.

And when CWCC rescued girls who had been brought from Vietnam to Cambodia for the sex trade—and found their parents could not afford to bring them back—Oung enlisted the help of other non-governmental organizations to get the victims home. When she found that law enforcement didn't understand its role in combating sex trafficking, CWCC began to investigate cases, at the same time educating the police.

In the early days of CWCC Oung could not get a newspaper reporter to listen to her, let alone write about the organization's crusade. Now, newspapers come to her. "Sometimes the whole day I have to be interviewed," she said with exasperation—and satisfaction.

"When you see the suffering," Oung said, "it really ignites you to do something."