Then the tears came...

I've been in Phnom Penh now for six weeks and I've been putting off visiting Tuel Sleng, the detention and torture center used by the Khmer Rouge, and Cheung Ek, better known as the Killing Fields, where thousands of Khmer women, men and children were murdered and dumped in mass graves. I was avoiding this experience because I knew how hard it would be. I've become very fond of all of my Harpswell Girls and these people are their families. Each of my girls comes from a family who lost 4 to as many as 10 or 15 people either through starvation or murder at the hands of Pol Pot regime. Nevertheless, I felt I had to see Teul Sleng and Cheung Ek to understand the national psyche and the atrocities that were committed here not so long ago.

I saw several photos in Tuel Sleng that looked eerily familiar and I realized they looked like some of my Harpswell girls. I kept thinking that these faces could be the aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends of my girls. After 6 weeks, I've become incredible close to the girls I work with at Harpswell. They are beautiful, eager to learn and wonderful. It is close to impossible for me to imagine how much pain their families have gone through and how much PTSD and the continuing saga of the Khmer Rouge continues to afflict this country.

I managed to keep it together through Tuel Sleng, through the rooms with photos of dead, tortured bodies on the walls, the blood splattered ceilings and the tiny wood and brick cells throughout what used to be a high school. There were paintings depicting the horrors those buildings had seen and row upon row upon row of photos. Young and old, dark and light, women and men, who had been tortured and murdered in this horrid place.

I did not cry when my friend Shane and I visited Cheung Ek, or the killing fields, with a tower filled with bones- skulls on the first several floors, then floors dedicated to femurs, arm bones, clavicles, etc.

I did not cry when Shane and I went for lunch and I tried to eat but found I was so nauseous that eating would also mean retching. I gave my meal to some young boys walking around nearby and they ate quickly and ravenously. I felt a bit better, knowing I was helping a few young boys, but also worse, knowing that this country that had failed so many in the past was again failing these young boys.

I managed not to cry when I saw my girls at the National Museum, even though tears were threatening at the sight of these girls who I've become so close to in just a matter of weeks. It was not until I returned to the safety of my room that I could finally cry into my pillow all the sadness for this country, for these people. I do not pretend to understand why this happened but I have to admit I feel a bit less naive about the world, perhaps a little less trusting. At the same time, this whole experience has made me realize how many truly good people there are in the world.