Will We Ever Meet Again?

A flâneur is an urban explorer — a connoisseur of the street. In our rotating column, guests share their musings, observations and critiques of the urban environment in cities around the world. In this issue, architect and researcher Moritz Henning contemplates the Olympic Stadium as an enduring symbol of Phnom Penh's history and character

My relationship with Phnom Penh has always been ambivalent. At times, I turn my back on it in frustration, horrified by the destruction inflicted by the real estate boom. Just a short while later, I can't wait to return and lose myself among its old buildings and new bars. And there's one place that I never miss a chance to visit, perhaps because it too conveys a similarly ambivalent feeling: the Olympic Stadium.

Of course, the Olympic Games have never been held in Cambodia, and the third Southeast Asian Peninsular Games in 1963, for which the stadium was built, were called off. Nevertheless, the structure's Olympic dimensions, as well as a fair amount of wishful thinking, are likely what led to its nickname, adopted soon after architect Vann Molyvann's National Sports Complex was inaugurated in 1964. It was a great day for the small country, the celebrations an expression of a newly awakened national consciousness following French colonial rule. Until head of state Norodom Sihanouk was deposed in 1970, the stadium frequently hosted important events.

But it's not the historical background that attracts me. It's the grandiose spatial structure and the way Cambodians make the building their own. Time has left its mark on this spectacular ensemble: where once the stadium rose majestically like the temples of Angkor from the Cambodian landscape, it now sits wedged between high-rises, damaged by unsuited renovations.

Yet the stadium lives on. Phnom Penh is not exactly blessed with open spaces, and so people use the area from the break of dawn. If I manage to get there during the day, I like strolling over to the basketball hall first. From the outside, the brash concrete structure seems raw and imposing, but inside, the carefully directed sunlight makes the hall glow. And thanks to its smart natural ventilation, it's pleasantly cool indoors.

But the stadium is most beautiful in the early evening, when the sun casts a golden light over everything and everyone. Then, I sit down on the concrete steps of the last tier and watch the people milling around the stadium. There's always someone playing football in the parking lot. Exercise is particularly popular on the huge plateau above the stands, where hundreds of housewives, young girls and elderly gentlemen shake their limbs to deafening sounds from overloaded loudspeakers. Down on the cinder track, joggers do their laps, while teenagers hang out on the long benches and small stands in the shade of the massive roofs sell snacks and drinks.

In moments like these, there's no hint of what took place here during the country's dark days. After Lon Nol took power in 1970, the stadium was converted into a military base and field hospital; in April 1975, the Khmer Rouge took over the capital and used the field as an execution site. Can a building retain its innocence and dignity, despite all that people burden it with? The people of Phnom Penh, at any rate, are approaching it in the best way possible, using the stadium day in and day out while it's still standing. Because one thing is clear: the future is not set in stone, and it's highly uncertain whether the stadium will be able to withstand the power of money. Olympic Stadium, I miss you already.

Moritz Henning is an architect and independent researcher based in Berlin, Germany. He is a co-author of Phnom Penh: Architectural Guide