We’ve bumped and lurched down a long red dirt road, our Cambodian driver skilfully maneuvering around the biggest of the crater-sized potholes.
Someone in the mini-van points out that the patchwork of rice paddies we’re currently passing were also killing fields, though she can’t remember the number of bodies found there. It might have been 30,000 or 300,000.
We pull up to what looks like a series of long-abandoned buildings. The only clues it’s a school are a handpainted sign and a rusty swing set in bright primary colours, a motley collection of bikes and the rows of small sandals lined up on the dusty concrete.
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