Of the estimated 20,000 people who entered Tuol Sleng (S-21), only twelve are known to have walked out alive in January 1979. As of December 2025, three are still alive and regularly meet visitors at the museum. Their stories are raw, direct, and told without self-pity.
Chum Mey – “The Mechanic Who Fixed the Typewriters”
Age 95. Usually at Tuol Sleng 8–11 a.m. “I was arrested in 1977 because I knew how to repair sewing machines and typewriters. They said that made me a CIA agent. They tortured me for twelve days and nights – electric shocks, whipping, pulling out my toenails. I confessed to everything they wanted. On the last day they told me I would die. Instead, they needed my skill to fix a typewriter for Duch’s office. That typewriter saved my life. When the Vietnamese arrived, I was the only prisoner left in Building A. I ran into the street naked and covered in blood. Now I come every day so people remember. When I die, the story dies with me unless you tell it.”
Bou Meng – “The Painter of Pol Pot”
Age 84. Usually at Tuol Sleng afternoons “I was a painter. They killed my wife and four children in front of me. They discovered I could paint. They said, ‘If your portraits of Brother Number One are not perfect, you die.’ I painted Pol Pot more than fifty times. My hands shook so much the first time that Duch made me start again. The only reason I’m alive is because my brush was steady when my heart was not. I still paint every day. I paint flowers now. Never faces.”
Norng Chan Phal – “The Child Prisoner”
Age 54 (was 8 years old when imprisoned) “I entered S-21 with my parents and baby brother. They took my father first, then my mother. They kept me because I was small and could crawl into tight spaces to clean blood. I remember the smell – blood, urine, fear. When the soldiers came in 1979, I hid under a pile of clothes. A Vietnamese journalist found me and carried me out. I still have nightmares, but I come back to tell children: never let hate win.”
Vann Nath (1936–2011) – The Voice That Lives On
Though he passed away in 2011, his paintings and recorded testimony are still the heart of the museum. He survived by painting perfect portraits of Pol Pot while watching his friends disappear. His last words to visitors were always: “These paintings are not for revenge. They are to make sure the world never forgets what human beings are capable of – both the worst and, through survival, the best.”
Every day at Tuol Sleng, these three survivors (or their books and recordings) wait quietly in the courtyard. They do not ask for pity. They ask only that you look at the photographs on the walls, read the confessions extracted under torture, and carry one name, one face, one story home with you. Because when the last survivor is gone, memory becomes your responsibility.