July 21, 2005 at 12:51 AM

It was as though I was really there, even if we were simply floating in space and I had no clue how I got there. I was having a nightmare of epic proportions. Everyone I knew was there, and we were all being taken to a concentration camp. I was okay with this, as long as we were all together; I was certain that I, of course, would be just fine.

But then, one of my friends was the truth-bearer, and she informed me that we would not, in fact, be okay, and that every one of us would eventually die in one horrific way or another. This news came as quite a blow, since I'd been so sure that I was special, that everything always worked out just fine for me. Death! Torture? No, I'm not ready! I was seized by panic, and I sought a way to escape. There was no way out. Panic gave way to despair and grief.

Then, a Knowledgable Presence whispered in my left ear and enlightened me to the fact that I had nothing to worry about, since all artists and musicians are birds and have wings that can fly them wherever they need to go. This was just the ticket, and I made quick use of this new insight. I spied a small window up high on the wall of our cell, so I sprouted my wings and became a bird so that I could reach the opening unnoticed. The sense of freedom I held was terrifying, since I knew that guards would soon be alerted, and would be hunting with their black hearses and search lights. I flew for the mountains, happy to brave the elements and die in the woods, rather than at the hands of the Enemy. Up through the trees, over the streams, and there I settled in the brown thicket beneath a ledge, as the patroller passed overhead.

Even as I lay awake in the darkness, I was terrified and unwilling to try sleeping again. I was a small child again, wishing for a comforting embrace to fall into. As my fear subsided, I mentally went around the house, being thankful for each and every thing I could think of. I'm thankful for my life, and my bed, and my blankets and for food, and for a free country that lets me live mostly in peace. I'm thankful for George, and for friends and family. I have another day!

This entry would sound cheesy and overdramatic to those who don't relate. But I do not mean these words to be taken lightly. You see, I have been in a place in my life when I though that I would die.

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It's been eight years now, since I went overseas to Cambodia and accidentally got caught up in a war there. Cambodia's history is mostly turbulent, and in the 1970's, two million people were killed in a communist holocaust. The Khmer Rouge and their leader, Pol Pot, invaded the capital city of Phnom Penh and sent its people into the fields to be killed.

I traveled to Phnom Penh over twenty years later and found Toul Sleng, the school building used as a concentration camp, left practically as it had been found. Blood stained the floors, spilled by the countless citizens who were massacred there. I saw the tiny cells that held the prisoners, the large pots in the schoolyard that held the human waste used for torture. I saw the thousands of photos of people, young and old, who last lived there. They were all killed.

So why would I think that I would survive that attack in the summer of '97, when the Khmer Rouge once again fought for control over the city? Pol Pot and his men were there, I was three blocks from the shelling, and bullets whizzed over our heads. We barricaded the windows and doors and prayed for deliverance, but I never believed I would get out of there alive. I mourned the loss of my family and friends, my homeland. I wished more than anything that I could be brave and strong, but all I could think about was watching my companions being tortured and killed. It was too much.

Although the American Embassy there barricaded its doors from us and evacuated themselves, we were miraculously able to purchase tickets out of the country on a Red Cross plane. Standing in a crowd of thousands out on the tarmac, I looked at the holes in the walls of the airport where we had stood just the previous week. I am still overwhelmed when I think that I was one of only 160 people who got out of there that day, unharmed.

It's not that I mindfully think about Cambodia that much any more. The whole ordeal seems so out of place in the regular goings on in the life of Emily Grossman. Yet, it has been the single most impacting event of my life, and even if I'm not fully conscious of it, sometimes it finds a way to remind me that it is still a part of me, influencing my thoughts and actions even today.

From Pratik Desai
Posted on July 21, 2005 at 2:06 AM

Wow- very poweful entry... I'm glad you came out of it safely.

From Jim W. Miller
Posted on July 21, 2005 at 7:14 AM

I remember in the late 70s hearing that the North Vietnam had overthrown the Khmer Rouge and thinking maybe they weren't all bad.

Your story made me do a little research to find out what went on there in the summer of '97. In early July there was a successful coup by one faction of their coalition government. The losing faction was allied with a rebel faction of the Khmer that had imprisoned Pol Pot in the middle of June. The main battle was July 5 & 6, with skirmishes before and atrocities reported during and after. Not exactly the Summer of Love. Glad you made it out :)

details here

From Pauline Lerner
Posted on July 21, 2005 at 8:32 AM

Emily, I'm so sorry that you went through all of that. It sounds like a terrible experience, especially for one as sensitive and empathic as you. I think you're doing well to be able to write about it now. I'm so glad that you have found your niche in life and that you are much, much happier now. May you always stay that way.

From Laurie Niles
Posted on July 22, 2005 at 1:13 AM

Wow, Emily. What a powerful experience, and a powerful dream to take you back to it. It's good that you are writing about it and taking us there, too; we should all be thankful for everything we have!

From Emily Grossman
Posted on July 22, 2005 at 8:40 AM

Hey, thanks, guys. It's been a rough couple of days...

Jim, thanks for the link. I wish that everyone who doesn't know about the mass genocide in Cambodia's history to take a little time to research it. A good book is "First They Killed my Father," by Loung Ung. Incredible biography, well-written and insightful.

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July 21, 2005 at 12:51 AM

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