I wasn't born in Cambodia. I never spoke Khmer. I did not endure the horror that fell upon millions in that land. But one day, I read the name Pol Pot — and behind that name, an entire world of pain, fear, and silence revealed itself. Since that moment, I could not look away.

This book is not merely a historical study. It is an attempt to speak on behalf of those whose voices were drowned in canals, buried in mass graves, lost in dusty documents. This is a cry of memory. This is a duty.

I worked on this book long and hard. I read transcripts, studied photographs, listened to the stories of survivors. Every fragment, every number, every name — is not just a statistic, but a life. Behind every paragraph — someone's lost mother. Someone's sister. Someone's son. I did not allow myself to write quickly. Because you cannot write quickly about people who were killed slowly.

During the process, I came to understand: genocide is not just a crime. It is a perverted philosophy that turns an idea into a weapon, a word into a sentence, a child into an executioner. That is why this book does not limit itself to facts. It contains chapters about women, about children, about artists — about those who resisted not with rifles, but with songs, prayers, and silence.

I believe that history must not only be written — it must be felt. Only then does it become ours. Not foreign, not distant, not "someone else's." But ours — human.

I thank everyone who inspired and supported me along this path. I thank the survivors who found the strength to speak. I thank every reader who opened this book not for information — but for truth.

If even one person, after reading this, refuses to allow hatred into their heart, if even one does not turn away from another's pain — then I did not write in vain.

Let memory live. And may the world never be silent again.

With respect,
Bakhtiyor Aslonov