Along Cambodia’s volatile border with Thailand, the latest round of fighting has pushed tens of thousands of civilians from their homes, creating a new wave of internal displacement in a country still scarred by decades of conflict. In makeshift camps and hastily converted school buildings, refugees describe sleepless nights, the thunder of artillery and airstrikes, and a gnawing fear that the war will follow them wherever they go. Some, distrustful of authorities or traumatized by past abuses, have begun slipping out of official camps altogether, choosing uncertain journeys over the rigid confines of temporary shelters.
In mid-December 2025, renewed clashes between Cambodian and Thai forces along the 817‑kilometer border triggered the largest population movement in the area since the 1970s, when civil war and the Khmer Rouge drove millions from their homes. Recent fighting, including reported artillery exchanges and airstrikes, has forced more than half a million people on both sides of the frontier to flee, according to international media monitoring the crisis.
Cambodia’s government says it has opened more than 100 evacuation centers in at least six provinces near the border to shelter civilians uprooted by the latest violence, with an estimated 130,000 people housed in official sites in the first days of the offensive. Reuters reporting from the border has documented overcrowded tents, shortages of clean water, and pregnant women facing childbirth in rudimentary conditions.
The scale of displacement may appear small when set against global figures, but it is devastating for a country of around 17 million people that has repeatedly been a theater of conflict. Globally, the UN refugee agency estimates that at the end of 2024 some 123.2 million people were forcibly displaced by war, persecution, or human rights violations, including 36.8 million refugees and 73.5 million internally displaced people. UNHCR’s latest statistical overview highlights that low- and middle-income countries like Cambodia host the majority of those forced to flee.
For many Cambodians, reaching a camp does not mean the end of fear. Displaced families interviewed by local and international aid workers describe hearing artillery and aircraft overhead, even after they have been moved away from the immediate frontline. The thin plastic walls of tents and the lack of solid shelters do little to convince them they are truly safe.
In one camp near the northwestern border, aid volunteers say children flinch at sudden noises, while adults stay awake through the night, fearing renewed bombardment or a ground assault. The psychological strain is compounded by overcrowding and uncertainty. Many residents do not know whether their houses still stand or whether their villages have been mined, a fear rooted in Cambodia’s long and deadly history with unexploded ordnance from previous wars.
These anxieties are heightened among people who have already been displaced multiple times in their lives. Cambodia’s older generations survived the civil war of the early 1970s, when about two million people—more than a quarter of the population—were forced from the countryside into cities like Phnom Penh as fighting intensified. Many later endured the Khmer Rouge’s forced evacuations, mass killings, and labor camps. That legacy of trauma shapes how today’s refugees interpret every distant explosion and rumor of advancing troops.
Authorities and humanitarian organizations typically encourage displaced civilians to remain in structured camps, where they can more easily receive food, medical care, and protection. Yet in the current crisis, aid workers and local officials report that a number of families have quietly left evacuation centers, preferring to stay with relatives, hide in forests, or cross informal border points even when those routes may be dangerous.
Refugees cite several reasons for leaving. Some fear being trapped if fighting intensifies around camps, a concern fueled by memories of past wars in which civilian sites were shelled or overrun. Others worry about theft or gender‑based violence in overcrowded shelters, where separate spaces for women and girls are not always guaranteed and lighting is scarce at night—risk factors long documented by humanitarian groups in crisis zones worldwide.
There is also widespread mistrust of state institutions. Cambodia’s modern refugee and asylum framework is still relatively limited. UNHCR notes that its work in the country concentrates on advocacy around refugee status determination and the prevention of forced returns, as well as on support for tens of thousands of people at risk of statelessness, with some 75,031 individuals identified as forcibly displaced or stateless and in need of protection in Cambodia by the end of 2024. For rural Cambodians with limited access to legal information, the distinction between protected status and potential detention or deportation is often unclear, deepening reluctance to enter official systems.
The sight of Cambodian families once again seeking shelter in border areas inevitably recalls the Indochina refugee crisis that followed the wars in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. Between 1975 and the late 1990s, more than 1.3 million refugees from the region were resettled abroad, including at least 150,000 Cambodians who eventually made new lives in the United States, Canada, France, Australia, and other countries. Historical data compiled from UNHCR records show that the United States alone resettled over 150,000 Cambodians during that period, often after years spent in crowded camps along the Thai border.
Today’s displacement crisis is less about international resettlement than about internal protection. Modern Cambodia is no longer a major source of refugees abroad: UN data show only around two dozen officially recognized Cambodian refugees living outside the country in 2023, down sharply from tens of thousands in the late 1960s. Historical refugee statistics compiled by UNHCR and analyzed by research platforms indicate the current figure at 24 refugees in 2023, compared with peaks of about 22,000 during earlier conflicts. Yet the domestic displacement now unfolding underlines how fragile that progress remains when border tensions flare.
The upheaval in Cambodia is part of a broader global trend. Worldwide, the number of people forced from their homes has nearly doubled in the last decade. UNHCR’s Refugee Data Finder reports that by the end of 2024, 123.2 million people were forcibly displaced, equivalent to roughly one in every 67 people on the planet, with low‑ and middle‑income countries hosting about 73 percent of all refugees and others in need of international protection.
The 2023 Global Trends report also shows that 43.3 million people were classified as refugees by the end of that year, and that nearly three‑quarters originated from just five conflict‑affected countries—Afghanistan, Syria, Venezuela, Ukraine, and Sudan. Advocates argue that Cambodia’s crisis, though smaller in absolute numbers, underscores how even localized border disputes can push already vulnerable communities into flight, adding to an international displacement landscape that humanitarian agencies describe as overstretched and underfunded.
Humanitarian organizations working in Cambodia warn that as long as artillery continues to fall near civilian areas, the number of people in need of protection is likely to grow. They are urging both Phnom Penh and Bangkok to respect international humanitarian law, avoid shelling near densely populated zones, and cooperate with neutral monitors. Regional bodies such as ASEAN are under renewed pressure to mediate a durable ceasefire and prevent further escalation.
Aid groups stress that emergency assistance alone will not be enough. Refugees will require psychosocial support, de‑mining in their home villages, and credible guarantees of safety if they are to return voluntarily. Without those conditions, more families may choose the uncertain path of leaving formal camps in search of what they perceive as safer ground—even if that means vanishing from the radar of agencies trying to help them.
For Cambodian refugees now sheltering in border camps, life is defined by a narrow strip of uncertain territory—too close to the frontlines to feel secure, yet too far from home to begin rebuilding. Their stories echo those of earlier generations who fled the civil war and Khmer Rouge, as well as those of millions displaced by conflicts from Sudan to Ukraine. The decision by some families to abandon official camps reflects a calculated gamble: that beyond the perimeter fences, they might find greater safety, dignity, or control over their futures.
Whether that gamble leads to greater protection or deeper danger will depend not only on the course of fighting along the Cambodian‑Thai border, but also on the willingness of regional leaders and the international community to treat the fear of these refugees not as an inevitable by‑product of war, but as an urgent call to prevent another generation from living—and dying—between conflict and camp.
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