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Works of Radical Imagination

Vannak Prum at the People's Forum, May 2018 (Photo by Jocelyn Pederick)

Remembering Vannak Anan Prum, author and illustrator of The Dead Eye and the Deep Blue Sea

Manfred Hornung, August 8, 2025

In Memory of Vannak

In early December 2009, I received a message from a Malaysian partner organization informing me that the police authorities in Sibu and Mukah, in the state of Sarawak, East Malaysia, were requesting assistance with the cases of a group of Cambodian fishermen. By then, I had already spent several years working with the Cambodian human rights organization LICADHO, supporting Cambodian fishermen who had been trafficked into the Thai commercial fishing fleet. Almost all of these men had endured unspeakable abuse aboard trawlers in the South China Sea—some held captive on these floating prisons for years. Traumatized and desperate, their only hope of escape was to “jump ship” whenever they spotted land.

Many did just that along the shores of Sarawak, including a then 33-year-old man from Pursat province in Cambodia: Prum Vannak Anan. This was how we first met—on 11 December 2009, in a police detention facility in the coastal town of Mukah. Vannak and his Cambodian cellmate bore visible injuries. They looked emaciated and utterly exhausted. At first, the police officials were extremely strict and uncooperative. They would not allow us to bring extra food or hygiene items for the two men, and initially refused even to remove their handcuffs for the interviews. But something changed over the two days I spent in and around the Mukah police station. And I remain convinced that this shift had everything to do with Vannak‘s unique and disarming way of telling his story. His account of his three years at sea and in Sarawak was almost laconic in tone—yet so detailed and truthful, it was deeply striking. His quiet composure clearly resonated with the police officers. By the end of the second interview session, the head of the station allowed us to buy supplies for Vannak and his friend, even driving us in a police car to the local market to do the shopping for them.

When Vannak finally returned to Cambodia on 14 May 2010, after a long and painful repatriation process, I met him and seven other returnees at the LICADHO office to discuss psychosocial support and other next steps. During one of those meetings, Vannak said he wanted to give me a present. It was a pencil drawing of the trawler he had been trapped on, with a portrait of himself in the upper right corner, looking down on the vessel teeming with laboring seamen. The image was breathtaking—full of emotion and poise. I still have that drawing. I have made sure to take it with me everywhere I haved moved since. That gift marked the beginning of an idea: to tell his story through drawings, not just for the world, but first and foremost for his wife and family—to help them understand, and most of all, believe what he had been through.

As he worked on illustrating his story, I continued to meet with Vannak regularly in Phnom Penh or in his home village in Pursat. On my missions to Sarawak, I had taken photos of all the major trafficking sites around the towns of Sarikei, Sibu, and Mukah for the case files. I was stunned to recognize many of these places in Vannak‘s drawings — rendered in minute detail, even though he had never seen any of my photos. In some of those places, he had only spent a few days — or even just hours —yet months later, he drew them from memory as though he was still standing there. It was remarkable. Years later, he told a newspaper: "The images are always there. I can remember all the scenes, and so no, it is not painful for me. It is my pleasure, actually."

I will also never forget Vannak‘s generosity and empathy toward his fellow fishermen. One day, we learned that one of the younger returnees had stepped on a landmine along the Thai-Cambodian border while collecting firewood for charcoal production. Without hesitation, Vannak came with us to help find medical care for him and to offer comfort to his friend and his family. Over the years, I learned so much from Vannak. I owe him a great deal. In that same interview, he also said: "I never took one class. But I enjoy art. Painting is something I was born to do." So true.

Rest in peace, Vannak.

Manfred



Vannack before his launch event in Washington, DC (2018)

Jocelyn Pederick, August 11, 2025

Vale Vannak
I first met Vannak at his mother's house. He talked for hours and drew his life story with a ballpoint pen, the ink images flowing onto the paper almost directly from his wiry self-tattooed forearms. I told him this should be a book, and he said, "I know." That was the start of our friendship.

As an artist, Vannak was always drawing. He told his own story through his art to everyone, all the time. He talked about going back to capture more, to record the stories left behind in the haste of escaping with nothing but his memories. Vannak's ability to render this other world revealed places and destinies hidden behind the veils of modern slavery. Vannak's pen was a light, capturing the villains and hidden dramas of life and death in an underworld that other survivors have since confirmed in their own testimonies.

His artwork was vivid, beautiful, symbolic, dramatic, and naive. It was incredible to watch him draw out scenes of this dark odyssey with his humble materials: just a sketchbook, coloured pencils, and a black Artline pen. With his pen, he could create detailed, almost forensic renditions of worlds that were stored in a photographic memory, that he was driven to share. He believed that if people truly saw what had happened, they would stop it from happening again.

Vannak travelled the world, sharing his story. He met with then Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, movie stars, human rights advocates, and journalists from some of the world's most influential media outlets. He navigated all these encounters effortlessly, with quiet confidence, never losing himself. He moved between vastly different worlds with humour and charm, undaunted by barriers of language or power. People from across the globe embraced his book and his story, becoming allies from afar, people like Tania and Paul Abramson, Martina Vandenberg, Minky Worden, and many others.

He could be complicated and troubled, like many who have endured what he did. He was also generous and very funny, with a joyful, wry, and cheeky wit. After not seeing each other for months, he would arrive with a carton of cigarettes, and we would drink coffee and smoke and laugh at my broken Khmer language skills.

When we lost touch and were trying to find him, we thought he might have returned to Thailand to the boats. As impossible as it sounds, he always said he needed to capture that story so people would know what was going on.
The details of his death are unclear. He was with friends, they had been drinking, and he left. Later, his body was found. Taken to the local pagoda, he was cremated, and his remains are with his family in Kampong Speu.
This July, I went to Cambodia to take part in a small ceremony for Vannak at his brother's house. Local monks led a ceremony that was attended by his children, ex-wife, father, brothers, sisters, and their partners, their children, and many others from the local area. There were lots of stories about Vannak, both good and bad, but most agreed he had a "really good heart" (mien chet l’aw).

At the ceremony, people lit incense and slowly and deliberately poured water to release all the bad spirits and feelings, to be cleansed. We all hoped Vannak was finally free of all the pain, sadness, and troubles of his life. As clichéd as it sounds, wherever he is, I hope he knows his story made a difference and had an impact on people. He changed my life. He was an extraordinary and immensely important person who changed the world in his own way.

Vannak is survived by his two children, Sokea and Soknan.

Jocelyn Pederick 
 

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