Forced out: feeling of lost hope.

On 3 May 2006, an order was given to the residents of a squatter community in Cambodia that they would be sent to a new resettlement area, 23 kilometres outside of Phnom Penh, known as Trapaing Ang Chagn Village. The order was simple: "Gather up your belongings and be ready to move, you cannot stay here anymore." The property was slated to be developed into a shopping centre by a private businessman.

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The slum area that had once been a congested mix of houses made of rusted metal, bamboo and plastic sheeting was in the midst of a transition, as residents took down their houses and shelters they had lived in for over five years. Faced with uncertainty, they waited in cramped temporary tents made of plastic sheeting and bamboo poles for the chance to load up their belongings onto the transport trucks that would take them to the new resettlement community. As the rainy season had already begun, they had to set up temporary shelters made up of plastic tarps and metal sheets to keep them dry; slats of bamboo were placed on the ground to protect their belongings from getting wet. A young boy walked shirtless through the mud carrying a bundle of wood he had salvaged from an area already vacated.

A bulldozer was at work levelling the ground as it moved towards the people waiting to be evacuated. One truck was being loaded up with tables and bundles of belongings. Some people stood in disbelief. One man stopped next to me and said, "They are wasting no time in getting the land ready to build on. Look at this ... they are doing this as we are still getting ready to leave." Police and security guards roamed through the crowds, making sure that no one began to protest the move, their batons held at waist level ready for any problems. For the most part, residents peacefully accepted that they had no choice but to leave.

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As I moved through the crowd, my interpreter informed me that people expressed their opinions in low voices: "We all voted for this government and now they are forcing us to leave. They got our votes and now we get kicked out." Kim Seng, 45 years old, sat outside his simple tent, his belongings taking most of the space inside, with his hat pulled over his forehead to block off the afternoon sun. "I lived here for four years. There are four of us in the family. We used to sell vegetables in the community and it was enough to live on for the family. After we move, I am not sure what to expect. It is a new community, so we must learn to adjust to it. Finding work will not be easy, but I am sure we will be okay. I am worried though. There are so many of us being moved--how can we all make any money to live on?"

Noun Khoun, 48, sat with his family under a large tarp stretched across four poles. His wife, her arm covering her face, lay on top of their belongings. His three children, aged from 6 to 11, sat next to their mother, staring ahead and watching people move their belongings as they set up a spot to wait for the trucks. Khoun, who worked as a day labourer in the city, was not sure what he would do once they moved. "It will take some time for us to adjust, but in a way it is good. The land we get will belong to us after five years. This land was not ours. This is why we need to move now. We stayed as long as we could and now it is time to go. In Cambodia, we are used to being moved--from war to being poor--we have learned to survive. We may be poor people, but we have pride and dignity. Even poor people have a right to live in peace."

Koam Phou (bottom left) sat under the shade of a plastic tarp in a hot afternoon, pulling rusty nails out of a pile of old wood plank and throwing the boards into a pile next to her. A young boy walking by stopped and helped her pull the nails out. He picked up a pair of pliers, smiled at her and took a block of wood, bent over a nail and pried it out, throwing it into a pile to be reused later. "I am very sad to be here", 48-year-old Koam Phou said. "I am alone and have no way to make an income. As I look around me I see emptiness. It is as if I am in a dream. I keep asking myself, why me? Why must the poor people always suffer? We live poor all our lives and all we try to do is survive one day at a time. There is never a good time for the poor to leave their homes like this. At least, where we were there was a way to make money. Now it is unsure what we will do."

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Koam Phou had lived for over five years in a squatter community near the Tonle Basac River, where more than 1,000 families lived in simple houses made of just anything, such as plastic tarps, metal sheeting and bamboo poles, that would withstand the rain and heat. "My biggest concern is what will we do here? I used to sell shellfish along the river front and I made enough money to live on and help with my son's schooling." She has been in the resettlement area for two days now. Her oldest son had come to help set up a temporary shelter for her before he returned to the city. "But here there is nothing. How will we survive here? How can we make money? There is no factory nearby where I can work. We were brought here and told to stay", Koam Phou said. "I will finish this shelter for me to stay in, then if I need to, move back to the city to work. Many of us have no choice. If they wanted us to move, there should have been better planning, such as some sort of work or a way to get to a factory or the city."

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Lor Sam (bottom right), 57, asked me to come over to her shelter as I was taking pictures of a family of seven who had just arrived at the resettlement area the day before. She has cropped hair and deep lines in her face, visibly showing the tough times she had been through. She had built a simple shelter with wood, plastic and bamboo stilts--there was little protection from the rain and wind, especially in the late afternoon, but for the moment this was all she could afford to build. "I have six children, three will live here with me. The other three are married and will stay in Phnom Penh--I'm not sure if they can help us either as they are also poor", she said. "All of the people who have come here are very angry. They brought us here and gave us 20 kilos of rice, some plastic sheeting and a water container. How are we supposed to make a living here? What little money we brought with us will soon be gone. At the moment there is no way we can earn money here. If people get sick, how can we afford to pay for treatment? There could be a very big problem soon if there is no other assistance provided for us. I don't plan to stay here so long. I will need to find some work in the city and then try to arrange to get back here every few days," Lor Sam said.

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As we walked through the new community, the criticism we heard was much the same from the families we talked to. Their houses would be almost the same as in the squatter community, built from remnants of salvaged wood, metal and bamboo. The main road was several kilometres away, but few families had any sort of transportation, and since there were no plans for any public transportation they felt out of touch in any way to make a living. The numerous widows I met spoke of being in a very lonely place, away from family members who stayed behind in the city. They had no choice but to move and were uncertain of what to expect in the weeks and months ahead.

Mikel Flamm is a photojournalist based in Bangkok, Thailand. He is a regular consultant for Habitat for Humanity International and has worked for Getty Images.

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TEXT AND PHOTOS BY MIKEL FLAMM