Yesterday we visited the Killing Fields of Cambodia, where an endless number of mass graves span several acres of blood-soaked land, and bones still return from the earth as the soil erodes from the warm rain. A single memorial tower stands in remembrance, as if to say, "Never Forget." Sure enough, as we approached the tower, those very words were inscribed in marble, decorated with solid gold.
Inside the tower were seventeen floors covered with bones. Skulls stare the fear into your mind as you imagine each of the 1.7 million lives ending with an axe to the back of the head, a gush of blood and brains, and a sustaining cry of a living hell. Holding back the tears is not an option when visiting the Killing Fields.
It is hard to believe that such a great country, full of culture and seemingly boundless kindness, was just four decades ago in the depths of terror. Perhaps it's no coincidence; many Cambodian Living Arts members have said that without the Khmer Rouge their culture's restoration might not be their highest priority. Many consider such an atrocity, like the holocaust, a sobering lesson of accepting reality and the best ways to make the world better.
Such a theory was only confirmed when we visited a school for poor children outside Phnom Penh. Never before had I seen such genuine and unbridled joy. I taught children how to draw houses and how to name all the parts. The roof, the walls, the windows, the floor, and the door composed my simple drawing. The children followed suit, until one kindly asked, "Where are the legs?" I had forgotten many Cambodian houses stand on stilts. I congratulated him on his great question and promptly added stilts to my American colonial house.
After a few tickle fights and more drawing activities, we joined the children in the pool, where we played Marco Polo, which they knew how to play better than any of us. Hours passed and eventually came the time to leave. I couldn't stop thinking about two things: firstly, I was so excited to come back tomorrow, and secondly, I can not believe how happy these children are. They knew their place at such a young age. Perhaps that's the key.
That day I learned even more that pain, terror, suffering, and horror are the greatest teachers. I wouldn't hire them to teach at my school, but in a country with a horrifying past, it is easy to see, particularly in the children, boundless happiness can emerge from seeing clearly and knowing what is important to our shared humanity.
Now, as I ride on the bus back to the school, I can't wait to help the children grow up and become people who change the world.--Ian
Inside the tower were seventeen floors covered with bones. Skulls stare the fear into your mind as you imagine each of the 1.7 million lives ending with an axe to the back of the head, a gush of blood and brains, and a sustaining cry of a living hell. Holding back the tears is not an option when visiting the Killing Fields.
It is hard to believe that such a great country, full of culture and seemingly boundless kindness, was just four decades ago in the depths of terror. Perhaps it's no coincidence; many Cambodian Living Arts members have said that without the Khmer Rouge their culture's restoration might not be their highest priority. Many consider such an atrocity, like the holocaust, a sobering lesson of accepting reality and the best ways to make the world better.
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| Getting compost ready |
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| Students at Seametry School get sugar cane juice from the local vendor |
Such a theory was only confirmed when we visited a school for poor children outside Phnom Penh. Never before had I seen such genuine and unbridled joy. I taught children how to draw houses and how to name all the parts. The roof, the walls, the windows, the floor, and the door composed my simple drawing. The children followed suit, until one kindly asked, "Where are the legs?" I had forgotten many Cambodian houses stand on stilts. I congratulated him on his great question and promptly added stilts to my American colonial house.After a few tickle fights and more drawing activities, we joined the children in the pool, where we played Marco Polo, which they knew how to play better than any of us. Hours passed and eventually came the time to leave. I couldn't stop thinking about two things: firstly, I was so excited to come back tomorrow, and secondly, I can not believe how happy these children are. They knew their place at such a young age. Perhaps that's the key.
That day I learned even more that pain, terror, suffering, and horror are the greatest teachers. I wouldn't hire them to teach at my school, but in a country with a horrifying past, it is easy to see, particularly in the children, boundless happiness can emerge from seeing clearly and knowing what is important to our shared humanity.
Now, as I ride on the bus back to the school, I can't wait to help the children grow up and become people who change the world.--Ian
It's safe to say that no one was ready for today. I knew about our jam-packed schedule, which included a visit to the killing fields and service work at the Montessori school, but I was not expecting the emotional and physical consequences it would have on me.
At this point in the trip I feel heavy, tired, and emotionally sick. How can one person kill another the way the Khmer Rouge did: mercilessly slitting throats with bamboo sticks and cracking skulls with gardening hoes? Heck, how can one person kill another?! I'm just very confused by human nature and deeply saddened by our capabilities and flaws. The heat keeps on momentarily disorienting me and all I can do is be deep in thought the entire bus ride to the Montessori school, which was, thankfully, a lighter and much less intense experience than the killing fields.
We arrive at the school right around lunch time and enjoy a nice meal by the water. The Montessori is very nicely equipped; complete with 3 pools, basketball court, and playground. The principle greeted us under a gazebo and told us the plan for the next day and a half. I was assigned to transplant some trees into larger pots, which proved to be extremely strenuous and laborious under the sweltering sun. But my partner, Natalie, and I still made the most of it. When we were working on our last tree, it started to rain torrentially, but Nat and I were determined to uproot just one last tree! We ended up finally getting the last tree while the storm was at its climax. As the warm rain poured down our dirty skin, we finally get the last tree out of the pot with a triumphant yell of joy. The rain did not phase the children. The rain is not greeted with hesitancy here like it is at home. It felt euphoric running around with the kids in the downpour and it was extremely freeing. The kids were so full of life and energy; they inspired me to be happier in my own life. By the time I get back on the bus I'm so exhausted physically from the work and mentally from the killing fields that I fall asleep until we arrive at the hotel to change for dinner. Dinner was followed with a screening of a great documentary of "A River Changes Course" by Kalyanee Mam. It was full of beautiful images of the Cambodian countryside and the lives of local village farmers. After the screening it was bed for all of us; we were all tired and needed a well-deserved rest until the morning.--Sydney
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| Landscaping crew |
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| Mowing duo |
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| Teaching snapchat! |
After a mentally, physically, and emotionally strenuous day, we were relieved from blogging. After an hour-long bus ride, we arrived at the fields. Immediately, we were greeted greeted by children jumping around a soft drink stand. Overshadowing the stand was a towering memorial dedicated to all the men, women and children brutally murdered on the site. In the laughter of the kids, I felt a sense of wonder at how the country reconstructed itself after tyrannical reign of the Khmer Rouge. Overcome with emotion, I walked up the marble steps with seemingly robotic legs and a burning throat. The memorial was built in classic Khmer style, and exhibited seventeen shelves of jawbones, femurs, hip bones, vertebrae, and skulls with bullet holes or cracks from an axe or bamboo stick to the back of the head. I was surprised that the memorial was constructed in traditional style, until I remembered that Arn had told me the day before that the Khmer Rouge allowed the Cambodian people to recognize the importance of celebrating tradition and culture. It's funny how beauty can come from such atrocities.
To save money, the Khmer Rouge insisted that people be murdered individually, kneeling above a mass-grave blindfolded, by one swift blow to the base of the head by an axe, a wooden plank, or a bamboo stick. Those that recognized their fate and attempted to escape were shot on the spot . I turned back, overtaken with horror, and placed flowers and incense at the base of the memorial to honor and pray for the 1.7 million victims of the almost 200 mass-graves. We continued on to the graves, broken-hearted and speechless, and wove our way through the bones and clothing that had resurfaced as a result of erosion as if to actively protest denial.
We walked to the tree against which Khmer soldiers were responsible for beating and killing babies and children. I stared at the tree long enough to study every inch through blurred and salty eyes. Buddhist bracelets, a symbol of respect and prayer, adorned the tree with vibrant colors, giving life to the deadly tree in a sincere but vain apology. I left my prayers and continued to a screening of a documentary about the Khmer Rouge. We left the fields in a daze, and the ghosts left as a part of us.
We were bused to a Montessori school outside of Phnom Penh. It took a while to adjust emotionally from a place of surreal horror to one teeming with boisterous kids. I volunteered to swim with the 5-7 year olds with Will. Immediately after jumping in, we were bombarded by smiling and screaming faces. I got a workout pulling a chain of twenty kids from one side of the pool to the other. One girl, Jenny, was particularly comfortable with me, and started a trend of being catapulted by me and Will into the water. We said our goodbyes and I was sent to a classroom with slightly older kids that was designed to teach the children life skills within the culture. That day, we made coconut cake. I, along with Ian and a few German college volunteers, was completely useless at opening the coconut. After several failed attempts, one ten-year-old took the coconut from my hand, walked to the kitchen to get a butcher knife, and started hacking off the husk. I was frozen with suspense; the knife he was using was about the size of my head. As I watched him position, whack, reposition, and whack again, I realized that this kid grew up in an environment completely unfamiliar to me, where the children are expected from extremely young to help their parents with gathering, preparing, and cooking food, because the survival of their village depends on it. I trust that this kid is more equipped with basic survival skills than I will never need to be. At a very modernized and luxurious school (equipped with three swimming pools, a tennis court, and a skate park), it was easy to detach the school from the reality of the daily lifestyles of these kids. Watching this kid hack into the coconut as if it were second nature made it impossible to ignore the differences in our lifestyles. --Maya BT
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| Nursery class |
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| Women picking lotus root from Tonle Bati Lake |
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| Seametrey Students lining up to say farewell |
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| An idyllic spot to reflect! |
