#1: Killing in the Fields

October 2005, Phnom Penh, Cambodia

By BRYAN M. STEELE

Smile torched and heart charred, I gaze up at 20 rows of 9,000 human skulls at The Killing Fields in Phnom Penh, Cambodia - aptly named the Choeung EK Genocidal Center.

The placards and signs mark the mass graves of the tortured-and-brutalized factions of women, children, farmers, intellectuals, foreigners, and pretty much anyone else the Khmer Rouge felt like executing during its maniacal rule from 1975 to 1979.

I am indescribably broken by the anguish of this place, as locals old enough to remember the Khmer Rouge tote tourists to and fro obligingly, feigning a smile to escape the memories of a country that turned on its people in the most despicable and reprehensibly monstrous demonstration of genocide since Hitler.

I find it difficult to breathe, as the air here is wrought with misery and suffering, of pain and sorrow, making anything beyond short gasps a dangerous endeavor.

My eyes blur as tears spatter the cracked soil beneath me, where countless more were undoubtedly shed in agony and despair. For the first time in my life, I have no desire to see. But even with my eyes clenched tight, the images haunt me in this dark hour.

My heart swells, and my body slumps towards the earth, unable to stand proud as a member of a species with the capacity for such evil and depravity.

My trembling hands fidget in pockets that offer no solace or comfort, as these things do not exist in this place. My feet shuffle absently about the compound, occupying my stares as their tread skirts the cordoned boundaries of yet another watery grave in a world that seems to have lost its meaning.

I am vacant. I am hollow - raped and empty. But unlike the others that came to these fields, I may go as I please.

Now it’s just a matter of remembering how to smile.

As an investigator of fascinating opportunity, Bryan M. Steele encourages others to become facilitators of their own priceless experiences so that we may collectively move forward as a species.

#2: The Piles of Shoes

April 2004, Oświęcim, Poland

By VICKI KORCHAGIN

I didn’t cry when my grandmother died. I almost didn’t cry in Poland. For almost the entire week we were there, I didn’t cry at the concentration camps.

I didn’t feel Jewish. I was blonde, had a Russian last name, and my father was Russian Orthodox. All the other kids said strange words in Hebrew and lit candles in Treblinka and Sobibor. I was embarrassed and defensive.

I stood to the side, not grasping any of it. The two-week trip - one in Poland, then one in Israel - was unfamiliar and uncomfortable for me, especially coming from a nonreligious Russian family and especially since only one of my parents is Jewish. Everyone had relatives who died in the Holocaust. Mine died fighting for the Soviet Union.

I had begun believing that I wasn’t human, simply because I couldn’t grasp any of it. Then we got to Auschwitz, the last camp before going to Israel.

Seeing everything still standing - the buildings, the fences - solidified it. The piles of shoes, the hair. I suddenly wanted to leave and never to remember again. Then we came to the gas chamber.

They told us about the fingernails on the door - the fingernail markings of people who knew what was coming. They told us the gas came from the top and that it made your whole body burn, just like I had read in countless books until it became rote information. But in that small room, that brick kiln, it hit me.

And I began to cry, uncontrollably, from the fear that thousands had shared in this very room, over the sheer madness that had been committed here. Many in the group surrounded me, afraid of my sudden show of emotion. But I continued crying outside, and I sobbed softly on the bus so no one would know.

In the night, I dreamt of the toothbrushes, screaming with human voices.

Vicki Korchagin is a recent graduate of Pennsylvania State University, where she majored in economics and minored in Hebrew. She is currently living the good life at home in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, while seeking employment in the Washington, D.C., area. Her publishing history includes several freelance assignments and her honors thesis on the Russian oil economy.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, October 29th, 2007 | Email This Post

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