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.

Tags: I Survived Mindeyes19 And His NSA Agents