killing fields – Two Travelin' Chicas…

When is Enough…Enough?!?

It feels as though the world’s leaders have lost their minds. As if they’ve slipped into a dangerous game of power and ego, moving pieces across a board without regard for the lives beneath their hands. And the rest of us, “we the people”, are left standing in fear and disbelief, asking the same question over and over again: What on earth is happening inside their heads?

It is not the powerful who pay the price for this madness. It is the people of every nation…the families, the neighbors, the children – who carry the weight of political insanity and unchecked greed. Not greed for what is rightfully theirs, but hunger for what belongs to everyone else. Somewhere along the way, the balance tipped. The power of the people was quietly traded for the power of the power-hungry. And now we are left wondering: when did this happen… and when will enough finally be enough?

The death toll rises across the globe. Once, as US Americans, we watched distant horrors unfold on foreign soil, believing – naively, that they could never reach us. Now that violence has been carried to our own doorsteps. We the people are no longer observers. We are witnesses. We are participants. And it is time…long past time – to pull our heads from the sand. There can be no more looking away. No more pretending this is someone else’s problem. It is time to wake up, to smell the gunpowder and tear gas, and to say with one voice: enough is enough!

The message we’re fed is muddled and poisonous…voices everywhere, shouting over one another, spewing hate, distraction, and recycled lies. A fog of smoke and mirrors meant to confuse, divide, and exhaust us. And still, astonishingly, so many cling to it. But others are stirring. Others are seeing clearly. Others are standing up and whispering, then speaking, then shouting: this is not okay.

I hear the sorrow in the voices of friends and family left behind to gather the pieces of shattered lives day after day. I see their courage as they stand for what they believe in, even when the deck is cruelly stacked against them. I feel it when my own family must walk into a grocery store accompanying a neighbor, afraid to go alone. That fear brings me to tears. This was once a peaceful place to call home.

When did it become acceptable to plant terror in the soil of a society? When did killing in cold blood become normalized? When did mass violence stop shocking us?

We now watch armed, masked men fire into crowds. We see chemical agents – once banned by the world, now used on citizens. And then we hear the lies, smooth and shameless, poured from the mouths of leaders as the moral fabric of the United States frays before our eyes. It is shameful.

Some days my faith wavers. My resolve feels thin. The obstacles loom so large they seem impossible to climb. And yet…somewhere deep inside – my heart steadies itself and keeps beating. Because even surrounded by madness, truth still exists. Because even drowned out by noise, compassion still speaks. The lies and the truth are both on full display now, painted in living color. And we are being asked, urgently, to choose.

Our lives are already being disrupted. Maybe not by bombs falling from the sky, not yet…but by fear, division, and the slow erosion of safety and trust. The tipping point is no longer ahead of us. It is here. We can choose to stand, peacefully, courageously, together – or we can hide and hope the storm passes us by. History has shown us where silence leads.

This moment is calling us back to ourselves. Back to humanity. Back to the understanding that power has always belonged to the people when they remember who they are. Not through violence, but through unity. Not through hate, but through truth. Not through fear, but through love that refuses to be extinguished.

So I ask again…not in despair, but in determination:
When is enough, enough?

I believe the answer is rising, quietly but unmistakably, from the hearts of people everywhere.

Peace over adversity: Which will win?

As I sit here, far from the land I once called home, I feel like a castaway – safe enough in body, but restless in spirit. My heart has never left the people who don’t have the luxury of distance, who cannot step away, who must stay and endure and fight, quietly or loudly – for the simple right to live in peace.

I watch eighteen monks walking from Texas to Washington, DC. Eighteen human beings placing one foot in front of the other, blister by blister, mile by mile. They carry no weapons, no demands…only the radical offering of compassion. They speak to anyone willing to listen, reminding us that peace is not something granted by power, but something cultivated within. Their message is soft, ancient, and profoundly inconvenient.

And then I look at the other image unfolding at the same time: injustice normalized, cruelty excused, violence absolved by the very regime meant to protect its people. My eyes fill with tears at the stark polarity of it all. Love walking barefoot on asphalt, and brutality signing itself into law. How can these two truths exist in the same place, at the same moment?

Yes, peace begins within us. Yes, we must stand for those to whom violence is being delivered and disguised as order. But how do we reconcile this duality? A nation split down its own spine…grieving, angry, afraid. A war within our borders, fought by people turned into instruments, while those pulling the strings keep their hands clean of blood.

What breaks my heart most is knowing that this violence comes from flesh and blood no different from my own. That human beings, mostly masked men, can commit such harm with such malice, then return home and sleep. Your mother is watching you, your wives, sons and daughters. That evil does not arrive as a monster, but as a neighbor, a voter, a uniform, a signature on a page.

And yet… somewhere beneath the grief, a quieter truth persists: this does not have to be the end of the story.

I wrestle with forgiveness…for those who empowered this harm, who waved it through with one stroke of a pen, one push of a voter button. The ones who dismissed warnings as exaggeration, cruelty as “fake news,” consequences as something that would only happen to others. Someday, this will reach your doorstep too. Not as a headline, but as a reckoning. And I struggle, deeply, with how to hold compassion for that truth without surrendering accountability.

So I return to the monks.

Eighteen figures against the noise. Silent, aching, devoted. How can something so small withstand such chaos? Maybe it can’t…at least not in the way we measure power. But perhaps the outpouring of love, the tears, the prayers, the witnessing – that is how peace moves from an abstract ideal into something rooted, something lived. Not to heal the world all at once, but to heal hearts, one by one.

A forest does not begin with full-grown trees. It begins with a seed…fragile, buried, fighting through cold and heat, breaking open in darkness before it ever reaches the light. Strength is not loud at first. It is persistent.

We may not be able to meet might with might. But I am reminded of an old photograph from the 1960s: a single flower placed into the muzzle of a gun. A quiet refusal. A reminder that even in the face of violence, there are those who choose tenderness…not because it is weak, but because it is brave.

And maybe, just maybe, that is how the work begins. 🌱

Cambodia: A Personal De-brief

Cambodia Recap

Today we all boarded the bus headed for Bangkok, Thailand, bright and early. We have a 6+ hour ride in total, 3 to the border and 3.5-4 hours into Bangkok. We drew the lucky straw and got the 45 passenger bus for 14 of us. Plenty of room to stretch out.

It’s nice to get a really early start…most of the daily activities of the locals happens before the sun is blazing high in the sky and the humidity kicks in. As we roll past rice fields and farms, small road side stands, typical houses and the ocasional neat and tidy, brightly colored home, everyone is busily preparing for their day. Families out in the rice fields, wielding scythes and woven baskets, others walking behind their water buffalo with long, thin switches, herding them to the tall grasses and thick muddy fields. Women, with straw brooms, sweeping the dirt in front of their fruit stands. Children in blue and white uniforms, gather under large thatch roof structures, absorbing knowledge from the teachers. The bright saffron robes of the monks, collecting their offerings from the villagers and shop owners. Honking horns, motorbikes, buses and tuk tuks, dodging each other jockeying for their purchase of pavement, turning 2 lane roads into 3 or 4. Others take their place, swaying gently in their hammocks, observers of life as it passes by the hour. There’s a certain peace about the chaos.

I can’t help but to reflect on the last 3 days of diving into the history and religious culture. The archeological perspective of a hard past… pride and humility, defeat and triumph, war and peace, life and death. Ancient ruins, carefully extracted from the jungle that sought to take back its natural state. Temples built on the backs of slaves and beasts of burden. Time capsules of history. Places of sacrifice and enlightenment. Schools and places of deep worship. Inside the stone pillars and walls, etched with great talent and insight, these are the words and lessons of past masters, kings, and ancestors. The desire to reconstruct and refurbish the towers and galleries was quite evident as all around us men carefully removed huge slabs of deteriorating sandstone and others etching the past back into the replcements. The mastery and skill needed to recreate such revered symbolism is highly prized.

Cambodia has reclaimed its place in SE Asia. The entire society, for the most part, is young and full of vision. Every family has been touched by the hand of war and genocide. It was hard to visit S-21 Re-education camp, (Security 21, a re-purposed high school used to interrogate and torture those that the Khmer leader Pol Pot, felt was a threat) and one of the many Killing Fields, mass unmarked graves. To hear the stories from those who were directly effected and yet somehow survived the horror, was tear jerking. The emotional scars pouring out in quivering voices and sudden looks of horror as they recant their personal demons. A sudden and palpable silence falls on the room as we were told stories of tyrannical torture and degradation of an educated section of the population, through the eyes of our local guide. Something as simple as wearing eyeglasses could be your death, but not only of yourself, but friends, family and so many others. Over 3 million Cambodians died in a 4 year period, either at the hand of the Khmer Rouge regime or from starvation and disease as whole populations were forced into labor and out of their homes.

From here, there’s not much more to tell. A resilient culture, proud people, and a young nation, struggling to change for the better. A loving people, lead by Buddhist teachings of respect and kindness. Cities…new and bristling with growth and new infrastructure. A simple folk just living day to day with smiling faces.