Phnom Penh, Cambodia
Incomprehensible and incongruent. The words seemed to float in the humid air and drift around us and within us throughout the day.
In the pink of the early dawn, the river flowed gently, a highway for tiny vessels with upswept prows bearing bicycles and workers bound for nearby fields. A bulbul called from the riparian zone and dozens of terns moved silently past. But the sounds of the city were close by. Urban bumped against rural, rich against poor, silence against pulsating engines and humans in a hurry.
We burst into the frenzy of Phnom Penh like toddlers, innocently transported in giant strollers powered by men on bicycles. Motorcycles zipped in and around our long parade and cars and vans seemed all too close to our toes. Push-carts laden with foods and fruits were propelled by tiny women who seemed to struggle with the weight of the load, while Lexus automobiles zoomed past, their occupants much at ease. Flashes of images reached our eyes. Monks with saffron robes and yellow umbrellas strolled past young teens, their spiked hair dyed a strange shade of orange. Young families shared breakfast with the elderly, all seated on tiny red plastic chairs. Modern restaurants and hotels stood side-by-side with family-owned one-room shops.
Surrounded by walls, the Royal Palace compound swarmed with tourists of every nationality. Outside its gates, the handicapped begged. Inside ornate buildings housed statues of gold and floors of silver. Behind the upswept roofs and sky scratching spires, square shapes of modern construction loomed.
Nearby, the National Museum seemed an oasis of organization. Even the blossoms of fragrant frangipani matched the deep red exterior walls. We flowed through the ages from pre-Angkorian to post with ease. Infested by bats and nearly destroyed in the time of the Khmer Rouge, the artifacts stand as a testament to the resilience of the people living here.
From opulence and elegance and from fine craftsmanship and treasures, we shifted focus for the afternoon. Three years, eight months and twenty days might seem short in retrospect, but the destruction and cost in human lives makes it a time that cannot be forgotten. Where once youth ran and played and studied for the future, unfathomable acts were committed. Tuol Sleng, or S-21, the former high school, is a museum now, still wrapped in barbed and razor wire. Within these walls and in 166 other centers and 388 killing fields, what occurred was not the impersonal violence of a shot fired or a switch pulled but pure brutality inflicted by one human directly upon another. It is beyond understanding what desperation could drive a person to find this evil within. There are few living within Cambodia not impacted by the reign of the Khmer Rouge and yet they move on, optimistically.
Back at the river’s edge we can feel this renewed energy. The streets bustle with commerce. Upon our deck, the color and grace of a troupe of Apsara dancers remind us that there is a rich history here, one that reaches long into the past and the lessons learned can be carried far into the future.
