The Spirit of Banteay Samre Temple

Sanctuary of Meaning · Artist’s Journal
by Lucas Varro

—

Within these walls, the gods do not raise their voices—
they wait for you to kneel.

—

There is a silence that lives within the walls of Banteay Samre. Not the silence of abandonment, nor the hush of something forgotten—but the kind of silence that listens. A listening so complete that one’s breath slows without asking, one’s thoughts soften, and one steps into a presence not entirely one’s own. I have wandered these galleries when the light was low and the air was cool, when no other soul stirred the dust. And each time I cross the threshold, something in me falls still.

It is difficult to name what makes this temple so beloved to me. Its beauty is undoubted—the architecture exquisitely proportioned, the iconography rich, the carvings astonishingly well preserved. But it is something more. It is the intimacy of the place. The way it draws you close. Banteay Samre does not announce itself. It enfolds.

Unlike the grand procession of Angkor Wat or the ascending spires of the Bayon, this temple is grounded. Modest in scale, yet perfect in arrangement, its galleries and high enclosing walls create a hush, a kind of spiritual insulation. Step inside, and the outer world dissolves. The walls do not shut you out—they draw you inward. What remains is stillness. A timelessness. A sense of having crossed from the visible into the sacred. This is not a temple to pass through. It is a temple to dwell in.

And most days, I am alone.

Banteay Samre lies just east of Pre Rup, yet it remains quietly apart. Tour buses rarely pause here. The galleries are undisturbed. The stones breathe uninterrupted. You can stand for an hour before a single pediment and hear only the wind brushing the dry grass beyond the wall. That is how I learned to see this temple—not as a site to study, but as a sanctuary to receive.

It was built, most likely, in the mid-twelfth century—during the golden age of Khmer architecture. While many attribute its creation to Suryavarman II, I lean toward those who see the hand of his successor, Dharanindravarman II, father of the great Jayavarman VII. The evidence is not only architectural, but spiritual. Embedded throughout the inner sanctum are unmistakable signs of Buddhist devotion—jataka tales carved into pediments, seated Buddhas in meditation, and traces of the Assault of Mara still discernible, even where iconoclasts sought to erase them. These were not later additions. They were always part of the vision.

And yet, as is the nature of Khmer sacred art, the temple is neither solely Buddhist nor wholly Hindu. It is both. Vishnu and Rama reside here. So does the meditating Buddha. Inscriptions may be absent, but the stone speaks clearly: this is a place where devotion transcended doctrine. The gods are not divided. They dwell together, in shadow and in light.

The architecture itself reveals this unity. Its layout echoes Angkor Wat, Thommanon, and Chau Say Tevoda—with curvilinear lotus-bud towers, stone-vaulted galleries, mandapas joined to the central shrine by long vestibules, and libraries set just so. Yet Banteay Samre feels nearer to the earth. Its reliefs—deeply carved and luminous—can be seen at eye level. Shiva and Vishnu are rendered with muscular grace, their robes alive in stone. Pediments unfold in layered narrative registers. Some scenes are rarely found elsewhere in Angkor—gems of sacred imagination, preserved by solitude.

Beneath this lintel, Rama still draws his bow.
Above the library, the Buddha remains unmoved.
And here, on a weathered corner, a nameless goddess watches you pass.

The carvings around the second enclosure are bold—full of tension and divine gesture. But as one moves inward, toward the heart of the temple, the reliefs grow quieter. Their figures become schematic, symbolic. Whether shaped by different hands or different times, the effect is unmistakable: the deeper you go, the more the temple becomes less narrative, more prayer. One begins in myth and ends in mystery.

It is likely the temple was completed in stages. Dharanindravarman II may have begun the work, Yashovarman II continued it, and Jayavarman VII added to its cloisters—though never finished them. But as with all sacred things, incompletion does not diminish. It deepens. What remains unfinished in stone may yet be fulfilled in spirit.

Banteay Samre stands along the ancient royal road between Preah Khan of Kompong Svay and Angkor—a place not only devotional, but connective. Perhaps it served as a station of blessing, a sacred pause in the journey. And it remains so. Not a site for spectacle, but for reorientation. You do not come here to marvel. You come to listen.

When I return, I bring nothing with me. I walk slowly. I rest in the shade of its gopuras. I place my hand upon the sandstone and let memory rise—not my own, but something older. The kind of memory that lingers in places where gods have walked. Where pilgrims have wept. Where centuries of barefoot silence have worn the stone smooth.

Soft light through carved balusters
a figure defaced, still whole—
the temple listens.

There are more monumental temples in Angkor. But Banteay Samre is among the most spiritually intact. Its walls still hold what was once offered. Its shadows still cradle what cannot be spoken.

And so I return—not because it calls me loudly,
but because it welcomes me quietly.