Stories from the Past

I didn’t know much about the dark past of Cambodia before coming here. I watched The Killing Fields before I left the states so I had some idea what their recent history was like, but it was nothing I had studied in school or researched for any purpose. Honestly, I don’t know if it would have meant much to me if I had, but now it does. The events that took place during the time of the Khmer Rouge are still very much alive in the minds of the people here; I haven’t met a single person from Cambodia who was not impacted in some way. As my relationships grow stronger and more trust is established, I’m hearing the true stories from people who lived it – the personal reflections of a real nightmare. I can’t even begin to understand, but I’ve been able to listen.

They begin to reflect as something stirs a memory. The other day it rained, and one of the teachers started to share. She spoke as candidly as I would if I were talking about jumping in puddles… but her story wasn’t lighthearted. It wasn’t a good memory. She was young during the time of Pol Pot – about five years old – but she was still expected to work. She ate next to nothing – a spoon of rice in the morning and a spoon in the afternoon. Her responsibility was to dig up buried human waste and mix it with the soil. She would shovel it into large baskets. The stronger people would bear two baskets with a stick across their shoulder, one in front and one behind. She was young, however, and could only manage one, which she carried on her head. They would walk the baskets of waste and dirt to the rice fields, where it was used as fertilizer. As the rain came down, the contents of the basket would drip down her face and body. She said it felt like it never stopped raining, and she didn’t dare stop working.

There are so many stories. One man shared at church the other day that he was found under a tree by a compassionate woman who took him home and raised him in her village. Another teacher at the school was left alone at two years old, only to be taken care of by her six-year old sister for months. They ate bugs from the ground and hid in caves on the banks of the river when they were scared. A man I have become good friends with was completely alone when his father died. He had to burn his father’s body by himself – nobody to help him, nobody to stand with him.

These people, my friends, are so resilient. They smile and love and laugh again as quickly as they can. But they don’t forget. And as a result, they don’t take their lives for granted. They are the most appreciative people I have ever met. I’m constantly inspired by their strength and their gratitude. It has helped me to see how blessed I am – I have been protected from war, from poverty and a lot of pain. I don’t know why, but I’m grateful for the safe, loving world I have experienced.