Rolls of razor wire now run through the middle of the village Cambodia calls Chouk Chey, and on through fields of sugar cane. Behind them, just over the border, tall black screens rise up from the ground, concealing the Thai soldiers who put them up. This is the new, hard border between the two countries, which was once open and easily crossed by people from both sides. Then, at 15:20 local time on 13 August, that changed.
The Thai soldiers came and asked us to leave, said Huis Malis. Then they rolled out the razor wire. I asked if I could go back to get my cooking pots. They gave me just 20 minutes. Hers is one of 13 families who have been cut off from houses and fields on the other side of the wire where they say they have been living and working for decades.
Signs have now been erected by the Thai authorities warning Cambodians that they have been illegally encroaching on Thai territory. In Chouk Chey, they argue, the border should run in a straight line between two stone boundary markers which were agreed and installed more than a century ago. Thailand says it is merely securing its territory, given the current state of conflict with Cambodia. That is not the way Cambodia sees it.
Months of tension along disputed parts of their border erupted into open conflict in July, leaving around 40 people dead. Since then a fragile ceasefire has held, although a war of words, fuelled by nationalist sentiments on social media, has kept both sides on edge.
The BBC has been to border areas of Cambodia, meeting people caught in the middle and seeing some of the damage left by the five days of shelling and bombing. In Chouk Chey, Provincial Governor Oum Reatrey bemoaned the economic impact on the community of Thailand's actions. He estimates they are losing one million dollars a day in customs revenue from the border closure.
No one has yet come up with a figure for how much the conflict between Cambodia and Thailand has cost, but it is certainly high. Billions of dollars in annual trade has slowed to a trickle. Hundreds of thousands of Cambodian workers have left Thailand, and Thai tourists have stopped going the other way. The brand new Chinese-built airport terminal at Siem Reap, gateway to the famed temple complex of Angkor Wat, is deserted.
We were also shown videos of frustrated residents pulling down the razor wire in front of the Thai soldiers on one occasion. The governor said they were now being told to avoid confrontations, but anger spilled over in another confrontation with Thai troops on 4 September.
In northern Cambodia there are other visible costs of the war. The temple of Preah Vihear, perched on a forested cliff-top right next to the border, is at the heart of the dispute between the two countries, and the historic narratives each likes to tell about itself.
Access to the magnificent 1,000-year-old temple has always been much easier from the Thai side. Our four-wheel drive vehicle struggled up the steep road the Cambodians have built to climb the cliff. Once inside the temple complex it was clear it had suffered in the artillery exchanges of late July: two of the ancient stone stairways have been shattered while other parts of the temple were chipped or broken by shell-fire, the walls pockmarked by shrapnel, with dozens of rain-filled craters on the ground.
Both countries are now using issues like this to try to drum up international sympathy. Cambodia has complained to Unesco about the damage to Preah Vihear, and describes 18 of its soldiers captured just after the ceasefire came into effect as hostages. Thailand has shown evidence that Cambodian forces are still laying landmines along the border, injuring many Thai soldiers, which it argues shows bad faith in its commitment to honour the ceasefire.
But all the Cambodian officials we met stressed their eagerness to end the conflict and restore relations with their larger neighbour. Behind this though was another anxiety, one that pervades Cambodian history: that of being a smaller country surrounded by more powerful neighbours. Both sides are suffering from the border closure, but it is likely that Cambodia, much poorer than Thailand, is suffering more.
While politicians and officials continue to tussle, many Cambodians displaced by the fighting have still not gone home, despite grim conditions in the temporary camps they were moved to. Five thousand families were living under rudimentary tarpaulins in the camp we visited. A woman in the Cambodian camp stated, As I live close to the border I don't dare go back.
A large sign had been put across the main track running through the camp reading, Cambodia needs peace – final. That was a sentiment we heard from everyone we spoke to in Cambodia. But for that to happen leaders, both civilian and military, in both countries need to tone down the uncompromising nationalist rhetoric which now characterises their dispute.
The Thai soldiers came and asked us to leave, said Huis Malis. Then they rolled out the razor wire. I asked if I could go back to get my cooking pots. They gave me just 20 minutes. Hers is one of 13 families who have been cut off from houses and fields on the other side of the wire where they say they have been living and working for decades.
Signs have now been erected by the Thai authorities warning Cambodians that they have been illegally encroaching on Thai territory. In Chouk Chey, they argue, the border should run in a straight line between two stone boundary markers which were agreed and installed more than a century ago. Thailand says it is merely securing its territory, given the current state of conflict with Cambodia. That is not the way Cambodia sees it.
Months of tension along disputed parts of their border erupted into open conflict in July, leaving around 40 people dead. Since then a fragile ceasefire has held, although a war of words, fuelled by nationalist sentiments on social media, has kept both sides on edge.
The BBC has been to border areas of Cambodia, meeting people caught in the middle and seeing some of the damage left by the five days of shelling and bombing. In Chouk Chey, Provincial Governor Oum Reatrey bemoaned the economic impact on the community of Thailand's actions. He estimates they are losing one million dollars a day in customs revenue from the border closure.
No one has yet come up with a figure for how much the conflict between Cambodia and Thailand has cost, but it is certainly high. Billions of dollars in annual trade has slowed to a trickle. Hundreds of thousands of Cambodian workers have left Thailand, and Thai tourists have stopped going the other way. The brand new Chinese-built airport terminal at Siem Reap, gateway to the famed temple complex of Angkor Wat, is deserted.
We were also shown videos of frustrated residents pulling down the razor wire in front of the Thai soldiers on one occasion. The governor said they were now being told to avoid confrontations, but anger spilled over in another confrontation with Thai troops on 4 September.
In northern Cambodia there are other visible costs of the war. The temple of Preah Vihear, perched on a forested cliff-top right next to the border, is at the heart of the dispute between the two countries, and the historic narratives each likes to tell about itself.
Access to the magnificent 1,000-year-old temple has always been much easier from the Thai side. Our four-wheel drive vehicle struggled up the steep road the Cambodians have built to climb the cliff. Once inside the temple complex it was clear it had suffered in the artillery exchanges of late July: two of the ancient stone stairways have been shattered while other parts of the temple were chipped or broken by shell-fire, the walls pockmarked by shrapnel, with dozens of rain-filled craters on the ground.
Both countries are now using issues like this to try to drum up international sympathy. Cambodia has complained to Unesco about the damage to Preah Vihear, and describes 18 of its soldiers captured just after the ceasefire came into effect as hostages. Thailand has shown evidence that Cambodian forces are still laying landmines along the border, injuring many Thai soldiers, which it argues shows bad faith in its commitment to honour the ceasefire.
But all the Cambodian officials we met stressed their eagerness to end the conflict and restore relations with their larger neighbour. Behind this though was another anxiety, one that pervades Cambodian history: that of being a smaller country surrounded by more powerful neighbours. Both sides are suffering from the border closure, but it is likely that Cambodia, much poorer than Thailand, is suffering more.
While politicians and officials continue to tussle, many Cambodians displaced by the fighting have still not gone home, despite grim conditions in the temporary camps they were moved to. Five thousand families were living under rudimentary tarpaulins in the camp we visited. A woman in the Cambodian camp stated, As I live close to the border I don't dare go back.
A large sign had been put across the main track running through the camp reading, Cambodia needs peace – final. That was a sentiment we heard from everyone we spoke to in Cambodia. But for that to happen leaders, both civilian and military, in both countries need to tone down the uncompromising nationalist rhetoric which now characterises their dispute.
