What Angkor Archaeological Park Taught Me About Modern Leadership

Angkor Wat = Intentional Legacy

With thunderstorms on the horizon, I stood before Angkor Wat, its silhouette impossibly symmetrical. I wasn’t expecting to be in awe of this after a lifetime of history channel documentaries and textbook photos from grade school but seeing it in person nearly knocked me off my feet. The sky behind it shifted from pewter to periwinkle, as if the temple itself was summoning light. Around me, the white noise of other travelers but they blended into the background. I had arrived early, just after the gates opened, determined not to see it through a screen, but through presence.

Angkor Wat unfolds as you move toward it. Step by step across the causeway, you begin to understand that you are entering a worldview. Its grandeur isn’t in the drama of its height or the richness of its ornamentation, but in the intentionality of its design. Every stone, every axis, every reflection in the moat speaks to a civilization that believed buildings were statements. The architecture screams, “We were here. And this is what we revered.”

The Hindu-Buddhist cosmology etched into its galleries felt like a mythology more complex than anything I imagined or remembered from my readings. The carvings chart meaning and purpose and when you walk through Angkor you’re walking through centuries of intention. 

There’s a passage in Christian Norberg-Schulz’s work on Genius Loci, or the spirit of place, where he notes that sacred spaces are defined by atmosphere rather than function, by their ability to help us locate ourselves within something greater. That morning, standing in the gallery of a thousand Buddhas, I felt exactly that. I’m not a religious man and I wouldn’t even consider myself to be spiritual, but there, I felt unhidden. 

Leadership today often gets flattened into metrics, reach, revenue, followers. We’re taught to build fast, scale wide, iterate constantly. But standing in Angkor Wat, I couldn’t help but wonder: what happens when we build slow? What happens when we build with the intention that something should still speak long after we’re gone? The Khmer kings who envisioned this temple didn’t live to see its full impact. They couldn’t have. That’s what makes it sacred. It was never about them. It was about creating a structure that could carry a conversation forward, between heaven and earth and history. And so, I found myself asking questions I hadn’t expected to ask that day.  Sure, my questions were being answered about what kind of empire built this, but also, what kind of attention sustained it. What kind of leaders imagine a world where alignment (cosmic, moral, architectural), is more important than acclaim?

As the clouds gathered and the scent of rain crept in, I lingered in the inner courtyard, stillness draped over the sandstone. The urge to document everything faded but I had the will power to keep the camera rolling here and there. What remained was a whisper of something ancient and urgent: Meaning doesn’t come from scale. It comes from design, from discipline, from presence.

That morning, I began to wonder what kind of temple I was building, what kind of life might be carved with that same hand.

Ta Prohm = Surrender and Impermanence

By midmorning, the sun had begun its slow ascent and it was time to move away from the crowds of Angkor and explore some more of the park.  I climbed my rented electric scooter and navigated the winding paths leading to Ta Prohm, a temple shrouded in mystery and embraced by the jungle. As I approached, the air grew cooler, the canopy above filtering the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground.

Ta Prohm Temple, originally known as Rajavihara, was established in 1186 A.D. by King Jayavarman VII as a Mahayana Buddhist monastery and university, dedicated to his mother. Unlike many other temples in the Angkor complex, Ta Prohm has been left largely in its natural state, with massive trees growing out of the ruins, their roots intertwining with the stone structures. This deliberate choice preserves the temple's unique atmosphere, where nature and architecture coexist. To some, it’s referred to as the Tomb Raider Temple because it was the filming location for some of the Lara Croft Tomb Raider movie scenes.

Before entering the modest (by comparison to Angkor) entrance, I took a stroll around the perimeter fence. There was a scattering of other tourists wondering aimlessly, but it was still quite silent and reverent. Walking through the temple, I was struck by the sheer power of nature's reclamation. The roots of silk-cotton and strangler fig trees enveloped the walls, their immense size dwarfing the human-made structures. It was as if the jungle had decided to embrace the temple, not to destroy it, but to become one with it. This interplay between the man-made and the natural world evoked a profound sense of humility.

In the field of architectural conservation, there's a concept known as "anastylosis," which involves reconstructing a ruined monument using the original architectural elements. However, Ta Prohm challenges this notion. Throughout the entire park, many universities and government agencies are focused on restoration, preservation, and documentary work.  However, for this particular temple, its current state, where nature has become an integral part of the structure, suggests that sometimes, preservation doesn't mean restoration to an original form but accepting and honoring the passage of time and the changes it brings.

This realization led me to reflect on the impermanence of human endeavors. The Khmer Empire, once a dominant force in Southeast Asia, had poured immense resources into constructing these temples, aiming to immortalize their legacy. Yet, centuries later, it's the fusion of their creations with the relentless force of nature that captivates visitors. The grandeur remains, but it's softened, aged, and transformed by time.

As I stood in one of the temple's courtyards, indeed the most famous one, observing the intricate carvings partially obscured by moss and roots, I thought about leadership and legacy. In our modern world, leaders often strive for permanence, building structures larger and taller, institutions with family legacy names, or brands that they hope will stand the test of time by sheer force and will. But Ta Prohm teaches a different lesson: that true legacy might not lie in resisting change but in embracing it, allowing one's contributions to evolve, adapt, and merge with the world around them.

The temple's current state also offers insights into the concept of "wabi-sabi," a Japanese aesthetic that finds beauty in imperfection and transience. Ta Prohm's gentle decay and the harmonious coexistence with nature exemplify this philosophy. It's a reminder that there's profound beauty in the aged and the impermanent. Time, the ultimate editor, had not erased these builders’ work but had added layers of depth, meaning, and beauty.

Bayon = Presence and Humility

By late morning, I had crossed through the towering gates of Angkor Thom, the “Great City”—once home to more than a million people. Its outer walls still stand, tracing the boundaries of a civilization that mastered hydraulic engineering, cosmic geometry, and the unspoken language of sacred design. Yet what moved me most wasn’t its size. Some of the roads were straight as an arrow, others curved through forest, flanked by ancient stone devas and asuras. At the center of the city stood Bayon, a temple unlike any other I had seen. It was beautiful and at the center of what I could only describe as a roundabout in the roads.  Around it, tons of tour buses filled with Chinese sightseers pouring out, the women dressed to the nines in red and white flowing dresses, bug eyed sunglasses, and vertical phone camera ready for a never-ending parade of selfies. 

I took a moment to sit and take in the scene on one of these stalls complete with a fruit smoothie from a local vendor in hand. The local monkeys would surround me, waiting for me to feed them, or waiting to steal what food I may have had.  They were casual little thieves. “What me?  I’m just sitting here too enjoying the temple too, dude.”, they said on their faces. But I knew better. Cute.

Sitting there with my new monkey friends next to me, across the busy tourist street I was able to take in most of the temple in panorama.  It was impressive.

What stands out is the faces. Massive stone visages, nearly four meters tall, carved onto every tower smiling and silent. They gaze outward in four directions; their expressions caught somewhere between serenity and omniscience. Scholars debate who they represent, Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion, or King Jayavarman VII himself, divinized in stone. But perhaps that’s the wrong question. Perhaps the point isn’t who they were meant to depict, but how they make you feel. Because those faces feel like they’re watching you.

I walked slowly beneath the towers, caught in a labyrinth of corridors and vertical stone. At times, I lost my sense of direction, and I even hit my head on an stone overhang and broke the sunglasses that were on top of my hat; left a good mark. And that felt right in an odd way as if Bayon wasn’t a place to be navigated, but rather to be inhabited. Its builders, purposefully or by accident, built a kind of spatial presence that forces you to slow down, to look up, to breathe… and not hurt yourself. In architectural semiotics, this is often described as “affective spatiality”, the way structures create emotional conditions by how they hold your attention. Bayon’s power invites something rare in today’s culture of personal branding: humility.

As I stood in the upper gallery, a breeze moved through the corridors. The stone faces caught the light from different angles, some almost glowing, others cast in cool shadow. I thought about the spaces I create in my own life. As a teacher. A father. A coach. Am I building places where people feel seen? Or just places where I can be seen? These towers weren’t built to sell anything, but there’s little doubt they were constructed for attention.

Preah Khan = Listening

After a simple lunch, I made my way toward Preah Khan. The energy shifted the moment I passed the first crumbling archway. Compared to the grandeur of Angkor Wat or the quiet majesty of Bayon, Preah Khan felt personal in a quieter register.

Built in the late 12th century by Jayavarman VII, Preah Khan once functioned as a monastery, university, and city-temple, a kind of sacred compound dedicated to the king’s father. Today, its long corridors twist and lean, flanked by partially collapsed columns and portals within portals like a temple folded in on itself. Restoration has been intentionally minimal. The decay is part of the design now. Here, there were no crowds or tour guides holding flags or loud speakers. Just a handful of wanderers moving slowly through the dust. I found a shaded corridor near the eastern wing and sat down. I set the camera beside me. It had nothing left to do.

Leadership, I’ve found, often equates motion with progress. Talking with authority. Performing clarity. Producing visibility. But sitting in the stillness of Preah Khan, I began to feel the inverse: that the most enduring influence might come from what we are willing to hear with intention. Here at Preah Khan, every crack in the sandstone speaks of resilience. Every tree root pressing into a foundation speaks of surrender. The air is thick with what Walter Benjamin might have called the aura of a place, its non-replicable atmosphere.  Not everything here is legible but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have meaning.

The leadership we need today should be focused on cultivating the kind of interior stillness that allows us to hear what our environment, our community, even our past selves are trying to say. In that corridor, with sweat clinging to my spine and seeping through my backpack, I was thinking about reception. About whether my own work, my teaching, my writing, my creative outlet, leaves room for others to speak, or whether I too often fill the silence with insight. When we stop performing, the place starts to speak. And sometimes, the most powerful leadership move we can make is to stop speaking long enough to listen.

Ta Keo = Unfinished Purpose

The sky darkened as I rode toward Ta Keo, that late-afternoon kind of darkness that comes fast and means business. A wall of gray gathered just beyond the tree line. I accelerated, knowing I had maybe fifteen minutes before the storm would arrive in full. The road narrowed, my tires slipped slightly on loose gravel, and then, there it was

Ta Keo doesn’t look like the others. It is rough. Angular. Severe in its lines, and strangely beautiful it its own right. Its sandstone is sharper, more raw. There's none of the soft lichen or curving bas-relief that coats Angkor Wat. This was a temple mid-construction when lightning struck its central tower, an omen, they say, that brought the building to a halt. It was never finished. And that feels important.

I parked the scooter, now under a light rain, and climbed up through a narrow side path, avoiding the main stairwell where tourists usually ascend. The stone steps were slick and uneven. I moved slowly, palm against the wall, raindrops gathering in the grooves beneath my feet. Halfway up, I stopped and looked out over the forest. The clouds were rolling in heavy now, but the air was warm. I thought about the builders who never got to complete this place, about all the intentions left unresolved. About how so many of our best efforts, projects, relationships, ideas, arrive half-formed, then pause, or pivot, or simply fade. Ta Keo, in that moment was a metaphor.

In classical philosophy, particularly in Aristotelian thought, the concept of telos, (purpose, end, or fulfillment) is central to understanding why anything exists. And yet here stood a structure that never reached its telos. And still… it endures. Legacy, I realized, is more about the effort than the final product. So often we forget about the intention, the presence we bring when no one’s watching, and the impact we leave in the lives we brush against, often briefly, and always imperfectly.

Ta Keo reminded me that the most resonant parts of a life well-lived are rarely the milestones we’re taught in grade school but rather they are the quiet ones. It could be as simple as a sentence said at the right time or even a light touch, or a shared silence.  My favorite are when someone pays it forward, and in turn you’re inspired to pay it forward yourself.  These are the moments that root deeper than monuments.

The rain picked up. I didn’t run. I sat under a ledge and watched the storm roll in.

Full Circle

By the evening, I had made my way back to where the day began, the edge of the Angkor Wat moat. The rain had mostly passed, leaving the trees dripping and the air thick with the scent of wet earth and stone; who doesn’t love that smell? My shirt clung to my back, my shoes were soaked through, and my limbs ached in that satisfying, soul-tired way that only comes after a full day of walking, climbing and exploring. 

Angkor hadn’t changed in those hours, but I had. I no longer felt the need to document every corner, to capture proof of having been there. Something in me had unclenched. It was subtle and surely at the time it would have been impossible for me to articulate it with any real depth. But now, looking back on the trip, I can feel it.  Angkor was a place that I was excited to see, of course, but I had no idea that it would move me the way it did.  Even today, I often speak of the adventure as being one of the magical places I have ever visited in my extensive world travels.  Odd, that something so still, so old could have such a transformative effect even years after.  

In modern leadership theory, there's a movement away from the heroic individual who commands and conquers toward the relational leader, who listens, adapts, and facilitates meaning. But even that feels too clean. Angkor teaches a deeper truth: that leadership is not a role to perform, but a rhythm to inhabit. The rhythm of legacy at Angkor Wat. The rhythm of surrender at Ta Prohm. The rhythm of presence at Bayon. The rhythm of listening at Preah Khan. The rhythm of unfinished purpose at Ta Keo.

So, ask yourself: What will you build that endures? Not in stone, but in soul?

There at the moat, the day behind me, I felt that question linger. Some leaders leave buildings. Others leave echoes. Humbly, I’m still learning how to build both.

Want to see the journey as it happened?
I filmed the entire adventure across Angkor and the surrounding temples in real time, scooter rides, jungle walks, temple ruins, and a few accidental head bumps. You can watch the vlog playlist here: Angkor Travel Vlogs – YouTube

The videos won’t replace the writing, but they might help you feel the humidity.

Author Bio:

Paul Allen Benavides is a university lecturer in business, media & communications, corporate trainer, author, and public speaker specializing in mindful leadership and human-centered development. He is the voice behind Walkabout Elevations, a reflective platform blending storytelling, scholarship, and soul to explore what it means to lead with presence. His broader creative journey lives through Walkabout Rojo, a long-running companion project rooted in global wanderings and personal transformation.