August 13 to 14—Phnom Penh and the Dark History of the Khmer Rouge Era

Dear Family and Friends,

Monday, August 13, Martha and Dani were up and out by 9:00 AM in hopes of arriving in time for the 10:00 AM movie showing at the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, known less formally as 'S-21.' It was a pretty short walk from Sakura Hotel to the former school yard that had been turned into a concentration camp and torture center during the Khmer Rouge regime. Along the way, we stopped for a pastry. (And many thanks to the French for bringing bread to this part of the world!)

On the way into the school grounds through a white outer wall, beggars cluttered the passageway asking for handouts. One had severe burns and damage to most of his face, left open for us to see what could happen from torture or perhaps from a landmine in the area. The entrance fee was 2 USD each, and we easily made it on time to the 10:00 AM movie on the third floor of the right-hand building, even though Martha’s watch has been keeping slow time. Even with fans to cool the room, it was stifling, certainly not just because of the heat of the morning but also because of the weight of the air in this building with a deadly recent past.

In its first life, this was a school room, where children gathered to learn and dream about their futures in their developing country. In its second life, it was one of dozens of rooms in the multiple-building school yard used to house about 70 prisoners each, chained together by their feet with their backs on the floor. Now in its third life, it is a room to educate once again.

The movie was a documentary of the love story of two Cambodians who had been among the thousands killed (most likely at the Killing Fields nearby) after imprisonment and torture in the S-21 detention facility. The video was broken half-way through, and many foreigners left impatiently, but we opted to stay to see if it would resume. The room was hot, and Dani began to feel ill again, perhaps more saddened with quiet time to think of the humans who were chained together in this very room, without the semi-cooling fans and instead with the threat of severe beatings if they became ill without permission.

A young man came in to fix the video, and we watched the rest of the movie (with its unhappy ending) before descending to the courtyard to start the self-guided tour of the four buildings that make up the former school. What was once a play area is now a gravesite for the final 14 victims who were left when the site was abandoned. Of course, the then-administration claimed no knowledge of the atrocities committed in the detention facility, but the people are working hard to bring those still alive and responsible to justice and to make sure that their lost loved ones did not die in vain or in secrecy.

Past the small graveyard, we entered the first building, where single beds confined the prisoners in the smallest school rooms where the torturing could commence away from the other detainees. Blood- and rust-stained floors and large black and white photographs showed the results of the interrogation performed in these rooms. Forty years after the atrocities, the ceilings were in bad shape, threatening to crumble to the ground. Some tourists had disrespected the memory of the dead here by scraping their names and the date into the walls. Martha wondered if other scrapes on the walls were from prisoners trying to count the days or find ways to maintain their sanity from the fear.

In the next building, the rooms were larger and filled with the photos of the dead, each taken as the Khmer Rouge systematically kept records of those that entered S-21, their histories, their testimonies to treason (often exactly what the prison guards wanted them to say and often also means of naming and condemning neighbors and family members), and their final day. We could almost tell which of the photos had been taken early on in the war, when people may not have known what they were in for, when they had more meat on their bones. What we perceived were later photos showed more shallow eyes, thinner bodies, and scared faces. The very old, the very young, and everyone in between were represented on the walls. Men, women, babies (some of whom were snatched from their mothers and destroyed against a tree in the Killing Fields). So many faces …

The third building had barbed wire across the front except for a single entryway. This was additional defense to keep in the prisoners locked away in the small cells. Its school rooms had been bricked off to hold numerous prisoners, each chained in a single cell; another part of the building’s cells were made of wood. Neither approach provided decent ventilation; many did not have a window. Upstairs past a corner of lounging bats, a large room presented a photo display of family members talking about their lost loved ones. Dani noticed there were still small iron loops in the floor through which the leg irons were fastened to hold down larger groups of detainees.


The fourth and final building, back where we had viewed the movie earlier in the day, was made up of these larger rooms. Now, we witnessed more photos, both of the original documentation of the prisoners and of local artists’ renditions of the genocide museum in hopes of bringing the visitors closer with the dead. One of the prisoners was taken into favor during his stay at the camp and brought down among the guards to paint what he witnessed at the camp. In fact, his history was part of the video as he led one of the former guards around to look at the grotesque images he had created to ask him if, indeed, the things he had painted had happened. The guard admitted the atrocities, as well as his own acts of murder when Pol Pot was present on the Killing Fields to encourage him to hammer a poor soul's brain with a pipe. The former prisoner’s paintings now hanged around the gallery on the first floor among devices of torture, forensic photos of the skulls unearthed in the Killing Fields, and some samples of the skulls themselves.

Up to 1,500 prisoners were held at that camp at any given time, and an estimated 12,500 were captive during the four most active years at the prison; fewer than a dozen prisoners survived. Men, women, children, infants, parents, grandparents of anyone suspected of or accused by terrified neighbors or tortured prisoners of being in favor of Americans, other foreigners, or Southern Vietnamese or in any way against the Pol Pot regime were brought to S-21.

We somberly left the museum and walked around the block, attempting to digest the information and replaying the scenes of torture in lively discussion. Neither of us had ANY appetite, but with Dani’s continuing nausea we knew it was an important stop. We ate and discussed world politics in what appeared to be a popular restaurant. Dani managed shrimp fried rice and a Fanta; Martha muddled through fried noodles and ice coffee, feeling the moldy air of S-21 already clogging her lungs. She would have to remember to take an allergy pill as soon as we got back to the hotel.

After buying another water from someone’s garage store for 1,500 riel (about 0.45 USD), we continued our day of tough education by walking back to the main road to flag a tuk-tuk ride to the Killing Fields. The guide book says this trip should be 4 USD both ways, but we’d only been quoted 10 USD in the past few days from other tuk-tuks. It seems the guide book is a bit out of date and drivers have learned that they can command this price (or need to with the always-rising cost of petrol). Today’s tuk-tuk offered the same price, so we spent 10 USD to go the 15 KM outside of town to the Killing Fields.

The drive was scenic and gave us some more time to find the proper mental storage places for the faces from S-21. We rode past cute little towns and quaint farming communities set along another lake. Agriculture was plentiful, even on the water itself with plants of unknown type being cultivated in the heat of the day as we passed. People continued their everyday lives in shops and out in the fields while our minds were on their past and the hopes of their futures. Perhaps some of them were lost in similar thoughts.


We paid the 2 USD entrance fee to the Killing Fields and stood before the grand white stupa of skulls, a tower structure piled high with the unearthed, often fractured or broken by a bullet hole, remnants of this country’s people’s shameful acts upon its own under threat of becoming victims themselves. Walking around the complex, simple signs told where different events took place while others labeled mass grave sites and the number of bodies discovered. One tree was used to play music to keep the area secret by coveringthe moans of the still-living who had been buried. Another tree was the site of the inhuman destruction of newborns being thrown against the bark.

A gate wrapped around the site of a little lake that has not been dug up, but that likely is the final burial place to the majority of the people murdered in this otherwise pretty place. Children gathered around the outside of the fence begging for anything we would give them, from the last of the water in our water bottle (which we would not hand over since we didn't know the source of Dani's current discomfort) to coveted dollar bills—two girls we encountered first were happy and talkative about school and “take our picture” and “oh my name is Martha too” before suddenly changing their tune to “please give us some money for pens for school” or “yum yum” in asking for food or sweets. Having agreed that we would refrain from giving handouts for the most part, but especially to children (opting instead to buy from vendors and children who are selling wares), we finally broke free by giving them two of the banana candies from Dani’s pocket so we could continue our quiet commune with the dead.

Back at the entrance and about to depart, more children gathered to beg. It is so hard to see children spending their days begging or working at trades instead of experiencing the joys of childhood, and also difficult not to pass judgment on this society since we cannot fathom the need that propels a parent to send their child into the streets among wandering strangers. As we sat on the tuk-tuk about to depart, one child asked Martha for a dollar, but failed to hide what was already in her hand—a fist full of them!! Martha called her on it, and received a sly childish smile from the former look of dismay.

The children begged for water, and our driver gave them his bottle. But as it was discovered that the tuk-tuk was a fun toy to hang on to, the lucky girl threw the bottle to the ground to hop on for a ride. Up the road a piece, all five of the children finally had jumped off and returned to their jobs of looking sad and begging outside the gates. We relished the opportunity to hear the kids laughing and see their joy in the amusing adventure.

We were wiped out by the time we got back into town, so returned to the hotel for shower, a bit of relaxation and mind-numbing TV. As nightfall approached, Martha was the one not feeling great as S-21 (or rather, the mold in the aging walls there) began to torture her, as well. We walked to find dinner—fruit shakes and local food seen on most menus called 'beef luc lac.' It was quite a tasty beef dish heavy on the parsley. We explored a new block on our walk back home and headed to the lobby of the hotel to relax and e-mail, staying there well past midnight as we witnessed the staff of Sakura going to bed on cots in the main lobby where we finally shut down the computer and headed to bed.

Tuesday, August 14, we awoke to our last full day in Phnom Penh. Out the door by 9:00 AM in case we wanted to leave today after picking up our visas for Viet Nam by 10:00 AM (check out was set for noon), but still wanting to check out options for leaving the following day. We walked to check out other guest houses in the area near where our bus could be leaving the next morning. Our first choice was full for the night, so we walked slowly to embassy, arrived at 10:02 AM, and were told to sit.

A couple of Spaniards were also waiting, and hoped to make the 11:45 AM bus to SaiGon—bet they were nervous as the clock ticked by. They were handed their passports finally at 10:45 AM and ran out the door; we still waited. Buen viaje, gentlemen! The room emptied slowly. We used our ‘expertise’ to help a Swedish Cuban gentleman navigate the system, and in chatting with him found that he had spent quite a bit of time in Nha Trang, on the coast of Viet Nam, where we hope to spend a week at the beach. Kevin said that he would e-mail us to get in touch while he is there too.

A young woman who arrived at 10:30 AM was given her passport at 10:55 AM, and as the Woman With the Power was headed back behind the locked door, Dani jumped up and shoved our receipt into her hands. Whew, she took it; three minutes later, she returned with our passports and visas to visit Viet Nam for up-to 30 days! While reviewing the addition to our passports, Martha noticed that the passport number on her visa was incorrect. Thankfully, it was a quick fix, and we were assured that we’d pass through the border just fine. Though it would have been nerve-wracking to hand our passports to an office at a Lakeside guest house, we would consider it next time and pay the extra 2 USD them to bring a stack of passports down to the embassy and process them.

Now past 11:00 AM, we wandered back North, hoping to pass the post office on the way back to our hotel, but headed in the wrong direction and did not find it. Since we would miss our noon checkout and it was already later in the day than we’d hoped, we paid for another night at Sakura, showered and rested a bit, and then walked back to the post office. All the way, tuk tuk drivers stopped to ask if we needed a ride; no thank you, we’re trying to get healthy on these long city walks in the tropical heat!

The post office here was easier to navigate than in Bangkok, as it was a small office, otherwise empty of people except for a line of five women behind the counter. We sent a few postcards out to loved ones (sorry if we missed you this round, but we needed some more addresses). Dani went back in to double-check that all of the postcards had been stamped and were ready to go, having heard or read that sometimes even the postal workers will try to scam a few extra cents by not sending out overseas mail.

Continuing North to the office of Capitol Tour group, we purchased two tickets for Chau Doc, a town just across the border in Viet Nam, for the next morning at 8:00 AM, and they agreed to pick us up at our hotel at 7:30 AM. With our plans for the next day secure, we headed North once again to see some of Phnom Penh’s highlights that we had missed the days before.

Our path took us along extremely busy street number 107—just one street off a main thoroughfare, but packed with local shoppers, motorbikes, and little room for pedestrians to get through the obstacle course. We could take barely more than one step on the sidewalk, as here it is designated for commerce and the street is for all movement. This was the toughest street to maneuver on that we had encountered outside of Bangkok. Though we only walked along 500 meters of this stretch of road, it took us at least a half-hour of maneuvering the stalls and watching life happen. Heading a bit east up Charles de Gaulle Blvd, we found ourselves at the Central Market, and entered just to see this large trade center. It was a bit like Central Station in Manhattan, Martha thought, with a tall central ceiling and clock tower in the center … and people everywhere. Built in 1937, the art-deco style Central Market complex is enclosed, and has four hallway-arms sticking out, one with women’s clothes, one with men’s, another with tourist wares, and another with bags and other luggage; surrounding the building in any available meter are plastic-tarp-covered stalls selling anything else imaginable. The central portion contains silver, gold, and sparkly gems beneath powerful lights. We entered the women’s clothing section, where Dani bought a yellow shirt of very thin material. Even though her favorite shirts are short-sleeved, the fabric is so heavy that they end up uncomfortable attire in this hot tropical landscape. It was a fun market to explore, with more tourist-centric stuff than the Russian Market.

Outside of the market to head towards the river bank, we bought a drink that we’d seen being made in many other places, and later learned that it was sugar cane being pressed—refreshing, yummy sweet with added lime juice, and horrible for our teeth. Just North before hitting the river, we climbed the stairs to explore the first wat we’ve ventured into in Cambodia, called Wat Phnom, after which this city is named. The temple is famous for four Buddha images that came to the city as they floated down the river, or so the legend goes, and were found by a woman named Penh. Thus, the city’s name literally means ‘Hill of Penh.’ Below the hilltop temple, monkeys played in the surrounding park space, chasing each other, making monkey noise, and generally entertaining the masses. Up the hill, we paid 1 USD for a ticket marked ‘Foreigner Only’. The temple was very different from those in Thailand, with more color on the deity images and the columns, with dragons wrapped around.

Beyond the temple entrance, a man selling caged birds tried to get Dani to buy one—to release? Not sure what’s supposed to happen or what you’re supposed to pray for as the birds are released (perhaps freedom for all in this world who feel caged), she did not purchase the bird. Within the temple, a girl received a reading about her future from a psychic; the first reading was not good, so she received a second for free. Each of the fifty or more Buddha statues had been prayed to and offered a 100 riel note and a lotus flower bud. We spent some nice moments sitting in contemplative prayer among the incense before continuing our walk.

Now walking south along the river front, our goal was to reach the FCC (Foreign Correspondence Club) per Capt’n Harry’s instruction. First, we sat along the river with the sun at our backs; Dani thought that it would be a nice night to be at the lakeside watching the sunset, but we did not head that way. Martha lay down on the riverbank’s dividing wall and was about asleep before two young boys woke her up, seriously ... with a shake of the shoulder, to ask her if she wanted a shoe shine for her sandals! The calm broken, we arrived at 5:00 PM to the FCC in time for happy hour, which lasted four hours. Peter and Harry, two gentlemen from Australia, inhabited the seats beside us and we soon entered conversation to pass the evening as the sun sank and the sky darkened over the river. Peter insisted on calling Dani “Dan Murphy,” which was fine by her because the Dan Murphy she knows is a really nice chap! Nice Aussies, who had a rough time on their way to Phnom Penh that day, giving us a reminder of how dangerous the motorbike rides in this part of the world can be—the third in their group sat away from us on a couch with bandages covering a split-open head and various other injuries from a collision with another motorbike earlier that day. Dani had been reading in the free tourist magazines stories of testosterone-driven men on motorbikes, beaten by the rough backtrails of Cambodia’s jungles and unpredictable “roads.” Their friend left to find dinner and bed, and we continued on in boisterous conversation as Harry regaled us with stories of trips to Libya and other parts of the world, including jail time for drinking alcohol in a Muslim country. Martha was still not feeling well; the mold inside the S-21 museum had started to set off her lungs and treat her to a cold. So, as happy hour ended, we headed off for an early night to bed before our next day’s adventure into the seventh country of this trip!

It was too late to get dinner at any local spot since most of the restaurants close by 9:00 PM. But along the riverfront near the Royal Palace, we once again found vendors selling food items surrounded by collections of Khmer people spread out on the ground upon mats, enjoying family, friends, and the evening air with a light meal. Dani, though hungry, did not find anything appealing in the mix of snails and dried hanging squid. A corn vendor saved the day as we each got an ear of corn to sustain us into the night, as we packed to leave Cambodia.

In love and light,

Martha and Dani