Snow walk

I followed the trail, which became a track that led into the woods. Droppings of deer littered the fresh coat of snow, black pellets against a smooth, fine white. It was cold, but the afternoon sun felt graceful against my cheeks. The wind blew strong at first, and almost as if it was too embarassed to disturb the quietness of nature, stopped breathing altogether. I looked around, at the frozen landscape of barren trees, shrubs, and unspoiled wilderness. A winding brook silently and gently carved its way into the distance. I could live here, I thought to myself. I could lose myself in this great big world, away from the noises, away from the haunting memories of the past, away from uncertainties of the future, away from the troubles and worries, and surround myself with the humility and preciousness of each and every moment. One day I want to live here, out here, and be with nature.

I stood still, my eyes adjusting to the golden glow of the sun pouring over the soft, white blanket all around. With a stick I started to draw and write. Words, short, sweet sentences, hopes and wishes...

On my way back, the words and messages I had written in the snow had faded. The wind, like a naughty invisible finger, had smudged the writing, and soon all I had written will be lost.

Except, I know what I wrote. And the earth could read what I wrote. If only for a little while.

Oh, David...

... why do you need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders?

To dad

I am not sure what I should be feeling, if anything at all. I woke up, just like any other normal day. Outside, since the night before, a snowstorm had poured down over 30cm of snow. I thought coming south would be an escape from that winter cold.

I feel such a world away from the events that unfolded two years ago. I had to re-read what I had written to get my mind and heart back to that moment, even though it was a moment that will be defining for the rest of my life. The flight home, the anticipation, anxiety, the gradual realisation and reality of death...

The snow has stopped now, save for the few flakes falling from the heavens. A world of white stillness and serenity.

Every generation
Blames the one before
And all of their frustrations
Come beating on your door
I know that I'm a prisoner
To all my Father held so dear
I know that I'm a hostage
To all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Crumpled bits of paper
Filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations
I'm afraid that's all we've got
You say you just don't see it
He says it's perfect sense
You just can't get agreement
In this present tense
We all talk a different language
Talking in defense
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
So we open up a quarrel
Between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future
It's the bitterness that lasts
So Don't yield to the fortunes
You sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective
On a different date
And if you don't give up, and don't give in
You may just be O.K.
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
I wasn't there that morning
When my Father passed away
I didn't get to tell him
All the things I had to say
I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I'm sure I heard his echo
In my baby's new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye

YUL-EWR

Left home in the dark of 4am. Didn't sleep at all, only laid down an hour, eyes closed, but my mind and thoughts were wide awake. I ended up talking to a friend, which didn't help induce sleep, but at least helped confront my fears and causes of my agitations. Is a life of travelling and living comfortably from day to day without meaning? Is the pursuit of happiness or making someone happy more important? As with all these kind of deep, existentialist conversations, the only reply was an empty echo at night (and the muffled sound of my neighbour snoring next door).

I rode to the airport, and for the first time, checked in at the priority line reserved for "loyal" frequent fliers. I was feeling the effects of the lack of sleep, and it got worse as I queued the US immigration. A model of the Statue of Liberty stood next to tall flags of the Land of the Free, and she seemed to be mocking the hundreds of travellers wondering whether they would be able to catch their flight. I was taken aside for a moment, though I had no idea why. Was it because I couldn't recall the last time I was in the Minor Nation of the US and A? I really couldn't, perhaps I had gone so many times last year. Only after being taken into an empty hall did I remember that I was actually in the US in October to transit. The wonderful experience must have escaped my mind. Bizarre as it may seem.

But it turned out to be a false alarm, despite the fact the US border guard had miraculously managed to fish out my two suitcases from beneath the ground within minutes.

I went towards the boarding gate directly, as I had only ten minutes left. I skipped the lounge completely, in the hope thatw my "first time" would be a memorable experience. Once on board the plane, I closed my eyes and entered the world of sleep until the roar of the engines woke me as we hurtled down the runway and skyward.

The dawning light tore through the cabin of the little Canadair Regional Jet. Even with my eyes closed, the brightness of a whole new day tempted me to look out of the window. The frozen land below slid by as the plane headed towards Newark.

Yoga

I wanted to go in to yoga one last time before my long trip. A friend had suggested that it will do me good, especially having to sit down in a cramped space for over 16hours (even if it is broken up into two sectors...)

So I went in, and was just on time. The place was already quite crowded, surprisingly for a 16.30 class, as I assumed people would still be working (well, I'm not...). I found a place in the back, squeezed between two middle aged ladies, and had a really (really) big man next to me. I looked at the image in the mirror in front of us, and it looked like an extreme version of Laurel (me) and Hardy (him).

The class began, and I slowly got used to the heat. The clock counted down... 90 minutes to go till the end, and the instructor's voice urged us to exert all of our effort and energies. Since I started, I do feel much better about myself every time I finish. Even if not physically, from all the sweating and stretching, then at least mentally I feel I accomplish something significant after every class.

More than half way into the class, with some quarter of an hour left, I started to feel breathless. I never felt that way before, and as hard as I tried to follow the postures and the instructions, I couldn't. I was light headed and felt nauseated. Not like I wanted to throw up, but just like I have just gone for a spin without realising it, and am now reeling under the aftermath of it all....

So I had to stop and just lie down for a moment. Gradually, I felt my hands numb... a creeping sensation of numbness climbed up my arms and into my fingers, slowly and slowly taking control of my hands (right one was the worst)... Soon I last all senses of my hands and fingers. I tried to curl them, to control them, but just felt pain, tingling, bursts of electricity and impulses shooting and running throughout my hands and fingers. I felt overwhelmed, like I had lost control of my hands, like I had lost my hands. All the while, the voice of the instructor droned one, and we were already one posture further and closer toward the end of the class...

Then suddenly, an imaged flashed across my mind (terrible, since in yoga we're supposed to be concentrated fully on the breathing and movements of the body...) The image of my mum's hand, and my fingers reaching out to touch hers. I could see my mum lying there, asleep, after complaining about the numbness and pain she felt in her fingers and hands, because of the sideeffects of the chemo therapy. So is this excruciating sensation what it feels like? This pain, this severe numbness and inability to control the fingers... is this what mum has to go through every time she has poison injected into her body?

I closed my eyes, and tried to surpress the the pain and tingling sensations. Tried to watch those sensations, and thought of mum, and her ordeals...

"Push"

At the bookstore to pick up a gift for my cousin, I picked up something for myself too. Randomly I walked through the shelves, and saw a cover with a big black lady with butterfly wings and the title "Precious". A friend had told me to go watch the movie, which is based on the novel in front of me. But then he described briefly what it was about, and I cringed, and subconsciously have avoided the movie since it came out...

But somehow at the store, I was tempted despite the subject matter. I flipped through the book, glancing at the (purposely) misspelt narration of the "I" character Claireece Precious Jones-- an overweight (legal and politically correct term: "heavy-set"), 12 year old Africa-American girl, growing up in the poor and abusive environment in Harlem, NY.

I was hooked. The simple words, swear words, doodlings, and dialogue captivated me. In the quick metro ride I had already read 20 pages, and cannot seem to put it down, even though the subject matter is very sensitive....

" I'm twelve now, I been knowing that since I was five or six, maybe I have always known about pussy and dick. I can't remember not knowing. No, I can't remember a time I did not know. But thas all I knowed. I didn't know how long it take, what's happening inside, nothing, I didn't know nothing."

When I read passages like that, I have to close my eyes and breath deeply. Something deep inside echoes, and feels her pain, feels her suffering...

"...I just fall back on the couch so full it like I'm dyin' and I go to sleep, like I always do; almost. Almost, go to sleep [...] I just lay still still, keep my eyes close. I can tell Mama's other hand between her legs now 'cause the smell fill room [...] Go sleep, go sleep, go to sleep, I tells myself. Mama's hand creepy spider, up my legs, in my pussy. God please! Thank you god I say as I fall asleep."

That dream-like state... that temporary attempt at escaping from reality, at becoming numb and feelingless as in sleep. Harrowing...

"First he mess up my life fucking me, then he mess up the fucking talki' [...] But I keep my mouf shut so's the fucking don't turn into a beating. I start to feel good; stop being a video dancer and start coming. I try to go back to video but coming now, rocking under [...] now, my twat jumping juicy, it feel good. I feel shamed."

That's what it is. Shame, disgraced, wronged, dirtied... pleasure and pain all mixed into one. Hatred and love indistinguishable. Fear and relaxation dissolving like sugar in water...

Something about this book creeps into my heart, churns my memories, yet beckons me to read on. To read on in the mere hope that despite the suffering, humiliation, untold emotions bottled inside, there can be liberation and delivery from a seemingly repetitive and inescapable hellhole.


(Extracts from the text are not intended to infringe copyrights, but to indicate how powerful and worth reading the book is.)

Night before the night of departure

Somehow it is difficult to pack my suitcase on this night before the night of departure.

It is not so much a problem of wondering what to put into the two suitcases I'm taking with me (there are plenty of souvenirs and gifts to stuff in... too many in fact!) It's more that with every thing I pack into the suitcase, I am one step closer to really going away. And that realisation is somewhat heavy to deal with.

Going away for how long? The ticket is for three weeks, but given my habit, it may be postponed, again and again. Especially now that mum has resumed her chemo treatment...
Not that I would not want to spend more time at home... just that I feel there are some unfinished things here in Canada I should try to wind up. My thesis, my future legal status, deciding on my next career/academic step... With all these things nagging me, I know I will be constantly thinking about them while I am away, and cannot really be or feel "in the here and now".

And every time before I leave Canada, I feel I will come back to a different place. The weather will probably be different, the cat may will become different (fatter and perhaps a little depressed that I was away...), and my mood and emotions will have changed much from being away. The unpredictablness is something I kind of dread, even though on the surface I can easily come and go, come and go.

Leaving is often difficult...
Going is much easier.

Letter to dad

Just spent the last couple of hours glued (almost) constantly to my seat and writing a letter to my dad.

I've been wanting to do this a while, ever since I promised myself two years ago that every year around the time of his anniversary, I would write to him, and 'send' it to him when we hold the ceremony of worshipping foods and burning paper money. Maybe it's more self-therapy than anything... and if he is no longer '(t)here', he may not even be able to read what I have to write and say. But still, I find it's something important to do, and I guess that is enough. Many things in life don't require a real justification or reasoning...

So far, it's over a page long... mostly containing descriptions of how I've been feeling these days. Down and distraught and caught between options, opportunities and the great unknowns. The health and life of my mum figures greatly in the letter, as well as concerns and this wandering heart of mine that seems always longing for sanctuary, care, and human intimacy.

Strangely, compared to last year, I did not feel too emotional, and did not have not stop halfway through to wipe my tears. I just wrote, as if dad would understand if he read it, and as if he could answer some of my hopes and anxieties.

Two more weeks till the anniversary, and the letter looks complete. But I feel maybe there are things I want to add.

Just unsure what.

Bright, sunshinny day

Woke up to the sound of the alarm, and felt my head and world swirling. I don't know why the past few days sleeping in my own bed and in my own bedroom I don't sleep very well. Don't have the same problem, it seems, when I sleep in the spare room.

Called mum, and for a moment I was worried because the phone kept ringing but there was no answer. Then I remembered that she might be at the new house, so I rang her mobile. And she was indeed already at the new place, and actually taking out the garbage (which comes around three times a day for some reason!!)

She sounded joyful, and was delightedly telling me how wonderful the new place is, and how well she slept in her new bed. Like I encouraged her to do, she bought a new and better bed, and she said it really made a difference.

"Are you working already?" I asked, almost afraid that she might say yes, only a few days after the chemo therapy. In fact, she was already at the office, having only rested over a weekend. But she reassured me that there's very little work for her now, and she seems to be just going in to swipe her fingers (to sign in), and sitting around reading, chatting and doing the odd chore. Her colleagues are very understanding, and her direct superior is a guy who used to be her colleague, and who is a close, good friend of hers. They told her that she's worked enough already for the last 20 something years, and it's time to take it easy till retirement. "Just as well," mum said, "As I may need the relaxed working environment as the effects of chemo sessions pile up..." Already, she said, she's been having a few days of diahrea because of the medication...

Overall it was a happyish conversation, and I felt relieved to hear she was doing better. At least from the sounds of her voice. I think the new house has really made an impact on her, just as I had expected. It took a while for her to be able to finally move in, but all the patience and waiting (despite some tensions and intolerable arguments on the way) seem to have paid off.

I pulled open the curtains, and despite shivering from the morning chill, felt the dawn of a new, bright sunshinny day...

... even better that I may have a "date" later! :)

River of ice

The river ran under me, rapidly disappearing under the bridge. I stood, and tried to capture its fast-moving motion, tried to imagine where was the source of all this endless energetic flow, and tried to picture the villages and fields the river will pass as it winds its way to a destination yet unknown.

The sun was setting, and a pale, pale glow of crimson mirrored on the dark flowing surface of the river. Ice, in bulky blocks and thin sheets, drifted along, floating with the motion of the river downstream. I watched the countless islands ice that dotted the river, their speed too fast and dizzying for the human eye. Some were like small hills, and reminded me of icebergs which hid its deadly secretly beneath the water, away from the world. Did the adrift ice know where they were going? Did they have any say as they were separated from the ice sheets further upstream? The icy shores revealed the depth of the river, and the depth of a dark, brooding abyss that lay beneath the river.

I shivered at the thought of falling into rapidly moving river. How cold and unpleasant it must be to be caught in the motion of time flowing by so rapidly, and be unable to control your direction and destination.

Two weeks

It took almost a week for me to watch "Two Weeks". And it's not because of the moderate reviews that the movie received. It's more the subject matter, which strikes close to home. Literally.

Two weeks may not be a long time, but to many it seems an eternity. Especially to those slowly dying, excruciatingly slow, of cancer. The end is near, the pain is unbearable, the hulicinations are starting, morphine is losing its effect, yet the waiting, the waiting is unbearable. Even more so because it is not only you who waits, but also the whole family who has to watch, wait and wait for that final moment when life is no more.

But two weeks is a period that can bring infinite changes, bring together and bring closer a family that has been spread around, with every one living their separate lives. Two weeks can be a time to bond, to share, to cry, to remember those precious moments of times past, and to rediscover and treasure the bonds that shall never be broken-- despite of the quarrels, disagreements, temperments and set ways of an elder brother wanting to control the young sibling.

I watched the movie in installments. Sometimes it got too overwhelming I had to turn it off. The moment when the mum, dying of cancer, threw up, I had to stop watching. Partly because I was eating, but partly because it reminds me of something that is so painful to remember and experinece....

In the beginning the mum looks well, and is still very conscious of her thoughts and surroundings. Yet, with each paling shade of her face, she loses her battle to cancer... she succumbs to the proliferation of cells that are eating her body from the inside out, that have even manifested themselves onto her back in humps as big as fists.... Painful to see, and even more difficult to digest...

Even in installments, I managed to finish the movie. As scrutiating and as slow as something takes, like life all things come to an end. The moments of light comedy and satire are welcome refuges in a dark and brooding setting of death and final goodbyes. Tears flow and eventually cease, but the memories of those who have gone continue on and on.

I am reminded of my mum, and a dreaded fate that I have just seen in the movie. At least in the movie, the mother was not alone when she passed away. Can I say the same for my mum? Is there anything more painful than dying alone? Is there anything more regretful not being at the side of someone you love and care deeply for when that person disappears from this world?

Again I am confronted with a decision.... should I stay, or should I go? Should I pursue my own interests, should I seek and hope to find the happiness I came to Canada to find, or should I be at my mum's side no matter what?

Will you say when I'm gone away
"My lover came to me and we'd lay
In
rooms unfamiliar but until now"
Oh oh oh oh
Until now
Oh oh oh oh
Until now

Will you say to them when I'm gone
"I loved your son
for his sturdy arms
We both learned to cradle then live without"
Oh oh
oh oh
Live without
Oh oh oh oh
Live without

Will you say
when I'm gone away
'Your fathers body was judgment day
We both dove and
rose to the riverside"
Oh oh oh oh
Riverside
Oh oh oh oh
Riverside

Will you say to me when I'm gone
"Your face has faded
but lingers on
Because light strikes a deal with each coming night"
Oh
oh oh oh
Coming night
Oh oh oh oh
Coming night.

Wanderlust

Did good work last night, and before I knew it, it was already 2.30 in the morning. It's been a long while since I felt that my thesis is actually going some, actually has a purpose, and if only I could gather that momentum, I could finish it. Soon.

Since I got back to Montreal early December, I've been telling myself that I have two months to make the most of my time here, and that I really need to settle down and do some work. But, shame, the heart and mind wanders, and I could not be still. Every day there seems to be some kind of distraction... or better termed, some kind of excuse for me to 'postpone' things till tomorrow. And after that there is another tomorrow. I promised myself so many times that I would not procrastinate, would not waste life away, especially in the light of the deaths and illness that I've seen and experienced in people around me. Yet lethargy and laziness come in addictive dosages, and sleep more often than not takes over when my mind is weak or down.

So I am happy for moments such as last night, which give me a boost of confidence, and show me just how much I could achieve if I really sit down and set my heart to it.

A few more days, and I am off again. Must try to get as much work down as possible.

A little disappointment

Can you be disappointed by someone you've never met?
It seems the answer is yes.

Wake up call

I woke up early to call mum. The phone rang a couple of times, but was always engaged. It was almost half an hour before I could get through. She was on the phone with the carpenters about a leakage in the living room. Mum said she was very excited about the new house, and that it is now all coming together, despite the troubles and noise a while back.

Then she told me. She is doing the treatment. Just like that. She did not let me know until today, which is the last day of her first session. She said she feels fine. The doctor changed her drug. She feels no side-effects, and is feeling well. She said she went to eat what she wanted to, which was teppanyaki at Takashimaya. And she could eat everything. No nausea. Maybe it's the new house distracting her and keeping her busy that she does not feel much of the nausea, she said herself.

I said little. I only asked why she decided to suddenly do the treatment whereas before she was telling me she would not. Because other people encouraged her. The doctor, relatives, and even Mr Chen, the mystic and fortune-teller. I said little, and was glad that she did not feel ill. But in the back of my mind, I heard the echo: "Not yet.... not yet....."

She asked me how I was doing. What could I say? I was silent. I said I was just pushing on with my thesis, trying to get work done. Could I tell her that I am down, that I am depressed, and sleeping away the days, lost in a daze of lethargy and depression? Could I tell her that I am lost, that I feel alone, and torn between whether I should give up my life her and go back to be with her, or just bite on and enjoy my life here in Canada?

Be happy she said, and take good care. It is very important to be happy, and to not worry, she said.

We ended the conversation. My cat sat by my legs. I curled up next to her, and watched her, as I slowly fell asleep again... as I slowly drowned myself in a world of no thoughts, of no consciousness, and of dreams.

Even bad dreams seem a refuge from the reality of facing uncertainty and the unknown...

"Trial of the Century"

Source of photo AP: http://www.nrc.nl/binnenland/article2463490.ece/Rechtszaak_Wilders_verder_op_3_februari

The “trial of the century” has just begun in the Netherlands against Party for Freedom (Partij voor de Vrijheid, PVV) leader Geert Wilders. Or at least that is what Wilders would like his trial to become. The loud-mouthed politician with peroxide hair is not shy for publicity, and in recent years has attracted a lot of it for his controversial statements, and his provocative 16 minute documentary Fitna (viewer discretion advised). He is the same guy who once said that those Muslims who want to stay in the Netherlands must “rip out and throw away half of the Quran ”. The UK once even refused Wilders entry because his opinions are deemed “anti-Islamic”. In a Dutch opinion piece he caused outrage when he likened the Quran to Hitler’s “Mein Kampf”:

Enough is enough. Let us stop beating about the bush with political correctness. […] The core of the problem is fascistic Islam, the sick ideology of Allah and Mohammed as laid down in the Islamic Mein Kampf: the Quran. The texts from the Quran do not leave much to the imagination.

It is for this (and other) reasons that the Public Prosecutor of Amsterdam has brought a case against Wilders for his open discrimination against Muslims as well as non-Western (“allochtone”) Netherlanders. The case is based on Article 136(c) of the Dutch Criminal Code (Weboek van Strafwet) (discrimination against a group, “groepsdiscriminatie”) which provides:

He who publicly, verbally or in writing or image, deliberately expresses himself in an way insulting of a group of people because of their race, their religion or belief, or their hetero- or homosexual nature or their physical, mental, or intellectual disabilities, will be punished with a prison sentence of at the most one year or a fine of third category.

- and Article 137(d) of the Criminal Code, which makes it criminal for inciting hatred (aanzetten tot haat):

He who publicly, verbally or in writing or in an image, incites hatred against or discrimination of people or violent behavior against person or property of people because of their race, their religion or belief, their gender or hetero- or homosexual nature or their physical, mental, or intellectual disabilities, will be punished with a prison sentence of at the most one year or a fine of third category.

In support of the prosecution, the court summons cites a number publications and interviews dating from 2006 to 2008, in which Wilders personally stated (among other things):

- “I point to the role that the terrible Quran plays in the Islamisation of our society”.

- “The demographic composition of the population is the biggest problem of the Netherlands. I am talking about what comes to the Netherlands, and that which reproduces here. If you look to the figures and the developments therein, Muslims will migrate from the big cities to the countries. We must stop the tsunami of Islamisation. It touches us in our heart, in our identity, in our culture […]”

- “One in five Moroccan youth is registered as a suspect with the police. Their behaviour flows from their religion and culture. You cannot see them separately. The pope was completely right recently: Islam is a violent religion. Islam means the suppression and conversion of non-Muslims […]”

- “[…] Close the borders, no more Islamites in the Netherlands, more Muslims [out] of the the Netherlands, denaturalisation of Islamic criminals.”

- “[…] The Hague [the seat of the Dutch government] is full of cowardly people. Scared people who are born cowardly and will die cowardly. Who believe and advocate that Dutch culture will be founded on a Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition. […] Who [ignore] the interests Dutch population and cooperate in the transformation of the Netherlands into a Netherarabia as a province of the Islamic superstate of Eurabia. “

- I have had enough of Islam in the Netherlands: no more Muslim immigrant. I have enough with the worship of Allah and Mohammed in the Netherlands: no more mosque. I have had enough of the Quaran in the Netherlands: ban that fascistic book.

- “I have good intentions. We are letting something happen by which this will become a totally different society. I also know that in a few decades there will be no Islamic majority. But it will grow. With aggressive elements, imperialism. Walk on the street, and you see where it will lead. You feel that you are no longer living in your country. There is a conflict going on, and we must defend ourselves. There will be more mosques than churches soon!”

The right-wing politician will of course try to claim parliamentary privilege, which grants him immunity from prosecution. However, much of what he has said was done outside of the walls of the parliament. Further, Wilders claims that this case is more than just about the freedom of expression, but also about establishing the truth. He will try to get expert witnesses to testify whether the Quran indeed is as abhorrent as Mein Kampf. If he can establish that the provocative statements and remarks he made were based on facts, then the court may be persuaded to acquit, or at lessen the charges against Wilders.

Wilders’ case is interesting, but by no means unique. In July 2009, the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg held that while the freedom of expression is important, it is crucial for politicians to refrain from public statements that may foster intolerance. The case was an appeal from the Daniel Féret, the chairman of the Belgian political party “Front National”, who had been convicted by a Belgian court for publicly inciting racism, hatred and discrimination against immigrants during election campaigns. The ECHR held that there was no violation of Article 10 of the European Convention for Human Rights (freedom of expression) in sentencing Féret, as it was necessary for the Belgian authorities to sanction someone under the prescribed law in order to safeguard public order and protect the reputation and rights of others in a democratic society (State's right to derogate under Article 10(2)). Féret and his party had in fact spread leaflets which “presented immigrant communities as criminally-minded and keen to exploit the benefits they derived from living in Belgium and that they also sought to make fun of the immigrants concerned, with the inevitable risk of arousing, particularly among less knowledgeable members of the public, feelings of distrust, rejection or even hatred towards foreigners”. So should Wilders be found guilty and opt to appeal, his chances in Strasbourg are at best slim.

Interestingly, another case in 2009 which went all the way to the Supreme Court of the Netherlands, dealt with the issue of inciting hatred. The case dealt with an A3 poster for the far-right “Nationale Alliantie”, which called for an end to “the tumor that is called Islam”. In that case the Supreme Court held:

“A remark cannot be judged without context. It can ignite the wick in a powder keg. It is the task of the government to act against discrimination and stigmatisation. Politicians have on the one hand more room for manoeuvre, but on the other hand also great responsibility. […] The ECHR has repeatedly decided that it is acceptable for the government to take measures to protect a religion or followers of a religion against hurtful expressions. Sharp criticism against a religion can lead to the injury of the believers.”

Against this backdrop of recent jurisprudence, Wilders has a lot to answer for.

In court today, a defiant and unflinching Wilders stood up and delivered an emotive personal statement defending his right to free speech:

I believe with all my heart and soul that freedom in the Netherlands is being threatened. That which is part our heritage, that which generations could only dream of, that freedom is no longer a given, no longer self-evident. I dedicate my life to the defence of our freedom. […] I know that the words I sometimes use can be harsh, but they are never reckless. It is not my intention to spare the ideology of conquest and destruction, but neither am I [out there] to hurt people. I have nothing against Muslims. I have a problem with Islam and the Islamisation of our country, because Islam stands opposed to freedom.

Future generations will ask themselves how we in 2010 at this place, in this court, have served our most treasured achievement. [Does freedom exist] for both parties in this debate, and also for the critics of Islam, or that in the Netherlands only one side of the discussion can be heard? Does the freedom of expression apply to everyone in the Netherlands, or just for some? The answer [to that question] is immediately the question to the question of whether freedom has a home in this country. Freedom was never the property of a small group, but has always been the heritage of all of us. We have been blessed by it […]

It is not only the right, but also the duty of free people to express themselves against every ideology that threatens freedom. […] I hope that the freedom of expression will triumph in this trial. I hope not only to be acquitted. But also that the freedom of expression will continue to exist.

Wilders’ “Trial of the Century” is to be continued.

Sleepless nights

I woke up feeling horrible, and again like so many nights before, well past midday.
A terrible dream had disturbed my sleep. A dream about my mum. How she needed to go to the hospital. For treatment.

I did not call her that day, for she was already asleep. And in the afternoon I forgot to call her, and by the time I realised, she had gone to work. So I made it a point to wake up early to call the next day. I spoke to her.

She sounded alright. But then she revealed to me that she might indeed need to go to the hospital. The doctor has been telling her to do the treatment. And some others have been telling her too.

I was quiet. Perhaps I should have said something. Something to soothe her, to calm her and to tell her that things will be alright. But I was silent, and did not want to say. All I could think of was why this sudden change of decision... why this, and why now? Had she not promised me before I left Taiwan a month and a half ago that she would try alternative treatment and see how things go? Going back to the hospital for chemo therapy.... just the thought of it disgusts me. Just the thought of it brings back memories of the smell, the anxiety, the pain of watching her, watching others suffer and have their liveliness taken away from them slowly, bit by bit...

This is not helping the current depression I am going through...

Writing block?

Looking at the posts in the last three years (or so) since I started this, it seems a of a pattern of "diminishing posts" is setting into place as time goes by. Sometimes, weeks, or even a month goes by without single post. And I feel kind of bad.... have I lost that writing edge? Is there a block I need to unclot?

To be honest, sometimes I just feel like there isn't much to write about, and lately I've been too dazed and lethargic to write.

But really, does that matter? Is not quality more important than quantity? I could post ten posts a day, but they could have no content, and could be just ramblings about mundane things that are repetitive and boring. Boring to write about, and boring to read about.

Maybe it comes from this compulsion of mine, whereby if I write, I want to write about something out of the ordinary, write about something that will impress and leave the reader (if there are any) in awe. I feel like when I write I want it to be an art that I am creating and leaving behind.

Or maybe that's going beyond myself.

New Years Day 2010

, it is beautifully drifting with white fluffy snow. The first few hours of the new year, and the weather is pretty mild. But there is a beauty that lingers in the air, that falls and floats with the flakes of snow that descend to cover the world with a blanket of white softness.

The first moments of the new year I spent with some friends at the Old Port of Montreal. The moment came unexpectedly, and suddenly in the distance the crowd began with the countdown. We counted down too, surprised that the year was coming so quickly. We hugged, and according to a Mexican tradition, each of us ate 12 grapes to symbolise the 12 months of the new year. With eat grape you are supposed to make a wish.

I made a wish... happiness and good health for my mum, happiness and good health for my brother, peace for Taiwan, my homeland, peace in the world, happiness and good health to all my friends, happiness and good health to all my family, happiness and good health to all sentient beings in the world, happiness and good health to all non-sentient beings, happiness and good health to my dad...

When I got to that bit, my eyes watered. The firework display above the frozen river and snowy landscape seemed so distant away. I heard the crackle of the fireworks, saw the blinding and colourful exchange of the pyrotechnic display. Yet, perhaps because of the alcohol, I was dazed and overcome with a sudden sense of longing and missing. How I wished dad was there to share that moment... how I wished I could be there with mum to welcome the new year in... all the cheerfulness and laughters and salutations of the surrounding crowd was not enough to overwhelm the sudden pensive mood and sorrow that crept up.

Happy new year... I hope it indeed is a happy one, every single day, for every single person

Goodbye 2009

One more day till the end of the first decade of the millennium. It seemed like yesterday I was sitting at home alone and playing Sim City 3000 in those first few moments of the first year of the 2000s. And now, some nine years later, I have changed, and so have many circumstances of my life changed.

The number of blog postings for this year has halved since the previous year. Maybe I just don't feel the inspiration or the frustrations to write much any more. I know that quantity counts less than quality, but to be honest, I have been lethargy and verging on lazy this entire year. I am not sure what it is, or why that is... But I do know much of the time I have spent sleeping, or in that sleep-like state of mind lying in bed. Dazed, unmotivated, unchallenged and, dare I say, depressed.

It is true I have good friends here, and a mother who cares about me dearly far away. Yet inside I feel somewhat empty of feeling, like there is a void that is longing to be filled, like there is something that is waiting to be discovered. Is that longing for love? Longing for closeness, for closure with the passing of my father, longing for some dramatic achievement and recognition, or simply longing to finish my long-overdue thesis and finding some stability?

I do not know. But maybe 2010 will hold the answer.

Intense dream

I fell asleep quickly in the room fit for four people. Outside, the lights of towering buildings close to Vancouver’s False Creek shined like beacons at night.

Then I woke up, with such intense loneliness and longing for my dad. Such longing that I have not felt for a long, long time. I longed for his presence, for him to be next to me, for him tell me that things will be alright. I was curled up in bed, hiding almost under the blankets, and felt the world was so empty. Then tears rolled and streaked from one eye to another, as I was on my side.

Perhaps it is seeing my cousin alone, and somehow his sense of being alone here has rubbed off on me.