5/7/14 – 5/13/14: Phnom Penh, Cambodia
(Warning: This blog entry contains descriptions of genocide that may be difficult for some readers.)
Before we left Siem Reap for the capital city of Cambodia, Phnom Penh, we traveled outside of the Angkor Archeological Park to visit the Cambodia Landmine Museum. The museum was a disturbing eye-opener to the inherited trauma of war. The devastation imprinted upon the land by the Khmer Rouge, but also rained down by the bombing campaigns of the United States, left silent assassins below the earth’s surface. Undetonated mines and bombs still terrorize generations of Cambodians every day.
For those unaware, the Khmer Rouge was an autocratic and extremely repressive communist movement that took over the Cambodian government and ruled from 1975 to 1979. They led campaigns of mass murder against the educated and elite and enslaved the populace, forcing them into labor camps where many died of illness and starvation. Children were indoctrinated into the cause, learning the ways of war and planting landmines throughout the countryside. Thousands of those landmines still lay dormant waiting for their moment to strike.
To travel Cambodia is to see poverty; people living in rustic homes that appear one storm or flood away from their undoing. Outside these homes stretch miles of undeveloped land. The possibilities appear endless yet they cease beyond those front doors. Families can’t prosper off their land because they cannot safely farm it. They can’t enjoy the beauty of the countryside because they cannot safely walk it. They can’t tell their children, “Go out and play,” because to do so could be deadly. Despite their perceived freedom, many Cambodians remain enslaved by the despots of their past.
Aki Ra is trying to give his countrymen a fighting chance by making amends one landmine at a time. Once a child soldier for the Khmer Rouge, he’s now devoted his life to disarming the landmines he placed in soil of his homeland. He initially created the Landmine Museum in his own house, charging $1 to see the explosives he’d deactivated using homemade tools. Inside the museum we saw thousands of explosives he’d unearthed, rendering them harmless; a stark reminder of the hidden war still raging below the surface of Cambodia. The bombs and landmines are so profuse that 1 out of every 250 Cambodians is a landmine victim. We saw evidence of this ourselves, seeing so many missing limbs among the young and old, you’d think the war had never ended. For many it hasn’t.
Untangling the earth from explosives is an expensive and slow endeavor that may never end for the people of Cambodia. How are they to move forward as a nation, to rebuild and heal as a people, when innocent souls are still dying from weapons of a war long dead? I swear, the shortsightedness of mankind will be it’s undoing.
The good news is that educating the public on the long-lasting effects of landmines has made an impact. Most countries have signed the Mine Ban Treaty, vowing to eliminate their stockpiles of anti-personnel landmines and not to produce them. All but the super powers, of course, including China, Russia, and the United States. Surprise, surprise. Somehow the men with the biggest guns refuse to give up their pocketknives. One hopes they have a change of heart for all our sakes.
Our drive to Phnom Penh was cramped inside a passenger van filled with a couple locals, a French family of seven, the two of us, and boxes of goods pinning us to our seats. The road may have been a straight shot but our drive was anything but. We swerved and veered our way along a path riddled with potholes, mud, and long stretches of broken asphalt. The quality of road was akin to an abandoned street in a deserted town, yet it was the main thoroughfare linking Cambodia’s two largest cities. Our bodies were in agony by the time we reached our destination.
Our hotel in Phnom Penh was called The Anise, and it was one of the nicer places we stayed during our time in South East Asia. We felt happy with our choice, but our happiness quadrupled when we discovered our favorite Cambodian restaurant was two short blocks away – Blue Pumpkin. To our surprise, it had a sister location in Phnom Penh. I was happy to continue my daily routine of fresh watermelon shakes.
I can’t say our time in Phnom Penh was fun. Not in the least. But it was very worthwhile and I’ll be forever grateful we made the journey. While in Cambodia’s capital city we further explored its dark modern history. We visited Tuol Sleng Museum which was once a high school until the Khmer Rouge took control in 1975. It was then converted into a prison where dissenters, intellectuals, and suspected traitors were interrogated, tortured, and nearly all executed.
Pol Pot was the leader of the Khmer Rouge and he was a paranoid man. His paranoia trickled down among his ranks, sowing a distrust that kept everyone in line. Many of those carrying out orders were kids themselves, teenagers indoctrinated into the fold with no real understanding of life or ability to resist the regime. A torturer could become the tortured on the slightest of whims – one suspicious word or sympathetic look and you became as helpless as your victims. Everyone lived in daily fear.
The Khmer Rouge was meticulous about records and photographed all who came through the prison doors. The museum displayed those images; walls of prisoners staring back at you like ghosts trapped in a looking glass. Faces of their tormentors hung alongside them looking just as empty of hope. To me, they were all victims. I gazed into their haunted eyes unable to save them or give them comfort. All I can do now is honor their memory.
The makeshift cells in the prison were tiny rooms of brick or wood. Prisoners were strapped to their beds and rebar rods were used as ankle restraints. The air must’ve gotten so thick with heat the stench inside these walls had to have been unbearable. The outer walkways held curtains of barbed wire to prevent prisoners from escaping or committing suicide. Many people gave false confessions because they couldn’t stand the torture any longer. In doing so they were signing a death warrant for themselves and their families. The Khmer Rouge believed “to eradicate the spread of grass you have to rip out the root.” All children of the accused and their spouses were deemed complicit. Seeing photos of children was the most heartbreaking; their faces tinged with fear and confusion.
The photographs and stories painted a picture of utter despair. People lived in a state of starvation, loneliness and terror; families intentionally kept apart; hope striped away along with homes and all worldly possessions – it was hell on earth for those who lived under Pol Pot’s reign. What’s even sadder is that many of the men who led the Khmer Rouge have yet to be punished. Several still await trail, 40 years later, and others, like Pol Pot, essentially lived out their lives free of punishment.
When we left the museum we made the same journey as those who once left the Toul Sleng Prison – we traveled to the Choeung Ek Genocidal Center, also known as The Killing Fields.
From 1975 to 1979 the number of prisoners at Toul Sleng grew into the thousands and it could no longer handle the numbers. At first, truckloads of prisoners were moved every three weeks to this new site, but as Pol Pot’s paranoia grew the numbers rose. Soon, truckloads arrived every day filled with people who had been told they were being transported to a new location. In truth, they were there to be executed and dropped into mass graves. This was one of 300 killing fields all over Cambodia.
They’d arrive at night, blindfolded and handcuffed. Under bright lights powered by generators, they were led to the edge of a giant hole as revolutionary music played over loudspeakers to drown out their cries. They were bludgeoned to death with rods, machetes, or hammers because bullets were deemed too expensive. Their bodies were disrobed and pushed into a communal grave.
Buddhism is the dominant religion in Cambodia, and Buddhists believe in cremation and final rites so that a spirit may release in peace. Gone were these practices. When the Khmer Rouge took power they began “Year 0” in an attempt to erase all history, religion, culture, and personal belongings. No one was honored in death. Their lives were treated like refuse thoughtlessly dumped into a bin.
In an effort to bring these souls peace this site has become a memorial. The skulls and large bones of the deceased have been collected and placed in a beautiful glass stupa to honor the victims. Within you can see the remains of those murdered. This one stupa holds over 5,000 skulls.
As you walk the memorial you can see large pits dimpling the grounds. As time passes rain falls, grounds shift, and bone fragments will arise from the dirt. They are gathered by the groundskeepers and placed in one of the glass cases that line the walkway. The Cambodian people want these horrors to be talked about not hidden away. They believe the truth of what happened needs to be revealed and remembered by future generations to stop genocide from ever happening again. I agree. By hiding the past you’re doomed to repeat it.
The most painful part of our tour was seeing The Killing Tree. When this tree was discovered bits of brain, blood and bone were found in its bark. A mass grave of infant bodies and women were discovered next to it. It’s the most horrible thing I could ever imagine. I wept as I gazed at the tree, this life-giving force used as a brutal bludgeon. The injustice and inhumanity in these acts felt like an open wound. Hearing the stories was hard enough. I can’t imagine living through it.
As we rode back to our hotel in a tuk-tuk, bandanas pressed to our faces to filter out the clouds of dust and smog, I looked at our driver and noticed his age. He was in his fifties, old enough to have lived through the Khmer Rouge. I wondered what happened to him. Was he a farmer? Was he a soldier? Did he survive torture or even administer it? Every person we saw over the age of 40 lived through these atrocities. It was a sad revelation.
We drove past roadside construction and ramshackle businesses with metal rooftops and crumbling walls. I pondered Cambodia’s lack of infrastructure, its poverty, its struggle to survive the remains of a war still underfoot. Average estimates of lives lost under the Khmer Rouge range from 1.5 to 3 million, at least 25% of the population. They destroyed nearly everything in those years. They wiped out the leaders and intellectuals. They warped the minds of a generation.
I wondered what would be surrounding me right then if the past could be undone. I wondered and I mourned what could’ve been for Cambodia.
(If you’re moved to help the people of Cambodia recover from it’s war-torn history, please consider donating at www.landmine-relief-fund.com)
