By Emily Outtarac
My High School Journal, Maryland
Growing up, I never really put any thought into my heritage. Sure, I went to celebrate New Year’s at my temple and listened to monks praying on cassette, but I never really cared. I was far too interested in shopping at Limited Too and writing in my bright pink diary. As I grew older and out of Limited Too, I became more aware of my culture and, more importantly, the genocide of the 1970s.
Cambodia is located in Southeast Asia between Vietnam and Thailand, once a center of culture in the Indochina Peninsula; however, this once-bright cultural center has dimmed sharply because of war and genocide.
The Cambodian communist movement, backed by the Vietnamese, was led by Pol Pot, a Cambodian extremist who studied French Marxism and brought those ideals back with him to Cambodia. After the military coup of 1970, Pol Pot rose to power as his movement grew in support before he took over the nation’s capital, Phnom Penh. From there, he and his followers emptied out cities and forced people to the countryside in order to achieve his agrarian society. Educated citizens and anyone considered a threat were killed instantly and their bodies disposed in fields, later dubbed “The Killing Fields.” The violence enacted during this time was ridiculous. People who wore glasses were killed because the Khmer Rouge thought they represented the educated.
I hate the Khmer Rouge for turning Cambodia into a country of despair and poverty. I hate the Khmer Rouge for taking my grandfather from me and robbing my father, my dorky, smiley father of his childhood. I hate the Khmer Rouge for reducing my people and my family to tears by even the mere mention of it. I hate that people, my classmates, don’t even know where Cambodia is, let alone its struggles.
I can’t speak for descendents of those who lived through the Holocaust or the countless other genocides, but I know how lasting the effects are. I never lived through the Khmer Rouge reign, but I know it’s painful to think about. I know it’s painful for anyone of Cambodian descent to be reminded of Cambodian genocide. Cambodia is so messed up; the people there are barely living, and their democratic government is a joke. Even though the Khmer Rouge has officially ended its regime, it’s still around. Vietnam, China, and former Khmer Rouge leaders run everything.
Cambodia is brushed over in history books and school lessons; we spend seconds on the bombing of Cambodia during the Vietnam War and even less on the Khmer Rouge. A distinct memory of high school comes from when a classmate jokingly decided to name our work group the “Khmer Muskrats,” like a group that caused so much pain was funny. Even in world history, we only brushed the surface of Southeast Asia and its constant battle with corruption and puppet-string governments run by China.
So, I urge my fellow classmates to rise out of their comfort zone, out of their own history and into someone else’s.
Growing up, I never really put any thought into my heritage. Sure, I went to celebrate New Year’s at my temple and listened to monks praying on cassette, but I never really cared. I was far too interested in shopping at Limited Too and writing in my bright pink diary. As I grew older and out of Limited Too, I became more aware of my culture and, more importantly, the genocide of the 1970s.
Cambodia is located in Southeast Asia between Vietnam and Thailand, once a center of culture in the Indochina Peninsula; however, this once-bright cultural center has dimmed sharply because of war and genocide.
The Cambodian communist movement, backed by the Vietnamese, was led by Pol Pot, a Cambodian extremist who studied French Marxism and brought those ideals back with him to Cambodia. After the military coup of 1970, Pol Pot rose to power as his movement grew in support before he took over the nation’s capital, Phnom Penh. From there, he and his followers emptied out cities and forced people to the countryside in order to achieve his agrarian society. Educated citizens and anyone considered a threat were killed instantly and their bodies disposed in fields, later dubbed “The Killing Fields.” The violence enacted during this time was ridiculous. People who wore glasses were killed because the Khmer Rouge thought they represented the educated.
I hate the Khmer Rouge for turning Cambodia into a country of despair and poverty. I hate the Khmer Rouge for taking my grandfather from me and robbing my father, my dorky, smiley father of his childhood. I hate the Khmer Rouge for reducing my people and my family to tears by even the mere mention of it. I hate that people, my classmates, don’t even know where Cambodia is, let alone its struggles.
I can’t speak for descendents of those who lived through the Holocaust or the countless other genocides, but I know how lasting the effects are. I never lived through the Khmer Rouge reign, but I know it’s painful to think about. I know it’s painful for anyone of Cambodian descent to be reminded of Cambodian genocide. Cambodia is so messed up; the people there are barely living, and their democratic government is a joke. Even though the Khmer Rouge has officially ended its regime, it’s still around. Vietnam, China, and former Khmer Rouge leaders run everything.
Cambodia is brushed over in history books and school lessons; we spend seconds on the bombing of Cambodia during the Vietnam War and even less on the Khmer Rouge. A distinct memory of high school comes from when a classmate jokingly decided to name our work group the “Khmer Muskrats,” like a group that caused so much pain was funny. Even in world history, we only brushed the surface of Southeast Asia and its constant battle with corruption and puppet-string governments run by China.
So, I urge my fellow classmates to rise out of their comfort zone, out of their own history and into someone else’s.
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