Cambodge & Hommage : Un sergent fidèle, mémoire d’un père disparu

In the quiet light of Mondol 3 village, in Siem Reap, was born Poun Sanya, the second child in a family of four. His life now flows in Kandal, far from the mountains of his childhood, but his heart remains inhabited by the memory of a man lost too soon: his father, Kim Sam-At, chief warrant officer of the 3rd Intervention Brigade of the Royal Cambodian Armed Forces.

Kim Sam-At, chief warrant officer of the 3rd Intervention Brigade of the Royal Cambodian Armed Forces

His name still resonates in the hills of Preah Vihear, where he fell under a Thai bombardment, fulfilling his duty. He was fifty-five years old, and until the end, loyalty guided his steps.

Sanya remembers. Three months before the conflict, his father was guarding the line, caught between loyalty and fatigue. One day before the battle, the soldier came down from the mountain on a borrowed motorcycle. His leg, swollen with pain, reminded him of his human weakness, but the mission reminded him of his oath. On the way, he saw his daughter.

“Stay here, father, take care of yourself, your leg hurts too much,” she said in a worried voice. He gently replied: “The commander only gave me one day. Tomorrow, I must go back up.”

She insisted, spoke to him about the rest he refused. But her father, a soldier above all, did not want to flee his post nor abandon his comrades in arms. Together, they shared a meal, some smiles, simple words, unaware that it was their last farewell.

On July 23, Sanya went to see him at the Preah Vihear temple. As a tourism agent, he was working not far away, in this sacred place. His father whispered to him, almost prophetic: “Get ready, the Thais are not calm.” The next day, at dawn on July 24, the mountain caught fire. The first shell fell at 9:20 a.m. The thunder of war broke out above the sanctuary. Sanya, driven to flee, took refuge in a shelter, isolated for two nights and three days, between fire and fear.

On July 25, he was evacuated on foot with eight companions, walking relentlessly toward the valley. On the 26th, they reached Koh Ker, then Wat Por of the 5000 trees, where waiting turned into silence.

On the morning of the 27th, the news hit him straight in the heart. His father was no longer there. He had left his shelter to look for some food. He had barely taken a bite of rice to his mouth when death found him. A shell had struck him in the head, another in the chest. His comrades, helpless, could only hide, while the mountain still trembled under the explosions.

Poun Sanya

Only on July 29 did the team manage to bring down the body, taking it back to Siem Reap during the night. That evening, the family home was lit with candles and prayers. Villagers, soldiers, and authorities united in a gesture of silent solidarity. Yet, in Sanya’s heart, no help, no word, no presence could soothe the absence.

“My father was only fifty-five,” he murmurs. “People supported us wholeheartedly, but nothing is worth his life. Nothing can replace his kindness. I have not yet had the time to give back what he gave me.”

On the mountain of Preah Vihear, the wind still blows among the ancient stones. Perhaps it carries the echo of a faithful sergeant, a father gone too soon, taken by duty but whose memory refuses to fade.

By Long Aun