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As a child growing up in Cambodia, Ronnie Yimsut played among the ruins of the Angkor Wat temples, surrounded by a close-knit community. As the Khmer Rouge gained power and began its genocidal reign of terror, his life became a nightmare. In this stunning memoir, Yimsut describes how, in the wake of death and destruction, he decides to live. Escaping the turmoil of Cambodia, he makes a perilous journey through the jungle into Thailand, only to be sent to a notorious Thai prison. Fortunately, he is able to reach a refugee camp and ultimately migrate to the United States, where he attended the University of Oregon and became an influential leader in the community of Cambodian immigrants.Facing the Khmer Rougeshows Ronnie Yimsut's personal quest to rehabilitate himself, make a new life in America, and then return to Cambodia to help rebuild the land of his birth.

Very long before man had called this cold time of the year “winter,” Himalayan currents blew a chill air over the Angkor plains. They did so once again, and so humans and their beasts stayed around warm fires in these early mornings. In the daylight, the endless green of rice fields surrendered to the relentless brisk air and turned golden yellow. Where humans were too slow, birds by the thousands swarmed in and feasted. The rice was ready for harvest. December 1977 was a time of long hours of back-breaking work to harvest the rice as fast as possible. The

I was driving home to Bend, Oregon. Thavy and I were talking about the great Thanksgiving weekend we had just had with family and friends in Portland. The snowfall continued but we were nice and warm inside our 4×4 Nissan Pathfinder. Samantha, now two years old, dozed in her car seat in the back, next to the terrier Itchiewawa, who was a year older than she was. I glanced at the dark sky. Snowflakes continued to blanket the Oregon Cascades. The Cascades Pass, which goes by Mount Hood, was familiar to us in all kinds of weather. Heck, we had

There’s nothing like a morning in Siem Reap. It’s the most peaceful time of the day. Tree leaves drip dew and the moist soil releases a delicate fragrance I find hard to describe. The taste of mornings in my old hometown is a magical mix of smells, of sounds and sights. I feel a sense of belonging here, but my memories of this place can drive me away at the same time. The Tonle Sap Lake is peaceful now, but the screams, faces, and terror are still incredibly raw in my mind. The remains of my family, my friends, and

Chilly air chased the monsoon clouds on the strong air currents that riffled the leaves. The weeping, high-pitchedkek-kek-keksounds of thousands of tadpoles echoed in the distance and sent chills up the spine. The beautiful Cambodian countryside hid a heart that was bleeding severely. It was the sound of ridicule that woke me from my deep sleep. Some kids about my age looked me over and then laughed among themselves. Mith Chass teenagers surrounded me. These kids were “old comrades” who had supported the Khmer Rouge in the war and who now ruled. Their faces clearly reflected our low

Early one September morning, I woke to the sound of dripping water. The first monsoon rains had come in the night. Outside my bedroom window, water rolled off the bright flowers and green leaves. The subtle aroma of dewy jasmine flowers enveloped me, and I imagined little jasmine buds in our garden, ready to unfold their petals. My three roosters—the pride of my collection—crowed their hearts out, the majestic Siem Reap River behind them. I pulled the blanket around me. Norane and the others were already up; it was just me and my younger brothers, Nosay and Monika,

Toward the end of June 1975, cool air came down from the northern Dong Rek mountain range and began to blow the suffocating heat away. The bright blue of the sky turned into cooler shades of gray. Column after column of clouds rolled in and gathered above the Tonle Sap Lake until the sun was hidden away. When lightning flashed so mightily, even the bravest flinched; the rest of us dove for cover. Thunder rumbled, rolled, and echoed and then the heavens broke open with the wild, rushing sound of a gigantic herd of water buffaloes. The monsoon rains had

One breezy morning late in 1994, Cousin Thie introduced me to the owner of a 2.4-acre plot of land near National Highway 6 and the Siem Reap international airport. The lot was about fifteen minutes away by slow motorcycle from my old home in Siem Reap. It was a flooded area filled with wild grass and rice stock. In the center was a large hole 6 feet deep, where people had carted away soil to raise their houses from the flood. “You can have it for twochiof gold,” the farmer said. “How much is that worth, Thie?” I

A loud explosion awoke me to flying debris, scattering birds, and the sight of Moeun, Doeum, and Sek running through the burning forest. After a moment of panic, I gathered my stuff together and ran easily through the thickets. Safe in the moist, dense growth of trees and brush, I sat and waited for my larger companions. Moeun and the others had to crouch to get through. They found me and calmed down to an easy pace. When we came to a field of tall grass, Sek, having been a military policeman, took the lead. We must have run about

The winds from the Himalayas in the north had died down enough for me to feel warm as my family and I huddled together that winter morning in early 1977. Mother clung to me at the crack of dawn when the soldiers started kicking us awake and barking orders. “I have to join my group, Mae,” I said. It was daylight. I was fifteen. I didn’t want to be seen cuddled by my mother. I helped Sa-Oum’s father prepare for the next leg of the trip. I only had a few hours of rest and an empty stomach, but I