Erin Fredrichs is traveling with CPI Co-founder Imbert Matthee through Asia. She sent in this report. She also took the photo.
In Cambodia, it won�t be the majesty of the many temples of Angkor Wat that will consume my memory once we return to the States. It will be the 17 kids I met at the Cambodia Landmine Museum.
Exhausted for the unforgiving heat and clamoring over the ruins of temples, we all packed in the car for our final stop on our list of touristy activities: the landmine museum. We drove down yet another dusty, pothole-laden Cambodian road and stopped in front of a cluster of huts guarded by a small boy. He granted us admission to the museum.
Established in 1999 by Aki Ra, a former child soldier of the Khmer Rouge, the landmine museum attracts far fewer tourists than the war museum in Siem Reap. However, the rawness of the landmine museum sets it apart from any other tourist destination I�ve ever seen.
I couldn�t believe it was real. There were thousands of defused landmines collected into nets and used as posts for benches. Bombs spelled out the word �museum� on the side of the main building. A display had been set up on the side of the property to show visitors the different ways mines are set and ultimately triggered. Inside a shed-like structure is a detailed explanation of every mine in the museum�s collection.
Then I met Hak Hort. He eyed me as I snooped around the museum, balancing on his remaining leg and crutches, waiting for me to acknowledge him. When our eyes met, he smiled a deep, warm smile and in clear English, asked me if I�d like a tour of the museum. I couldn�t refuse.
Hak was eight years old when he lost his leg to a landmine explosion. The country was still at war with itself. The Khmer Rouge and Cambodian Army were battling for power. Hak and his older brother and sister were in their family fields when they found a landmine. Unaware of what it was, Hak thought it was a toy. The landmine detonated, blowing off his leg and killing his siblings.
�It is okay now,� he told me. �I live here in Siem Reap for three years and I like it. I go to school, I give the tours, it is good.� His smile never faltered as he wound down the tour. When he asked me if I had any more questions, I just shook my head and thanked him for the wonderful tour. I couldn�t bring myself to ask him how he ever got over losing his leg. I wanted to know if he was haunted by the loss of his siblings. I was a stranger, one of the hundreds of tourists that visit the museum annually. I had no business prying into his innermost thoughts, so I let the questions go.
I only got an hour at the museum and I could spend months there. I want to know all the stories of the boys who live there. I want to teach them English, photograph them, help them build extra housing, do stretches with them so they retain mobility in their stumps. I just want to be around them. It only took an hour for them to impact my life. I don�t know how I could begin to impact theirs.
A handful of Australian tourists who are spending the month volunteering at the museum were situated near the entrance at a table, drawing tattoos on the boys. Eleven-year old Boreak had a snake drawn on his back, a dragon on his arm and flowers on his chest. Once he was sufficiently inked, he bounced out away from the table and tried to engage other boys in one-armed muay thai boxing spats. He laughed as he through jabs and giggled at whomever jabbed back. His energy was electrifying. Anyone who came within his little radius stepped lively and laughed with him. He was just a happy little boy. I realized that was what the camp was full of: happy little boys, not downtrodden disabled kids.
We have bore witness to the atrocities humans bring against other humans day after day during this trip. The boys at the landmine museum have a camaraderie that provides them with strength and a sense of family. Their vibrance seeped into me and all I want to do is go back to show them what an inspiration they are.
Erin Fredrichs
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