Today I went to Tuol Sleng, or S-21. TL was a high school before it was turned into a prison and center for torture during the Pol Pot regime. The prison has been turned into a memorial museum for those detained there. Portraits of prisoners and guards line many rooms. I didn't take any photographs, as it didn't feel appropriate for the gravity of the place. The estimated figure for prisoners who came through this site from 1975 to 1978 numbers 20,000. Only 7 people survived their internment.
This is what I wrote immediately after visiting.
Faces--young, old, strong, fearful, resigned, defiant, impassive. Showing evidence of maltreatment, or as yet untouched. So many of them. A cross-section of life, from mere children, to someone's grandparent. Some portraits moved me to tears--the fear and despair palpable. Others held a fascination resembling awe or respect with a strong tilt of a chin. Collectively, the sheer weight of the numbers caused tears to stream down my face by the end. Others around me seem to have had the same reaction.
Juxtapositions are jolting. As it used to be a high school, adjacent to a room filled with portraits of the dead is a school lectern. The gymnasium equipment was converted into torture devices.
There are two layers of ghosts here. One, the children and teachers of the former high school. I imagine I can hear chairs creaking as they shift in their seats. The same tiles as found in schools everywhere remain. The second layer is less peaceful. The moans and whispers of those killed during the years of the Khmer Rouge persist as I sit here. As with any of the historic sites I've been to in Cambodia, and elsewhere, my mind strains to see it as it once was.
Today, small group of quiet tourists wander these halls, paying their respects to the dead and gone. Birds sing, trees are full of blossoms, and I sit on a park bench overlooking a courtyard. I find myself being willingly distracted by birds now roosting in the eaves of what once was such a terrible place. What remains is a reminder of those atrocities, and a call to extract our heads from the sand we've happily buried them under to stop this from happening elsewhere.
I have never been much of a news person. It seems it's either too awful, or people have become desensitized to the goings on of the world. My mother tried unsuccessfully to get me to watch, and on one occasion having acquiesced to watching--at perhaps age 12, I turned and said "Why would you ever want me to watch that?" . . . But in the face of the alternative, how can you not.
I'm not brave enough to now go on to see the Killing Fields as many others here will. My heart aches and wonders how this small nation has survived. And how have so many others through history faced similar horrific events. Unthinkable.
I am off to find my tuk tuk driver to take me away from this place, and all I can think of is his parents, grandparents, and neighbours, and what stories he must have to tell. I don't have the gall, nor the will to ask.
**********
This is what I wrote immediately after visiting.
Faces--young, old, strong, fearful, resigned, defiant, impassive. Showing evidence of maltreatment, or as yet untouched. So many of them. A cross-section of life, from mere children, to someone's grandparent. Some portraits moved me to tears--the fear and despair palpable. Others held a fascination resembling awe or respect with a strong tilt of a chin. Collectively, the sheer weight of the numbers caused tears to stream down my face by the end. Others around me seem to have had the same reaction.
Juxtapositions are jolting. As it used to be a high school, adjacent to a room filled with portraits of the dead is a school lectern. The gymnasium equipment was converted into torture devices.
There are two layers of ghosts here. One, the children and teachers of the former high school. I imagine I can hear chairs creaking as they shift in their seats. The same tiles as found in schools everywhere remain. The second layer is less peaceful. The moans and whispers of those killed during the years of the Khmer Rouge persist as I sit here. As with any of the historic sites I've been to in Cambodia, and elsewhere, my mind strains to see it as it once was.
Today, small group of quiet tourists wander these halls, paying their respects to the dead and gone. Birds sing, trees are full of blossoms, and I sit on a park bench overlooking a courtyard. I find myself being willingly distracted by birds now roosting in the eaves of what once was such a terrible place. What remains is a reminder of those atrocities, and a call to extract our heads from the sand we've happily buried them under to stop this from happening elsewhere.
I have never been much of a news person. It seems it's either too awful, or people have become desensitized to the goings on of the world. My mother tried unsuccessfully to get me to watch, and on one occasion having acquiesced to watching--at perhaps age 12, I turned and said "Why would you ever want me to watch that?" . . . But in the face of the alternative, how can you not.
I'm not brave enough to now go on to see the Killing Fields as many others here will. My heart aches and wonders how this small nation has survived. And how have so many others through history faced similar horrific events. Unthinkable.
I am off to find my tuk tuk driver to take me away from this place, and all I can think of is his parents, grandparents, and neighbours, and what stories he must have to tell. I don't have the gall, nor the will to ask.
**********
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