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We smiled; it seemed smiles were our ways of soothing our souls, calming ourselves a knot, brought ourselves to the understanding that death was a part of life, and life often times had to choose to move on without this aging vessel we lovingly called body because life has to know itself by expanding its consciousness; to do this it has to have some type of form and human body is the form with all the five senses. When life's consciousness has expaned to the point the body can't contain it, anymore, life has to move on in search of itself. 

 

We took comfort in that knowing that our fathers' sufferings were minimized during their last moments on this beautiful planet we called earth.

"How old are you, anyway?" she asked.

I stood in silence, wanted to expel something thought provoking she would find interesting enought to expand the conversation for many more hours, but nothing came out of my mouth; I was still awestruck by her individualism.

"Are you afraid to tell me your age?" She asked.

I was not afraid to utter my age. The problem was my jaws had locked up; I couldn't open my mouth; all my brain cells went into hiding, and I was searching for them to no avail.

I struggled to get a grib of myself and finally succeeded after many moments of trying.

"Nine -- I'm nine years old."

"I thought you were older."

I would like to think of myself as being older or at least more mature than most kids my age.

"I'm an old soul, too."

 

The boys looked to our direction and beckoned for us. Ballerina waltzed to them; I followed her every step; my eyes would never veer from her.

The boys surrounded her, vying for her attention as if she was Snow White and they were the dwarves. They looked at her with great adoration,  taking turns questioning her.

I tried to pull her away from the group being cognizant of the fact the police would decide to return this direction. They had the tendency pull this kind of tricks. I knew their game; I ran away from them many times before, and would again.

This was the official story I told the kids why she had to leave them in an urgent fashion, and they believed me wholeheartedly, after all, they looked up to me as if I was their dad; maybe I was.

In actuality, it was one of my ploys to steal more alone time with her, and it worked to perfection, even I was surprised by my own canniness.

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The police had guns; I had knowledge of the streets; I dared them to hunt me. They thought I would be afraid of their weapons; they were mistaken to the hilt.

The only thing I feared then were ghosts, and not ashamed to admit that I still fear ghosts to these days. I could never sleep alone.

If I did, I would have all the lights turned on, all doors open and music blasting, and I would still be up most of the night, only tiredness would put me to sleep a short period of time.

I despise ghosts.

Then came 1980 and I was still thriving on the mean streets of the capital. The war maybe over but small battles waged on between the remanant of the Khmer Rouges and the Vietnamese soldiers.

All the inhatitants lived in constant fear but there was freedom to move about before curfew.

One day I happened to cross by the front of our apartment, my mother saw me and waved me over, and somehow I was warmed to her call or maybe I had enough of the streets and wanted to be back home; I shuffled to her and she told me the family was planning an escape from the city and into Thailand and America afterward.  I believed her. 

To my surprise, I didn't receive a whipping that night.  What a relief! And I slept quite well.

I couldn't remember much of the long trek to Thailand.  I just recalled being hidden inside a truck as it rumbled out of the city and on unpaved country roads, got unloaded and loaded back on many time along the way. 

When the targetted destination was reached, we were put on individual bikes and were peddled towards Thailand borders. Corpses along the roadsides spoiled the air, I had to hold my breath for a certain period of time, thinking why these rotten bodies were not buried; they were somebody's relatives at one point in time and I was sure they were missed as I missed my mom when I was living on the streets. 

I got scared when my bike was quickly distancing itself from the group and was relieved when it stopped to wait for the rest to catch up. We arrived at a tent camp site, a walking distance to Thailand borders, just before the sun was about to set.

"Ballerina," I called out.

I deliberately directed my call at her in hopes of provoking a response or to see if she was listening to me. She seemed to be lost in her unique ballet-like dance; a dance of her own invention and  creation, an artist in her own right.

"Perhaps she dances for money," I thought to myself as my eyes diligently traced after her without missing a beat.

"I don't have any money," I said with a stern voice to make sure she heard me.

She turned my direction and flashed a grin, followed by a chuckle, thinking it was all a joke, which it was; there was a hint of shyness that prevented her from projecting a full smile.

Her eyes danced about my face, trying to read my thoughts; an impossible task as far as I knew.

"I don't want your money," she said matter of factly. "What you did over there was beautiful." She indicated the spot where we stayed hidden from those despotic police officers.

And when our eyes were about to meet, she shied away then returned to her prancing as if to seduce me with her magnificent, elegant female form with supermodel legs; very uncharacteristic of a Cambodian girl.

Although, she seemed like she didn't put too much effort into her prinking and coiffing, she looked like she was ready to compete in a beauty contest; she already had the confidence and intelligence to win it, but she wouldn't want to be seen in the midst of the foofaraw that accompanyies each beauty pageant; she wouldn't fit in in an environment like that; she was sophisticated in her own eccentric way.

"Could she be from around here?" I  thought to myself. "She's pretty."

I was hoping she would be one of the neighboring kids. If she was, I wouldn't have to travel elesewhere. I would remain here so I could catch a glimpse of her on a daily basis, and that would be enough for starter. My days as a nomad would end; I would still have to steal in order to feed my hunger; if not, I would die of malnutrition like the many who lost their lives during the Khmer Rouge time. I must not be one of them, especially after the fact.

"You look like you're always in deep thoughts," she said then twirled away from me, teasing, toying, and it was working on my psyche.

My eyes rightfully, unconsciously flitted after her; they knew there was a possibility she could be my soul mate. I was too young to be aware of such thing so my eyes took charge with my full cooperation.

"She's old," I debated with my chatterbox.

A person as young as I was shouldn't be thinking of a girl like her in a romantic way; she appeared to be at least five years my senior.

"I'm not that old," she replied as if she had read my thought, maybe did; maybe she had special power only a few knew about, and they, too, kept it a secret.

A man mingling with an older woman was not an unacceptable practice in Cambodia; it would be frown upon; rumors about the couple would spread like wild fire. The parents of the couple would be shamed until they could no longer show their faces in public.

She sensed my mind was always in constant motion; none of it is a fault of mine; I have an active imagination; according to Eistein, imagination is more important than knowledge. I could only contain my mind within my the range of capability, within the parameter of my mind. As long as it could not run away with my life, destroying it or hurting another being in the process and as long as I could continue to bend, shape and mold it, I could careless how my mind chose to rebel against me.

It's a mind; it likes to wander and always be in constant craving for more knowledge. She could help me satisfy its appetite and possibly discipline it with me.

Let the heart be pliable but never the mind. The mind must be constantly disciplined; it's like a toddler that's always pushing the boundaries with sky's the limit attitude. A mind that is not well disciplined can take us to the gutter and kick us to the curb then land us in a jail cell; a life of challenges is the forseeable future for such a mind.

Her skirt rose and waved serpentinely with the motion of her twirls, exposing her thighs intermttently. I could see her flawless, pearl crushed skin. I hadn't witnessed anything like that before. She was showing me a whole new world -- a world I didn't even know existed; my life was about to get more interesting.

My mind was expanding by the minutes as it absorbed what she was willing to show me.

My eyes widened as big as flying saucers; she was an alien to me at this point, "Definitely a creature not of this earth."

"No human that I knew could effortlessly produce such fluid movements," a thought streaked across my mind butt naked.

For a moment, I was transported to another realm, another dimension which felt like nirvana, liberating me from the often dull, quotidian beats of street life.

My heart afluttered whenever she sent it towards heaven. She could have that effect on me almost at will. Luckily, my heart had not been broken, yet. It had been pliable to her will. I was afraid it would soon break.

So far, I felt like I was walking on clouds, lighter than air; I was floating, not like a helium balloon that kept going skyward but like an astronaut hopping on the surface of the moon, almost like gravity couldn't effect me.

She had the power to rid of gravity that kept my feet planted to the ground. She was a true magician; she had put a spell on me.

She may not be a ballerina, but she sure pirouetted like one, and I was the only audience in this trash filled alley which her show was taking place, surrounded by empty buildings riddled with bullets, victims of the recent civil war that had traumatized Cambodia to these days.

"She's a stripper. She dances for money," I concluded as she drew me closer to her with every flash of her thighs. This may explain her reason for fleeing those police officers. Prostitution was illegal in Cambodia -- a Buddhist country.

Of course, I was only speculating; there was no reason for me to dissemble; I had always been candid with those I encountered.

Women during the time of the Khmer Rouge dressed in black with sleeves down to their wrists and pants down to their ankles, and they would return home lethargic with face caked in mud or maybe I was too young to take notice of girls; muchless, judging them on their looks and attractiveness then she stepped into my life and make me look at girls from a different perspective. 

It was obvious she was not in the mood for a mumble, jumble inarticulate drivel about nothing in particular, and I was fine admiring her from a distance; she had confiscated all my thoughts; my mind was completely empty while my eyes were being pleasured by her prancing.

She had captivated me, and I was easily manipulated by her.  I was young and naive; any woman could play me, and I would be fine with it. Besides, I was not the type that would complain -- complaining was just a waste of energy, feeding negativeness, which I would never entertain.

"Do you enjoy watching me?" She finally asked me. "I could sense your eyes on my body."

I could have been more cautious; now that she had caught me gazing at her, I had to nod then smile in a response to her question. She didn't seem upset by my misconduct or maybe she welcomed it with open arms.

"You should know I don't mind," she pointed out the obvious; she was still friendly and convivial to me, which I found very pleasing; she was very a pleasant person.

She executed more pirouettes as best as she could, perhaps to hypnotise me, under umbrageous trees where the gentle breeze brushed her hair back, revealing more of her angelic face.

She glowed under streams of sunlight that had penetrated through the foliage within the tree canopy. I could see the halo along the contour of her face which gave her the appearance of an angel's.

"Why?" I inquired.

"Why what?"

"Why do you pull those stunts?"

"Do you mean my dancing?"

"Yes."

"I dance whenever I am happy," she said.

She was indeed replete with glee as seen in her eyes and smiles.

"Do you want me to stop?" She asked.

"No!" I shouted to her, "I enjoyed every moment of your performance."

If I had a  wish, I would wish for her show to have a everlasting life so others would have the opportunity to gawk at her as well. She could  definitely draw a crowd.

"Let's be frank. Do you enjoy my performance or watching me?"

"You," I said, being quite frank with her. She seemed to appreciate my frankness instead of storming off, screaming and shouting, being offended like most Cambodian girls would.

It was now clear to me, she was no ordinary Cambodian girl. There had to be more to her, and I couldn't wait to discover who she was.

She smiled, knowing full well she had gotten me cornered, in her grip, in a vise; she could hurt me if that was her intention.

From what I had gathered, she'd rather be hurt than be the perpetrator, the antagonist, the bane of my existence.

Maybe it wasn't too obvious to her; maybe she was too occupied with the task of pleasuring my eyes to notice, but I was already hypnotised by her, by her spirit at the first pirouette.

She didn't need to dance for me, and I would be as thrilled. She coud be seated, and I would be as blissful. Her appearance and presence were enough to keep me occupied and my mind sprinting a million miles per hour in circles.

I could make a gesture to her, asking her to stop and admit to her that I had enough, but I couldn't bring myself to execute such a motion; she had paralized me and my eyes stood frozen on her, with a smirk on their faces; they were as astounded as I was. My eyes would be quite upset with me if I were to tell her to stop expensing energy on my behalf.

"Where did you learn to do that?" I asked her, indicating her delicate dance moves, anticipating an elaborate story about the challenges and friends she made during her many years of training and how her instructor forced her to keep on stretching and bending her arms and legs.

"A television," she replied glibly; she was relishing the fact she had some knowledge about television broadcasting; maybe she had seen a television program somewhere within Phnom Penh; my ears perked up like those of a dog's, standing at full attention as if waiting for an important order from an army officer.

"A television," I asked and she nodded.

She noticed my astonished stare -- a television program was something that was constantly irking my mind; I had been curious about it since Sokom, always the raconteur, told me about such a thing several weeks ago.

He spoke of georgeous women in other countries exposing themselves on television, and that they were sauntering about the beaches in their two piece bikini. He got me intriqued, and I had been wanting to watch television ever since that titillating conversation.

"Do you want to see what a television looks like?" She asked.

She had rendered me speechless as if I was Superman and she was my cryptonite; all I could do was nod repeatedly to everything she said.

"Do you know what a television is?" She continued asking.

Of course, I knew what a television was. I saw several during my travel through empty buildings, intruding their empty rooms. I smashed their television screens and later their tubes simply because the atmosphere was quiet, and it needed to hear sounds similar to sounds of war that they had grown accustomed to.

I did everything there was to do to generate sounds in order to scare away the silence -- the kind of silence only a ghost town could tolerate, maybe celebrate, the kind of silence that would drive a boy like myself insane.

Traveling alone through a ghost town was not my cup of tea. It stirred every fiber of my being; it made every inch of my skin crawl.

My fear of ghosts had drastically effected my life. There were a certain parts of Phnom Penh I would not, dare not venture near, no matter what tempted or offered to me; I didn't care if there was a chestful of treasure for me to retrieve and keep.

I knew the inside of a television set, saw all its components, gagetries and circuitries but didn't know the inner workings of it or how it was put together. I hadn't watched a television program before; if I did, I couldn't recall it; in that sense, I didn't know what a television was and was eager to see one. And she had alluded to taking me to a working television.

"You learned dancing from a television program?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

I became extremely excited about the possibility of she and I sitting in a dark room, side by side, watching a television program; it would be my first; I hoped I would enjoy it.

Growing up during the Khmer Rouge control, I didn't know what a television was and no one ever spoke of it. I learned about television and typewriters during playing war games with other kids in the neighbor in abandoned buildings. What could we do with a television set? We smashed the screen and glass tube then the set itself into pieces because we were curious about its inside.

With typewriters, we punched a few strokes because we liked hearing the sound they make then smashed them into tiny bits.

"Ballerina," I called out to her, unsure as to how she would respond to being called such.

She turned while prancing spritely, "Is that what you are calling me?"

I nodded enthusiastically while kept my fingers crossed; it was not a moment to upset her or destroy her moment of bliss. I had to choose my words carefully, anticipating her positive response.

"You think I'm a ballerina?"

"I think the name suits you," I replied knowing she wouldn't mind.

She threw a wink at me, it was quick, and I winked back at her. For a moment, we were connecting; we were soul mates.

"I like it," she said then projected a smile to assure me she was happy with being called Ballerina.

The sky had encompassed over her, shielding her from space debris; her eyes roved about it, not aware of all the junks revolving around the earth, right above her head.

"So blue." She pointed to sky as if I didn't know what she was referring to.

The sky was, indeed, blue, hardly a cloud in sight.

"You love it, don't you?" I asked; the moment seemed right.

She nodded jovially.

Our shadows had moved to the other side, telling me it was close to one o'clock in the afternoon. My hunger had started to disturb me, but I did not want to leave her.

"What's your name?" She turned to me, awaiting my reply.

I hesitated, teasing her.

"Oh, come on!"

"Sojean," I said.

Ballerina thoroughly looked from my head to my toes, appraising me like I was a piece of furniture she was considering of purchasing to enhance the looks of her massive living room then raised her face to meet mine.

"Do you speak French?" She asked.

I shook my head, not knowing why she put forth such a question. Her demeanor, facial expressions transformed afterward, which disconcerted me completely, and I couldn't understand why such a sudden change took place.

"My father spoke French," she said a moment later then tears started to emerge in her eyes. "I wanted to cry for the longest time."

I may not be a physiognomist but a quick glance at her indicated she was on the verge of bursting out crying. There were deep emotions she was surpressing, and those emotions had surfaced.

She was telling me her father had been executed by the Khmer Rouge soldiers because he was an intellectual, well educated man, a man of the upper class, a city man, a dangerous man to their regime.

"They were afraid of people like him. They knew a man's mind was more dangerous than a pen, a sword or any weapon invented by mankind," she explained. "He could incite a riot and overthrow their government. They had to declare him the enemy of the state and that he needed to be eliminated right away."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she told me about her beloved father. She was his little princess, the joy of his life.

"They took an ax to his head so they could save a bullet." She was making sure I understood the significance. Of course, I understood. Her story could be told by any teenager in Cambodia; it had been told many times before by different individuals. Her story was tragic like many others' but not unique, not to take away its significance.

It was true  the Khmer Rouge were so fond of their bullets. Using an ax to kill an individual was a means to save bullets; it was not used as an intent to inflict cruelty on their victims; I could be wrong with this assumption.

"He went away fast." I was referring to how quickly her father had died, and I wanted with those words to comfort her; I didn't know if it did their magic, but she seemed to calm down a knot, and I was happy that my intention had been met to her satisfaction.

While crying, she still managed to produce the most amazing smile, nodding, "He did go away fast."

Clearly, she still missed her father very deeply; she smiled because I was standing next to her, and she didn't want to bring me into her despair. At a moment like this, she was still concerned about my well being.

I wanted to comfort her with a hug, but we Cambodians do not practice hugging; we aren't accustomed to it. It's not part of our culture.

Boys and girls aren't supposed to be touching each other; if they did, their parents would demand answers as to why then forebade them from seeing each other again. Any touching would be viewed as a sexual misconduct or an intention to advance a sexual rendezvous.

A husband holding his wife's hand was rarely seen but happened on rare occasions.

Sex is a taboo, a forbidden subject.

I felt like I should be saying something more prudence to her, but my mind refused to cooperate. I couldn't think of anything clever to say to her. My mind complete abandoned me, leaving loss for words; it had complete betrayed me.

"I'm sorry." I finally was able to gather a few words together and delivered them to her as clearly as possible, but she appreared not to hear them.

"I miss him so much."  She wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled; she loved to smile, one of her idiosyncrasies, the leitmotif of her character.

"Did your father speak French, too?" she managed to ask while choking on her mixed emotions.

"Yes." I looked into her imbriferous eyes and saw she was a lot like me. We both recently lost our dad to the cruel hand of the Khmer Rouge.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "You don't seem like you miss him. Do you miss him?" 

I shook my head,"I didn't get the chance to get to know him."

"You were young?" She asked.

"Yes."

I told her what I learned from my father was that a human could cease to exit at any given moment due to the simplest circumstance, many elements want to rid of us.

She was also warmed to the idea I could be rescuing her from jail. We would know if I did or not in a few moments from now when the police officers stopped harassing the kids in hopes of shaming them into quiescence and left without taking any one of us in a handcuffs. That would be the ideal outcome we all hoped for. 

I didn't know if there was a due process in practice in the judicial system, if such a system had already been established and functioning. I just knew if we were to land behind bars, we would be at the mercy of these police officers who had no regard for the law when it came to dealing with us kids, they wanted to remove us from the streets as if we were pieces of used toilet paper that had plastered to the sidewalk due to rain the previous morning and were offensive to the eyes of the pedestrians. What they didn't realize was that we were humans, too, Cambodians just like them, children of the Killing Fields, at least, showed us a little decency and courtesy based on those grounds.

Fortunately, I had never been hauled to a jail cell or a court room to experience the judicial syterm at work. Therefore, I could not elaborate on the operations of the court system in Cambodia during that time, but I felt as though the police officers were a little too authoritarian -- that didn't sit well with me.

From my observation of her, she was in her teen with long silky black hair extending an inch below her shoulder blades, flailing in the the breeze, tugging at her scalp as if wanting to lead her away from me. Somehow, she chose to remain in place. There must be something she saw in me that kept her around or she had something up her sleeves. I must proceed with caution.

Nonetheless, it was a good sign; two strangers met in the most undesirable environment and neither wanted to part the other.

She caught me leering at her and smiled; her smile was one of her greatest attributes that later would define who she was; I smiled back bashfully like a boy whose hand got caught in a cookie jar, wanted to look away, anywhere, in any direction but couldn't; nothing was prettier than her, and I said this with a certain amount of decorum and expertise; I knew this area; I played here, lived here; it was my house and backyard, and I hadn't seen anything lovilier than her.

I had explored every inch of Phnom Penh, I couldn't think of any object of desire that could be more beautiful than her, not diamond, gold, or silver rings, ornaments and/or crowns; all shine but only she could outshine the sun, the moon and the stars. She was the girl who found me several moments ago, and now I found her hiding in my backyard as if by design.

The confined space had nudged us closer together, didn't matter our opinion or protest; it had to have its way. I felt like I had just been ushered into a coffin and a woman of my dream was there awaiting my arrival; we became alive and alert, calmed and relaxed as if we chose to be in there for a greater purpose, maybe to save our world from a possible destruction.

Due to the approximity of our bodies, there existed that uneasy feeling standing defiantly between us at first then it went away after realizing love could conquer all, leaving us feeling jovial and wanted at times.

She remained friendly and convivial despite the potential of being found, and dragged to jail by those police officers who ran the capital like complete autocrats.

I sensed a good friendship was forging; our circusmtances made it possible for us to bond, not only at the heart but also at the mind; next step was to touch her soul with mine. I hoped to melt it like a hot knife on butter.

She became more affable by the minutes, seemingly free spirited, the more we communicated with our eyes, our smiles and glances. She and I had become accustomed to conversing with silences as though we, ourselves, were Master Masons, and no one could ever decipher what we said to each other, and we would rather give up our lives than reveal our secrets.

She dressed eclectically, not afraid of being an iconoclast, and I always had the tendency to chase after this type of girls whose spirits are always allowed to wander freely with little supervision. I found their carefree modus vivendi rather appeasing and accommendating to the lifestyle I had created for myself.

A face could launch a thousand ships; her smile could break a thousand hearts. Mine would probably be one of the thousand if I hadn't been cautious. I just docked my heart in a safe harbor for now even though that's not what a heart is for; I'd rather be safe than going through an emotional storm.

A girl like her could be very dangerous to any man's heart. She could be a Cupid's arrow, except when it struck a heart, it it would be excruciatingly painful, if not careful, the heart would explode; the man could take his own life. I was hoping I would not end up being that man. It was not how I wanted my life to end.

Sokom had warned me of girls like her, "Stay out of her arrow's path. Don't let it find your heart. It can take a man down to his knees. It can even make a man cry at night."

I had never been a credulous person, had always asking for verifiable documents before I could believe in anything or anyone but with her, I had to trust Sokom; I had my heart to protect; if I could, I would arrow proof it. I had already cried at night, I didn't want to drain myself of any more tears.

Maybe it was not intended but the situation we were in was intimate; we were forced to be together no matter what the circumstance was, by any means necessary; we were destined to find each other at that moment in that spot; I believe the spot was reserved for us even though it wasn't pleasing to the eyes. We were face to face, nose to nose; we could smell each other's scent -- I had never smell anything sweeter.

Each of us has a unique scent that identifies who we are, just like our DNA does so do our fingerprints.

If we stayed another minute longer, we could become intoxicated by our own scents, confused by our own emotions as we tried to read each other's thoughts.

I was sure she was opining about me; questions swirling around her head, so many that she couldn't focus on one. I would be as myterious as she was to me, but right now, she needed me even though I was a complete stranger; to her, I could be her savior. As long as I was by her side, she was confident she could ride pass this troublesome episode. I was her crutch she found in the moment, and I would be happy if I could just be that to her. I was hoping I could be more than she would expect of me; I could just be a surprise after another; I was capable of being more, I could be anything I chose to be as far I was concerned. I must be more for her well being, for my as well as hers.

From the looks in her eyes, it was an indubitable fact that she enjoyed my company and I hers. Whatever awkwardness that persisted a few moments ago had vanished, leaving us stranded on our hiding spot and we wished we would never be found. Even if we wanted to leave each other at this precise moment, we couldn't. The police officers were still demanding answers from the kids. 

And it didn't seem like she was heading to the slammer any time soon. She became jubilant at the notion; she had me to thank, and she would immediately after the police officers had leave the scene, and after we vacated our hiding spot, hopefully hand in hand as I had willed it to happen. Unfortunately, it wouldn't likely to happen the way I willed because holding hands in Cambodia is not widely accepted or tolerated; the couple will be frowned upon or shunned.

As a young man with plenty of time to kill, I often played with my imagination, exhausted myself to sleep at night by letting my thoughts roam freely in the quietness of the universe, all the possibilities life has to offer would come alive; anything was possible as long as I could clearly visualize it. Tonight, I would invite her to play with me on the playground in my mind.

I could see she started to losen up a little, allowing her shoulders to slump for the very first time, straightening up her spine, breathing heavier now, sucking in more air into her lungs so the cells in her body could also breathe. Suddenly, she appeared taller, more womanly, exuding confidence and mysteries, appearing indomitable; if I were those police officers, I wouldn't dare come anywhere near her vacinity.

I wanted to know her, her very being; I wanted to reach in and touch her soul; I wanted to discover the essence of her, the nectar that sustained her life.

So far, she had me wondered about every aspect of her being, re-awakening the region of my mind that was in repose. What was the first thing she thought of when she woke up? If I could, I would crawl into her mind to be her for a moment, to know what it would be like to be someone whose beauty couldn't be compared to anything or anyone on this planet,  to be in touch with her emotions. 

Did I play an significant part in envoking and stirring those emotions? Essentially, what was in me that caused her to become emotionally involved with me, and why did she welcome it, let it happen to her or encourage it to happen? My enquiring was pleading for answers to these questions.

She had reenergized my life; I had awakened to new days. Suddenly, my life had meaning, had value; I wanted to keep it in my possession and defend it from all  that wanted to rob it from me. Even I was surprised by the prevalence of my optimism about the future -- a future that had her dancing and prancing on the surface of the moon, living in a white castle on the outskirts of London, dining on the Eiffel Tower and climbing steps of Angkor Wat; all that is grand and great was handed to her in a silver plate. If she wanted to don a crown, I would borrow one from the Queen of England.

She could outshine the moon, the star and the sun; only her future could be brighter.

It was time for me to explore this magnificent creature that was facing me, getting to know the core of her being by introducing myself to the warrior that dwelled inside her soul, who always stood ready to attack like a guard dog in a gang infected neighborhood during her moments of vurnerability.

"Hello." I extended my right hand toward the warrior guarding the entrance to her soul for a possible handshake.

He narrowed his beady little eyes at me instead. He was aplomb, older man with a sword rested in its sheath that was strapped to a belt that gripped tightly around his portly waist, pallid as thought he had never seen the sun.

"Can we be friends?" I waited for his reply after I put that question to him. He allowed a few more moments to pass. I could tell he wasn't interested in befriending me.

He had been disappointed before by those who claimed to be his friends, and when he turned away, they reached in and touched her soul without first asking for his blessing; he felt betrayed by them.

I would, too if I were him.

So now, he was more cautious. He had promised her he wouldn't be careless again, that it would be hard for to put his trust in a man, any man, and that he was sorry he had let men hurt her in the past when he was a neophyte, a guard in training.

"What brought you here?" he asked in a low, yet, domineering tone, meant to be threatening but was not to me. His stentorian voice made him sound older that he actually was.

"Her soul," I replied while keeping my eyes on him as a precaution due to his capricious nature. I was sure he would appreciate honesty, and he did.

"What do they call you?"

"Sojean -- Soj. Soj if you will." I slashed my name in half, hoping it would make it easier for him to remember and picture and pronounce it correctly.

"Soj?"

I nodded my head and added a grin; he wouldn't reciprocate. It appeared once he made up his about something, he was totally inexorable. The funny thing was I couldn't abhor him for being such. In fact, I could simpathise with him. Since now that my name had plaqued his tongue, he would never forget me. I forever branded his mind.

"Soj" would unconsciously roll off his tongue the next time he and I met. Indeed, that was my intention in shortening my name.

The warrior sized me up for a few more moments then perfunctorily shoke my hand after learning my sincere, innocuous intention.

"You're a kid."  He was surprised by my youthfulness.  I couldn't understand why he displayed such a reaction to my looks. Besides, this wasn't the reason I came to see him so I decided to press forward, being relentless to reach her soul.

"I'm an old soul," I said, reassuring my honesty to him; whether he believed me or not was another story.

The warrior understood what I meant; he could empathise with me. After all, he was an old soul, too.

He paused to ponder while his eyes stayed narrowed at me like studying me under a stereoscope, searching for any flaw in my character. Althgouh there were many, he had difficult in detecting one; his eyes must be losing its optimum performance.

He learned from my body movements that I had to hurry back to where I came from, and he agreed to accommendating me in any way he could. He wouldn't mind, in fact, he would prefer leading a man further away from her soul. If he could do that every time, he would breathe easier; his life would be much simpler. Now, he could only fondly think of those halcyon days before he was trained to become the guard of her soul.

"You hurt her and I'll eviscerate your heart from your ribcage," exhorted the warrior then glared at me like he was about to slash me open with his sword to get access to my now pounding heart.

Somehow, I was expecting to hear such exhortation from him. He wouldn't just let any man into her soul unless he received clearly written permission from her.

Even though she didn't require such an unnecessary step to be taken; he just wanted to assure her of his commintment to the protection of her soul and that he wouldn't be credulous again. He would be suspicious of any man's intention.

I didn't think she was such a martinet as he made her to be. She couldn't be but then again I didn't know her well enough, yet, to say his assessment of her was completely wrong. I shouldn't be making such an accusation.

I nodded understandingly, if I didn't, he would sure have my heart eviscerated then put in a hand basket to be delivered to her and she wouldn't feel a loss because I hadn't touched her soul.

I gingerly inched back in hopes he wouldn't have to brandish his sword, and expense energy wielding it at me. If he did, it would be an act of war. I should avoid war with her at all cost.

"I just wanted to get acquainted with her soul. I didn't mean to anger you."

"No one touches her soul!" He growled like Cujo even though he was not in any way resemble a canine.

"No one?" I dared to ask the warrior, not to annoy him; I was curious, testing his stance, pushing his button and waited for his reaction.

"No one!"

He roared like a caged tiger then stormed out, probably didn't believe a word I said to him. The warrior probably had seen lots of men approaching him demanding for a meeting with her soul, and he would turned them all away before they could expel their first word.

"Can I at least know her name?" I was testing his patience; I wasn't willing to leave empty handed, and to my surprise, I didn't, in fact, I left with crucial information with me; it wasn't purloined; it was picked up from the corner of my eyes -- the reward for being observant in time of distress.

He ignored my question, didn't even turn to look at me. He was old and wise, more imperious than he appeared to be; it was obvious to me he had seen a lot through her eyes; it seemed she had to battle her whole life just to get this point; the old warrior had shown me many of her emotional scars as he was turning away from me.  Now that I had seen a glimpse of her old soul, I wanted to reach out to her even more. 

I sighed a relief after the warrior was gone.  I was sure to meet him against simply because I needed to get to know her even though her soul was well guarded.

The warrior made it clear to me that it was not going to be easy to ingratiate myself to her soul, to plant a seed to make her mind aware of my interest in getting acquainted with her.

I may have won her heart and mind but breaking into her soul would be another matter entirely. It would probably be easier to break into the royal palace during daylight.

I must persist -- that is if she would not run away from me. I didn't think she would because I sensed she knew me or at least heard of me from someone and liked what she was  told about me.

I would soon know how much of a challenge she was to me as I tried to charm her according to the plan Sokom had laid out for me to impliment.

The alley was not an ideal place for a budding love to kindle. I said love because I felt a sensation that was running around my heart incredibly fast, making it skip a few beats at a time, and when it did, the heart became light as a feather, rendering gravity useless; she sent my heart afluttered without taking my age into a consideration.

She was dangerous; I had to be extremely careful when revolving around her. She could capture me by gripping the heart and wouldn't let it go.

My heart would ache.

There was no urgency to prompt us to our feet and relocate ourselves elsewhere so we remained where we were, enjoying the silence shared between us.

As long as there was something being shared, no one would feel neglected. I often forget to live by this creed.

God must have taken His sweet, sweet time when He was making her, paying close attentions to the muscles effecting her smiles. She must be one of His favorites. He must have liked me, too. I must have done something He found pleasing.

If she was famous, she would be known around the world for her remarkable smile -- a smile unmistakably hers which later became her trademark, in my mind.

I was sitting by her side, grinning with absolute inner glee. I could let this moment last forever, and I wouldn't feel like I missed anything important. It was a perfect moment -- perfect for me; I had a female company.

And when she smiled, her lips perked up; this involuntary muscle movements in her lips made her even more attractive. I was drawn to her way of smiling. I was wishing she would flash more smiles my way, then I would really have a good reason to be staring at her.

I wished I could crack some jokes but I was never a funny guy. I wished I could dance but I never danced before. All I could do was smiling back at her in silence. It was a moment of bliss, but it didn't last long, no matter what I did in trying to prolong it.

Of all the fishes in the ocean, she had to reel me in. I was afraid my life would never be the same again.

Love changes things.

We watched as the police officers interrogated the remaining kids with what seemed like an endless process; the kids lied with finesse; I admired their sangfroid; they would not be persuaded even with threats of violence against them.

The police officers grilled the kids several more minutes before calling it quit. The kids spat back with words that would mislead the police officers, knowing not to divulge sensitive information regarding her and my whereabouts.

Vexed and annoyed, the police bolted out in a different direction, continuing their pursuit of her.

I couldn't believe the kids would be that imperturbable in the midst of the police interrogation.

I wrote negatively of those police officers not to traduce them but to expose them for their gestapo behaviors which were in direct violation of human rights.

Questions were tossing and turning inside my head, demanding some questions, which I couln't provide.  How could I? She was still a complete mystery to me at this point.

I stole more glances at her; I was intrigued by her and by her predicaments. My inquiring mind wanted to know all about her. I wanted to ask her endless questions but I didn't feel like she was ready to engage in a conversation with a younger person.

She was still visibly shaking, well, at least, it seemed like she was shaking. There was a slight trembling in her hands; she was nervous, and I couldn't blame her; no one could; I was, too. She was facing the possibility of jail time, and so was I.

There we were, hiding from the world, just the two of us, lost in the moment. Above us were looming skyscrapers, keeping their eyes on us, curious as to what we were going to do next; I was, too.

"Hi," I said, the moment was right; I was compelled to open my mouth; something was urging me, cheering me on; I couldn't let it down.

"Hi." She chuckled, relieved.  "Wow, I could talk again. So refreshing."

She was embullient, and I didn't want to spoil her moment with idle chat so I left her to celebrate this rare moment on her own.

I watched her in an amazement. I was amazed by the fact she was simple; a simple word "hi" brought a smile to her -- my kind of girl...simple, yet, thought provoking, low maintenance and fun.

I was about to have some fun.

I didn't feel like talking; neither did she.  Even though we were free to scream and shout until our vocal chords hurt, we chose to remain silent...for another moment.

Words seemed meaningless, unnecessary when love was standing before us.  It seemed love did all the talking, and all we could do was looking into each other's eyes; it felt right, magical at times.

She pranced, twirled; she pirouetted. She could be a ballerina if she wanted to; she already had a lithe body of a ballerina.

Then one day, out of the blue, while gambling with other runaway kids on the streets, she plowed into us like an uncontrollable vehicle, bulldozing some of us to the sidewalk as she was fleeing a group of police officers waving their batons, blowing their whistles as though they were warning people of the next wave of the American carpet bombings inside the country, galvanizing the people to a gathering point and plan a retaliation.

These police officers often overreached the power bestowed upon them. Sometimes, they thought they were God trying to keep the little peace the city was able to maintain despite the chaos brought forth by the civil war.

I was oblivious to the incident as I was captivated by her, by her speed. My eyes came to lock on her when she turned away, when she was not looking, tracking her every movement as she profusely apologized to the mowed down kids for her fast speed sprint. No one was throwing blames like a deck of cards. How could she be blamed for something that was accidental? Her apology was not neccesary but accepted to assuage her guilt, as seen on her facial expresion.

Besides, with the looks like hers, who could find fault in all that she did. It was true my eyes gravitated toward her as though she was standing in the nude. The gravitational pull was beyond my human strength, beyond  the strength of my mind. I gave my all in trying to avoid looking in her direction, discovered it was impossible and surrendered to her looks under the directions of my wandering eyes -- they couldn't help but wanted to see more of her even though she was fully clothed -- that demonstrated the power of her appeal to a young man like myself.

Her voice trembled with lumps of fear unnaturally altered. Her throat was dry; she had to whisper at times, if not, the trembles in her throat would irritate her esophagus, later intermittenly produced sharp pain that shoots her brain like a harpoon used in the deep sea fishing. When that happened, one could hear the pain that anchored to her voice whenever she spoke -- the tone had noticeable change and it came intermittenly.

We noticed the fast approaching swarm of police officers, immediately recognizing the situation she was running from; we had a common enemy, which immediately bonded us or at least, gave us a hook in which we could strike a  friendship with her then rail her in as a new member of the group. She would add a faminine touch to our daily lives, enhancing our image in the process; she seemed to be capable of that.

She looked completely frazzled, distracted, internally screaming her head off like an insane person inside a padded room. She needed to be watched so I stealthily watched her.

She turned to me, pleading with her big, brown eyes, "Help me."

"Help her?" I thought to myself. "How? I'm just a boy."

Beads of sweat glided slowly down her cheeks like morning dews, staining her tan silky skin as I nonchalantly pretended to ignore her, wanting to see how she'd react under tremendous pressure. Her forehead glistened under the hot sun due to the film of sweat now drenching her slim figure in the shape of an hourglass. She tried desparately to catch her breaths while glanced my way as if I was the answer to all her problems, waiting for, expecting me to jump to her rescue. I wasn't in the mood to be anyone's hero, not while I was on the streets, in home sew shorts and short sleeve shirt, my only possessions, bare feet.

The person that needed rescuing should be me.

I shot back a glare, "What?" -- as in, "What do you want with me?"

What could I do for her? These police officers loathed me because I was too quick, too fast for them; I often made them look like stooges during their pursuits of me. I spent a great portion of my day running away from them; they were the bane of my existence. I could foment riots on the streets due to my aversion to them. It would be a mistake to give them another reason to chase me through the capital. Besides, this was my moment to rest, soon it'd be my siesta and I had planned of taking a lengthy one. Why could she leave me alone?

I didn't want to get intertwined with her issues because I had some of my own, and I hadn't planned to burden anyone with them; they were mine, and I intended to protect them and deal with them on my own time and on my own term. She should have the same consideration regarding her own issues.

We hadn't even exhanged "hello's" with one another, and here she was readying to unload her issues upon my shoulders; I was at a loss for the first time; I didn't know what to do with her case; I was not a social worker or a psychologist; I didn't know how I could be of help to her.  Maybe I did know but wasn't willing. After all, she was a just stranger who had clumsily mowed down some of my friends..

"Girls are problems," an older friend once warned me who went by the name of Sokom. He came from a family of wealth. His father traded gold, silver, rare coins and other intricate precious metal filigree with the help of his mother. His parents became later the people I unloaded my purloined valuables to in an exchange for spending money.

She was definitely a girl with problems. I certainly didn't want to have any association with her at this point; it was a clear and obvious choice to make. She could only mean one thing -- problems too hot for me to handle.

I could look past her beauty -- I would try. All I would have  to do was take over my thinking process, manipulate the muscles controlling my eyes through to use of mental power; once I had taken over my mind.

I became curious about girls a few years back; the curiosity came unexpectedly. I engaged in a conversation with Sokom whenever questions pertaining to girls churned in my head. He seemed to have all the answers; he did have all the answers.

Let it be known here and now that I was not the only one seeking him out; he had others who came to him to learn about the bird and the bee and the many mysteries behind girls.

He was Mr. Know It All on this topic; he was the original "guru", if such a thing came into being.

I don't know if he was Cassanova, but men who came to him and were given advice on how to please women appeared  enthralled as though they had discovered the Holy Grail, and they returned always with massive grins and smiles and shoke Sokom's hand as though he was God's right hand man or God's gift to women.

It may sound like I was just embellishing him for his sake, but the truth of the matter is, Sokom was a friend of mine and he taught me a great deal on attracting and the interacting with the opposite sex, and I was waiting to use the magic he gave me on the next girl I would meet.

The problem with me was I didn't heed his words, other men did. I had never used his advice on a girl because there wasn't a homeless girl I could meet. Any other girl wouldn't bat their eyes at me; much less, offered a smile. I knew my place in this newly developed society. I knew my boundaries. I stayed within my circle, mingled with my crowds.

Sokom always handed out advice free of charge to all, including several corpulant Vietnamese men, that approached him; he was a kind and generous man.

I once asked him to compile his profound knowledge into a book. So far, I hadn't seen such a book with his name printed on it, unless he wrote it as an alias.

If I had to guess his age, I would say he was nineteen, twenty, maybe twenty one.

I viewed him as though he was a son of a god that was cast out of their habitat to live among humans. If he could be worshipped, I would have done it as would other men who had conversed with him on the topic of women.

He sounded like he had been around the block several times before. If he hadn't and I had been bamboozled by him, it was nice talking about girls, my topic of interest, anyway. I could listen to his grandiose, wild adventures with girls he courted, to the end of the moon and back; he was a fantastic story teller. Some of the tales he told were quite titillating, pleasantly stimulating at times.

I couldn't go to my father to obtain such knowledge because the Khmer Rouge had deprived me of that chance the very moment they decided to execute him back in the mid 1970s  then neglected or simply refused to tell my mother the location of her dead husband's corpse.

My father had never been given a proper burial. I hope he is resting in peace. I hope he is not worrying about me or too busy watching over me. If that is the case, he should know that I'll be all right no matter where I happen to find myself. I have the capability to quickly adapt to my new environment.

I had walked on my own before and left many trails for others to follow.

I had always been a child who had always lived his own life according to his own terms and prefered others to live their own lives according to their own terms on their own time.

If their lives intersect mine, leave me better than I was. If not, keep on walking.

The subject of human sexuality was quite taboo in Cambodia, young adults couldn't even crack jokes on the matter; if they did, the adults would treat their jokes with scorn or risk the scorn of their parents. Adults would coil in shyness and shame if they were to say anything of substance about their own sexual behaviors in the privacy of their bedrooms to their peers.

To these days, no one knows where my father was buried, if he was buried, but I doubt the Khmer Rouge would have maintained such compassion during moments of his killing. I only hoped he didn't suffer too much before they delivered the last blow that ended his life. 

I had wondered what his last thought was when his eyes decided to close on him, when his nervous system shut down and his mind erased in an instant -- all his knowledge was quickly disappeared before he could transfer some of it to me. Was I on his mind? After all, I was the baby of the family during the time of his murder. I had to be.

Some of my friends and family members felt it was my filial responsibility to seek out the ground where he was murdered and posibility find what left of his remains and give him a burial he deserved in the city he dearly loved and funds deposited in offshore accounts in different cities in different countries and continents.

I was left to uncover the mysteries of life on my own. I complained at times when I was much younger but not lately; after so many years of battling with the hardship of life, I surfaced with a renewed vigor and lust after the possibility of achieving a dreams, fulfilling a life's mission, a purpose.

That possibility alone makes life worth living and lessens the strength of every life's struggle, dampening its effectiveness.

Our daily struggles keep our lives from running amok, taming it, because it could be wild and crazy like a mustang if unwatched.

I fought and keep fighting for that one possibility; my life will be defined by its outcome. Good or bad, I would still have a great life in the end, because I chose to let life unexpectedly happen to me.

Life's definitely full of surprises; gifts from our Creator. yet, I hear people complain and sweat the small stuffs.

God's heart breaks each time a person complains about His gift, which is life.

Life is not perfect, nothing is, but it's fair. Those who say otherwise do not know God or appreciate the works that He does.

Why wait until you're on the verdge of death to appreciate life. Maybe that is the other purpose of death, enhance life.

All my mother could do was speculate his place of death. Others claimed to know where his body was hidden, but people weren't allowed to venture into that region of the woods -- a place where one went in and never came back out during the Khmer Rouge time. She weeped and mourned for months, and I couldn't understand why she cried so much.

I couldn't remember missing my father or questioned his whereabouts; I didn't remember he went missing; I never once asked a question about his disappearance, only recently.

When the North Vietnamese rolled into the village in their trucks, jeeps and tanks, they asked my mother in their language for the murderers of her husband, my father; she knew who they were but said nothing, and she was fluent in Vietnamese. She chose the let the murderers walk free, she forgave and moved on with her life and the lives of her children.

She knew any man she pointed to would meet his demise in that instant, before her eyes. She didn't want that on her conscious or his blood splatter on her face. There were many men she could point to, but she chose to keep both hands at her sides.

In all honesty, I would have done the same thing if the murderers had agreed to not take another human's life, and I would happily live with that decision.

Her life had been one struggle, followed by another, but she never complained about her life being too hard.

Life can only be what it is; it's us who complicate matters then say life is not fair.

My father died, and I didn't even miss him. Not because I had a turbulance relationship with him while he was alive, but because I didn't know he had passed away; maybe I was  too young to understand what death was, and there was no one to explain it to me or maybe I was too busy playing in the rice fields.

The girl kept looking my way, imploring for my interference, maybe annoyed by my hesitation. I was still weighing my options.

How many more times could I turn away from her whenever she looked my way? To her, I was the only one who could pluck her out of her mess; it was her mess; why should I get involved?

Why did she target me? Did she know me? Had she met me somewhere before? I could speculate but I wouldn't.

I instead mused in the quiet of my mind, questioning, reasoning, hesitating, and her eyes kept wandering to me, and I continued to turn away; it was like we were watching a tennis match, back and forth, back and forth.

The ball always ended up on my side of the court; I needed more time to opine.

It was obvious she got herself into a really tight spot and needed to bolt out fast before the police officers had reached their place of congregation. Her fear of getting caught intensified; her eyes grew wider at the thought of jail time, her pupils dilating like a camera lens trying to capture a lush landscape under a harsh lighting conditions, refocusing her attention, always adjusting, a decision had to made now; there was no delaying.

The police officers were inching closer and closer to her; she could now see them approaching; panic set in.

"Should I bolt now? Where should I bolt to?" questions started to float in her head; if I was close enough to her, I probably could hear them.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking." She tried to silence her chatter box, which she'd soon discover to be an impossible task; in a situation such as hers, her mind would not rest, it would continuously search for possible solutions to her problems.

She could cry right now but she wouldn't; she would rather hold in all her emotions than expose her breaking point. The strength of her mind was being pushed to its limit; she held on as I watched her sweated from a distance.

While debating myself, I knew she had to be removed from her current situation before the police officers could grab a hold of her, handcuffed her then marched her to the nearest station. All eyes would flit to her; she would lose face, would be humiliated, and I would have to live with the guilt for not jumping to her rescue.

At the same time, I didn't want to interfere with a due process, if such a thing existed in Phnom Penh back then.

I thought of excuses after excuses not to get in between her and the police officers, fearing I would find myself entangled with the law, too, new entanglements. Instead of one person heading for jail, it would be two, and I would be the second person; due to my lengthy criminal activities on the streets, I could be locked up for eons.

I could never adapt to a life behind bars because my nature was to roam and bask under the warm sun. I could never accept anything less than this.

Why should I risk jail time for a stranger? Given she had a pretty face and a body to match it, an absolute eye candy. Could her looks force me to take action against my will? Possible; I believe in anything-is-possible due to the capability of the human mind.

For a short moment, I found myself caught, amused by the idea of getting locked behind bars with her, but I didn't continue entertaining that idea; it was quickly abandoned, and it never resurfaced.

But the thought of the police officers finally had me in their jail cell re-invigorated me into taking action. That thought gave me the impetus to act, it was also the barometer I used to measure the amount of my aversion to these police officers who on many occasions had abused their power while maintaining safety on the streets.

If by a great chance, the police officers had her locked up, she would think I was the cowardest person on the planet. If that became the case, I wouldn't be able to withstand or swallow such a notion. It would also mean I had to find a means to placate her would-be anger.

A coward? Who? Me? Never.

I strutted to her and whisked her down an alley rarely used by other denizens due to urine and feces, trash strewn about, upkept and unswept for years. Grass jut out of cracks in the cement appearing like fingers grouped together. We nagivated down a few more alley ways to give ourselves sufficient distance from the police officers. 

We hid behind a small hill of trash, watching my friends being interrogated by the police officers whose goal was to harrass and intimidate street kids, instead of lending them a hand or offering solutions to their plights.

The year was 1979, in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, after it was liberated by the North Vietnamese armed forces from the hands of the Khmer Rouge regime under the control of Pol Pot aka Brother Number One whose real name was Salot Sar, the evilest man Cambodia had produced.

The Cambodian government was still being installed, not quite established.  The country was run by our liberators; they had the means and the knowledge of running a country. Most Cambodians welcomed them with open and appreciated them from saving their skin and country. They were glad they weren't living in fear of dying at any given moment.

The international communities had not yet discovered the Killing Fields and become horrified by the huge number of deaths inside such a small country, committed by its own government, its own people. How could this happen in a modern society?

Most of Phnom Penh was still absent of people; delapidated buildings went unoccupied for a few more years.  It was a true ghost town but its citizens were trickling in in small number.

Some of the kids would wind up on the streets; some of them would find their way to me. Must be the energy I projected to the universe.

I was young and naive. To the point, I was a punk, a runaway who stole anything and everything from people who could barely keep their stomach full.

Foods and shelter were the important order of any day; these concerns haunted my mind the most. I didn't have time for any other thoughts until she came along and turned my life upside down, twisting it unrecognizable.

She looked placidly out to the police officers screaming and demanding answers from the kids. The stench of the trash hill hadn't unpleasantly violated her senses, yet. If it had, she didn't seem to be bothered by it.

I took this opportunity to size her up, studying and wondering about her.

Could she be Chenda, my wife from my previous life?  Had she found me? Did I find her? Was it worth the heartache and aggravation?

She looked familiar, like I had met her somewhere before but couldn't pinpoint the place or the time, and I couldn't bring it up to her by telling her we met before then worked up the courage to ask if she remembers me.

She was still a stranger. I didn't want to bombard her with millions of questions, not yet, anyway. Not while she was still out on a limb. What if her replies were unusually loud and one of the police officers heard her?  There was no reason to put ourselves at risk. What if she ran off before I got the chance to ask her questions? At this point, I shut off the voice inside my head.

I must take it slow, at the speed that was comfortable to her, at her pace.  I didn't want to see her running away from me like I did from police officer on a daily basis.

I longed to know her name but I couldn't directly ask her for her name -- that would be a travesty. This is Cambodia, and I'm Cambodian. There were customs and traditions I had to adhere to.

I maybe a street kid and a criminal in the eyes of people, a scum, a rat, a dog,  whatever, I still had a sense of obligation to and respect for the Cambodians' ways of life. My moral compass was still functioning correctly.

It would be rude and disrespectful if I were to call her by her name because she appeared to be much older than me. In the Cambodian society, there's a certain amount of respect expected to be given to older people. So I resorted to calling her "bong" meaning "older sister", not "meang" meaning "aunty" because she didn't seem to be old enough to be my aunt. "Bong" would be the best term used to address her.

"Bong," I called out, testing the quiet, calm water.

She turned and looked at me, expecting me to finish what I was going to say.  I hadn't planned  to say anything at all; I just wanted to see how she would reaction to "bong"; she seemed to be fine with being called such. I was relieved. I had broken the ice.

Our eyes met for the very first time. She smiled; I reciprocated.

For a split second, all the planets in the universe lined up and saluted us. Somewhere somone wondered what happened. It was just our eyes meeting for the first time, and everything for everyone was all right for the first, and all the wars on earth stopped, there was peace as if Christ had come back but only for that split second, a blink of an eye then life returned to the way it was.

My wife used to complain about my socks splaying about on the floor, and now that I had gone to be with my Creator, she wished there would be socks whenever she arrived from work; if there were socks at such a place, it would mean I was home, in one of the many rooms awaiting her arrival while changing into casual clothing because I abhorred being stifled by a military uniform with all its dangling medals and imperfectly sew on bulky epaulets.

She missed me greatly, and I her devastatingly.

I was surprised to learn she never remarried, never produced a child, and she died in her bed, in her room, surrounded by close friends and family members several decades later; we were lost to each other then but not forever.

She labored at the same job for all those years not for  the salary but for the campanionsip of her co-workers; they managed to keep her laughing and smiling.  She was able to maintain the life she had with me for a couple of years.

There were many men who had approached her and wanted to court her, but she refused to let them have that pleasure.  She found she was happier being independent, being alone.  Her life was simple, and she would like to keep it the way it was. 

Men would only complicate and strangle her style she reasoned. Besides, she was already happy before she met me; she didn't really need a man. I was there to give her companionship, to deliver conversations she found intriguing.

She loved me for my ability to hold conversations with her, not necessary with words but with glances and smiles. In her world, I was someone special, one of a kind. She looked  but couldn't find anyone who was like me; she decided to remain a widow, and she was okay with that title. In fact, she was proud to be to my widow.

She thought she was prepared for moments like this, but obviously, she was not. She was always up to difficult challenges, openly welcomed them all and dealt with them as they came, but this one had really got under skin, and she couldn't shake it off; she was still missing me after all this time, and it started to take its toll on her, but somehow she wasn't too upset about the whole deal because it was me whom she missed; this terrible pain reminded her of me, and sometimes, she smiled and winked as if I was standing in front of her. I knew those winks were for me; I winked back, but she couldn't see me.

We still flirted with each other, even  though I was dead -- unconditional love never dies.

She didn't realize the impact I had on her life while I was alive. Who would think of such things? We were having the time of our lives. And now that I had been dead for sometime, she was getting hit full force by the emptiness I left with her, and she knew that was never my intention; I had never wanted to hurt her or anyone else in that matter.

Some nights, she would wake up and shouted at the dark, hoping to eleviate some of the pain that had threatened to jump out of her throat. Luckily, she lived far from the nearest neighbor. She could scream and shout as loud as she wanted to and no one would hear her.

She grew thinner due to her inability to consume much. Fish porridge was all she could eat in the morning, afternoon and night. When at work, friends and co-workers alike encouraged her to eat fruits and vegetable, and she ate as encouraged, and when she came home into an empty house, the appetite went away as if she had left it at her work, and found herself in the doldrums. To combat this feeling, she cleaned around the house, take a walk in the backyard or vegetate in a wooden chair on the porch looking onto a empty road.

She wished she hadn't lived in such a secluded area where nothing ever happened. Only a dirt road taking travelers back into the city. She thought of a walk there, but her body didn't favor that notion. Maybe on the weekend when she didn't have to work, when her body would be in a better mood.

She tried to read but reading often put her to sleep sooner that she wanted so she gave up on it. She didn't want to fall asleep early because she would wake up early, too, and she would just be missing me until the morning arrived, and she be lethargic all day at work due to lack of sleep. She did chores around the house, some were mine, to keep herself up until midnight, at which time she went to bed. This became her nightly routine.

Her house became spotless as time crept by without her know, and she didn't even realize how clean her house was. To her, it looked the same no matter what she did to it; that sameness gave some comfort. Every now and then she would feel me in the gentle breeze that rushed in through one of the ajar windows. It was cold, and she didn't think much of it. She didn't know it was me, actually it was my residual energy left behind like a piece of clothing. Nonetheless, it was a part of me.

Some nights, she cried herself to sleep; those were good nights; she wished for more nights like those. She did everything there was to do to speed up the night.

Crying seemed to help a heap, but crying really taxed her body to  the point where she didn't even want to wake up in the morning, because she would be too exhausted.

She used to be the take-charge type, gamesome and full of high spirits but not these days, and she was okay with it. She allowed life to happen to her and hoped to grow from the experiences, and she was growing but why did it have to hurt so badly she often wondered to herself.

Suffering is the cause for evolution.

Some complained she was being difficult, unreasonable at times when it came to picking a potential mate, a future husband.  To her, she knew what she wanted -- an attribute I found attractive.  She wanted a man who could compliment her lifestyle, enhance it if he could when he could. Wink at her and smile at her when it was appropriate.

She wanted a man who had a sense of himself and maybe a sense of humor, too; someone who was bit like me.  Someone who could remain calm under pressure, someone who could stand his ground without losing his patient, someone who built himself from within, whose soul was built out of solid gold; someone she could wink at, and he would wink back at her as if it was his first time, as if he was a virgin at glancing, shy but poise, insecure but determined. She wanted to see those qualities in her man.

She was confident a man with those qualities existed, but she wasn't going to expense anymore energy searching for him, besides feeling lackadaisy and doing house chores sometime soothed her soul just fine. Of course, she dreamt of moments being in a man's arms but not just any man's; he had to emotionally stable, not domineering. She abominated the notion of being with such a man; she would not have it. She would not stand for it.

Her spirits liked to soar into the azure sky; no man would ever put her in cage. She'd rather die than be with man like that -- just the thought of it alone made her skin crawled.

She knew with me her life was hers to manage. I did not like to meddle with other people's lives; I didn't want their troubles upon my shoulders.  I only took whatever time she had for me, and I appreciated every precious second she gave me, and we spent those seconds looking into each other's eyes, grinned then smiled. She loved small, intimate moments.

It was pure; it was simple; just the two of us locked inside a two story villa, lost in the silence of the night.

These small moments made her feel womanly. She could let her guards down, relax and relinquish all of her trust to me. "Do to me what you must," she whispered, knowing full well that I would never take advantage of her. She had completely surrendered herself to me. It was just a matter of moments before I took her to the moon where the stars are known to shine brighter. She could touch them if she was inclined, if they could please her. This was her moment, and nothing could spoil it for her.

Crickets could be chirping; we wouldn't hear them; we were too lost in each other.

We were oblivious to our surroundings. The world had disappeared. We were the last people on earth. The moon and the stars gravitated toward us; we were bending space and time; pulling in the event horizons to where we were; we made time travel possible; it was magic; it was magical. We had looked into each other's souls many times before, and each time the magic became grander and grander.

When two souls connected, the world disappears and everything is magical, vivid and real.

Whenever she thought of finding a new man, a potential husband, her mind would consistantly brought me to the forefront; it hadn't forgotten me. I was still infectious to her after all these years.

She had admitted to herself that she missed my winks, my glances and my smiles. She wished I hadn't left her so soon; I wished I had left her at all.

Life happens. It can not wait for the sake of love, and it doesn't favor one person over the other. Life has always been fair, at least, to me because I can not fault God or find fault in God.

To say life is unfair is like accusing God of play favortism; He does not.

She had planned many functions for our future. She had confided to her close friend that she wanted to bare a child for me because I had expressed an interest of wanting children, creating a family of our own, and that she was ready to beome a first time mother and was excited at the posibility; she was jubilant at the idea; she glowed; her friend weeped after hearing this news; I did, too.

There was nothing I could do; God wanted me more. One had to obey God like a soldier had to obey his Commander.

If I had a choice, I would stay with her for as long as she would have me. Her house chores would be mine, and I would hire someone to get them done; she would just look pretty if she chose to do nothing -- doing nothing was never part of her nature; she would never waste her life away like that; she would find other activities that would elevate her spirit to another level; she would probably be in communion with nature around the house, take up oil painting or poetry writing. She had a creative side that had not yet been explored; she meant to explore that side of her but life often intruded, always unexpectedly.

Granted, she was a flirt, only with her mate. I was glad to be  the receiving end of her many flirts for many years. I often looked at her with the eyes of a doe's; she knew how to keep me mystified without really trying.

For that reason, I could never say goodbye to her. I never thought any man could or would once he bonded with her.

Isn't this what life is all about? Bonding with other human beings?

A woman like my wife is extremely hard to find. When one is found, treasure her and adore her and her every flaw, because life with her worths billions of stars, suns and moons. She's the universe, so vast, no man has the brain capacity to understand her, not even Einstein.

Men will always be stupefied by her.

To her it was never about looks. I could be as ugly as a troll under any given bridge, she would still love me; simply because I glanced at her the right way -- the way she found pleasing.  She said I made her feel like a princess and was treated like one. That was  the greatest compliment I had ever received from her, and she was sincere in the way she delivered her compliment. How did I know this to be true? I looked into her eyes when she was saying it to me, and I wholeheartedly trusted my wife.

She neither loved me because I was a good provider; she could careless about wealth. To her, it was about honing and increasing happiness -- life is about being happy according to her -- not suffering as taught in Buddhism.

I couldn't find myself to disagree with her; she was not, in any way, opinionated or religious; she was just honest, fearless and expressive. She didn't care whom she offended; if it was truth, she would let it be known.

When a woman is honest, love her even more.

In order to love and be loved, one must first be touched my great suffering, only through suffering does compassion emerge, followed by love.

She knew suffering; she had suffered a great deal in her younger years; if she hadn't surfaced from suffering, she wouldn't have appreciated her life as much as she did. She wouldn't be as humbled, honest and generous. She wouldn't be so focused on generating love.

Only unconditional love can end all suffering; any other love can only augment it.

Love without compassion is lust or infatuation and does not last.

Only unconditional love lasts forever.

She was highly intelligent as mentioned many times before; hence, my sincere love for her.  She could be intoxicating when engaged in a converstaion with her; some men found this intimidating; I found it stimulating.

She made me addicted to her. Honestly, I never wanted to recover from that addiction.  This was the very reason I searched for her; I needed to get my fix, I needed to steal a few glances at her.

To reach the depth of her heart; I first had to capture her mind, imprisoned it for little awhile while I fascinated her on the topics of life and the world in which were living in. I wanted to prolong our conversation; most of what I said was inaccurate but they weren't lies; I didn't think I was capable of lieing to someone who was as wise as her. She laughed at the degree of my inaccuracies; she thought I was trying too hard to impress her and changed topics before I made a fool of myself further. She was always looking for those she loved.

She took me in, because she saw I was sincere in my approach, and she was right. A woman who could see through me would always have my attention. With a woman like that  I had to be honest and always on my toes, making life adventurous and wholesome; gullible women would only invite more b.s. from their men.

I hesitated in telling her my occupation; she pushed for more information; I told her I was a soldier in the Royal Army; she stood in silence for a moment then said, " I'm going to learn to accept the fact that you are a soldier." She smiled to hide her uneasyness of the conversation.

She didn't welcome that aspect of me, of me being a soldier. "Why? Because soldiers kill?," I asked. 

She shook her head, stating, "Soldiers die."

I knew what she meant; I looked into her eyes. She knew I was going to die that's what soldiers do. She knew we only had limited time together if we were to be together. We were at a cross road. As to what direct our newly established relationship was heading, I left the decision to her.

To take loads of her shoulders, I told her I would leave and never to return before we proceed with a serious relationship.  I started to walk toward the door, she stopped me on my track.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

She nodded then added, "We're going to do whatever is necessary to make the best of the time we have together."

She was always making the right choices.

The subject was getting too intense and she grew uncomfortable at this point; I cracked a few jokes. She started to smile and laugh again. She was easy to please in this sense.

She knew my life was going to be cut short, and she chose to stay with me and allowed herself to fall in love with me, anyway. She knew her heart was going to break, and I wasn't going to be there to console or offer her a shoulder to cry on when that moment came to her doorsteps.

Intelligent women don't hold grudges; only childish ones do.

There were times when we weren't on good terms with each other; and of course, I accepted every fault as my own with the understanding there was never a winner in a fight with a wife. In time like this, I had to shine through for us; I had to be creative in finding ways to make her laugh and smile. As long I was sincere and honest with her, success was almost guaranteed.

She loved me and all my imperfections then a bullet from an enemy's rifle on a battlefield ripped through my neck and stole me from her.  As I was dieing, I promised myself to return to her as soon as possible.

She was not only the compass that had always guided me but also my library.

She lived as though she was a character in a fairy tale book. A heroin no one could resist.

I could picture her face but wouldn't paint it with words, pencil, ink or any other medium because a face in a mind is always fresh; it'll never crack, bleed or can be read.

I wrote of her not to show glimpses of her face but to reveal parts of her soul, which were more beautiful than all the lights on a setting sun.

A woman can only be as beautiful as her soul, never more than that.

To see her, one must crawl into my mind; to understand her, one must crawl to God, because only God knows the essence of her.

Her name was Chanda Viracvong. She died peacefully at the age of 68. I died at the age of 36.

I was determined to reincarnate for the second chance at her love. I willed it, therefore, it would happen.

I was reborn on the 15 of August, 1970 as soon I found out she was walking the earth again as a young girl. She reincarnated before I did because she couldn't stand to wait another second to see me.

The time had finally come for us to be reunited, but first I must find her, befriend and charm her all over again. I vowed to never become a soldier or take part in a war as a civilian.

I had been searching since the very day I died, and I was sure she searched for me, too, and one day she would find me when she was least expected; she would be surprised, she would smile, a smile so unique that I would never forget her and the first moment we rested our eyes upon each other.

We both made a pact in our previous lives to be reunited in our next lives in a country we both loved dearly: Cambodia.

It was just a matter of time before I would run into her, somewhere in the war torn country, if she didn't find me first.

Our beloved country was going through a nasty civil war, and people were dieing everywhere; some of the deads could be her family members.  Maybe this was the reason why she returned so soon; maybe it had nothing to do with me.

Cambodia was an extremely hostile environment to be looking for someone, but I didn't seem to be bothered by it. I was very aware of the war, of the killing fields; I had seen it; the killings occurred every day; there was no mystery to it.  Due to the war, I had to find her sooner and protect her from bullets and shrapnels.

Why did she choose this period to return? What prompted her? What was her motivation? Couldn't she wait until the war was over?

We were gravitating towards one another.  It was the will of the universe for us to be reunited, didn't matter the time, distance or space.

When something was meant to be, it was bound to happen. There was no question about it -- she and I would be together again.

Death could only separate us for a brief moment of time.

She was not only my wife, my best friend; she was my soul mate.

We were conjointed at the soul; nothing could separate us, not even time.

I was determined to give up everything to find her and be with her again.  I would travel across the universe, jump from galaxy to galaxy until she was found.  The stars and the sun could light my way; I could rest on the moon.  I could look upon the earth, maybe, just maybe I could spot her among the inhabitants.

I wished someone would put a binocular on the moon.  Maybe I could make a request to NASA.  Maybe NASA could do me this one favor. Maybe I could go to them and say excuse, could you please put a binocular on the moon.  You see I was hoping to spot my wife from there.  It would be thrilling if NASA said yes to my request. I would be jumping up and down on the moon, moon dust would sprinkle onto to earth, and some could land on my wife's shoulders, and suddenly she came to a realization that it was me who made that happened, and she stopped, took a moment to wonder about me then I would know she still loved me, nonchanlantly looked up at the moon and blew it a kiss as if she knew I was there.

God gave me the will to endlessly search for her because He knew I would not do anything that would contradict his plan for me and for her. He understood a love for a woman is the engine that drives a man towards achieving his goals and dreams and nothing could stand in his way except God Himself. God knew my love for her was pure and true cause He felt it, too; it was that intense.

I came to earth during the Cambodia civil war to take a bullet that was heading toward her heart, and I was hoping I didn't come to late.  She had a lot of life left to live.

I had to save her; she was my life.  If she died, I'd rather die with her.

Cambodia was a country where she left heart because she knew she would come back to find it. And she knew I loved Cambodia, too.  If we were to meet each other again, it would be right here, behind the backdrops of Angkor Watt and the many other ancient ruins our ancestors left for us to marvel.

Unlike her, I could reside anywhere, in any country, and I would be just as fine.  I never wanted to be confined to one place and she knew this about me, and she had never ever asked me to return to Cambodia for her sake, never.

Returning to Cambodia was my choice, my decision, and if I died here, it would be my fault, not hers.

I had died before, and I was not afraid to die again -- the luxury of reincarnation used to its fullest.

She seemed tall and svelt, to someone as small as me, with a good head on her shoulders. Every movement she made had substance, meaning behind it. When she moved, I thought I was looking at a well trained classical dancer, an apsara, and when she spoke, I thought I heard an apsara singing and birds chirping along with her. What could I say? I was smittened by her grace, by the fact I was standing by her side, and she spoke to me like I was her long lost pal.

It was obvious to me, she came from a wealthy family, a family of education, a family influenced by westerners. I knew then she was alone, or at least, without a dad -- that was the outcome for most families who had gone through the Khmer Rouge ordeal the last four years or so. That thought saddened me. My compassion had forced itself to the surface, to show her I was empathising with her, that I knew her plights, that I understood her soul, that her soul was like mine; in essence, she was a female version of me.

We bonded immediately like two old souls reconnected after a long desparation and separation. Perhaps we lost touch many lives ago, when we were great lovers to one another, when we walked hand in hand through a path less traveled, when we took turns watching birds through a binocular borrowed from a friend, when we signed a marriage certificate inside a chapel overlooking an ocean, in a foreign land, when Cambodia was peacful, clean and free, when the Cambodian king's grandparents were just babies; not too many generations ago -- she and I were wife and husband.

We held hands, read books, took trips to far away places when we found time to spend together; our employments kept us apart most of our day; wealth wasn't an issue, we were well to do, we had servants, we ate in the finest restaurants and treated in the best hospitals.

If we needed another vacation home in a country she fonded, we would leisurely buy one without much discussion or input. It was only money and we had plenty streaming into our multiple checking and saving accounts, from different revenue producing sources. I was wise with the money I earned from my military career, invested in all the right instruments with low risks to ensure my principals would be protected.

The investments worked out so well; if I had to quit the military to be with her upon her request, our life style wouldn't have changed that much; it was reassuring to her, and I was quite enjoyful of that fact, and the fact that I brought forth something she truly appreciated.

Because I had to be out and perform my military duties, she didn't want to be home alone so she found herself a well-paying job she loved, to pass the time.

We longed for each other throughout the day while we were apart. Because our bond was quite strong; I constantly felt her next to me and I spoke to her like I was somene who had just escaped the insane asylum.  If I was crazy, I was crazy about her. I had no doubt about that.

If I wasn't her husband, I wouldn't know what to think about; I had no interest in other things. I would just waste my day away on mindless tasks pertaining to military duties. My life would be meaningless despite the medals on my chest. There wouldn't be a reason for my existence. I'd rather cease to exist than be without her.

She was my reason for being born and will be the reason again, because the universe always keeps two compatible souls intertwined -- its way of keep track of all the lovers.

For our future's sake, I knew I had to be financially stable before asking for her hand in marriage.  One thing I didn't want was for our financial burdens to tear our marriage into small unmanagable parts that just floating about, waving at us, shouting at us, screaming for our attention, but we chose to ignore them because it was an easy until it started to spiral down into the abyss and ended up with a nasty divorce.

I wanted her to live a life of possilities; wealth was important to me.  Anything she yearned for would be made possible to acquire in as little time as permitted, quick and easy, almost on demand. If there was a career she wanted to pursue, she would have the means to do so, and I would not under any circumstance stand in the way of her ambition. She had the freedom to do what she pleased even when it was displeasing to me; my main corncern was her happiness.

I wouldn't be happy unless she was, and I was an extremely happy husband.  I was the envy among men in my circle, influential men, men of high standard and virtue.

My life was perfect, and hers was, too.  We were two peas in the same pod.

We gave each other spaces, breaks and forgiveness -- we were always ready to forgive and forget; we never went to bed angry -- that's the secret to a successful marriage.  We read each other's mind.  We glanced at each other; we smiled.

Our communication consisted of glances and smiles.  We reduced our lives to its simplest form; nothing was complicated for us.  It was our way to remain in a perpetual bliss together and forever.

She was my true love -- true love existed once for me, for us; it could exist again; I believe in this possibility wholeheartedly.

Life worths living when there's something to look forward to.

I had prepared a great life for her and I according to my understand of the living standard of those days. If she was unhappy, she knew she was free to leave without owing me any explanation or apology; I wouldn't ask for one; I wouldn't do anything that would pressure her, give her a sense of obligation to offer me one; she could leave the same manner as she came into my life. Whatever her reason was for wanting to leave; I was sure it was valid. Whatever she told her friends and family members about her unhappiness with me, I was certain it was the accurate and truthful.

Surprisingly, she never expressed her disappointment with me or confined to anyone in her circle; she was quite happy to having me revolve around her world; and I would do anything to protect that world of hers, and I wouldn't do anything to shatter it.

And I would want to see her conitnuing to live a sheltered life; no one deserved such a life more than my ex-wife.

As for me, my life would continue as usual. No moping, no weeping, no sob stories, no rebound romances; I wouldn't put up with anything seemed negative to me.  I would just enjoy her well being from my place of comfort.  I could live in the comfort of knowing she had moved to a better life.  If I could be of any help to her during time of transition, I would be more than glad to assist her.  She didn't have to ask.  She just had to indicate she wanted help, and I would run to her, not as a lost puppy or a jilted man but as a gentleman.

Helping a woman, any woman, to his capacity is gentlemanly.

Besides, she was my wife, and my life was devoted to her. She was not God, a goddess, or an angel; she was just exquisite in every possible way, an enchantress, and I was enchanted by her, her elegant, her looks, mostly her intelligence. She thought for herself, charted her own course, never cared what others thought of her, designed her life in ways that brought her more happiness while allowing me the freedom to create my future that was accomendating to both me and her.

We were compatible on every level.

Then came that dreadful day that drastically changed our lives forever.

I was a high ranking army officer, well respected and admired, until a bullet from a foe during a nasty war struck me in the neck as I charged the enemies in a trench in a land far from home and another bullet pierced through my right arm. I dropped to my knees, choked on my own blood and died a few minutes later. It wasn't as agonizing as I had imagined; I knew as soon I was aware of my wound in the neck that I was leaving my wife, that she would have to be home alone, that I could no longer hold her hand or take a long walk along her side, that she had to brave the world on her own; I was sorry that I left her suddenly; I knew she could cope with my loss and move on with her life; she was a courageous women, caring and loving; she would have been a wonderful mom to our many kids, but it wasn't meant to be.

Death came, shook my hand, and I went with it; it wasn't such a big deal to me because I had accepted it as a part of my life, not necessary the end of my life. It was brief a meeting, a hello, goodbye situation then death went on its way, probably to welcome the next soul. If it could wave, it'd probably wave me goodbye; maybe it did, and I just didn't see it. It seemed lost and confused; it was not ferocious like Cujo as I previously thought, I didn't feel infuriated by it. It was not intimidating to me. 

I actually felt sorry for death; it probably loathes its assigned duty.

It seemed like death had been humbled by God.

Ask Christ, be Christ's disciple and you'd understand what I meant.

Death is like negative matter that is invisible to the human's eyes. You can only feel its energy and interact with it accordingly. When you offer your hand for a handshake, you feel its energy lightly gripping your hand as if it is shy and insecure, feel like cold air circulating around your palm and fingers, and that energy will physically move your hand up and down, at least, it'll give you that sensation. When that happens, you know for a fact you're shaking hands with death, not with a ghost, because death does not, will not shake hands with the livings, only ghosts do.

To me, personally, death was that enemy on the battlefield that was shooting at me with an AK47 and vise versa, but when we cornered and captured him, I shook his hand then released him because the war had been declared over; he won; we immediately surrendered to him.  He was kind and gentle; he just wanted to go home to his family; he hated being a soldier. He became one due to the requirement by his government for men his age to spend a certain amount of time in the army. He released us, wished us a good life and dropped his rifle to the ankle high grass.

"Hey!," I shouted to him.

He turned to look at me like I was about to shoot him.

"I'm sorry I killed your friends," I shouted again. 

He nodded, acknowledging my apology and went on his way. He was not in a mood for a conversation. He never looked back.

We parted as friends.

"You had killed people?," my wife once asked me. I was taken aback. There was no dancing around this question. 

"Yes," I replied after a moment of opining, making sure I wouldn't sound abrasive on such a sensitive subject. She didn't take the reply too well but she knew she had to accept the fact and overlooked it. She never asked me another question regarding my military duties and responsibilities.

I realized in that instant she truly loved me, unconditionally.

It's this love and the ability to readily forgive keep a marriage healthy despite the mistakes that are bound to happen; there's no such thing as a perfect mate.

The khnowledge that I had killed people could have enraged her to the point of screaming and shouting at each other, there would be a war in my own house, but the love she had for me assuaged her would be anger. Instead she leaned toward me and kissed me on the lips then said, "I forgive you."  How liberating it was to hear those words from a wife. She did plenty of forgiving throughout of our marriage. I was a man who was still learning about love, life and her; I was human, I made some mistakes; some were at her expense.

Every forgiveness she gave me humbled me a bit, and my love for her grew a bit more.

Mistakes are God's ways of pointing man to the right path. God had been very patient with me.

All I gave her in return was my life; a short moment of it.

When I came into this world, it was like I came into a subdued party, I partied with the people I loved, and when the party was over, it was time for me to leave, and I left with without any regrets; during the party, I might have bumped into some people, made some mad while losing myselt in a dance but nothing was serious or criminally wrong; I never went to prison in my entire life. Of course, some would feel a bit empty inside that I had to depart, a few would shed some tears because well I provided a great company, I brightened up a good number of people, my wife included, and they appreciated me for having partied with them.

That's life and death in a nutshell.

And when sh*t happens, don't step into it; avoid it, ignore it, walk away from it.

It's better to keep the peace than being ended up dead.

Life is not that complex or complicated when love is your knight in a shiny armor.

"Subdued party" because I lived a quiet life; my life encompassed my wife, my military career and hers and a few trusted friends. Althought we had great means financially, we lived a modest life, the way my wife wanted.  She and I weren't hopping bars, clubs or restaurants at night; everything we needed we had in our home.  If we wished upon a sumptuous dinner on a special night, it would be prepared for us almost immediately.

While we waited for our dinner, we glanced at each others and smiled.  When our eyes met, very often I might add, there would be a splash of magic bursting, sparks would be flying between us, and I would get the come hither looks from her.  We would behave like two teenagers in love during those magical moments.  We could create those moments wherever we found ourselves -- that was the special connection she and I shared, truly special.

My wife was my party; she was my everything.  I became what I was through her wisdom and kindness.

My wife cried for months after she was informed of my death by the trench, and that my body was lost among the deads. My subordinates tried to retrieve my corpse, but the fighting prevented them from being successful; the fighting intensified after I left. It was too risky; too many lives would have been lost. They knew I wouldn't want that on my conscious, and they were spot on.

They knew me well. I taught them well.

It was true.

I had make them aware early on that I did not want any of my soldiers to die on my account. I'd rather die for them than having them risk their lives to save mine. Let me die for your sake I often said to them  then proceeded to teach them to become leaders, to take charge, to take the initiative for the sake of our country.

Always take the initiative, especially when it is dealing with a signigicant other. 

My marriage headed into troubles on occasions when I waited for my wife to finish a certain chores. These chores could have been done in advance on her behalf if I had taken the intiative and would have been rewarded for it instead of waiting for her to get to them or being asked to do so.

It's best to take the intiavtive; waiting can get you in trouble.

Because of my position in the military and my stance, I often imagined how I would die, how I would be the first to put my life on the line for the sake of my subordinates. The moment I signed on to become a soldier, I knew I would die on a battlefield but didn't know how; I just knew I wanted to die gloriously and bravely. I wanted to die for my country, for my king and for my people. I wanted my name to be inscribed somewhere in a Cambodian history book; I failed at this endeavor.

I shall try again.

I never had a proper burial or a cremation; I had no clue as to what happened to my corpse, yet, I was at peace; my world was in zen. I felt complete, quite content, not a worry was swimming in my head, as if I belonged in the afterlife. 

Even though my life was cut short, I didn't feel cheated or angry. I was just wondering where I was at then answers rushed to me and I had no more questions.

Everything was done instantly.

There was no sense of emptiness or lonliness usually associate with death. I was present, not as a tree or a rock, I was conscious of my being, I was standing and observing, but absent of all other emotions except love, love for all life and all things as if my all senses had been disconnected from my nervous system -- this must be nirvana.

This must be what Buddha felt when he reached enlightenment after he detached himself from all things and all livings. There was not a want or a need; there was no suffering of any kind; there was only love; love had conquered all.

A great victory for mankind; well, for God's children living in this realm.

In some ways, I was extremely happy that I had passed away abruptly; no, it's not odd at all for saying; it's a fact.

I was overwhelmed by the amount of love I felt hugging me snuggly. There weren't many splashes of colors. I didn't look far enough, from what I could see was whiteness; this whiteness was not a color but was some form of an energy, a thing, a living thing, alert, aware of its surrounding and recognized faces but couldn't communicate, its behavior and demeanor was like that of a puppy's if that puppy was a vast  universe; it didn't make a sound because it couldn't make sound.

It could have God's pet; yes, it was God's pet that had been looking at me, measuring me up, questioning about me as if it hadn't seen someone like me before.

It felt like I was in a room, one endless room voided of all walls. I was in the care of God's pet; it was keeping meentertained. I was amused by it. I giggled then laughed;

I must admit I had a great time playing with God's pet. Who knew God had such a wonderful pet?

"Am I in the house of God's pet?," I threw out a thought.

"Yes." came the answer faster than the speed of light.

"Am I in heaven?," I threw out another thought.

"You're in God's front yard." was the reply.

Now I felt like I was God's guest and had arrived early, and God was busy shaving His beard or in the middle of getting dressed.

The afterlife would be a party if there were music, but this place was absent of all sounds, ears weren't necessary since everyone was communicating telepathically.  Actually, no one was communicating at all, they could if they wished to use their vocal chord; there was no restriction of any sort.

We knew everything there was to know, no question was left unanswered. There was no need for communication.

Communication as we know it became obsolete after you died.  You became a spirit, an energy, you became a part of God's love.

You are where God spreads his love; you are doing what God had intended for you that you couldn't do while on earth, which is to spread his unconditional love.

For those who enjoy the silence; this realm is for you.

We were like God but not Gods. We could bicker with God if that was our perogative and there wouldn't be any conquesences because God so loves the world.

I was at a place where God resides.

God extended a cordial welcome to me as I approached what I could only say His front door.  Suddenly, I was in the presence of God; God is love -- to be more specific -- unconditional love. 

The kind of love that lasts forever. God is forever.

We could curse and spit at God, and God would still love us -- that's unconditionally love.

One who does not believe in God is telling the world that s/he is more knowledgable than God; more capable of loving than God's unconditional love offered to man. I can testify right now that there is no such kind of love; it does not exist -- there is no love beyond unconditional love.

I knew then that only God could complete me, and no one, not a possession of high value, not even my amazing wife could hold a light to God.

However, I credited my wife for bringing me to this point, to this understanding; she brought me to God. She would probably detest the idea of me admitting, stating this; as far as she knew she was just being a loving, devoted wife.

I had no reason whatsoever to return to earth, I could be forever happy being with God, but the urge to see my wife once more danced before my eyes; suddenly, I felt obligated to find her, my one and only, as if she had telepathically sent me a message asking me to return to her.

I heard her message, now I had to run back to her. Any husband would if he truly loved her.

God understood and granted me the wish to search for her.  He knew the love I had for her was unconditional, it can never subside or die. For that reason, God gave me the free will in the pursuit of her.

Whatever happened to me, it happened for a reason.  It happened because there was more to life, and life wanted me to experience all it had to offer, and it offered me unless possibilities, meaning anything could happen unexpectedly. All I had to do was be ready to receive its miracles.

Any moment that life happens is a moment of miracle. A miracle happens every second of everyday -- life is that amazing.

And it happens the moment you sit down.

And when it happens, think of it as that first explosion that created the universe. Let those explosions create your life, too; it will be unexpected but your life will be enriched moment by moment, your mind will expand continuously, once expaned, it can not be contracted.

Soon enough, you will come to understand Buddha, and you will be able to comprehend the Bible, God will be speaking to you, calling you by your first name, and you will get the complete meaning of life from Him, not from man.

God limited man to ten percent usage of his mind for a reason, never question it, don't try to comprehend it; if you do, you will lose your mind over it. You will end up on the streets talking to yourself.

I wanted contentment throuhgout my life just like everybody else did, and my wife came through for me during the time I was with her and after I left her; this contentment went with me to my death or should I say I took it with me to my death. It was the only thing I had of my wife.  I held on to it; I treasured it.

The love of a wife can never really vanish or subside; it is the same love that parents share with their children. It's always there lingering like a teenager on a street that is awestruck by an outfit displayed inside a a high fashion boutique, shunned by most parents. That outfit is more than the parents can afford but the teenager sure knows how to strump the strings of the parents' hearts. They know the likihood of their child giving up on that outfit is zero to none so they all stand face to face until time comes to a slow end.

Since I knew every street like I knew the back of my hand, I led her through several alley ways to a secure place behind an apartment complex hidden away by other skyscrapers as the police nearing us.

Most of these buildings were still unoccupied; we used them as our playgrounds, our toilets; yes, we urinated and defecated in them like animals marking their territories.

The capital was still a ghost town; only a handful were roaming the streets, some were misfits like us. Everywhere one looked there was trash a mountain high and continued expanding day by day as nearby residents kept piling their refuge onto it, and kids would picking plastic and glass from the mountain to be sold elsewhere for riels (cash); I was one of those kids for awhile until a better opportunity came along.

The country was still waking up from a horrific nightmare -- the Cambodian genocide. No matter how one wants to define it; it's a genocide in my view.

The Khmer Rouge was still fighting in pockets against the North Vietnamese troupes on the outskirts of the city. These Vietnamese librated us and protected us, when America and  the rest of the world communities neglected us, left us to defend ourselves after America completely destroyed the infrastructure during the bombing campaign under the direction of the Nixon administration.

Cambodia was vurnerable to all forms of attack. The Khmer Rouge used this opportunity to overtake the country; the rest is history.

People were still losing limbs and lives from stepping on landmines and rockets launched from the Khmer Rouge's hideouts and grenades thrown into large crowds, especially in movie theaters.

Whenever, wherever a movie showcased, people would wait in long lines and I would find myself among them. We knew we were risking our lives each time we stepped inside a movie threater because there would be a deranged individual or group (possibly Khmer Rouge) throwing a grenade into a crowd and a score of attendees would be blown into bits as if for amusement, an inside joke, as if the movie wasn't exciting enough, they needed to create their own excitement, as if the movie lacked blood and gore so they added a scene loaded with extras, for special effect they threw in a live grenade instead of using CGI, as if they had nothing better to do, so they killed innocent people as a sports. Maybe they were competing for points because it appeared to happen every consecutive day.

The man that kills the most wins. For bonus points, blow up a few pregnant women, a bus full of school kids, a nursery, the entire hospital.

Cambodians killing Cambodians at its finest in the earlier days after the fall of the murderous Khmer Rouge.

Cambodia was still a killing field and I was there in the midst of it all.

The war maybe over but the killing of Cambodians by Cambodians continued.

Even as a young child, I could feel the emotions trenching from a mother whose child had just been blown into pieces as she cried her heart out, as she searched for pieces of her baby. All she could find was blood on the walls and on the ground where her child once stood, ate, drank and played and she grinned from a distance, not knowing a few minutes later, her son would evaporate, as if self-destructed because it happened so fast, as if someone was performing a magic trick and made her son disappeared. But she knew this wasn't a magic show, there was no magician that she could see, and her son wasn't coming back.

She stood stunned, frozen in time for a few seconds because she couldn't process the thought fast enough, still shaking from the thunderous sound of an exploding grenade. Her ears rang like a church bell waking her from her moment of emotional shock; her system had shut down, her mind went blank. For a short moment, she was a zombie until she woke up to the lound ring in her ears. And it took another moment before she comprehended what had happened to her child, she cried out, screaming, running to where her child was, wondering, hoping, wishing, praying for anything, anything at all; she had lost everything; she had nothing now; her child was everything to her. She just became a childless mother, empty, her child left a great, big void inside her.

She was too overwhelmed by the incident; she couldn't think, she tried and tried but nothing came to mind. Only tears gushing out of her eyes like a river leaping off a waterfall to its violent death. She wiped away the tears but she couldn't do it as fast so the tears continued flowing down her cheeks and plopped on her son's blood that was staining the concrete.

No amount of tears could wash away the amount of her son's blood on the sidewalk and walls.

Her heart pounded on the her rib cage like a war prisoner wanted to be let out but she was too consumed by the emotions and the loss of her son that she didn't notice her heart's plead.

Her heart continued pounding against the rib cage, never giving up until it was exhausted, until there was not an ounce of energy within it; it wanted to see the mess with its own eyes because right now it was hard to believe such a thing had happened.

Her son was only nine years old, was a little older than me.

She looked to the horrified, gathering crowd for any type of help, none was courageous to enough to lend her a hand. When she looked into their eyes they turned away, not wanting to risk their lives; maybe the bad was still around, observing the scene, waiting for the victim.

Her mind continued sprintinging in circle; where could she go from here?

Only time could provide her with the answers she needed to aid her in the healing process. Time heals all wounds with the exception of this one.

I often wondered what kind of evil was lurking inside their heart the moment they decided to pull the pin and throw a grenade into a crowd. 

Where was their compassion? Their conscious? What happened to them? What happened to man?

If I were forced to walk in their shoes, would I lose my compassion, would I give it up, too and started to detonate people as dictated by my screwed up ideology? Probably not because I saw enough of man being destructive to another man.

At what point the suppressed animal inside me would burst out and started attacking man like a pissed off wolverine, shredding them up with guns, grenades and tanks? How far would I be pushed before I lose myself? All I could at that point was to hold on tightly to my compassion; Jesus Christ was able to do it -- He was man, too.  I would, at least, try but probably failed miserably, unless Christ was standing right next to me, couraging me endlessly. Would I give up my life for the benefit of man? Only my Creator would know.

I questioned, still do; answers never come voluntarily. If they do, it's often too late.

Even with the possibility of death didn't deter me from entering a movie house. I'd rather die seeing a movie than die with a full stomach. I would wholeheartedly trade my last meal for a movie ticket if I was on death row, and today was the day that I would be executed.

Lethal injection would be the ideal way to end this life.

Electric chair would be too gruesome for me to withstand and the pain would be too tremendous.

I saw death by electricity before; the sight alone would scorch the mind and disturb the soul and the image would linger for a very long, long time.

Avoid the electric chair if you could; I would definitely forgo it.

These were old Khmer movies, what left of a complete feature, pre Khmer Rouge, usually a soapish drama, that were found in an abandoned theater, or was spliced together with frames found about within the projection room, horribly edited and dubbed in Khmer; scratches running rampant throughout the films; badly synced, horrible soundtrack,  incomprehensible at time, some missing a huge portion and some end suddenly without a climax, resolution or a reward for the hero or badly scripted.

Maybe the producers and directors of these films rushed into production or maybe they thought they could fix any forseeable problems in post. The end results were poorly written and produced feature films.

Nonetherless, I was entertained, captivated by the actions on the screen. To me, it was pure magic, unfathomable, it didn't matter to me the cast members overacted practically in every scene or the dialogue track dropped off here and there and sometime,  there was no audio at all; I was just enthralled, overtaken, to be sitting in the dark with other movie goers and be dazzled by the images flickering at twenty four frames per second on the torn silver screen, replete with bullet holes.

I didn't know a simple movie could add so much meaning to my life, gave me so much pleasure and entertaining value; even though at that time, it could have costed me my life.

From that moment on, I came to adore film makers; they were and are the controllers of my life's roller coaster rides; I gave them all rights to manipulate my emotions at will, both inside the theater and my daily life; they had captured with me with their film making abilities, and I had completely surrendered myself to them. And I would be extremely honor to one day be shootin films with and among them, in their circles, on par with them.

Those bullet holes in the silver screen added another dimension to the looks of the theater, a theater in the heart of urban Cambodia -- my beloved country -- a place that greatly touched my heart and melt my soul like a beautiful woman who constantly, instantly sees the bright side of every very bad situation --  the one whose smile can light up a place like an HMI and just as hot when turned on.

Life couldn't get any better than this, when you started with nothing, had nothing.

In Buddhism, one is taught to detach oneself from materialistic things so that every little life occurence deepens one's understanding of one's self and appreciates this tiny, tiny discovery.

In essence, I was just practicing my religion. Unbehnownst to me, I was doing the right thing.

To understand the world, one must discover one's self first, the core of his/her being, the survivor within, the stump of a tree, the pupil in the eye, the place where s/he keeps his/her Creator guarded.

All I had was my precious life and a small body I lugged around town with not much effort at all; my companions were the streets and empty buildings looming over me wherever I went, looking over my shoulders, shielding me from potential stray bullets and grenade launches.

I was a lonely kid wandering a lonely street in the dark of night, only the lamposts guided my path, maybe my life,  too. I had no place to be at in particular, no one to meet or catch up it, couldn't go home for supper, so I stayed within the parameter of the light provided by the lamposts. At least, I had that until curfew came into affect at midnight, at which time I must find a place to spend the night and be out of sight; if seen, I could be taken in by the police walking the beat.

No one was allowed loitering the street after midnight to six in the morning.

The streets absent of people nearly drove me insane due to emotional isolation. There I was alone in the dark, sandwiched between unoccupied buildings, staring into the pitch dark night, not a single light flickering anywhere within this war torn country. The fascades of some its buildings were disfigured by the weapons of war, some may still contain dead, bloated bodies.

Added to that was my fear of ghosts.

Ghosts I could tolerate but emotional isolation was a differnt kind of beast entirely. There wasn't much I could do to eliminate the lonelyness I felt each night, so I cried until I fell fast asleep -- sleep was the only remedy to temporarily cure lonelyness, and that was enough for me until the morning sun came up, and the city came back to life after the curfew was over.

I dreaded the curfew; I wished it was never implemented in the first place. I thought it was put there to annoy me, to punish me for having steal other people's belongings.

I would be happy if I could stay slumber for two consecutive hours a night.

To temporarily eliminate the feeling of isolation is to slumber the night away.

I couldn't get enough of these movies; I could watch the same movie a billion times and would still love every minute of it. I didn't get hooked by the storylines or the plots and subplots, the subject matters or any other component of a great, well made film; I was more attracted to process of bringing the visually stunning images onto the screen; I wanted to stir people's emotions through storytelling, stroke their ego and make them vex; I wanted to toy with their emotions; I wanted play God with my cast and boss my crew. I could do all these things without resorting to the usage of threats, guns, grenades, tanks, airplanes and other military arsenals.

I could be a man without having to kill another man, claimed I had NSA friends and used these governement agents to threaten other citizens to just prove my machismo.

He who uses his government against its citizens is a very dangerous man. He needs to be observed and studied from distance.

Movies were my great escapes from the streets. The moving images had always enthralled me to point that it started to dictate my life, even now; it's my vice; it's my addiction. It was the only drug I took and still taking, and I was glad to have found such a drug; probably was given to me by my Creator as a gift; maybe I could do something worthwhile with it.

I hope I never waste it. If I did, I would regret it for eternity. I march on, hoping to grab something that is quite elusive to me; I must for I will be defined by the success or failure of this endeavor.

Nothing and no one could ever influence me more than movies. I am forever in love with movie making; no one could ever come close. I often walked away from people and things, and when I do, I always take movie making with me; it's my conjointed twin; inseparable, not even experienced doctors in this field could ever separate us; if they could, I certainly wouldn't permit it.

To love me is to love my conjointed twin -- there is no negotiation, no compromising, none. I am what I am; I change according to my plans, and no one else's.

If I can't make movies, let me die agonizingly slow, skin me like they skin those aliens in V television series, fillet me, scrape and smash my bones into fragments while I'm still alive and alert, just be sure it's excruciatingly painful, take it deliberately slow like you're distracted by a train wreck that just happens before your eyes, and when I cry for mercy, kindly deny my request so as I die a slow death, I will concentrate on the pain and not think of the moving pictures; I don't think it's possible but it worths a try.

It maybe gruesome and inhumane, do it anyway for my sake, for the sake of movie making.

Seize everything that is me, that I am, that is mine, throw me out, shout at me, scream, hit, punch, discard me like a rag doll that is annoying to the touch due to the roughness around the edges, the dirt behind the ears, the spit in the face, the tears in the head, the unwashed hair, the bloodshot eyes into a trashbin that is wide at the mouth because I had gained a few extra pounds, delete and defriend me from all social network sites; if it's a must, take my life, too, just don't take movie making out of me or my ability to jot down a thought on any given subject in a journal, a diary, a menuscript, or a blog that later may become a TV show, a feature film.

I shall be in a state of perpetual bliss; I am a perpetual optimist, forever grateful.

Change in this country during this time meandered ever so slowly as if time had slowed down drastically, and life had sped up dramatically; we all were heading towards the last second of the last minute of our lives.

Anyone of us kids walking in Phnom Penh could be cut down the next second by any means under the sun; danger existed everywhere when there was no law enforcement of any kind; law was basically non-existance. We, street kids, were vurnerable to many factors outside of our control. All we could do was act and react to these negative factors. We evolved according to our reactions to them; they shaped us, gave us character.

In the end, we either grow stronger or die fighting.

It was compassion in those who caught me stealing their possessions that prevented them from beating every breath out of me. There was no law to stop these adults from killing me but campassion was always there to rescue me in a nick of time; it was and still is my superhero; if I were killed, the killer would have been cheered on and applauded like they did when the Khmer Rouge marched into the city on April 17, 1975.

My death would have caused a great celebration throughout the country; there might even be riots.

To them I was just spit on a street, an aluminun can they could kick down the sidewalk, into a car, throw against a wall, squish under their shoe, step on, a piece of garbage littering the curb far too long; just a sight of me made them cringe in disgust.

My death would definitely be a welcome news, a cause for an unnecessary celebration; riots would ensue due to huge amount of liquor consumtion. Fights would break out. Police would be called to calm the intoxicated, rowdy crowds.

Government officials would want to know who was that guy that just died, his death caused these chaos, and no one could offer an accurate reply because I died as an unknown, unidentifiable, homeless, pennyless, and I didn't carry any form of document; I had none.

No matter what is happening to us at any given moment, doesn't matter how tragic the event is, remain calm, be majestic, be optimistic, be strong -- look within, there's an island in all of us. Be that island, take what's coming, take what's given, chew on it, swallow it  then spit it out when no one is looking; as long as it doesn't kill us, it'll make us stronger, give us a foundation, a springboard from which we will jump to the next chapter of our lives, and life will get better, appreciate it every day that we are alive, kiss the sky, say hello to the sun and good night to the moon, wet your feet in the grass, wave to your neighbor, buy a cup of coffee at a nearby convenience store and a new pair of shoes by Stacy Adams plus a suit and a blue tie, dye your hair yellow, swagger through a supermarket with chest out and chin up, wink at those you find attractive, stop be reliant on others; be happy, be bliss because no one can give you these things, it can only come from within where the island anchored to your soul, no more blaming or playing games -- life isn't a casino, step away from the Russian roulette.

Everything happens on the surface. It shouldn't rattle your soul or your core -- the self that you work so hard to protect, the survivor that dwells inside you rent free; the one that absorbs all life's pitfalls that are coming at you from all the directions like a billion spears, daggers and knives. S/he takes them, rolls them into a ball and tosses it out at a later date while you go about your day.

When we died before our time, we felt cheated. We wanted to reincarnate -- reincarnation is the core of most Cambodians' belief system, which is Buddhism.

Reincarnation makes sense when life is unfair.

There must be a balance somewhere. Buddhists everywhere seek this balance. We believe in karma, what goes around, comes around. We certainly do not want to taste our own medicine; because of this, we do not want to harm anyone or other living things.

Every life should progress as it should, as intended. No interference is necessary.

Evolution is quite cognizant of its duty, its functions. It has a direction in which it takes us. Enjoy the ride, feel the breeze; it's bumpy at a certain point, some detours can not be avoided along the way, just know it's not the end of the world; grip the steering wheel; you're seated behind it, enjoy the view, know where to turn, you will eventually reach your destination. The key is to keep on going, no matter what is stalling you.

There is absolutely no dead end. I am so certain of it.

Patience is often required on such a long trip.

This was the reality the people in Phnom Penh were facing, and I happened to be walking among them like a stranger in the dark of night; they avoided like me a plaque that kills faster than any known chemical simply because I was a kid dressed in rags or maybe they were afraid I would pick their pockets. The latter would be the most likely scenario.

And if they wanted to wash gunks out of their faces, sleep from their eyes, they couldn't because there was no water; the plumbing ceased operation many years ago. To fetch water, one had to walk quite a distance with a bucket to a single faucet made available to the residents and wait in a line for some time.

My mom, brothers and sisters lived on the second floor of an apartment complex; those apartments were basically a studio, which means it had no walls to divide the space into rooms except for the bathroom. In the bathroom was a tub with a shower head, a toilet and a sink, pretty modern and convenient. Since there was no running water, the bathroom could not be used. The kitchen consisted of an electrical stove, no refrigerator, sofa or beds. Everyone slept on the floor, no carpet, just ceramic tiles.

Cambodians don't carpet their floors.

My mother had to carry water up a long flight of stairs, which wasn't too cumbersome compared to those who lived further away. I was too young to be any help to her in this area.

I stayed hidden with her, hushing her up at times. Through whispering, I assured her the police would not go through those alley ways. If by any chance I was wrong about my assumption, we would run up the stairs of this building to the roof top. Once there, no police officer would ever find us because we would leap from an empty building to the next at the first sight of them and stay hidden forever, if this was the only option available to us.

For security reason, I wanted her to hush up, not a wimper or a whisper to be uttered. She complied by nodding and followed all my instructions and orders, she was raptured by the fear of being taken away in handcuffs, and be paraded before the eyes of all the people bustling the streets. She would lose face if this was to occur.

It was my duty to stop such a thing from happening.

We hurdled closer together, making ourselves as small as possible. When I accidently touched her skin, it felt cold, comfortably cold, colder than the day, how could this be? And I wondered if all girls' skin would be constantly cold as hers under a humid sky, on a hot and dry day. It was my first time touching a girl, not in any way sexual; it was just a touch, as natural and as platonic as it could possibly be, and I wanted to touch her again and I did without a second thought, and she welcomed it with a gentle smile as if to say hi to me, who was still wided eyes by her mere presence.