Title: I Survived Mindeyes19 and His Phony NSA Agents II
Tags: mindeyes19, nsa
Blog Entry: Displaced people with empty stomach and dried mouth kept strolling into the capital, begging for anything of value, mainly for consumable goods to feed their young children -- this was poverty showing its ugly face, mocking these people, pointing its index finger at them as if it was their fault that they found themselves in this unpleasant situation. They were unsured of their new life, of their new class, new station in this new society, as they wandered through the city, not knowing, pondering, searching for suitable sites to rest their exhausted and worn out bodies but their strong mind kept telling them to be hopeful and they were -- hope was all they had, they had to cling to it. For some, hope at this junction was good enough, it was acceptable compared to the hell they were fleeing. At least, they weren't living in constant fear of dieing, of being executed, of being taken into the woods and never return to their loved ones, of being forced to work until their feet couldn't support their small frames anymore, until their hearts gave out. They had each others; they were with their family members; they were alive. If it wasn't for hunger, they would be the happiest people on this great earth; they would jump for joy; they would rejoice. They would be walking on Cloud 9. Walking? They couldn't even pick up their feet to advance another foot, every movement was laborous; lethargy had taken a crippling toll on their bodies for many years now. This was Cambodia at the bottom rung, its face deep in human excrements, after it was stomped upon by the Khmer Rouge without any regard for its future and future generations and after it was ostracided by the world communities for years due to disagreements with the Khmer Rouge's ways of governing its people, justified but not intervened, in hind sight, a big mistake on their part. It was going to take tremendous efforts for Cambodia to rise up from this depth, to scrape all the feces thrown at it. Rise up it must for the sake of its resilient people. These people would give a hand to a strange in need of help even when they were clinging to their own life by the fingers. For some of these new arrivals, it was like returning home; this was where they used to reside before the evacuation, before the civil war took place, before the Americans initiated the candestine bombing campaign inside Cambodia to drive out the Vietcongs. Cambodia was a neutral country. America had gone too far with their efforts in a fight against the North Vietnamese, over-reaching, violating the territory of a sovereign nation. As a direct result, many Cambodians died. Anger flared, rage inflamed, others flocked to the Khmer Rouge vowing revenge or at least vowed to defend their country against the Americans' senseless attacks on the innocents, empowering the Khmer Rouge even more. America had become the bane of the Cambodian civil war, before, it were the bones supporting Cambodia, the vertebrate that made Cambodia stood up to the rest of the world and be counted as an ally, as I understood it then. I had to point a finger at someone; America was it. I had to explain the conflicts to other kids my age, in my group, that this war was not our fault, and that we along with all of the non-military Cambodians were the victims but we should never act or behave victimized because we were human. As such, we could not be victimized, we could only rise above it; therefore we should be able to rise above this civil war that was still crumpling and piling on us, burying us, weighing heavily on us, suffocating us at times, but as long as we could still breathe, we could break out of this confinement because we had evolved since then and our mind had expanded since then, we are wiser now; we had become more than who we were, the first step towards enlightment. We could be walking, smiling, joking, flirting with the opposite sex but never with death, listening to music, composing a better song in this light at the end of the tunnel. According to Morrissey, this light never goes out. We should be celebrating but we weren't, instead we hoped because it was all we had; so we believed -- someone made us believed. We had just escaped hell. A celebration should be in order, at this very moment, but no one listened or cared, some pretended to listen, some pretended to care. It was time we move on to better things, better living, but we were exhausted from the walking and not eating; we couldn't even drag our feet another inch without aching; so we believed; someone told us to believe. Be victimized would only reduce us to the way we were; human could not advance with this way of thinking, with this way of behaving. This was just my own personal opinion. I didn't mean to preach or anything negative by it. It was simply an observation, and I could be completely wrong. We suffered unnecessarily; to suffer is to understand, to know and to be in bed with compassion; this is the only bright side of suffering I could conjure. Agree or disagree, this is how I chose to view suffering. When suffering and compassion are in bed together, they make us think about, help us understand the world, cojuling us to see the world through its eyes that's when we realize we are all in this together; and when suffering and compassion fight together as a tag team, they become the opposite of an eye for an eye, which according to Gandhi will make the whole world go blind. To others, the capital was a new sight to behold, to marvel at -- they were farmers; they knew cows, not cars, they knew thatch huts on wooden stilts, not concrete buildings with reinforced bars, they knew dirt roads, not asphalted ones. They knew walking, not hitching a ride. They knew jungle, not concrete jungle. They knew how to survive -- they had survival skills, quite essential to daily life. The city had quickly swollen with more people as time went by; others escaped to bordering countries then hopped to the Western world via taxi and airplanes as if they had enough of Cambodia, at least for now, but vowed to return, at least for a quick visit to soothe their souls. We Cambodians could not stay far away from our motherland for too long. We would be lost and confused if we were to detach ourselves from our culture and customs for a certain period of time. International communities finally took notice of the aftermath and was horrified by the destruction the Khmer Rouge left behind, the destruction to properties and its own people, mainly its people. Assistance was called upon, and the UN was on its way to take charge of this country, to put things back in order, to restore normalcy if there was such a thing. The UN had the personels, the knowledge, the experience and the deep pocket to get the job done. The kingdom would soon be handed over to them for the betterment of the people and of this nation. The Khmer Rouge had surrendered their posts and retreated to their hiding places in the jungle. Now and then, a few of them would create chaos with machine guns and grenades, reminding everyone the Khmer Rouge could still be a threat to the kingdom. Be aware, be cautious when travelling within this nation but most of all, be vigilant. It was time to rebuild; it was time to heal: it was time to forgive but there would never be a time to forget. How could anyone forget such atrocity? As for me, it was time to steal; I became a thief, a damn good thief. I roamed the streets and flea markets with other kids, most were orphans and some were runaways like myself and somehow they found themselves walking along side me; I guess I was magnetic for such personalities, must be the vibe I put out, attracting. I became their brother, mother and dad; I was their orphanage, their protector and provider. It was thrusted upon me and I didn't seem to mind it; in fact, I enjoyed their respective companies. Without them, the feeling of isolation would have force me to take my own life, and death would have been glad to see me. I met loneliness, found it everywhere on all the streets and I didn't like it one bit; it instantly became one of my greatest enemies, always kept me on my toes as it tried to become my companion. I battle it constantly to these days by staying positive and productive in any one of my many endeavors. Loneliness dwells on the streets, and it's generous with its time so stay busy. Heed this advice now and stay off the streets. We worked as a team in extracting possessions from the unlucky few shuffling into our field of view, each of us had a role to execute according to plan and as rehearsed -- we rehearsed our plans as the drama troupe would rehearse their play before the opening night. Each participant must know their role concretely. If there were lines, they would have to memorize them. We didn't take chances in our line of work. If we failed to execute our plans successfully, we didn't get to eat -- this was our reality, nothing was sugarcoated. Distraction was the name of the game, the core of each of our plans. We had a good number of disciplined, well-qualified team players, our number could overwhelm a scene. We arrived at the destinations, scanned for the targetted goods, staged fights, created commotions, a rukus; when all were distracted, a team of runners under my lead, would dart to, snatch and bolt out with the goods in our hands at amazing speed. It was as simple as it sounded. Repeat the process several times per day at different locales, the number of plans per day depended on our greed, aggressiveness and mood on that particular day. We executed our plans every single day without fail. We had to eat and food didn't come cheap. Because we were kids, the vendors would always try to cheat us out of our money, however little was in our possession. If anyone of us wanted a brand new pair of shoes, we would individually, on our own, alone, go out and seek the pair we would like to wear and stealthily, surreptitously extract that pair of shoes and strolled out. If the vendors noticed, bolted out as fast as ligthening. Anything we wanted could be ours the next moment. That was how efficient we were. We were small, in torn clothes and rags, we were fast, could run a marathon and win. I was elected to lead the group because of my speed and the stimina to run the distance; success was almost guaranteed for every outing under my command. I took pride in what I do, I took care of the details, I took care of my runners. I'd rather be the one that get caught. They placed their trust in me and I had never abused that trust. Group efforts required only for big ticket items such as gold and/or silver body ornaments and/or artifacts. The stolen goods would be sold for spending cash and I would be the negotiator and finder of purchasers. Whatever the amount was per day, we distributed that amount equally to our team members. The money we made ensured us we had something to eat that day -- that was priority number one, number two was a place to sleep and we slept in turns and number three was warmth, keeping warm and staying warm at night, every night. We traveled to every part of every nearby city implimenting our plans, our strategies, we were efficient with our methods; we became really good at what we do; we always had plenty of food to consume with money left to purchase clothes; if the clothes were too expensive, we would find ways to take possession of it. I got caught several times during my thiefing career and each time I got beat up until I couldn't wiggle my fingers or my toes, until I couldn't move my body, and that was how justice was served, and I deserved every twitch of the pain, every bump, every bruise, every cut and every drop of blood, but I didn't shed a tear, not because I could tolerate the endless kicks and punches delivered to my body with full force by grown men. I didn't shed tears because I was ready to die; besides, the pain these grown men inflicted on me could not come near the pain I received from the teachers and principals who disciplined me with yard sticks while I attended their schools. The reason they took such drastic action because they thought they could bend me, could force me to read, to add and to subtract numbers. I had no interest in learning whatsoever, none. Education got my father and many others killed. I was only interested in being outside and explore this new playground called Phnom Penh, it was big to a small person. There was a lot of boulevards, avenues, streets and alleyways fingering out in all directions. Schools could not cage a person like me. This black sheep wanted to wander and make discoveries, not of the scientific kind, just wanted to know what was lurking in the next corner and further down the road. I wanted to know things, and I wanted to know now; I didn't want to learn; learning was such a tidious and slow process. Who had time for such activities? Certainly not me. Give me a wall, and I will break through it; that how I was operating. No one can cage a mind; it's too elusive. Try catching an eel and that's a fish and not a mind, notice how difficult it is doing so. The Khmer Rouge tried and failed miserably; they were more afraid of a strong mind than a strong body, and so they killed and killed and killed more than two millions of their countrymen in a very short period of time. They were very efficient killing machines; no one could deny them their killing skills; these killers, muderers must have many years of experience, proving practice does make perfect. The teachers and the principals could literaly break my body, open it up but they could never bend my mind, even though I was just a child. They could burn me at the stake, as long as I still had my mind, I would win. They could only win if they put a bullet, maybe two into my head, distributing my brain cells in all directions, painting red pictures, grim, gruesome as they may be, on walls. My mind was stronger than steel -- it had to be in order to survive the streets. I would do anything, including taking arms, to shield it from unscrupulous individuals and there were many scavenging the streets. I knew this because I lived and breathed it; no one could tell me otherwise. I encountered the street scavengers on many occasions and they were all unpleasant. One almost shot me between my eyes. More on this later. What the teachers and the principals didn't know was that their heavy handed discipline forced me onto the streets, but I couldn't blame them; their intention was well meaning. I believe they really wanted me to do well, they were really concerned about my future, about my well being; in so many ways, they were parenting me. For those reasons, who could blame them even when they had no compunction for their actions. It was their intention that counted most in my book. The beatings after getting caught for theft were always severe and never involved the police; people were taking the law into their own hands. Compassion often got lost in the moment, in the action, in the rage, rage if not controlled can kill compassion in seconds. What a scary thought! These adults really thought they could straighten me out, and I really hoped they would take me in as in into their house, took pity on me after they finished attacking me, instead of leaving me to die in the cold of night; I was relying on their compassion. This was what I wished for, maybe I could be good again, rehabilitating myself. Could somebody please take me in? I could return to school to face those teachers and principals again and be gladly accepting their excruciatingly painful discipline but their discipline, no matter how bad, could not be worse than the streets or the cold of nights or the hunger. There was always that possibility -- the possibility of me leaving the streets, dead or alive it didn't matter to me at all. I was ready to meet death head on but death didn't come for me. It failed me. It disappointed me. I was angry at it. I was so welcoming of death that I started searching for pills in abandnoned buildings. When pills were found, I joyfully swallowed them. I went out, bought spoiled food and ate it gleefully. I got sick and threw up for days, but death stayed away from me, didn't even come by and say hello; I felt rejected, I felt unwanted, I felt hurt, I felt like a member of my family had died. Why didn't you take me? Instead death sent in its cousin illness to do the dirty work, attacking my inside, weakening me from within; it was a clever strategy but was ineffective when used on a child like me. Death was a coward and I would say so in its face if it came near enough to me! I concluded on my own term that death was afraid of me. How else could I conclude it? This explained why I was able to survive the streets for so long with a bunch of kids under my wings. This explained why when I was shot at, bullets veered from me. This explained why the grenade, pin pulled, didn't explode when one rolled to my feet. This explained why I never stepped on land mines even though they were everywhere. I grew up too fast, experienced too much, too early, my sensory was overloading rapidly; it was too much for a child my age to handle. There was nowhere else I could go, no one I could turn to. I became a permanent fixture on the streets of Phnom Penh; I was lost but not yet lost to the world. I was simply breathing, taking in oxygen, giving up on life, I was a fish on dry land after flopping about for hours, waiting to intake the last gulp of air. I needed a direction, point me to one. I was begging for it. I needed a warm bed, a thick blanket and a soft pillow. I needed a shower. I needed porridge, chicken or fish, it didn't matter. I had nothing, no one. I was famish, skin and bone, I was homeless for Christ's sake. What I had was a big void inside my heart and in my soul -- so big there was room for death,to occupy, but death decided to leave it vacant. I was all alone under a forever contracting and expanding universe as if it was breathing. Perhaps it was. To some, earth is an organism, maybe our universe is, too. A sense of isolation was eating me alive from the inside out. I wanted it to finish me; death didn't sound so bad after all, but isolation didn't comply, denying me this great pleasure. Everything and everyone had refused my request to accompany me to meet death. Were they all afraid? Was I the only one unafraid? What more could I do? I chased death and it ran away like a dog with its tail curled up between its legs. I decided to move on with my life. Speaking of a dog, I remember crossing by a window of an apartment late one night. Inside was a black dog crurling up by the front door and I was cold, tired and sleepy. I remember wanting to go and knock on that door and ask the residents if I could sleep with the dog, if I could sleep where it was sleeping, if I could just be inside for a moment. I just wanted to keep warm, maybe for a blink of an eye because the cold that was blanketing me, hugging me snuggly like a long lost friend, started to play with my perception of reality, I was afraid of losing my mind, afraid of losing it. It was late and the residents were sleeping and I didn't want to wake them up so I walked away from that apartment wishing I could be that dog. That dog was living large; how I wished I could be it. That was my life lower than a dog's. To the kids in my group, I was tough because I didn't cry while I was taking the punishment from grown men. To them, I was the man of steel; I could breathe fire like a dragon, I could stop a bullet with my teeth, I could pick up a mountain and turn it upside down. I was like no one else. I was their one and only super hero or maybe the only person they knew. I was the one who stood by them when it counted most. I was someone they could trust, someone they could look up to; I was them in so many aspects. I knew their souls because mine was just like theirs. It was them who energized my life. I had to live, if not for me, I would do it for them. More orphans and runaways joined my group because there were no other options available to them. I was it -- the best they could find, someone they could live with. Join my group or be left alone; being alone on the streets would be a grave mistake; highly not recommended in this kind of environment. We needed to generate more fund as our group continued to grow; there were more mouths to feed. This responsibility fell onto me because I was their leader, the chosen one. Somehow, I was not worried; I knew we could stay the course. I encouraged everyone to keep moving forward like nomads -- we were nomads. Our operation sprouted wings; we were venturing into pimping girls of the night, not by design; if so, must be done by the Creator, not us because I had never aspired to be a great pimp -- the thought had never crossed my mind. I didn't even know what it was. And so I became a pimp just like that, occurred in just one night, a damn good pimp I must say because I knew every corner of every street. I knew every hiding spot. Every girl working the streets needed me to keep them away from the grabbing hands of the police, from the arms of the law because prostitution was illegal, and I charged these girls a huge percentage of their earnings, and sometime I demanded more from them, and they would meet my demand every single time. Life was getting better; there was a God. Compassion started to leave me progressively slow, I started to lose myself to my surroundings; I started to lose myself to the newfound riches, newfound life style and newfound friends. I was high on life, just not a night. I ruled the streets; I owned the girls, absolutely, stunningly looking Khmer girls, way older than me but were young enough for men seeking a rendevouz with a complete stranger for a night, maybe two if he had proven to be a gentleman with the girl he was with the previous night. I didn't think age played a significant role in these men's decisions. They were just looking to spend their money to satisfy their needs for an instant in time, and I happened to be there to accomendate them with a handsome price tag. To see my girls, men had to go through me and jump many hoops and I charged them heavily for the chance to meet one of the girls; there weren't many of them taking on this profession; they were rare; the demand was high.Pratically everyday was a great party, just not at night after those that had a home went home. Please read I Survived Mindeyes19 and his NSA Friends III
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