My tragic journey toward freedom
from 1972 to 1979
I was born in 1972 in Pôsat, Cambodia. My mother, Chhay, gave birth to me in a tent (a makeshift hospital) under a sacred tree, the banyan tree. It was at the beginning of the war led by Pol Pot and the future Khmer Rouge. My parents did not know what name to give me, so they nicknamed me “Apo”, to recall that I was born in Pôsat. Yes, I was born in a country at war which, over the following seven years, would claim the lives of around two million people.
From 1975 to 1979, we were slaves of the Khmer Rouge. They seized power and controlled the state and the people. We were forced to work in the rice fields for them. I saw things—unspeakable things. For five years we had almost nothing to eat and were forced to work twelve hours a day. They were against intellectuals. My father was a teacher and had to hide his entire life to avoid being killed. We witnessed murders, executions, horrors that no human being—especially not a child—should ever see.
I was too young to work in the fields and was often sick; I nearly died several times. My older brothers and sisters had to work, my parents had to work, and I was left alone, waiting for their return so I could eat. Hunger was constant. Those moments were the hardest of that period.
In 1978, still enslaved by the tyrant Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge, my older sister died of starvation before our eyes. We were devastated by grief. We had already lost four brothers and one sister during the war. My family was exhausted and deeply wounded by this endless terror. Villagers and loved ones were executed for no reason. If you disobeyed, they killed you. If you stole food, they tortured or killed you. If you dared to look them in the eyes, they killed you.
One day, American and French planes bombed Khmer Rouge bases. Thanks to this diversion, we fled into the jungle along with all the villagers. Everyone ran toward freedom. My father, who could hardly walk, was carried by my brothers and sisters on a bicycle without tires. Our entire family escaped—entering yet another tragic chapter of our lives.
The bombings intensified. Machine-gun fire echoed around us. Mines, bombs, and Khmer Rouge soldiers hunted us relentlessly. We hid behind trees and walked as far as possible during the night, guided only by instinct. We were starving and dehydrated. At one point, we lost my father, who could no longer walk. He had been placed on a makeshift cart pulled by a bicycle and sometimes by my siblings. We feared he had been captured and killed. My sister found him far away, and we were reunited once more.
I was too weak to walk and was carried on my brothers’ backs. We constantly heard cries and screams from people stepping on landmines. The stress, the fear, and the smell of dead bodies are images burned into my memory forever. And there were still more than three months of walking and terror ahead of us in the jungle.
During those three months of escape and survival—through rain, wind, cold, and fear, bombings ahead of us and Khmer Rouge behind us—we miraculously made it through this hell of extreme conditions. (I will share the details of life in the jungle in my first book.)
Finally, we reached the Thai border, where we struggled to be accepted because we had no passports and no money. It was missionaries who noticed us and saved us from this desperate situation. A few weeks later, we became political refugees in Switzerland—a country my father always described as paradise on earth. Thank you, Switzerland, land of freedom, peace, and love.
In July 1979, we arrived in Switzerland. I was still very ill due to starvation. Before that, I had been treated in Thailand, but what I remember most is my first meal on the airplane: a simple omelet. My starved body could not tolerate it. Even though the taste was new and wonderful, I immediately vomited.
Yet, at that very moment, I felt—perhaps for the first time—the idea of renewal. As if that single bite, even rejected, opened the door to healing and to a future that could begin again.
With my family, we were welcomed in Courtepin, in the canton of Fribourg. I still carry the warmth of those first moments within me, when the Swiss people welcomed us with open arms. There was a kindness in the air that embraced us completely.
It was there that my father said to us: “Switzerland is a paradise on earth.”
Those words shaped my life. Since that day, I have carried deep gratitude for Switzerland—for this land of peace and neutrality that gave us a new beginning and the chance to live without fear.