I want to trace this back to the starfruit tree in my childhood home, a haven for the birds, squirrels and insects that used to be abundant in late 1990s Hanoi. I remember summers where my sole intention in life was to watch the birds hop between branches. I remember the house in which I grew into myself, with its dripping walls and murmuring floors, its verdant secrets and baffling lessons. No matter where I am in this world, I only need to close my eyes, anchor myself in its garden and I will be home.

As I shared this memory with two creatives from Cambodia—Kanitha Tith, a visual artist, and Danech San, a filmmaker—our stories about home, connections and disruptions began to commingle. Danech recalled her family’s wooden house in Battambang, where, during the height of the rainy season, the water could reach up to your waist. She also remembered how all the backyards in her neighbourhood were connected and how all the gates were kept low so people could greet each other. Nature and the mythical flows of water became embedded in her memories, which would come flooding back in her dreams even after she moved to the bustling capital of Phnom Penh.

• Tags: Cambodia, Dương Mạnh Hùng, Issue 35