Let Them Eat Cake
It was our last day in Siem Reap. The morning before, I’d held my last English class with the women at the Sewing Training Center at Wat Damnak, and I wanted to do something to celebrate our time together. A party with a cake, I reasoned, was the proper way to commemorate the sweetness of our mutual learning. These women did not eat cake often, and birthdays are not the confection and candlelit extravaganza that it is for us in the States. I want them to know they are special to me, and I want something everyone can share. So I will bring them cake.
Siem Reap is a city of bakers. Every good hotel bakes its own breads, croissants, cakes and donuts. The order is made at the Soma Devi hotel for three kilos of butter cake with almonds slivers, fresh pineapple, mangosteen and apple on top for a 10 a.m. pick-up.
Of course, that was more than enough cake for 30 shy women to eat. They were thrilled, but had to be asked repeatedly if they’d received a slice. Half the order went untouched, which was just enough for the resident monks to have with their lunch.
Monks eat sparingly each day. After breakfast at 4:00 a.m., they must consume all solid food before noon. So the 11 a.m. lunch is a pivotal point in the day, and adding cake to the menu would be a treat.
One of the sewing instructors was appointed to walk me to the dining hall to make my offering. She spoke no English, but was the perfect combination of kindness, deference and willingness to serve as my guide.
Shoes were removed at the entrance of the hall. The monks were already eating when we walked down the long dark corridor with the precious cake, a white-boxed offering for God’s saffron-draped attendants. They were to our right behind a line of marble columns, seated on the floor in two neat rows with their backs to us. But they could see us in our procession of trepidation.
We turned right at the end of the corridor and began walking across the vast expanse of floor to the two monks seated at the other end of the room, in full view of what I now see are the junior monks. The two we are approaching have about 20 small bowls of food arrayed before them, each a separate dish. At a glance I see soups, rice, vegetables and curried meats. These two must be special, the most venerable of venerables. When we reach the edge of their mat, I see they are Somnieng and Choeurn.
I’m relieved to see that its two monks that I know, but I have never seen them in their official capacity as deputy head monks. The look on Somnieng’s face reveals recognition and hesitation simultaneously. We are on display, in front of his charges. Suddenly I know that it is critical I do this right, and I show the proper respect for him and his position.
It’s impossible to convey the landslide of emotions swooping from my brain to my gut. This setting is surreal. I am both in the scene and observing it at the same time. There is an ocean of cultural and language difference between us and I am swimming frantically. I know there is a ritual in offering food to monks, but I did not – could not- discuss it with my guide. I rely on mimicking her actions and take refuge in the hope that I can get direction from Somnieng, quietly, in English.
At the edge of the mat my guide drops to her knees and sits on her feet. Head bowed, she passes me the cake box, pushing my hands down. Choerun is saying something to me repeatedly in Khmer. It sounds like “Pronam, pronam, pronam,” which I know means prostrate. But his insistence suddenly makes me not want to do it. This is not the laughing, playful Somnieng I have seen for weeks in the LHA office. This is not the Choeurn that took English lessons from me. There we were equals. In fact, I was superior. I was older, knew better English, and had more experience with non-profits and funding, data they needed and appreciated. But in the dining hall I must be subservient and I sense Choeurn is enjoying this reversal of positions.
I place the box on the mat and ask Somnieng, “Am I doing this right?” “No,” he says gently. The junior monks are laughing. When I glance to my left, my guide is bowing profusely again and again, her hands pressed palms together at her lips, head dipping to the floor.
Somnieng gestures for me to pick up the box and place it closer to him. I do so, and tilt my head, nodding once. But for the life of me, I cannot bow. I know that’s what I am supposed to do. I see my guide in repeated supplication right next to me, yet I cannot do it.
It is the briefest of exchanges, mere moments have passed. But in those moments I feel a myriad of emotions. Self revelation is almost instant: my embarrassment at being laughed at; my confusion about what to do; my desire to be generous and good; my resentment at being placed in the woman’s role yet again; the sadness of my imminent departure; my love and admiration for Somnieng and the frustration at my inability to express it; my irritation with Choeurn; my pride and stubborn hesitation; my longing to belong and to be seen as special; my deep respect for the pagoda’s rituals; my refusal to bow before a monk half my age and before a God I do not really understand.
Somnieng says “Thank you for bringing this.” I reply, “Thank you for letting me come here.” He then turns his head to his left and speaks in Khmer to the junior monks, pointing to the box. I assume he is explaining the gift to them. My guide gets up, turns and leaves with me hurriedly in tow. Our walk back to the Sewing Center is as silent as before, yet I am stirred to my core.
It is the last time I see Somnieng.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Killing Us Softly
S-21 and The Killing Fields
Thanks to a hit Hollywood movie of the same name, Cambodia is most known for the “Killing Fields” of the Khmer Rouge regime. After the ruins of the temple city known as Angkor Wat, it is the next largest tourist attraction in the country. There are over 300 makeshift burial grounds and caves in Cambodia, dotting the landscape like scar-covered wounds. They mark a five-year period of pain and brutality that is now completely removed from the country’s textbooks. But the fields remain as testament to this tortuous time.
Re-tracing the tragedy of the Khmer Rouge in Phnom Penh is a two-part endeavor. First stop is Tuol Sleng, or Security Office 21 (aka S-21)), part of the most secret organ of the Khmer Rouge regimeS-21 started life in 1962 as the Ponhea Yat High School, named for an ancestor of King Sihanouk. Re-named during the U.S. backed Lon Nol regime in the early 70’s, it was later established as S-21 in 1976 by Pol Pot (short for both political potential, and the Khmer words for poison stake). The Khmer Rouge leader #1 was himself an academician who later turned on the country’s intelligencia, professionals and artists as Western lackeys and traitors to the communist cause.
S-21 is a 3-storied, L-shaped building, surrounding an open courtyard, enclosed by two folds of corrugated iron sheets that are covered with electrified barb wire. The classrooms were converted to prison cells and torture chambers. The photographs on the walls depict the gruesome, almost medieval methods of interrogation. Others reveal some of the faces of the more than 10,000 prisoners – men, women and children - who passed through its gates on their inexorable march to death. Eyes wide with fear and disbelief, flat with fading defiance, sunken in desperation or hollowed out by resignation stare out of the black and white headshots that meticulously record the faces of the victims.
The complex is nestled in the heart of the city, in the midst of a well-populated neighborhood. One can imagine the terror its residents felt as they listened to the screams of the victims late into the night.
Our guide has a personal connection to S-21. Her father and sisters were slain during the Khmer Rouge. In fact, there are nearly no Khmer above the age of 30 who do not have a relative that was killed by the regime. Usually they have several, along with stories of colleagues and neighbors who turned them in to save their own skin or kin.
When the regime was finally defeated, many of its leaders become members of the ruling government, or were pardoned by the victors. They never stood trial for their actions. Our guide pointed out several pictures of S-21 officers who were left to ripen to old age, unharmed and unpunished, alive to this day.
They have whitewashed the events of the period and eliminated any reference in the textbooks so the rising generations have no knowledge of those terrible times. Our friend Theary, who is in her early 20s, had never been to S-21 even though she lives right there in the capital. To her the Khmer Rouge, the interrogation camps, the killing fields are fables told by her parents of a time long past and almost unfathomable.
And so healing has taken the form of forced forgetting that your president has merely changed uniforms, and your family’s former betrayers still live just down the road. In fact, they comprise the few elderly living in Cambodia. The generation that would be old today was wiped out decades ago.
Choeung Ek Genocidal Center is the Khmer name for The Killing Fields, a 30-minute ride by tuk tuk into the suburbs of Phnom Penh. It is a national monument. In the past decade, they have erected a grand, gleaming stupa, or Buddhist temple, housing the bones of the dead. Ascend its marble steps to the glass walls that reveal ascending shelves of skulls, relics of the souls interred in the meadows surrounding it.
Grass now covers scoured out depressions of earth, resembling the impact of a meteor hit. These are the mass graves dug by the victims themselves before they were killed and tossed inside. Swatches of clothing emerge half buried in the ground, strange plants in this garden of death. Butterflies dance among the wild flowers.
Each evening, a score of monks huddle at the door of the stupa face the skeletal remains and chant for the dead, their marigold robes swaying in the breeze. These souls, those times are not forgotten.
They are part of Generation One, carefully retrieving the shards of a shattered society, struggling mightily to remember the legacy of loss of the past. They are on a mission to rescue the traditional art forms and spiritual practices that carried their cultural heritage for centuries. This generation is leaping into the 21st century, attempting to span the breach in technology and industry between them and the western world. They are weaving a bridge from the looms of their history, and reclaiming their past along with their destiny.
Thanks to a hit Hollywood movie of the same name, Cambodia is most known for the “Killing Fields” of the Khmer Rouge regime. After the ruins of the temple city known as Angkor Wat, it is the next largest tourist attraction in the country. There are over 300 makeshift burial grounds and caves in Cambodia, dotting the landscape like scar-covered wounds. They mark a five-year period of pain and brutality that is now completely removed from the country’s textbooks. But the fields remain as testament to this tortuous time.
Re-tracing the tragedy of the Khmer Rouge in Phnom Penh is a two-part endeavor. First stop is Tuol Sleng, or Security Office 21 (aka S-21)), part of the most secret organ of the Khmer Rouge regimeS-21 started life in 1962 as the Ponhea Yat High School, named for an ancestor of King Sihanouk. Re-named during the U.S. backed Lon Nol regime in the early 70’s, it was later established as S-21 in 1976 by Pol Pot (short for both political potential, and the Khmer words for poison stake). The Khmer Rouge leader #1 was himself an academician who later turned on the country’s intelligencia, professionals and artists as Western lackeys and traitors to the communist cause.
S-21 is a 3-storied, L-shaped building, surrounding an open courtyard, enclosed by two folds of corrugated iron sheets that are covered with electrified barb wire. The classrooms were converted to prison cells and torture chambers. The photographs on the walls depict the gruesome, almost medieval methods of interrogation. Others reveal some of the faces of the more than 10,000 prisoners – men, women and children - who passed through its gates on their inexorable march to death. Eyes wide with fear and disbelief, flat with fading defiance, sunken in desperation or hollowed out by resignation stare out of the black and white headshots that meticulously record the faces of the victims.
The complex is nestled in the heart of the city, in the midst of a well-populated neighborhood. One can imagine the terror its residents felt as they listened to the screams of the victims late into the night.
Our guide has a personal connection to S-21. Her father and sisters were slain during the Khmer Rouge. In fact, there are nearly no Khmer above the age of 30 who do not have a relative that was killed by the regime. Usually they have several, along with stories of colleagues and neighbors who turned them in to save their own skin or kin.
When the regime was finally defeated, many of its leaders become members of the ruling government, or were pardoned by the victors. They never stood trial for their actions. Our guide pointed out several pictures of S-21 officers who were left to ripen to old age, unharmed and unpunished, alive to this day.
They have whitewashed the events of the period and eliminated any reference in the textbooks so the rising generations have no knowledge of those terrible times. Our friend Theary, who is in her early 20s, had never been to S-21 even though she lives right there in the capital. To her the Khmer Rouge, the interrogation camps, the killing fields are fables told by her parents of a time long past and almost unfathomable.
And so healing has taken the form of forced forgetting that your president has merely changed uniforms, and your family’s former betrayers still live just down the road. In fact, they comprise the few elderly living in Cambodia. The generation that would be old today was wiped out decades ago.
Choeung Ek Genocidal Center is the Khmer name for The Killing Fields, a 30-minute ride by tuk tuk into the suburbs of Phnom Penh. It is a national monument. In the past decade, they have erected a grand, gleaming stupa, or Buddhist temple, housing the bones of the dead. Ascend its marble steps to the glass walls that reveal ascending shelves of skulls, relics of the souls interred in the meadows surrounding it.
Grass now covers scoured out depressions of earth, resembling the impact of a meteor hit. These are the mass graves dug by the victims themselves before they were killed and tossed inside. Swatches of clothing emerge half buried in the ground, strange plants in this garden of death. Butterflies dance among the wild flowers.
Each evening, a score of monks huddle at the door of the stupa face the skeletal remains and chant for the dead, their marigold robes swaying in the breeze. These souls, those times are not forgotten.
They are part of Generation One, carefully retrieving the shards of a shattered society, struggling mightily to remember the legacy of loss of the past. They are on a mission to rescue the traditional art forms and spiritual practices that carried their cultural heritage for centuries. This generation is leaping into the 21st century, attempting to span the breach in technology and industry between them and the western world. They are weaving a bridge from the looms of their history, and reclaiming their past along with their destiny.
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