The Remnants of War: I Just Don't Understand

WARNING: Some graphic content

I’m going to admit, I had a really hard time yesterday, emotionally. Ricky and I visited the War Remnants Museum here in Saigon. The outside of the building mostly met what I expected—a bunch of leftover American planes and tanks and unexploded bombs.  I expected more of the same inside, because we had seen so much of this type of museum before.

What I got was something I wasn’t really prepared for.

See, it wasn’t really “war remnants” the way that rusty tanks left in the jungle are war remnants. No, these remnants of war were a lot more intense.

First we walked around and saw a lot of war propaganda posters and books and things. There were hundreds of photographs of protests throughout the world against the US’s involvement in Vietnam. We read stories of attempted peace talks and Ho Chi Minh’s letters to leaders of countries thanking them for their support.

We walked upstairs and my mind was filled with that neverending sense of “I don’t really understand” that I always get when faced with the atrocities of war. But I was not prepared for what would meet us on the second floor.

The first room we entered showed photographs taken of certain areas of Vietnam during the war, after being heavily attacked with bombs from American war-planes. The after pictures—of current day Vietnam—clearly showed the bomb craters dotting the land like chicken pox. These remnants of war would take a long time to be forgotten.

We then entered the Agent Orange room, the walls painted a ghastly and oddly suitable orange color. The first photographs to greet us upon entering were those of children with deformities due to AO contamination. The thing is, though, is that a few of these kids were born within the last 15 years or so. Let me explain.

American soldiers, in a brutal act against all laws of war, utilized powerful defoliants (plant-killing chemicals) like Agent Orange that contained a chemical called dioxin, which has been identified as the most toxic chemical  currently known to man (a few grams of the stuff can wipe out an entire city of millions).  American soldiers used chemical grenades and sprays from planes to kill the jungles and forests where the Vietnamese may have been hiding and hopefully kill a few in the process. This chemical, however, did more damage than expected. Contact with dioxin causes malformations in the DNA and can lead to numerous types of cancer and physical deformations. Because the change takes place in the DNA, a man that was in contact with the chemical will most likely pass on those DNA mutations to his children, and they (if having children is a physical possibility) to theirs.

So as we walked around the room, we read of children born with no limbs, with hydroencephalitis, with various types of cancer, mental retardation, and of stranger problems, such as one girl who has to live her life locked in a cage because anything she can get her hands on she will chew up and swallow, or a boy whose arms have to be tied behind his back to protect himself and those around him as he cannot control the constant flailing.

At one point, as we looked at pictures that would break anyone’s heart, Ricky looked toward me and pointed to something. As I took a closer look I realized, with horror, that it was a large glass box filled with liquid. Inside the two compartments were preserved fetuses affected by AO. There was a set of malformed Siamese twins and another fetus that was missing part of its face.  It was gruesome. And that’s when I started to lose it.

From that point on I was fighting back tears—angry, sad, frustrated tears. How the hell did anyone do this?  Who felt ok about what they were doing? What was the point of all of this? People are still suffering because of this.

I could tell others felt the same way. I stood and read the stories of three men in the US that performed self-immolaation (that is, burning oneself alive) in front of government buildings in protest of the war and the use of AO. As I read, a girl about my age stood in front of me, slightly shaking her head as she read.  Her shaking got more intense as she read through news reports and saw pictures of other AO victims (including US soldiers). We were both in unbelief. None of it made any sense.

Still fighting back emotion, we entered into the Crimes of War room. The first thing we saw upon entering was the preamble to the US Declaration of Independence:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

I only lasted about 5 minutes in that room before I had to leave.

Being faced with those “self-evident” truths and then seeing how the US obliterated them, I kind of lost it.  There, I was faced with statements like this:

Not shown is the photograph of a ditch filled with hundreds of bodies of men, women, and children.

...and photographs like this:

An American GI holds up the remains of a Vietnamese soldier killed by a grenade.

I left immediately and waited outside for Ricky to finish walking through.

We’ve written a lot about war and tragedy on the blog, because frankly it’s not something you can avoid when traveling in this part of the world. But this museum gave me a whole new perspective on it. It made me wonder if I had been alive back then, what would I have done?

I think I can honestly say that I’d have been one of the thousands at Washington, with signs and flowers, and the whole hippy thing because the war was a mistake, something the US should never have taken part in, and it would be nice to hear more sentiments like this:

The plaque at the top left states: The the people of a united Vietnam, I was wrong..I am sorry.

Growing Old on the Road

A lot of changes have been happening lately. We mentioned a few posts ago that the time has come to wrap up the traveling—for now. We obviously don’t intend on ever leaving traveling behind for good. So stay tuned for the next 60 years as we take on the world!

We’ve recently accepted a job in Beijing teaching English. We’re a little nervous about it, living in such a big, crowded, and potentially expensive city. I’ve also applied to a Master’s program that I’m waiting to hear back from (send good feelings this way so I can get in!)

All these changes and the prospect of actually settling down a bit has got Ricky and me to thinking about the past 7-ish months we’ve spent traveling.  The consensus is that we’ve really “grown up” on this trip.  Obviously, we were already adults who had done adult-y things. We’d both lived away from home, had jobs (though I’d say that Ricky’s job as an assistant manager at a hotel was probably more adult than my custodian gig at college), paid rent, all that. But this kind of long term travel has aged us in ways we didn’t expect.

As a lot of you know, we were affected greatly by tragedies that have happened in so many places. Seeing the remnants of war has given us new views on what we’d only vaguely heard about before. We came to see that what we only sort of hear about on the news has much more far reaching effects on people worlds away. 

This kind of thing ages you. Seeing what war does to people—how it tears apart civilians who didn’t ask for that sort of thing to happen, how they try to adapt and survive, how a city will never be the same—that kind of thing makes you old. That kind of thing makes you think about things that the average 20-something might not be inclined to ponder. It gives you whole new ideas on right and wrong, the value of life, morality, ethics, and loss.

War isn’t the only thing to have changed us. No, every aspect of life in the countries we’ve visited has changed us. The poverty, food and lack of it, community, tribal life, the moments of kindness that have been given to us, and the ones we attempt to give back—there is no way that being in the midst of these things can leave you emotionally or mentally static.

I know that most people throughout their lifetimes experience certain things that help them learn what we have learned, but our process was a sort of high-speed evolution to a certain maturity, a certain understanding of how places outside of our homes really are.  Living it is more than what a documentary on National Geographic can prepare you for.

But it’s not all war and local life that’s given us that adult feeling. We’ve grown in other ways that otherwise would have taken us ages. For example, Ricky, who I like to refer to as Map Brain at certain times, does indeed have a brain like a map. He can navigate us through an unknown city to the section where most of the low-priced hostels are, or find our way back after roaming the town looking for some decent food. I’ve never been so good, but my skills in navigation and recognition of landmarks and directions has definitely improved.

We’ve both gotten better at negotiating prices and being unashamed at doing so. This was a talent I had hoped to work on upon my arrival in China, and I did ok, but I feel like I have mastered the skill as we have haggled for everything from hotel rooms to bottled water. We usually are pretty confident that we get the best price (at least the best prices white faces like ours are allowed). This skill has come in handy as we have interviewed for jobs and negotiated prices and benefits to our advantage.

I’ve never really been good at talking to people. Making chit-chat is my idea of one of the outer rings of Hell.  I often feel I have nothing to say and small talk with strangers is strained and awkward. Well, after being on the road with someone, being with him 24/7 for this long, no matter how much I love him, I (both of us, actually) have craved conversation with other people. Ricky often makes the first move, but I usually have no problem joining in with the conversation any more. I have things to say, newfound opinions, experiences to share, and advice to give. I can contribute. And what’s more adult than having a heated conversation about gun laws where actual facts and statistics are used, as opposed to simply shouting your political preference?

Now, armed with all of our new knowledge, experience, and skills, Ricky and I are ready to begin the next phase of true adulthood. We’re getting ready to sign contracts, rent an apartment, and pay some bills.

Wait..how do I push rewind? I don’t know if I’m ready for this! 

Understanding Tragedy: A Visit to Khmer Rouge Prison S-21

*Graphic content warning*

So far, most of our sightseeing has been quite lighthearted. We’ve seen pandas and monkeys, temples and statues, and even a couple of palaces. It’s been enjoyable and culturally enlightening. However, one of our main sightseeing goals as we came to Cambodia was to focus on the horrendous activities of the Khmer Rouge.

The leaders of the Khmer Rouge, or the Cambodian Communist Party, instigated a terrible genocide, ultimately killing 3 million of Cambodia’s then 8 million population. I’ll spare you the history details, but if you want them, see the Wikipedia page.  For now, I’ll just tell you about our experiences in the main Khmer Rouge prison—S-21.

A view of S-21 from the top floor of Building D

As a brief introduction, S-21 used to be a high school, but was taken over by the KR and used as a prison. Classrooms were either divided into small individual cells where prisoners were held, used as pens for up to 70 people all chained together by iron shackles around the ankles, or as interrogation/torture chambers. Prisoners were accused of being a danger to the state and tortured until they confessed to crimes they didn’t commit, or died.  For more information, see here.

S-21 is now the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, open to the public for a mere $2. The rooms are open as well, and visitors can walk the halls where murderers and their victims lived and died.

As Ricky and I entered the grounds, I immediately felt a sort of heaviness, as if the air was just a little thicker here.  I wondered if I could do this. I had heard about how graphic and harsh some of the displays could be. But we pressed on.

The first room we entered housed skulls in glass cases, with descriptions of the injuries showing how the person died, how old they were, and what sex they were. More skulls and bones lined the walls.  I wondered again if I would be able go through with this.

Skulls and bone fragments fill the room.

Next, there were displays of the torture items used.  Popular forms of torture were removing the fingernails or teeth with pliers and waterboarding. Graphic paintings showed how the tortures were done.

Waterboard used for torture. The watering can on the right was used to pour water on the victims' faces.

Shackles used to hold prisoners together by the ankles in one large classroom.

The rest of the first and second buildings featured displays both victims and perpetrators.  Mugshots of victims that were taken when they arrived covered walls of several classrooms.  When I saw them, I thought of the skulls at the beginning and I was reminded that those skulls were these people, and these people were dead. It was a very sad feeling that washed over me as I looked into these people’s faces. 

Photos of victims, taken by their captors when they arrived at S-21

  But their own expressions were more complex. There were some faces that showed sadness, yes, but even more that showed fear, anger, defiance, confusion, hatred. But even worse were the blank stares of those who felt nothing, as if they expected nothing more or less than what was happening, as if they were resigned to their fate. 

  It made me wonder what kind of expression I would have on my face. Would I be strong enough to feel anything more than simple acquiescence to injustice?

Along with pictures of the living, there were also pictures of the dead, of those who were starved, beaten, and tortured. They had fallen victim to the injustices of their own people.

In one display, photos of the surviving leaders that were arrested in 2007 are accompanied by their personal biographies, a few statements about their involvement, and the crimes they are charged with. They are all defended by both Cambodian and western lawyers (Dutch, French, British, American). Most, with the exception of "Duch," the leading officer in charge of S-21, were unapologetic, often saying that they had no knowledge of the atrocities going on in S-21, or even that it existed.

The second to last building we visited, building B, was the home of the small celled rooms. They were made by constructing shoddy brick walls to partition areas of about 3 feet by 8 feet. As we looked in the cells, we saw that bloodstains still remained on the floor. I could only imagine the horrors that took place here, in these small dirty cells, their occupants chained to the floor by rusty shackles. 

A classroom, divided into individual cells.

A cell with blood on the floor.

Building A, our last stop, was the main torture center and remained nearly unchanged. Each room contained a bare bed frame and torture elements. Some had chairs where the interrogators would sit and question the victims. On the walls were photos of those found dead when the horrors of S-21 were discovered. Each room contained bloodstains and a sense of overwhelming sadness and we decided it was time to go.

Before we left, however, we were stopped by an old man selling books. As we looked closer, we saw that the sign below him said that he was a survivor of S-21. He was a tiny old man, named Bou Meng, and of course I bought his book.

Bou Meng, third from the right, is one of the 7 survivors of S-21

Bou Meng and his autobiography, which he signed for me.

Ricky and I left the museum silently, pondering what we had just seen. We both felt the weight of what had happened here and chatted vaguely about justice and fairness. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing, the nightmare of what happened there, and after our visit to the Killing Fields today (Ricky will tell you more about that soon) I don’t know if I’m closer or further away from understanding anything about it.