NEWSLETTER

In 2002, Cambodia and the US had a meeting and Cambodia agreed to take back its refugees. Cambodian refugees who were released from prison that year had a choice: They could return to Cambodia or try to receive immigrant status from the US. The chances of a Cambodian refugee with a criminal record getting immigrant status are not very good.

So, dozens of refugees who had joined gangs in America have returned to Cambodia. A lot of ex-gangsters—former rivals, small time gangsters, leaders of the biggest gangs—hang out now in one big, new gang. The man I met first, Boomer, said, "This is what we're capable of here."

I met Boomer through MySpace, by the way. He has a band called the Straight Refugeez, and about an hour after I wrote to him, he picked me up and took me to the "Cambodian ghetto." That's an alley running through some burned-out lots. The gangsters I met—Trip, Tango, Cobra, KK, and some other guys—were sitting at a folding table were playing pinochle.

"Prison game," they said.



Cambodian gangs are all basically street gangs. They sell drugs, they rob houses, and they "stand on the street and say, 'Fuck it. I'm gonna jack the next motherfucker I see.'" Boomer said, "We're pretty disorganized. When Vietnamese guys pull off a robbery, they have it all planned out, so like, they know where the money is in the house. Cambodian gangs are more like, 'OK, let's just steal a car and hope that there's some shit in it.' Or, 'Let's break in a house and hope for a score.'"

What's the point, you ask?

"Kids don't get into it for the money. It's just, by the time kids are 14 or 15, they don't want to be in school anymore. They want to go out and make a name for themselves on the streets."

And how do you make a name for yourself?

"Oh man. Like, maybe you're known for ripping people off. So everyone knows not to leave shit around when you come over. Or maybe you’re known as a dude who doesn't give a fuck and will just shoot anybody. Or maybe you're known as a dope fiend. Or you like to sniff glue... Lots of ways to make a name for yourself."

Cobra was the only guy who was willing to talk while he played cards. He said he was from Modesto, California and had been in Cambodia about three years. He was married and made a living teaching English. He had plans to buy some land. I asked him what it was like growing up in America, and he told me about the time he almost killed his brother.



"I put a gun right up to his face and said, 'What now motherfucker? I'll fucking kill you!' But then my mom came in and started freaking out. Another time my step-dad was yelling at my other brother and so I went to my room, pulled up the mattress, and took out my sawed-off shotgun. I was like, 'Motherfucker, I am going to kill you.' But then my mom freaked out. But, I mean, that's how bad I was, you know?"

After they finished up their pinochle game we went to a karaoke place called the Gold Star Bar. The guys would pick a song and rap freestyle over the verses then let the chorus play through. They did this with four or five songs. It was also a hostess bar, so after about 45 minutes, these 15 women with numbers clipped to their dresses filed in. The guys basically went apeshit: "Pick one Josh!"

I picked No. 34, a very short woman in a pink dress, and Cobra was like, "Psyched the white dude picked her!"

She poured my drinks and I was allowed to put my arm around her and hold her hand. At around 1 AM, we were finishing a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and they were like "Josh! Another bottle?" and that's when I realized that I was paying. Well, OK. The entire tab came to $42, so it wasn't too big of a deal.

JOSHUA REYNOLDS

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