A lesson in history.

I will attempt to write about an experience I have needed time to process through.  

You have heard me mention multiple times about the horror the Kingdom of Cambodia has experienced under the Pol Pot Regime in the mid 70’s.  Many of you would have been alive during these atrocities.  This past weekend Jen and I finally gathered our courage to visit Tuol Sleng (or S21) and the Killing Fields.  At Jen’s suggestion, I will only describe to you the feelings I had during our self-guided tour as the photos and physical descriptions are more than I can bear to relive.  

After church on Sunday, Jen and I and our friend Frida flagged down a tuk tuk and prepared ourselves for the emotionally turbulent afternoon ahead of us.  As it turns out these days, efforts to prepare myself for some of life’s larger lessons are often in vain.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw and read that sunny, hot afternoon.  Tuol Sleng is a former high-school that the Khmer Rouge converted to a detention and torture centre.  It is located at the heart of Phnom Penh.  Upon entering the looming cement and iron gates, I could feel my spirit slowly being crushed, the memories of tarantula-eating the night before lay forgotten as I took in my surroundings.  Jen, Frida and I went our separate ways.  The centre is enclosed with 7 ft cement walls lined with spiraling barbed wire.  I glanced around at the sombre expressions of other tourists around me and saw that their faces reflected my own blank stare of bewilderment.  

The cell blocks and detaining rooms have been preserved to eery accuracy.  What really tied my stomach in knots and set me off for the next 24 hrs were the walls and walls of mugshots on display  When I came upon a wall of children, my heart squeezed tight, my stomach dropped and I had to stop myself from gagging.  I looked at the empty, frightened faces of the children on the wall and all I could see were my young students staring back at me.  Some of the names recorded were even the same as my precious kids.  My walk became aimless.  I tagged along behind with a tour group for lack of any real sense of direction.  

Eventually Jen, Frida and I found each other, none able to say a word.  Frida decided she’d had enough and went home.  Jen and I quietly found our tuk tuk driver and went out to the Killing Fields.

I always thought the name was a bit dramatic, but before coming I came to terms with the fact that these fields were everything their names entailed.

The ride to the Fields was a quiet and sombre one.  The faces I saw on the streets held new meanings.  All I wanted to do was throw up or run and run until my legs gave out.  We rode in silence.  Once we arrived, again we went separate ways.  There was very little talking to be heard from others wandering the once-beautiful longen orchard.  A reverend silence blanketed the grounds as it would a cemetery.  Signs marked significant stations.  Still, my nauseation lingered.  These images are the material of nightmares.

Eventually we floated out, both in a rather catatonic state.  After running a few last minute errands, and a couple fruitless attempts to distract ourselves, we settled back into our little home at Rescue.  Sleep did not come easy that night, mine was fitful, lasting only about 4 hrs.  The next morning, as I forced myself to school, Trakuan our housekeeper noticed my sniffling and puffy face.  Concerned, she turned to me to ask if I was sick.  I responded, “No, crying.  We went to Tuol Sleng, it was not good for me.  Too much!”  She looked confused for a moment (probably a bit of the language barrier thing) then quietly replied, “Oh.  Thank-you.”

I have taken a couple days to recover from all of this.  Many tears have been shed in the process.  In my efforts to completely open up my heart and truly experience every little part of that afternoon, I think I may have gone overboard.  I feel as though I can empathize with the trauma inflicted on the generations.  I believe it’s safe to say the experience was truly traumatizing.

But there is hope.  Always, there is hope.

Cambodia’s story is a tale of resilience, perseverance, redemption and above all, hope.  I find hope in the kids I teach.  The innocent, smiling facing that bring me joy (and frustrations) each day.  I always find it funny when I go to serve and teach, and in return I am taught more about life than I expected.  It always baffles me yet it always happens, I don’t know why it’s still surprising.  

God is a God of hope.  There is hope for the Kingdom of Cambodia.  And there’s hope for the rest of us.

-c.