Botumroath Keo Lebun, an Experimenter to Thailand in 1994, shares how her time with The Experiment brought her full circle and then forward to a career as a writer.

In the summer of 1994, I boarded a plane to Thailand as part of The Experiment in International Living program. I was 18, had just graduated high school, and had never left the Bronx since arriving in the U.S. at age five. What I didn’t expect was that this journey would take me not just overseas—but back to the very place where my story began.

I was born in Cambodia during the Khmer Rouge regime, a time when more than 2.2 million people were killed. At age five, I fled with my mother and older brother, escaping the violence that had already taken my father. We spent three and a half years in the Phanat Nikhom refugee camp in Thailand—an in-between place filled with waiting, fear, and flickers of hope. Eventually, we were approved for resettlement in the U.S., and I grew up in a tiny apartment in the Bronx, carrying that early trauma quietly inside me.

Thanks to a life-changing scholarship, I joined 16 other American students on my new journey with The Experiment. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next. As part of a community service project, I would be volunteering to teach English at the Phanat Nikhom refugee camp—the very same camp I had once called home.

Every Monday through Thursday, we boarded a dusty bus and rumbled our way to the refugee camp. The moment I stepped off, the dry roads, rows of makeshift shelters, and sounds of children’s laughter came rushing back. Memories I had tucked away for years rose to the surface. I was no longer a frightened child—I had returned as a teacher, a bridge between worlds.

That summer, I taught English to Hmong and Lao refugees waiting to be resettled—just as my family once had. In that dusty classroom under the Thai sun, I realized the power of storytelling. One image, one shared moment, could carry the weight of a thousand words.

One memory struck me like lightning. I remembered sitting on the ground as a little girl when a photojournalist knelt down, took my picture, and handed me a bright orange lollipop. It was a small act, but it stayed with me. I remembered his kind smile. The click of the camera. The feeling of being seen.

“That experience cracked something open in me. I saw, for the first time, the power of human connection. The power of story. The power of being present.”

That memory had been buried for years, but in that moment, I understood that stories have the power to last, to connect, and to heal. That’s when I knew—I wanted to write stories that mattered.

Outside the refugee camp, I lived with a Thai host family in Chonburi. I had quietly assumed that, because of our war-torn history, Thai people might dislike Cambodians. But my host family showed me nothing but warmth and care. “Pa,” a kind and humble farmer, taught me how to care for pigs in the early mornings. My host sister took me into town to buy fresh fruits and vegetables—items I had only seen on TV and posters back home. Back in the kitchen, “Ma” would turn those ingredients into sizzling Thai dishes, rich with chilies and fragrant herbs. My mouth still waters when I think of them. We didn’t speak the same language fluently, but we didn’t have to. We spoke through laughter, shared meals, and small acts of kindness.

That experience cracked something open in me. I saw, for the first time, the power of human connection. The power of story. The power of being present.

When I returned to New York, I carried that summer with me like a compass. I went on to earn two master’s degrees and built a career rooted in international service, communication, and advocacy. The thread that tied it all together was this: I wanted to give voice to the stories that too often go unheard.

Today, I work as a communications specialist and writer for UNICEF Cambodia. My job takes me deep into the rural provinces to write human interest stories about vulnerable children and poor farming families—stories that help secure funding, shape policy, and, above all, bring dignity to lives often overlooked. Every time I write, I think of that little girl in the camp. I write because I know what it feels like to be invisible—and what it means to be seen. To be heard. To be advocated for when you have no voice.

That summer abroad didn’t just open my eyes to the world. It brought me full circle, back to the camp that once held my family and back to the moment that changed everything—a moment captured in a single photo and sweetened by an orange lollipop.

The Experiment didn’t just send me across the globe. It sent me back to my roots—and forward into a life of purpose. That summer turned a quiet girl from the Bronx into Bo the Storyteller—a writer who now travels the world to give voice to others, just as someone once gave voice to me.

 

The Experiment in International Living offers high school summer abroad programs on four continents. Find your destination today!