Chapter One: Cambodia

“A few weeks ago I was driving on a dirt road and some refugees escaping from a battle up the road were coming toward me. They were carrying their wretched sacks of belongings on their heads, under their arms, over their bent shoulders. Dust swirled around them and the bright sun played tricks with it, flashing designs in the motes. Suddenly, for a few brief moments, the people looked to me as if they had holes in them, like Swiss cheese. People living and walking, but with holes in them. People who were not all there. People whom you could see through in places. Maybe the holes were in my mind or in my weariness or maybe I was being poetic or melodramatic, but to me they had holes in them. And then I shook my head to clear it, and there were no holes, and Dith Pran asked me what was the matter and I told him and he did not think it was peculiar.”
  —Reporters May Be Weary But The People’s Lot is Deadly, Page 23

 

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See photos for Chapter Two: The Killing Fields

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