The Hill of Penh

Travel Story by Doreen Pon

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Words like "dangerous", "dilapidated", and "depressing" tend to creep into most descriptions of Phnom Penh, the much maligned capital of Cambodia. Almost 30 years of brutal civil war and political turmoil have left this former jewel of French Indochina with both physical and psychological scars. But like all survivors, Phnom Penh has a message to share and a lesson to teach to all travelers who stay long enough to listen.

Phnom Penh, the most populous city in Cambodia, undulates with the laidback energy of its 1.4 million inhabitants. Situated at the confluence of three rivers, the Tonle Sap, the Tonle Bassac, and the mighty Mekong, Phnom Penh ("Hill of Penh") owes its name to its legendary founder, an old widow named Penh, who discovered several statues of Buddha washed up in the nearby river and created a sanctuary for them on top of the only hill in town.

My guide met me at Phnom Penh International Airport with a piece of paper that read, "Welcome to Cambodia Doreen Pol." Great. A spelling error had morphed me into a relative of Pol Pot, the infamous leader of the despised Khmer Rouge regime, who, between 1975 and 1979, plunged the country into chaos and fear. It was a fitting start to what would turn out to be an unusual introduction to a country with a messy history.

"The braid of barbed wires prevents the desperate victims from committing suicide," declared the sign in both English and swirly Khmer script on the second story balcony of the concrete complex that has become the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum (admission $2). Housed in the former Tuol Sleng (or S-21) Security Prison, the museum offers a disturbing glimpse of the mass extermination campaign waged against the Cambodian people during the maniacal reign of Pol Pot. At this largest detention prison in the country, the Khmer Rouge documented, interrogated, tortured, and ultimately slaughtered an estimated 12,000 to 17,000 victims. Ironically, the prison, with its now tranquil grassy courtyard, coconut palms, and gently scented frangipani, was formerly a high school in an ordinary neighborhood in the southern part of Phnom Penh.

In the classrooms where young Cambodian students once studied, visitors solemnly walk among crude, brick-walled prison cells. In a suffocating space roughly the size of a toilet stall, the prisoners were kept shackled 24 hours a day to iron posts embedded in the walls and floors of their cells. Many rooms were left as the Vietnamese army found them when they "liberated" the prison in 1979. Four rusted shackles casually rest on top of the bare frame of a sinister-looking metal cot. A photo of a prisoner, dead, killed just before the advance of the Vietnamese and left tethered to the metal frame of the cot, hangs on the wall above the cot. These last victims of Tuol Sleng, 14 in all, now rest in the grassy courtyard just a few feet away from where they were found.

Perhaps most haunting of all are the thousands of black and white photos of the prisoners themselves. Meticulously documented by the Khmer Rouge and now simply displayed on the walls of the museum, the faces of every single prisoner – men, women, and children – are your silent audience. With expressions that are sometimes calm and defiant, sometimes hopeless and defeated, they remind you that almost no one who walked through these rooms survived the war. For some visitors it's all too much. They shuffle with their heads down, eyes averted, hands clasped tightly over their mouths. No one who passes through can forget these photos, these people, their lives.

I pause for a moment to breathe in the heavy, sticky, tropical air. A few visitors stop to take photos of the torture devices on display in the next room. Many of the prison guards were young children ranging in age from 10 to 15. The museum brochure bluntly states that "most of them started out as normal before growing increasingly evil".

If you are not too emotionally drained, proceed on to the Choeung Ek Genocidal Center or "Killing Fields" (admission $4). Located about nine miles southeast of Phnom Penh, this is where the Khmer Rouge conducted the mass extermination of the Tuol Sleng prisoners.

My guide, Bun, leads me to his car and smiles apologetically. The car, ostensibly a Toyota Corolla, brings to mind Mr. Potato Head. With assorted mismatched parts attached, or, in the case of the front bumper, becoming detached, the car appears to have more in common with a Tinker Toy set than a piece of precision Japanese engineering. Bun cocks his head to one side and thoughtfully scans the sky. "We must take this car because the road to Choeung Ek is very bad. Very...," his voice trails off and he makes a motion with his hand as if he is dribbling a big, invisible basketball.

"Potholes?" I suggest tentatively.

Bun silently mouths the word, then grins, claps his hands, and gleefully exclaims, "Potholes! Yes!"

Whoever invented the word "pothole" obviously had not encountered the dirt roads of Cambodia. If they had, they might have come up with something like "Volkswagenhole" or "satellitedishhole" instead. Although you might be tempted to save some money and take a "tuk-tuk" (a two-seater motorized lawnmower taxi) to Choeng Ek, you should really only consider this option if several family members have already indicated that they would be willing to donate a kidney for you. A motorcycle taxi would be a slightly safer option, as long as you don't mind inhaling road debris for the duration of the 40 minute ride (about $8-10 round trip; negotiate the price before setting off). Bring a scarf to wrap over your nose and mouth, or ask your driver to stop at one of the shops along the road to purchase a dust mask. Be warned, however, that you driver most likely will not provide a helmet for you.

If you wish to arrive in relative luxury, hire a taxicab for the ride out. While many of the taxi drivers who prowl the standard tourist areas speak some English, a licensed bilingual guide will teach you more about the history of the site. Arrange for a car with a guide through a local travel agency or your hotel (about $20 for a half-day tour, not including tips).

In many ways, Choeung Ek offers a sense of closure to the haunting images at Tuol Sleng. This final resting place for the prisoners of Tuol Sleng is located in a peaceful, rural setting, where you are unlikely to encounter many other tourists.

Bun squats down and picks up an empty bullet shell. Holding it up to the sun and squinting, he sighs, and then drops it back into the dirt. As I absently scuff my sandals in the dirt, I accidentally uncover a broken pink button. Bending closer, I notice bits of clothing – twisted, torn, and wedged in the dirt. And now I see it – the whitish shards of human bones.

Choeung Ek was just one of many mass extermination sites around the country. To this site the Khmer Rouge brought most of the Tuol Sleng prisoners – the intellectuals, privileged, educated, religious, and anyone who represented a threat to the power of the regime. After executing them, the Khmer Rouge tossed their enemies – their countrymen – into shallow mass graves. A few of the grave pits have been exhumed, but many others have been left untouched.

In the center of the park, a towering Buddhist memorial stupa (a structure containing sacred relics) graphically displays the skulls of over 8000 exhumed genocide victims. Many of the skulls bear witness to the method of execution: shattered by hammers, punctured by bamboo sticks, gashed by hatchets, and pierced by bullets. Perhaps even more tragically, many of the estimated one to two million Cambodians who died during the reign of Pol Pot were not killed outright, but were left to suffer a slow, agonizing death caused by starvation and illness. I think about the sign at Tuol Sleng - "...barbed wires prevent the desperate victims from committing suicide" – and I realize that the Cambodians I see around me are survivors of one of the most horrific genocides in recent memory, one from which ordinary citizens did not even dream of being able to escape.

Emotionally exhausted by my immersion into this dark period of Cambodia's history, I somberly climb back in to the Tinker Toyota through one of the two doors not held together by a wire coat hanger. From the front seat, Bun turns and smiles sadly at me and says, "I am glad you came here. Please, tell others to come." Then he grips the steering wheel, stomps on the accelerator, and cheerfully shouts, "Potholes!"

Illustration by Bob Veon
(Bob Veon's Website)

Read more about the author of this story:
Doreen Pon