I didn't buy a genocide survivor's book

When indignation turns to guilt

Sep 14, 2023

When I flew over to visit a dear friend in Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia, earlier this year, at the top of my first-time visitor’s agenda was a half-day tour to the killing fields and the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.

Not something you’d wish your country to be known for, the infamous genocide was the first thing on my mind as I sat down to plan my ten-day trip.

On day five, I went on the tour. It was sobering, eye-opening, every -ing you’d expect of a half-day exposition of a country’s cruel genocidal past carefully crafted for curious, ignorant tourists.

Having had the harrowing experience of visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau at the tender age of nineteen, seeing traces of the many atrocities committed at the killing fields didn’t unsettle me—the bones half-revealed in the ground, the tower of skulls we were instructed to circle silently, respectfully.

What really shook me happened later in the day, as the tour was wrapping up at Tuol Sleng, a school-turned-prison-turned-genocide-museum.

The survivor’s book

It was almost five in the afternoon. Our tour guide, realising the time, abruptly stopped his explanation of the photograph exhibits of the prison’s deceased captives. We hurry to meet survivors, he gaily announced. Quick, they go home.

I was surprised. I didn’t expect to see genocide survivors at the site of their horrid imprisonment. I imagined they would have better things to do, far better places to be. Why were they here, I wondered, rushing after the guide who was briskly leading our group of dozen to a tent by the entrance.

The tent came into view and for the first time that day I was horrified. Inside was a frail, old man sitting on a folding chair. Around him were tourists jostling to get the best angle for a selfie. I looked on, stunned. Here was a man who had lived through unimaginable suffering, being displayed to tourists as a photo prop, commoditised, dehumanised.

The guide led us around the tent and numbly I followed, still trying to process what I’d just seen. The guide’s cheery voice interrupted my thoughts, here’s another survivor who’s written a book! You can read his incredible survivor’s story for only X dollars! A slim book was thrust into my hands.

I looked down, flipped through the pages. Horror turned to indignation. The whole afternoon—walking the killing fields, paying respect to the monument of skulls, hearing the tragic stories of dozens of victims—has led up to this moment where you’re trying to… sell me a book? And you’re going to do it in the most underhanded way possible, shove it into my hands and hope I’d feel too embarrassed to return it?

No thank you. I looked the survivor/author in the eye and put the book back on the pile. I will not fall for this. I will not stand for this.

Once a couple of us had purchased copies, the tour resumed. But I didn’t enjoy the rest of it. My mood had soured. The whole book-selling business had left an acrid taste in my mouth.

Indignation turns to guilt

Later that day, on the phone to my partner, I was enraged. Can you believe the nerve? Get the well-meaning tourists all fired up with tales of injustice, then upsell us a book. A perfectly good tour and they just had to ruin it!

He quietly listened. Such a dirty tactic to guilt us into buying, I continued. I felt bad returning that book, like it was a rejection of the survivor/author. It was, my partner gently pointed out.

I stopped, let the truth of his two words sink in.

It really was, wasn’t it. Yes, he said.

In the heat of the moment, my indignation blinded me to the simple, shocking truth that those slim books the tour guide was tactlessly peddling were not some marketing gimmick, but the survivor’s livelihood.

The survivors weren’t there because they relished the tourists’ attention or enjoyed some twisted satisfaction from returning to the scene of their torture. They were there because the alternative was starvation.

Decades after their imprisonment, they still had to return every single day so they could earn a few bucks by posing for photos, selling books no one wanted.

When I so triumphantly returned that book to the tall pile of unsold copies, I was effectively saying to the survivor/author that his experience had no value, that his struggles didn’t matter, that he doesn’t matter. I could easily have paid for his book, but I’d rather spend that paltry sum on half a dinner, a beer, a tuk tuk ride. Because of that careless rejection, he might have to skip a meal, go hungry.

And here I thought I had the moral upper hand.

My indignation turned to guilt. The kind of guilt that burrows itself deep into your soul. What kind of a person am I? Offered the chance to help a genocide survivor live another day and I so callously turned it down. How self-absorbed was I to not see that it wasn’t about me, it was never about me? There was no dirty scheme to bleed us tourists dry, simply an impoverished man trying to secure his next meal.

For shame.

What do you think?

To this day, I shudder at my cruelty. After the epiphany I had during the call with my partner, I seriously considered going back the next day to buy the book. But the cab ride, the entry fee, the time it would take proved too much of an inconvenience. And I never went back.

Would you have bought the book?

Hand on heart, if that book was thrust into your hands, would you have bought it? Why? Why not? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with someone who has the humanity I lack.