In Cambodia, something missing. It’s an absence that might not capture your attention immediately, but once it does, you’ll be hard-pressed to redirect your thoughts. As you walk along the sleepy city streets, or cycle through the lush countryside, you will undoubtedly be greeted by plenty of youthful faces—eager to shower you with waves and laughter. However, to meet someone with leathered skin and preying hair is more of a rarity. Cruising along the Praek Tuek Chhu river in Kampot, I realized that it had been days since I’d encountered of senior citizen status. And after taking the time to explore this captivating country’s heartbreaking history, the missing demographic began to make sense. In the short window between 1975 and 1979, communist dictator Pol Pot was responsible for the deaths of nearly 2 million innocent Cambodians. Pledging to destroy Capitalism and build an agrarian utopia, Pot and his regime —the Khmer Rouge —set out to cleanse the nation of anyone who could pose a threat to his new, xenophobic society. Not only were respected professionals like doctors and lawyers targeted, but individuals with any semblance of an education —like those who had attended elementary school or who simply wore glasses—were senselessly murdered. Flash forward forty years, and Cambodia is earning its title as the ultimate comeback kid. Brimming with a bustling tourism industry and the widespread implementation of modern infrastructure, it’s almost impossible to believe that this country has rebuilt itself from the ground up after losing a staggering 25% of their population and entire generations. But admiring the collective resilience of this beautiful nation should not blind us from respecting the catastrophic heartbreak felt by its people. I was fortunate enough to listen to a firsthand account of this reality, thanks to a few sweltering days in the back of a tuk tuk driven by Mr. Corn—a survivor of Pol Pot’s terror. Mr. Corn cannot confirm his exact age, but he guesses he is pushing 65. He bases this estimate off a blurry memory of being in his early twenties when he was captured by the Khmer Rouge. Mr. Corn and his brother were taken to prison and expected to face a similar fate as their parents who were brutally murdered. For months the two boys teetered on the brink of death, forced to live in inhumane conditions while withstanding regular physical violence. As captives they were fed little to no food, and knew that if they did not score more to eat, they wouldn’t stand a chance. In a moment of blind desperation, Mr. Corn made a decision that would either save his life or surely end it. When night fell, he snuck out of the compound and stole rations of corn from a neighboring field. Week after week, Mr. Corn repeated this reckless trip, bringing back just enough food to fend off starvation. It was this nourishment that allowed the brothers to survive an environment that would have otherwise killed them. After years of retelling this story in private, the nickname “Mr. Corn” was aptly coined. Of course going by such a title serves as the perfect launch pad for sharing this story with travelers—some of whom I’m sure are sceptical of the intention. But I for one am forever thankful for this prompt. It’s a difficult pill to swallow —remembering that the Western world largely turned its back on a genocide that left Cambodia without entire generations of citizens. And yet today, these people are still some of the most effervescently warm souls that I have met along my travels. Mr. Corn was no exemption. In the days I spent exploring the temples of Angkor with him, I was blown away by his generosity—a highlight including the invitation I received to attend his grandson’s 4th birthday party. It was a harrowing thing – to be met with so much light from a man who has experienced what others would view as insurmountable darkness. But this is a theme felt across Cambodia. Instead of slipping into bitterness, these people are pushing forward with forgiveness, choosing to embrace the cathartic benefits of sharing their stories—without fear of the repercussions —for the first time in decades.