I imagine ANGKOR Thom the way my ancestors would’ve known it, long before guidebooks and crowds. When it was hidden deep in the jungle, breathing on its own.

Out there in Siem Reap, ANGKOR Thom didn’t stand alone. It was wrapped in vines and roots, swallowed by the forest like the land was protecting it. The stone faces watched through the trees - calm, knowing, unbothered by time. Moss and rain softened their smiles, and the jungle painted them in greens and golds. Even in ruin, they carried dignity. Even forgotten, they were never lost.

Growing up in Long Beach California, far from the Kingdom of Kampuchea, ANGKOR Thom still feels close to me. Those faces feel like elders - quiet, steady, unshaken. They remind me where I come from. Kingdoms rose, fell, and disappeared into the earth, but the spirit stayed. The stories carved into the walls — our people, our battles, our daily life waited patiently beneath leaves and silence.

ANGKOR Thom wasn’t abandoned. It was resting.
Reclaimed, not erased.

A reminder that no matter how far we go, our KHMER roots run deep - strong enough to survive time, war, and jungle.