I sit on my hotel bed. Ear buds crammed as deep as possible into my ears.
I don’t want to hear the world right now.
But I’m not quite ready for silence either.
I play Ludovico Einaudi’s ‘nuvole bianche’ on repeat - sounds I regularly return to when in need of feeling something that cannot be spoken.
I don’t want to hear the world right now.
But I’m not quite ready for silence either.
I play Ludovico Einaudi’s ‘nuvole bianche’ on repeat - sounds I regularly return to when in need of feeling something that cannot be spoken.
A few hours ago I sat in a small café adjacent the Tuol Sleng Prison (S-21) Museum in Phnom Penh. The outer walls are still crowned with spirals of razor wire, harshly marking the perimeter and reminding the passersby what purpose the space served under the Pol Pot Regime. Originally the building was home to Chao Ponhea Yat High School, but four months after the Khmer Rouge won the civil war and took Phnom Penh it was converted into a political prison. Every Cambodian knows what you’re talking about when you mention S-21 - the site has become synonymous with brutal accounts of torture and extermination. We visited the museum a few weeks ago and spent hours and hours looking at faces and reading through stories of victims. Photographs line former classrooms and prison cells, powerfully communicating the number of lives lost here. I had trouble moving from portrait to portrait, as if sharing a silent moment with each of their faces is the last thing one can offer - and no amount of time is enough.
Today Jo and I are fortunate to have arranged a meeting with Norng Chun Phal, one of the five child survivors of S-21. Norng was 9 years old when he arrived at Tuol Sleng with his younger brother and mother. When testifying in the Extraordinary Chambers of the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) in 2009, he shared his story of being separated from his mother in Tuol Sleng and how we was forced to sleep beside the pigs. Norng told the prosecutors that he and the other children hid under clothing for days as the last of the prisoners were executed; he remembers looking for his mother among the dead bodies when the prison was liberated.
Amazingly, Norng and his brother survived S-21. But not without great loss. The boys witnessed the death of both their mother and father within the walls of Tuol Sleng. And without other surviving members of the family, they spent the next fourteen years in an orphanage with more than 500 others whose families had been absorbed by the regime.
I can't even begin to make sense of what this 9-year-old boy must have gone through.
And here we are, 36 years later, waiting to have coffee with him.
Norng enters the café holding three pictures, all taken on the day of liberation in 1979. There are five children in the photographs. He identifies each one of them, pointing out himself, his brother, the others. He tells us the baby had not yet been named and sadly, had died shortly afterwards due to illness. I look at the hands holding the pictures and try to understand that the 45-year-old man before us is the same 9-year-old boy before us.
Amazingly, Norng and his brother survived S-21. But not without great loss. The boys witnessed the death of both their mother and father within the walls of Tuol Sleng. And without other surviving members of the family, they spent the next fourteen years in an orphanage with more than 500 others whose families had been absorbed by the regime.
I can't even begin to make sense of what this 9-year-old boy must have gone through.
And here we are, 36 years later, waiting to have coffee with him.
Norng enters the café holding three pictures, all taken on the day of liberation in 1979. There are five children in the photographs. He identifies each one of them, pointing out himself, his brother, the others. He tells us the baby had not yet been named and sadly, had died shortly afterwards due to illness. I look at the hands holding the pictures and try to understand that the 45-year-old man before us is the same 9-year-old boy before us.
Norng wastes no time to begin telling his story. He dives in, offering up details and recounting his experience with precision. I assume he has shared the story many times now, and perhaps this is why the words seem to flow without resistance. But with whatever ease they are flowing now, there is nothing easy about the words themselves. This man has known grief of an unimaginable kind.
I’m not sure there are many acts that require greater vulnerability than allowing others to see our pain. It’s an undressing of sorts - a most precious offering - an act that says, this is my story and I will share it with you. Again and again we are so honoured to listen. So privileged. So humbled. I can’t say thank you enough, Norng, for sharing your story, for allowing us to see your pain and your resilience.
I’m not sure there are many acts that require greater vulnerability than allowing others to see our pain. It’s an undressing of sorts - a most precious offering - an act that says, this is my story and I will share it with you. Again and again we are so honoured to listen. So privileged. So humbled. I can’t say thank you enough, Norng, for sharing your story, for allowing us to see your pain and your resilience.
I’ve come here as a student of social science asking questions about memory and reconciliation:
How important is it to remember our suffering? To commemorate loss? What impact do memorial sites and acts of memorialisation have on individual and community healing? Do people need physical places to remember, to grieve, to honour those who have been lost? How do these acts and sites contribute to – or impede – healing?
This is research space, yes.
But this is also sacred space.
In being here, I realize I’m not just a student asking questions of social science. I am a student asking questions about the science of what it means to be human. What it means to know loss. To grieve. To seek healing. To forgive. To live well amid so much suffering. And in this regards, my findings are leaving me again and again, undone.
How important is it to remember our suffering? To commemorate loss? What impact do memorial sites and acts of memorialisation have on individual and community healing? Do people need physical places to remember, to grieve, to honour those who have been lost? How do these acts and sites contribute to – or impede – healing?
This is research space, yes.
But this is also sacred space.
In being here, I realize I’m not just a student asking questions of social science. I am a student asking questions about the science of what it means to be human. What it means to know loss. To grieve. To seek healing. To forgive. To live well amid so much suffering. And in this regards, my findings are leaving me again and again, undone.
We sit with Norng, 20 metres from the perimeter of Tuol Sleng. It’s 36 years since he and his brother were found at S-21 and today this is not just the location where he was orphaned, today this is also his place of work.
Norng returns to Tuol Sleng each day as a caretaker. He tells us that he tends to the grass, keeps trees well pruned, and cares for the grounds by keeping things tidy.
I can hardly make sense of what he is telling me. I ask him what it’s like to return daily to a place that has caused him such grief. It was hard at first, he tells us. For the first five months or so he was reminded daily of the horrors witnessed here and he would relive the trauma. But eventually, he says, “I began to feel close to my mother when I was here. Now, I can connect with her and that brings relief”.
I ask him if he thinks it’s important to remember what happened under the Khmer Rouge and if remembering helps to heal. His response is an unabated yes. We absolutely cannot forget, he says. It's the last thing we can do for the victims. When I ask why it’s so important I receive an answer I’ve heard many times over many days of interviewing: for the next generation. They must know. They must remember.
Norng returns to Tuol Sleng each day as a caretaker. He tells us that he tends to the grass, keeps trees well pruned, and cares for the grounds by keeping things tidy.
I can hardly make sense of what he is telling me. I ask him what it’s like to return daily to a place that has caused him such grief. It was hard at first, he tells us. For the first five months or so he was reminded daily of the horrors witnessed here and he would relive the trauma. But eventually, he says, “I began to feel close to my mother when I was here. Now, I can connect with her and that brings relief”.
I ask him if he thinks it’s important to remember what happened under the Khmer Rouge and if remembering helps to heal. His response is an unabated yes. We absolutely cannot forget, he says. It's the last thing we can do for the victims. When I ask why it’s so important I receive an answer I’ve heard many times over many days of interviewing: for the next generation. They must know. They must remember.
He explains how the places that once caused such pain are now critical to the healing of individuals and the nation. He tells us when visitors come he feels his suffering is acknowledged, seen. He draws a powerful picture, comparing it to being sick in a hospital bed and the comfort of having others bring flowers, be present, recognize the suffering, or just – show up. This, he says, helps him to heal.
But for Norng, his being at Tuol Sleng each day is more than just showing up. He talks of the importance of redesigning and repurposing the space. He talks of S-21 as a 'shocking place', but one he wants to see transformed into a space where people can come to learn, where they can sit under the shade of the trees, where they can relax and feel peace.
But for Norng, his being at Tuol Sleng each day is more than just showing up. He talks of the importance of redesigning and repurposing the space. He talks of S-21 as a 'shocking place', but one he wants to see transformed into a space where people can come to learn, where they can sit under the shade of the trees, where they can relax and feel peace.
As he talks, the picture of this man comes more and more into focus. He, who has lost so much to these walls, now returns daily to offer himself through acts of service. He offers his labour to add beauty and care for this place. Norng is an agent of transformation; his healing journey is active and contributes to the collective process of reconciling and moving forward. I wonder how this connects to his Buddhist belief of reincarnation, recognizing how his acts of service in many ways contribute to the rebirth of this place. It has great resonance also with my own Christian spiritual tradition and the concept of restoration and all things being made new. I marvel at the man before me who embodies these concepts so beautifully.
Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist, writes powerfully about the ability some individuals possess to find redemptive perspectives on their suffering. In his book, Man’s Search for Meaning, Frankl writes,
“Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom”.
Norng Chan Phal is a man who has done well to live graciously into this space. Norng has found a way to repurpose a place of great loss and suffering into a place of peace. He gives his time and the work of his hands. He participates in the renewal of Tuol Sleng as a place where people can come to learn, where people can honour the lives of those lost, where they can remember, where they can commit to the notion of never again.
Ludovico Einaudi’s ‘nuvole bianche’ continues to play on repeat as I finish writing this entry.
‘nuvole bianche’ - white clouds
A fitting song to listen to, I think. White clouds are said, in some spiritual traditions, to symbolize peace after times of trouble.
I listen.
I think of Norng and the way he’s sought to paint white into the world after having lived under such dark skies.
I am humbled by what I have yet to learn in this life.