When I arrived in America, though I had left the war physically far behind, in my mind, the soldiers were still chasing to kill me, my stomach was always hungry, and my fear and distrust kept me from opening up to new friendships. I thought the war was over when I left Cambodia, but I realize now that for survivors and all those involved, the war is never over just because the guns have fallen silent.

As I tell people about genocide, I get the opportunity to redeem myself. I’ve had the chance to do something that’s worth me being alive... The more I tell people, the less the nightmares haunt me.

For me, choosing happiness has to be something that's conscious, a choice, something I act on. And I think this is something really difficult in a society where there's this falsehood that there's sunshine everywhere and all you have to do is hook yourself up to it. We're Combodians such an optimistic culture, but sometimes we have to work a lot harder to find it.

I think how the world is still somehow beautiful even when I feel no joy at being alive within it.

I have my writing therapy. For me, writing and friends therapy is an internal journey where you go in deep, you reflect, you try to heal your inner child. But as an activist, there's the outward, going wide therapy, where you get to realize at a certain point that talking about yourself gets boring. And it's also unhealthy to be so much into yourself. At some point, you have got to be able to look at the issue and say, "It's not about you. It's about a culture, a people, a nation, a family."

From 1975 to 1979 - through execution, starvation, disease, and forced labor - the Khmer Rouge systematically killed an estimated two million Cambodians, almost a fourth of the country's population.

In my heart I know the truth, but my mind cannot accept the reality of what this all means.