The Killing Fields...I have no witty title for it.

1/27/09
Killing Fields of Choeung Ek
Outside Phnom Penh

Dragon and butter flies dance in clusters above the unassuming grass-covered graves, a tranquil juxtaposition to the severe granite tower of some 9,000 skulls, many burnt or bludgeoned to save bullets, glaring at my back. The echoes of the past terror that was once bred here still resonates with frightening force. It feels strange to shiver in such a blazing tropical climate. Threads from the clothing belonging to victims of the Khmer Rouge reach up from the ground, grasping at my feet, begging for some aide. But how the fuck am I supposed to help a piece of clothe? The bone scratches the bottom of my sandals and I let out a long, defeated breathe. Amidst the sorrow-filled compound I become more and more frustrated at my impotence. What more can I do, but attempt to comprehend as best as I can, record what I see and share what I feel with those who may not know about this inhuman massacre. So I guess that's what I've charged myself to do with this entry. Here's what I understand.
Let the history lecture begin:

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The Khmer Rouge, under Pol Pot's leadership, implemented one of the most bloody revolutions the world has ever seen. Their goal was a Communist ideal "Year Zero," money was abolished, cities abandoned and Cambodia transformed into a Maoist, peasant-dominated, agrarian cooperative.
Over the course of four years, hundreds of thousands of Cambodians, including the majority of the country's educated people, were relocated to the countryside, and tortured to death or executed. Thousands of people who spoke foreign languages or even just wore glasses (suggesting they were literate) were branded as 'parasites' and systematically killed. Hundreds of thousands more simply died of mistreatment, malnutrition and disease that spread rampant across the country. In total, about two million Cambodians died between 1975 and 1979.
To top it all off, when the Vietnamese invaded and overthrew the Khmer Rouge, millions of Cambodian set off on foot to find out if family members had survived. The harvest that was neglected and the resulting famine of 1979-1980 claimed another couple hundred thousand more.
The Khmer Rouge, having fled to the jungles, continued to wage guerrilla warfare through the 1980's until their eventual disbanding in 1998, (yes, it was that recent), when Pol Pot died. He never had to answer for what he did.

(Note: Tomorrow, Feb. 7, the first officer of Khmer Rouge will stand trial for war crimes, perhaps finally beginning to offer some small peace to this devastated country).

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So here I am, at one of the most famous execution sites, the final resting place of at least 18,000 souls.

Painfully aware of the layers of remains I'm walking over, I come to a banyan dubbed "The Magic Tree," where they apparently hung a speaker playing music loud enough to drown out the screams of the executed. I continue along the trail, pockmarked on either side with 5ft divots I know are more mass graves. Walking through there, I let my camera hang heavy around my neck and begrudgingly let it hit me. My first clear thought since I entered the gates over an hour ago: "This place reeks of...grief." Waves and waves hit me then, but despite my throat choking and closing up, I don't cry.

Somberly I pack up my gear and hurry out to my waiting motodriver. I think of him and the countess other men who make a living shuttling foreigners out here everyday. I wonder if they're numb to it, think of it as another tourist attraction, or if they stand there, leaning on their bikes, staring at the tower, wondering if a lost loved one is in there. What a horrible reminder regardless. I'm glad my driver doesn't speak English, and is less anxious to try to communicate after I established a low price for the ride. I really don't feel like talking. What would say anyway? "I'm sorry? That's so tragic? So sad?" Nothing seems like an appropriate consolation. In the end the only phrase I speak for most of the day is a thank you "Akuhn" when I pay my driver out front of my hostel. I lock myself in my room, review my pictures for a bit and try to understand what I just experienced. I'm not sure I have. After all, I still haven't cried.