A year and a half ago I walked through the Killing Fields in Cambodia. I saw the skulls piled up, and stood by the mudpits where hundreds of bodies were thrown. I saw a human jawbone lying at my feet. I picked it up, held it in my hand, and wept. The darkness was overwhelming—the ground cried out at the tragedy in which two to three million Cambodians, nearly one third of the country’s population, were murdered by Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge.
I was escorted by a gentle Cambodian couple, Vek and Samoeun Tang, who survived the Killing Fields. Samoeun’s parents both starved to death. One of her brothers was known dead, another brother was never seen or heard from. Presumably he was murdered and thrown into one of the thousands of unmarked graves, many of them containing hundreds of bodies each.