​

​​Friday, April 18, 1975, was the day I looked back at my house, at the gate with Papa's initials ‘KH’, and it would be a very long time before I saw it again. Finding myself at the mercy of Pol Pot's KR and in such fear, not even knowing of the living Hell to come, my privileged childhood in this house seemed to belong to somebody else.



In 1979, I returned home alone while my father's body was laid on the ground to rest, but not in peace. Pain stabbed my heart as the faces of my family rolled through my mind. Everybody who had lived in this house was gone, everyone. I was alone. As I looked at my house, I felt like I was leaving my body. I looked at myself and at my house and looked at the past to see if I could have changed it to prevent the horrible fate awaiting my family. Even though my house looked as uninhibited as the others in the neighborhood, it was too painful to accept that it was empty. Surely, when I went in, my family would still be there and I would awaken from this horrible dream. Papa, my grandparents, Pou Sunthary - they were not just memories; I knew they must be here. The rocks that Papa put in the front yard still existed, as did the coconut trees in front of the house.



Many years later, the new owner had sold my house after dividing the property in 2 lots: one side in white fence was for the motel, another side in red fence was lived by someone important since there was a guard house at the corner of the house. Since there was a big space on the front yard, the new owner built additional house, may be for the guest house of something else.

​

In this above picture that was taken by my friend in 2012, I could see  the coconut trees by the fence had been removed as well as my father's initial "KH" on the door gate. Only the house number remains unchanged, but it divided in 182 A , 182 B.

​

I still feel that she is my house even she is not mine anymore.