Excerpt
Introduction: Why This Story Matters
Tucked between Thailand, Vietnam, and Laos, Cambodia is a small Southeast Asian country filled with lush green landscapes, wide rivers, and one of the most famous ancient temples in the world—Angkor Wat. But during the late 1970s, Cambodia wasn’t known for its beauty. It became a place of fear, silence, and suffering. Between 1975 and 1979, nearly two million people died—not from war between countries, but because of a government that turned on its own people.
It started with a takeover.
On April 17, 1975, a group called the Khmer Rouge marched into the capital city of Phnom Penh. The Khmer Rouge was a radical communist group led by a man named Pol Pot. To the outside world, they looked like an army of young revolutionaries. Many of them were teenagers, dressed in black clothes, red scarves tied around their necks, rifles in hand. They believed they were creating a better Cambodia—one free of corruption, inequality, and foreign influence.
But their version of a “better” country came with a terrifying cost.
The Khmer Rouge’s first move was to force everyone out of the cities. They told people they had to leave for a few days because of possible American bombings. That was a lie. The evacuations weren’t temporary. Entire families—sick people, pregnant women, kids—were marched out of their homes and made to walk for miles, often without food or water. Many died along the way. Phnom Penh, once crowded with millions of people, became a ghost town in just days.
The Khmer Rouge didn’t believe in cities or technology or schools. They wanted everyone to become farmers, working the land with no modern tools, no wages, and no personal property. The goal was to turn Cambodia into a totally self-sufficient, classless society. They called it “Year Zero,” as if everything that came before them didn’t matter. History, religion, books, and even family ties were considered dangerous.
This wasn’t just about changing jobs. It was about erasing identities.
If you were a doctor, a teacher, a monk, or spoke a foreign language—you were seen as a threat. Wearing glasses could get you killed. Having soft hands, a sign you hadn’t worked in the fields, could be enough for a death sentence. People were arrested, tortured, and executed for reasons that made no sense. Others died slowly from starvation, overwork, and untreated diseases. Hospitals were shut down. Schools were destroyed. Religion was banned. Art was silenced.
The Khmer Rouge even went after their own. Soldiers turned on neighbors. Children were trained to spy on their parents. Loyalty to the regime mattered more than love, friendship, or family. Anyone who showed emotion, questioned an order, or looked suspicious could be taken away. Most never returned.
And yet, most of the world had no idea what was happening.
The country was sealed off from journalists, foreign aid, and outside communication. While people in other parts of the world were listening to disco music, going to school, or watching TV, Cambodian families were quietly disappearing. The places where they died—rice fields, forests, empty school buildings—would later be known as the Killing Fields.
By the time the Khmer Rouge was overthrown in 1979, around one in four Cambodians had died. That’s millions of mothers, fathers, siblings, children, teachers, farmers, artists—gone. Those who survived were left with physical scars, deep trauma, and a country that had been shattered from the inside out.
This wasn’t an earthquake or a foreign invasion. It was a political experiment carried out by Cambodians against Cambodians. And it was done with terrifying precision and speed. Four years. That’s all it took to nearly destroy an entire nation.
Why understanding genocide and human rights matters today
Understanding genocide isn’t just about knowing what happened. It’s about recognizing what makes it possible—and why it keeps happening in different places, even now. That’s what makes this more than just a history lesson.
Genocide, at its core, is the organized, intentional effort to wipe out a group of people—because of their race, religion, ethnicity, or identity. It’s not a natural disaster. It’s not an accident. It’s people making deliberate choices to dehumanize others. And once that starts, it spreads fast—through propaganda, fear, and force.
You might wonder how anyone could justify something that cruel. How entire societies could go along with it. But it rarely begins with violence. It begins with an idea: “Those people don’t belong.” Or worse, “They’re not even people.”
History shows us that when enough people start believing that, genocide becomes possible. It happened in Nazi Germany. It happened in Rwanda. It happened in Bosnia. And it happened in Cambodia. These aren’t isolated events. They’re patterns. The faces and countries are different, but the steps are often the same.
First, people are labeled. Then they’re blamed. Then they’re pushed out, separated, controlled, and finally—eliminated. And all of that is made easier when the rest of the world doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
That’s where human rights come in.
Human rights are the basic freedoms and protections every person should have, no matter where they’re born or who they are. The right to live without fear. The right to go to school. The right to speak freely. The right not to be tortured or enslaved. These rights aren’t just nice ideas—they’re meant to be the foundation of justice and peace. But they only work when people are willing to stand up for them.
After the Holocaust, countries around the world came together and said, “Never again.” They created laws and agreements meant to prevent future genocides. They built international courts and passed resolutions. It sounded promising.
And yet, it kept happening.
“Never again” turned into “again and again,” and sometimes the world responded too slowly—or not at all. Part of that comes from not paying attention. Genocide doesn’t usually make headlines until it’s already too late. And part of it comes from thinking it’s not our problem. But ignoring genocide only helps it grow.
If you care about justice, you have to care about what happens to people who don’t look like you, speak your language, or live in your country. You don’t have to be Cambodian to care about what happened in Cambodia. You just have to be human.
Understanding genocide also means recognizing the early warning signs in the world around us. When leaders start calling groups of people animals or criminals. When hate speech becomes normal. When minorities lose their rights, little by little. Those are red flags—not just for one country, but for everyone.
You might be thinking, “I’m just one person—what am I supposed to do about genocide?” That’s a fair question. But history shows that silence helps it grow, and speaking up helps stop it. People who lived through genocides often say that what hurt most wasn’t just the violence—it was the fact that no one came to help. No one noticed until it was too late.
Learning about genocide doesn’t mean you have to carry the weight of the world. But it does mean you can choose to be someone who doesn’t look away. Someone who asks questions. Someone who challenges cruelty when they see it—whether it’s on the news or in the hallway at school.
Tucked between Thailand, Vietnam, and Laos, Cambodia is a small Southeast Asian country filled with lush green landscapes, wide rivers, and one of the most famous ancient temples in the world—Angkor Wat. But during the late 1970s, Cambodia wasn’t known for its beauty. It became a place of fear, silence, and suffering. Between 1975 and 1979, nearly two million people died—not from war between countries, but because of a government that turned on its own people.
It started with a takeover.
On April 17, 1975, a group called the Khmer Rouge marched into the capital city of Phnom Penh. The Khmer Rouge was a radical communist group led by a man named Pol Pot. To the outside world, they looked like an army of young revolutionaries. Many of them were teenagers, dressed in black clothes, red scarves tied around their necks, rifles in hand. They believed they were creating a better Cambodia—one free of corruption, inequality, and foreign influence.
But their version of a “better” country came with a terrifying cost.
The Khmer Rouge’s first move was to force everyone out of the cities. They told people they had to leave for a few days because of possible American bombings. That was a lie. The evacuations weren’t temporary. Entire families—sick people, pregnant women, kids—were marched out of their homes and made to walk for miles, often without food or water. Many died along the way. Phnom Penh, once crowded with millions of people, became a ghost town in just days.
The Khmer Rouge didn’t believe in cities or technology or schools. They wanted everyone to become farmers, working the land with no modern tools, no wages, and no personal property. The goal was to turn Cambodia into a totally self-sufficient, classless society. They called it “Year Zero,” as if everything that came before them didn’t matter. History, religion, books, and even family ties were considered dangerous.
This wasn’t just about changing jobs. It was about erasing identities.
If you were a doctor, a teacher, a monk, or spoke a foreign language—you were seen as a threat. Wearing glasses could get you killed. Having soft hands, a sign you hadn’t worked in the fields, could be enough for a death sentence. People were arrested, tortured, and executed for reasons that made no sense. Others died slowly from starvation, overwork, and untreated diseases. Hospitals were shut down. Schools were destroyed. Religion was banned. Art was silenced.
The Khmer Rouge even went after their own. Soldiers turned on neighbors. Children were trained to spy on their parents. Loyalty to the regime mattered more than love, friendship, or family. Anyone who showed emotion, questioned an order, or looked suspicious could be taken away. Most never returned.
And yet, most of the world had no idea what was happening.
The country was sealed off from journalists, foreign aid, and outside communication. While people in other parts of the world were listening to disco music, going to school, or watching TV, Cambodian families were quietly disappearing. The places where they died—rice fields, forests, empty school buildings—would later be known as the Killing Fields.
By the time the Khmer Rouge was overthrown in 1979, around one in four Cambodians had died. That’s millions of mothers, fathers, siblings, children, teachers, farmers, artists—gone. Those who survived were left with physical scars, deep trauma, and a country that had been shattered from the inside out.
This wasn’t an earthquake or a foreign invasion. It was a political experiment carried out by Cambodians against Cambodians. And it was done with terrifying precision and speed. Four years. That’s all it took to nearly destroy an entire nation.
Why understanding genocide and human rights matters today
Understanding genocide isn’t just about knowing what happened. It’s about recognizing what makes it possible—and why it keeps happening in different places, even now. That’s what makes this more than just a history lesson.
Genocide, at its core, is the organized, intentional effort to wipe out a group of people—because of their race, religion, ethnicity, or identity. It’s not a natural disaster. It’s not an accident. It’s people making deliberate choices to dehumanize others. And once that starts, it spreads fast—through propaganda, fear, and force.
You might wonder how anyone could justify something that cruel. How entire societies could go along with it. But it rarely begins with violence. It begins with an idea: “Those people don’t belong.” Or worse, “They’re not even people.”
History shows us that when enough people start believing that, genocide becomes possible. It happened in Nazi Germany. It happened in Rwanda. It happened in Bosnia. And it happened in Cambodia. These aren’t isolated events. They’re patterns. The faces and countries are different, but the steps are often the same.
First, people are labeled. Then they’re blamed. Then they’re pushed out, separated, controlled, and finally—eliminated. And all of that is made easier when the rest of the world doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
That’s where human rights come in.
Human rights are the basic freedoms and protections every person should have, no matter where they’re born or who they are. The right to live without fear. The right to go to school. The right to speak freely. The right not to be tortured or enslaved. These rights aren’t just nice ideas—they’re meant to be the foundation of justice and peace. But they only work when people are willing to stand up for them.
After the Holocaust, countries around the world came together and said, “Never again.” They created laws and agreements meant to prevent future genocides. They built international courts and passed resolutions. It sounded promising.
And yet, it kept happening.
“Never again” turned into “again and again,” and sometimes the world responded too slowly—or not at all. Part of that comes from not paying attention. Genocide doesn’t usually make headlines until it’s already too late. And part of it comes from thinking it’s not our problem. But ignoring genocide only helps it grow.
If you care about justice, you have to care about what happens to people who don’t look like you, speak your language, or live in your country. You don’t have to be Cambodian to care about what happened in Cambodia. You just have to be human.
Understanding genocide also means recognizing the early warning signs in the world around us. When leaders start calling groups of people animals or criminals. When hate speech becomes normal. When minorities lose their rights, little by little. Those are red flags—not just for one country, but for everyone.
You might be thinking, “I’m just one person—what am I supposed to do about genocide?” That’s a fair question. But history shows that silence helps it grow, and speaking up helps stop it. People who lived through genocides often say that what hurt most wasn’t just the violence—it was the fact that no one came to help. No one noticed until it was too late.
Learning about genocide doesn’t mean you have to carry the weight of the world. But it does mean you can choose to be someone who doesn’t look away. Someone who asks questions. Someone who challenges cruelty when they see it—whether it’s on the news or in the hallway at school.