Designing Between Two Cambodias
An Olympic uniform became an unexpected lesson in how different generations imagine Cambodia's cultural future.
By Cheerted Keo
Identity · Heritage · 9 min read
I walked into the meeting convinced I had designed the right Olympic uniform for Cambodia.
I walked out realizing I had misunderstood my audience.
Months of research had gone into the proposal. Every motif had a purpose. Every line connected back to a story. It wasn’t just a uniform, it was an attempt to translate Khmer heritage into a contemporary visual language.
I expected we’d spend most of the meeting discussing the research.
Instead, everyone wanted to skip straight to the artwork.
The moment the first jacket appeared on screen,
the conversation stopped being about design.
It became a conversation about Khmer culture.
A Different Hanuman
The central figure of my proposal was Hanuman.
Not because he is visually striking, but because of what he represents.
The design drew inspiration from the Reamker, Cambodia’s adaptation of the ancient Ramayana. More specifically, it referenced the battle between Hanuman and Krong Reap: a story of courage, strategy, sacrifice, and unwavering loyalty.
For an Olympic team preparing to compete on the world stage, the symbolism felt fitting.
Yet that wasn’t what the discussion became about.
At the NOCC, the first question was whether Hanuman was Khmer enough. Although the Reamker is deeply rooted in Cambodian culture, Hanuman also appears throughout Southeast Asia, where each country has developed its own interpretation.
When we later presented the proposal to an official from the Ministry of Culture, the conversation took a different direction.
He had no objection to Hanuman itself. In fact, he felt Hanuman was an appropriate symbol to represent Cambodia.
His concern was how I had chosen to depict the story.
He suggested removing the large faces of Krong Reap that appeared throughout the jacket. I had included them as a bold, contemporary interpretation of the battle, a way of bringing tension and drama into the design.
His reasoning was practical.
A national uniform isn’t worn only by athletes. It may also be worn by officials representing the country. Seen through that lens, a jacket covered with the face of a demon carried a very different message than the one I had intended.
The same applied to Hanuman himself.
Both meetings ultimately pointed to the same issue: my interpretation didn’t resemble the traditional Khmer Hanuman found in classical murals, sculpture, and dance.
The Ministry official spent considerable time explaining the subtle differences between Khmer and Thai ornamentation, showing how Kbach motifs, proportions, and decorative forms communicate cultural identity, even when the subject itself is shared.
Whether or not I agreed with every point, I left with a greater appreciation for how carefully these visual details are protected.
Looking back, I realized something important.
The discussion wasn’t really about whether Hanuman belonged in the design.
It was about what a contemporary Khmer Hanuman is allowed to look like.
That was the real conversation all along.
Beyond Tradition
For years I’ve been asking myself the same question:
How do you create contemporary Khmer art without simply repeating traditional Khmer art?
My goal has never been to replace tradition.
It is to build upon it, to create work that still feels unmistakably Cambodian while belonging to the present rather than the past.
That was the conversation I had hoped we would have.
Instead, the project revealed something much bigger.
The strongest support for the proposal consistently came from people closer to my own generation.
Many had lived or studied abroad. Many had grown up moving between Cambodia and the wider world.
They weren’t interested in whether my Hanuman matched the traditional depiction.
They connected with the story, understood why the visual language had changed, and immediately imagined themselves wearing it.
Many of the older decision-makers looked at exactly the same design through a different lens.
That contrast stayed with me long after the project ended.
Not because one side was right and the other was wrong.
But because they seemed to be protecting different things.
The generation that rebuilt Cambodia carries the responsibility of preservation.
My generation inherited the responsibility of continuation.
Not only to preserve our culture, but to make sure it continues to grow.
Looking Forward
This project made me realize something about myself.
I’m forty years old, and for the first time I’m watching a generation of leaders emerge that is roughly my own age.
When I first started working in Cambodia, many of the people leading ministries, cultural institutions, and large companies belonged to my parents’ generation.
That is slowly changing.
I’m increasingly meeting people my own age stepping into leadership roles, taking over family businesses, and beginning to shape the institutions their parents built.
Looking back, I don’t think I was presenting one design to two different audiences.
I was presenting it to two different generations.
Both cared deeply about Cambodian culture.
They simply imagined its future differently.
That changed the way I think about design.
Designing isn’t only about solving visual problems.
It’s about understanding who you’re designing for, and who you’re asking to believe in the idea.
I don’t believe tradition survives by remaining frozen in time.
Nor does it survive by abandoning its roots.
It survives when every generation contributes something of its own.
As an artist, that’s the kind of work I hope to make.
