Don Giovanni. Khmer Rouge, Cambodia.
Don't know whether this was smart on my part or not. At the time, it made perfect sense to me. I didn't want to do something light - I wanted to make people think. But, after copious amounts of research, I realize this topic is much too heavy than I could ever take. For how could I, a middle-class adult, living in First-World standards with little exposure to the rest of the world, ever hope to understand the pain, the suffering, the cruelty which he inflicted upon an entire nation? How could I ever do justice to such a heavy topic?
I've seen some terrible photos of the aftermath of the tragedy; some were so sickening I couldn't bear using them as reference. The mere thought that these photos are representations of a reality that actually happened is more than I can fathom. How could things like this happen?
I remember visiting Tuol Sleng - the prison - and the Killing Fields during a school trip in 2004. The experience, as daunting and uncomfortable as it was, was something I am glad to have gone through. It was singularly humbling, horrifying, eye-opening. I remember walking through the rooms, with endless black-and-white photos of frightened people - most of them perfect representations of the very same civilians I saw in the city - thinking - how many of these photos are there?
And then it strikes me. These photos were a death warrant. Any person you choose in the endless collection was invariably executed, tortured to death, subjected to unbearable pain. They were starved, beaten, forced to live in deplorable conditions. And in the end, they would take these photos, before they executed you. In some cases, they were even forced to dig their own graves. It got to a point where they executed so many people that the Khmer Rouge didn't even have the money to buy the bullets to kill them with. And so, they simply crushed their skulls in.
You see photos of scared children, young mothers - there's even an eerie photo of a teenage boy smiling at the camera - and you think: did the Khmer Rouge seriously believe that all these people were traitors, spies, plotting against them, planning their downfall?
I remember being so overwhelmed by the horror of it all. Despite the walls and walls of photos, even then, you realize: this is only a small number. Almost 2 million people - a quarter of Cambodia's population at the time - died at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. And most of them you would never see the photos of. Most of them are forgotten, unknown, a mere estimate, a statistic to be quoted.
Even then, my 14-year-old self could begin to understand what we, as a people, were capable of. I never wanted to know, but I did then. While the rest of my trip-mates were hanging around the museum shop, buying ice-cream and soft drinks, I had to sit down. I remember putting my hands to my head, crying. In a corner of the building near the bedrooms in which the Vietnamese found the bodies of prisoners as they raided the prison, I cried.
It was then a small, young Cambodian woman noticed me. Quietly, she sat down. I remember her taking my hand, trying to sooth me, saying things I didn't understand. I was so overcome with shame - at myself, at the inaction and apathy of the world as this was happening - yet, I wanted to ask her - how? How could you comfort me - a tourist, who knows nothing better - when you were so affected by this yourself?
Yet, something in that simple gesture - the holding of a hand of a stranger, who, removed from such events, cries for you nevertheless - placated me. I can't remember how she looks now, or even what happened afterwards - but I look back on that one gesture with fondness. That, even in that place of darkness, of unimaginable inhumanity and loss, she could still have the faith, the kindness to reach out and comfort some random girl like me...in itself, that one gesture gave me some respite in the face of all the horror.
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