The Killing Fields

We were about to journey into the dark heart of Cambodia. With this, I mean the dark, haunted past of Cambodia. For this I had to brace myself mentally. This was not the ancient past to be studied in the the annals of history. The atrocities committed weren't done to, and by, generations which have already come and gone. The purges—the genocide—had happened only 30-35 years before. Survivors, even murderers (many of them having been children at that time) were still alive. The wounds, though largely healed, still remain.

 

Chris has a soft spot in his heart for the Cambodian people. He's well-schooled on the complexities of their country. He's read books and has dug deeper into the causes and effects of the Khmer Rouge under the leadership of Pol Pot. "The Killing Fields" is his favorite film, as it had a profound impact on him from a young age. For anyone who hasn't seen it, "The Killing Fields" is a film (adapted from a book of the same title) about two journalists (one American and one Cambodian) who were working together in Phnom Penh when the Khmer Rouge took over. Though some parts can be hard to stomach, I challenge anyone to watch that last scene without shedding a tear as Sydney Shanberg and Dith Pran embrace. It's definitely a film worth watching.

 

I have to admit that Southeast Asian history is not my forte. Not by a long-shot. In fact, I'm heavily relying on Wikipedia to double-check my info as I write this. In an attempt to offer a simplified version of Khmer Rouge history—here goes. The Khmer Rouge was a party formed in 1968. Though it has been in existence as recently as 1996 (which is hard to believe) it was the ruling-party of Cambodia from 1975 to 1979, the time period of the Killing Fields—purges, ethnic cleansing, and mass executions. Ruled by Pol Pot, and driven by Marxist ideology, the Khmer Rouge sought to turn Cambodia into an agrarian society. Civilians were removed from cities and put into agricultural communes. Purging their country of anything modern, cities were gone, as well as schools and hospitals. Anything that was deemed foreign was eradicated. Foreign correspondents were driven out of the country, though Cambodian natives were not allowed the option to leave. Those of Vietnamese and Chinese ancestry were targeted for execution in an attempt to "purge" all foreign influence. Intellectuals were seen as the enemy. Anyone with an education was as a threat to the revolution and thus must be exterminated. Even the wearing of eye-glasses was seen as "bourgeois" and anyone wearing them risked being killed. The Khmer Rouge went so far to change the calendar to "Year Zero." Just like any totalitarian regime, they were delusional to think that their country could withstand such extreme measures for the "betterment" of society. By end of their reign, over 2 million people had been killed. Many died due to starvation, disease and overwork. It is estimated that half of those who died were murdered. Mass graves are found all over Cambodia, telling of mass executions. Those sites are called the Killing Fields, though I associate the genocide as a whole with that title.

 

That is some heavy stuff to contemplate on a snowy morning in Juneau. Even writing this I'm taken to a dark place. The only consolation in all this is that Cambodia is now a lovely place. The people, for the most part, have made peace with this past. Just like when we visited Dachau, I believe that it's important to visit these places, no matter tortured their history is. I feel it's our obligation as citizens of this planet to learn both the good and the bad side of human nature. We must learn the bad in order to recognize it and fight it in society.

 

With this in mind, we headed to Phnom Penh.

 

GI Jane

 

A tropical storm had whipped up and was flooding the city streets. We stepped off the bus and into several inches of water. The tuk tuks were lined up and ready for us. A driver grabbed my bag and without much discussion, we were on our way. To where? We weren't entirely sure.

 

Our first impression of Phnom Penh was chaos. Perhaps it was because of the rain which was coming down in buckloads. Thankfully the tuk tuk had a canvas rain cover. We couldn't see much, though we could look through a tiny flap in the side. Traffic was insane, and being stuck in a tiny little tuk tuk was somewhat unsettling, especially with our driver who seemed to be drunk, or inexperienced, or both. He almost crashed us several times. It was probably good that we couldn't see much.

 

We came to a tourist strip, judging by the billboards for guesthouses and beer. Hadn't we seen this a million times before? We figured this was as good as we were going to get so we paid up and grabbed our bags. Our room was clean and adequate, located on the second floor with windows looking out onto the lobby. We would be staying here for several nights.

 

Right away we reserved a tour to see the Killing Fields. Though there were around 20,000 mass graves found in Cambodia, the one at Choueng Ek, located 11 miles outside of the city, is the one from which the name "The Killing Fields" is derived. Close to 9,000 bodies were exhumed at this site, most of them prisoners from the nearby Tuol Sleng prison. We signed up to visit the prison as well. There was another stop on this tour that we didn't necessarily want to take, and that was a shooting range. It was part of the tour package, and we didn't know what we were going to do about it. Chris had passed on the opportunity to shoot an AK-47 when he had come this way before. I didn't know how to feel. I’d never shot a gun. How did I feel about guns? Not too great. I'm not exactly what you would call a gun-enthusiast. Still, the idea of shooting an AK-47—I had to think about it.

 

The tuk tuk met us the following morning. We were taken down the dustiest, most chaotic roads we had encountered in all of Asia. This was the Asia I had envisioned, with truckloads of chicken cages and families on motorscooters and tuk tuks galore. There were no lanes, rather there were rivers of traffic within rivers of traffic. It was a gorgeous ballet of dirt and humanity, moving against each other, then with each other, and in spite of each other. It was beautiful, despite the cacophony.

 

Like a chewed-up wad of gum, our tuk tuk got spat out onto a more modern highway. We began to cruise along, and the breeze felt awesome. We passed another tuk tuk sporting two completely knocked out Western girls. One had beautiful, long hair which was splayed everywhere. I dubbed her "Sleeping Beauty." Our tuk tuk driver shared words with the other driver. They were both laughing. "Too much to drink!" he shouted back to us in English. And where were they heading? Oh yeah, the shooting range. Great, two girls who were sleeping off a hangover were being taken to shoot guns. Perfect.

 

We could hear the gunfire from the parking lot. Already I was nervous. It was gunshots in rapid succession that really got my heart pitter-pattering. How many atrocities had been committed with these semi-automatic rifles? I can only associate that sound with the mowing down of human beings. Weapons designed to take out as many lives as possible should not be something desirable to hold.

 

Still...

 

Upon entering the indoor range, we were offered a menu of death. We could launch hand grenades. We could fire rockets. We rubbed our chins, contemplating our options. Well, there was only one option for us, the one everyone came for. The AK-47.

 

I was more into it that Chris. I'm all about new experiences. Shoot a gun—I could cross that off my bucket list (easier than skydiving). The cost was quite high so Chris and I decided to share 30 rounds.

 

We had to wait for a range to open. The POP-POP-POP was echoing throughout the concrete building. I could imagine frenzied screams to accompany the rapid-fire shooting. Maybe it's because of the movies I've watched. Maybe it's because of the events I've watched unfold on TV—war footage, school shootings, terrorist training camps. A part of me really despises these death machines, the glamorization of them, especially being so close to the Killing Fields.

 

Still...

 

There was a photo opt, to hold rifles and pistols and pose like a bad-ass. Chris wanted no part of it. However, I played around with the idea of being GI Jane. A helmet, pistols, and a round of ammo draped around my neck—I looked like the poster girl for the NRA, which is funny really, as I despise anything that image conveys.

 

Still...

 

I think I looked hot. In my tight tank top and hiking boots—hell yeah, I was GI Jane. Sort of. The guns were heavy and impressive. So much power to be wielded. I can see (though not support) why so many people love their precious guns. Power. That feeling that nobody can mess with you.

 

A range opened up and our turn came. Chris went first. He wasn't enjoying this experience at all. With his shaky hands he didn't do too well. I stood taking pictures, trying to capture the perfect shot. At one point I took my earmuffs to tell Chris was a stud he was. I then forgot to put them back on, and POP-POP-POP—it was too late. Great, more hearing damage to my already damaged ears. What the hell, I was blind in one eye, I may as well be deaf too.

 

It became my turn. I had fifteen rounds. The two instructors set me up, making sure that the gun was against my shoulder and wouldn't recoil into my face. They told me, "Fast fast" as that was supposedly the best way. But I wanted to do well. Years of Duck Hunt on my Nintendo had prepared me for this moment. I fired off a few rounds. It looked like I had hit my target. The instructors said I had done good. Indeed, I felt pretty on-point. A natural. I did what the instructors recommended and fired off a few rounds in a row, this is where the POP-POP-POP noise, the sound of lunatic shooting, comes from. It was satisfying, I'll give you that, the feeling of shots being fired in rapid succession. But 15 rounds go by really fast when shooting in that manner and before I knew it, my time was up.

 

It was an interesting experience. I wouldn't say I regret doing it. Semi-automatic weapons will never be something I stand for, despite what the GI Jane photos say. But for what it was worth, it was memorable. To have something so powerful in your hands, even for a moment, is quite amazing.

 

Faces with the Numbers

 

After being revved up from shooting guns, we were brought to the Killing Fields. It felt wrong, but this was our tour itinerary. Perhaps they found if tourists visited the Killing Fields first, nobody would want to shoot guns afterwards.

Choueng Ek is actually a peaceful site. It used to be an orchard, and indeed, there are still many lovely trees there. It is now a memorial, with a Buddhist stupa erected in the middle, with rows upon rows of skulls. We were left to wander around, though we were set up with an audio, self-guided tour. This was a nice way to do it, so we could take our time and absorb the info as we went. The site is sizable with paths that lead off into groves of trees. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was hard to picture this as a scene of terror, but the marked pits were enough to stop us from enjoying our day. These pits had been the mass graves for victims of the Khmer Rouge. Just looking over my pictures now I see a pit where they had exhumed 166 bodies without heads. We found out on our audio guide that the weapons were quite rudimentary (bullets were too costly). They would decapitate victims with blunt, rusty objects, even using sharp bark from a tree. It was no swift death for the enemies of the revolution. Also, we found that child soldiers were used as the executioners. This is hard to fathom, but brain-washing of children in such regimes is not uncommon.

Not all the pits were marked and fenced off. As we made our way across fields, we'd find signs saying "Please Don't Walk Through the Mass Grave!" Though they excavated most of the bodies, some are still showing up. After heavy rains, some bones or bone fragments still find their way to the surface.

As if these things were not horrifying enough, we found that enemies of the revolution included children and even babies. There was a fenced-off site with a giant tree called The Killing Tree. Here is where soldiers would smash the heads of babies against the tree trunk. It makes no sense, but perhaps in the demented minds of the Khmer Rouge, children could grow to be enemies, just like their parents. Better to weed them out. It boggles the mind how a government could turn against their own people in such a manner. Were they trying to lower the population of Cambodia? All in all, about a fifth of the populace was killed by the Khmer Rouge, making it one of the worst genocides of the 21st century.

The stupa was open so we walked through. There were seventeen floors of skulls, neatly placed on shelves, to observe. Some of the skulls were cracked, some shattered, and some very small. We tried to honor each one as we walked through.

All this death—and for what? It's easy to ask that question when visiting any memorial. I can only hope that as humankind progresses, we can put atrocities like these behind us. I also hope that we can do all we can to recognize the evil that exists in society—paranoia, xenophobia, fundamentalism, intolerance, bigotry... the list goes on. We should do all we can to avoid such senseless, pointless hate.

A lady was selling flowers outside the stupa. Chris and I each bought one and laid it with other flowers in front of the memorial. Despite the stories we had heard, there was a sense of peace at Choueng Ek. Hopefully the Cambodians have made peace with this past. It's encouraging to know that the government urges its citizens to visit The Killing Fields. The adage "Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it" rings true.

Perhaps a more haunting site is that of Toul Sleng Prison, also known as S-21, now a Genocide Museum. Consisting of cement buildings, it used to be a high school. Of course the Khmer Rouge shut down schools, so it's only fitting that they had turned this one into a detention center where they imprisoned and tortured their "enemies." Toul Sleng means "Hill of Poisonous Trees," and indeed, it does leave a poisonous taste in one’s mouth. As many as 20,000 inmates had been imprisoned here and had been sent to the Killing Fields. As we walked around the premises, we found out who these prisoners were, their black-and-white photos lined up on the walls for us view. As many women as men had been imprisoned, young and old alike. Some of the women even had babies in their arms. All have a haunted look in their eye.

Torture and interrogation had been commonplace at Toul Sleng. Waterboarding was practiced, as well as The Gallows, where inmates had their hands tied behind their backs and hung from a rope. If they lost consciousness, their heads were dipped into a jar of filthy water which would momentarily revive them. These methods were used for interrogation so that the "enemies" could name family members or other such enemies of the revolution.

The prison has been left as it was found in 1979. Because of this there is definitely a haunted feel to the place. All those eyes staring out—you want to look at each face in each picture to do them justice, to remember each one. Out of the 20,000 inmates at Toul Sleng, only 12 survived, which means that each face we looked at was now most likely that of someone murdered. By sharing their stories, by memorializing them with their faces, there is some solace in knowing that these victims will not be forgotten.

On the Lighter Side

Alright, I can crawl out of that dark place now. Even writing this it's been somewhat of a dark journey. But it's good to be reminded of these things. It's easy to forget them in every day life. How petty our problems are. I need to gain perspective when I'm stressed in traffic or or having trouble with a paper for school and ask myself—is it really so bad? And the answer is always, always: No, it's not so bad. So shut up and quit complaining.

Back in our tourist haven of bars and guesthouses, we shook off some the horrors from that day in Sharky's, an American sports bar. Well, a sports bar with a twist. I immediately felt at home walking into the upstairs bar as I used to frequent sports bars quite a bit back in the day. In fact, being away from America for so long (don't forget that I lived in Britain for three years before this sojourn around the world) to see neon Budweiser signs and to hear classic rock blasting was so nostalgic I could have cried. Except for the Cambodian prostitutes and old fat white guys. That part was kind of icky. But the drinks were good—so good that we stayed for a few and even ordered loaded potato skins. Our entertainment was sussing the dynamic of each couple sat around the bar. Though the hot young girls were laughing and flirting, as soon as their date looked away or went to the bathroom, they truly look disgusted. Chris had come to Sharky's on a previous trip with an ex-girlfriend and had been propositioned by a prostitute when his then-girlfriend had gone to the bathroom. It didn't happen this time around. Perhaps Chris and I looked too much like the married couple.

The next day we decided to head down to the Royal Palace. The tuk tuk drivers were persistent. According to them, legs and feet weren't meant for walking. Why would anyone want to walk when you could take a nice tuk tuk? We broke so many hearts in Phnom Penh, and in Asia in general, when we decided to walk somewhere.

The walk was exceptional. As our guesthouse was only a few blocks from the Sonle Tap River, we naturally headed that way. There was a riverwalk with all kinds of activity. To my delight, a group of locals had gathered to do aerobics on the waterfront. They were lined up and moving in sync. I wasn't sure who was leading them, but they were doing quite simple exercises. I joined them for a bit, hopping and skipping and waving my arms. Nobody seemed to mind me, though I skidaddled after awhile. I wasn't sure if it cost money to join the group. I thought it was a good idea, to get everyone to come together to exercise. And in such a pretty setting. I wish America would do things like this (or do they?)

The Royal Palace—I couldn't tell you a thing about it, other than we couldn't get in. We stood in line in the heat only to find that my wrap was not enough to keep me modest for such a site. They insisted I buy a tourist t-shirt. Having seen too many temples to count on our journey thus far, we weren't ready to buy a t-shirt just to see another one. So we got our tickets refunded and headed down to the waterfront once more.

Chris had wanted to visit the Foreign Correspondents Club, or FCC, which is a restaurant/bar located on the third floor of a gorgeous colonial building. With high ceilings with swirling fans and an open veranda which looks over the river, it is breezy, airy and comfortable. As soon as we sat down and ordered our overpriced drinks, we knew we'd be there all afternoon.

The FCC was like a mecca to us. Chris, of course, associated it with the journalists who had gathered here during the Vietnam War, swapping stories while smoking and sipping gin & tonics. The place did have a certain flare to it; you could envision the important groups of people gathered here. It reminded me of the time we visited Rick's Cafe in Casablanca. Chris and I had sat at the bar in that iconic room, drinking ridiculously overpriced drinks in order to be part of the scene, but the experience was well worth the price. Especially when the barman is a professional and treats you like a VIP. Priceless.

So we sat there at leisure and watched as a storm moved in over the great swath of water where the Sonle Tap meets the Mekong. Traffic honked and hummed below us. It was like being in the peaceful eye of a storm. The FCC rates as my favorite place in Phnom Penh. I would love to revisit it some day.

We secured our Vietnamese visas and our bus trip to Ho Chi Minh City. Once again, everything was falling into place. All that was left to do in Phnom Penh was to sit and drink and pass the hours. Thankfully the bars in our section of the city were outdoors and great for people watching (there were also some very seedy bars, named Horny Bar and such, but we steered clear of those). As we sat outdoors, hawkers would come around and try to tell us stuff. One caught our attention with a stack of books. Yes, these were bootlegged copies of famous novels (meaning they were copied, not printed), which was probably illegal, but dirt cheap just the same. We replenished our supply of paperbacks for the next part of our journey. One of those books we purchased was, of course, “The Killing Fields.”