Cambodian singer Kak Channthy rose from poverty to perform in front of audiences worldwide. Dubbed Cambodia's Amy Winehouse, she was the voice and face of a revival of the legendary 1960s rock scene that swept the country pre-genocide.
Old men fry tarantulas in chili oil. People snack on crispy grasshoppers like they would a bag of Cheetos. Buckets of crickets, grasshoppers and giant water bugs lay next to yams, cilantro and curry leaves in the intimidating culinary scene of Cambodia’s markets.
Cambodia inaugurated a museum near the Preah Vihear world heritage site in northwest country's Preah Vihear province on Tuesday, 10 years after the project initiated.
Psychedelic surf rock is not something Westerners generally associate with Cambodia. If we think about Cambodia at all, we might recall the murderous tyrant Pol Pot, who led the Khmer Rouge in executing more than a million Cambodians in the infamous Killing Fields in the mid-1970s.
A special look at how a punk and metal scene has risen from the ashes of the country’s dark past.
"Life is not staying still," Vuthy spoke softly to me, like a kind older brother. "It is moving from one place to the next."
It was fish for breakfast and fish for lunch and fish for dinner.
Eight years ago, one of playwright Lauren Yee's friends took her to see indie-rock band Dengue Fever.
In an auditorium off Mao Tse Toung Boulevard, dozens have gathered from countries all over the region. Some have been working together for years, others for mere days. On the corner of the stage are nine musicians with traditional Cambodian instruments, like the roneat and trom, and in front of them is an orchestra – from the Ho Chi Minh Conservatory of Music – with four adopted Cambodian players among their ranks.
In sheer size, variety and star power, little in the Kingdom compares to the Cambodia International Film Festival, now in its eighth year.
Trying to figure out when the seed for Lauren Yee’s play “Cambodian Rock Band” was actually planted is a tricky thing.
Leave the crowds at Angkor Wat and head 100 miles away to have the temples to yourself
During the 21 months he spent imprisoned in the secret Khmer Rouge prison code-named S-21, Bou Meng found a strange comfort in his prison uniform: black cotton shorts and sometimes, when he was lucky, a shirt.
If one piece had to be picked to encapsulate the latest exhibition from artist Leang Seckon, it would be his work titled “Dead and Reborn Again.”
A man dressed in red boxing shorts sits on the forest floor, his face grimacing in pain as the wire of a poaching snare winds tightly around his bloodied ankle, biting into his skin.
Archaeologists are typically happy to find pottery shards when they excavate a site in Angkor Archaeological Park as too many centuries have passed and too many cities have risen and collapsed for them to expect to find major objects in the ground.
When visitors walk into the opening show at the latest art space in Siem Reap, they should feel as if they are looking at life in a Cambodian community reflected back at them like a mirror.
On his way home from work in Siem Reap province several years ago, Riem Monisilong started choking and wheezing from a neighbor’s garbage fire. That was the last straw for the 35-year-old artist, who goes by Silong.
For a person obsessed with taking selfies, having his or her arms forever stretched to get one’s own portrait, what would be the ultimate nightmare?
Since last September, Jessica Austin has been crisscrossing the country in search of buildings that, half a century ago, were part of what made Cambodia magical: the country’s cinemas.