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.

Farewell, Formosa

Mum must be asleep by now, as it is past eleven in the evening. She usually sleeps early, at least tries to, though when I’m around her sleep time is delayed often by last minute talking and fiddling about. On the way to the airport, mum said she always misses me the first few days that I am gone. She gets so used to me being around, and then suddenly I leave, leaving an emptiness in the big house.

I guess I can imagine how that must feel like. I leave home now, but this time it does not seem so bad. I hugged her tightly, twice, and stroked her back softly. In my mind I quietly wished her peace and happiness, and told her out loud to take good care of herself. I will return soon, in two months time. It seems short, but it can also be a long time too.

This trip home, to Taiwan, has been eventful. Though I did not get to see mum move to her new house (in fact, the renovations have yet to take place, after a month or so of delays…), but I did pack some things up into boxes for her. Not much, but important things… things that otherwise might be too difficult for her to pack, because of the memories and the stories behind the pictures, letters, and memorabilia. Especially those in dad’s room. I told her to wait for me and/or brother to return before moving the big things. I hope she will wait, and not exhaust herself too much.

The trip with my friends was enjoyable, despite some of the tensions that surrounded us and clouded my mood at times. I guess I wanted to plan and have the ‘perfect’ trip… but didn’t realise how difficult it is to coordinate the times, minds and whims of four people. I don’t know about them, but I got to see parts of Taiwan’s nature, culture and people that I never realised lay so close beneath the surface, and I feel there is so much more there is to discover, to explore and to learn about my own home. This feeling is somehow mixed with the gloomy thought and hearsay that I have encountered about Taiwan’s demise, about China’s rise and zealous ambition to swallow the island and its people whole no matter what. The current political situation, with the Chinese Nationalists back in power again and cozying up with the Chinese Communists, is extremely perilous for Taiwan’s future, and the fate of its people, and their desire for independence and freedom from pepertual colonialism. Perhaps, this island, and its people is destined, despite of or maybe because of its beauty and riches, to be an lonely child with many parents as claiming to have an interest in the child’s welfare.

And, perhaps the most painful of all, next to learning and living with mum’s illness, is watching my friend fade slowly away in the hospital. I’ve been to see him three or four times, and every time he gets weaker and weaker, like a fragile flame that can be blown out at any moment without notice. I cried for him, because it pains me so to watch a fellow human being suffer, to watch a friend I know, though perhaps not well enough, slowly, but seemingly steadily drift in his morphine-dazed state of mind, towards death.
I wrote him a card, wishing him the best, happiness, peace, and most important of all, wishing that he can let go, and let Dharma take its natural course. It is only ever so much.

So here I sit, next to the conveyor belt at Gate C4, ready to board, ready to leave home to go back home. Thank you Formosa, thank you friends and family, for your care, for your being there, and for making me feel welcome every time. Most of all, for making me feel at home.

Goodbye, dear friend...

“David… I’m dying.”

I almost could not hear him.

“…dying,” he repeated. A coarse whisper that took much effort and energy.

I did not know what to say, except hold onto his hand tighter, and look at him more intensely in the face.

Are we not all dying? Is that not the natural way of things, the way of the universal law of Dharma? We are born, we live, we get caught up in worldly emotions and material things and we suffer, some suffer more than others. And then we die. That is all.

But that realisation is sadly one which most make upon death. My friend was not crying, nor shivering in fear as he told me that he is dying. He was calm, despite being weak and tired. He was firm, despite the months and years of ongoing treatment, and dashed hopes of finding a treatment

Leaning in close, our cheeks touching, I bid him goodbye. It felt like a final farewell, and perhaps both of us know it. “Let go,” I said, “May you be happy, peaceful…” I gripped his thin hand and fingers one more time. I turned away to walk away, but turned back to see my friend waving. His arm was thin, frail and the movements were weak, but the small smile on his face was genuine. I walked back, and grasped his hand again. “Take good care”, I said, and finally left.

I had to lean against the window, and let the tears flow for a few minutes. Outside, were rows and rows of hospital wards that had seen much birth, suffering, and death. Such pain went through me, such raw emotions I never knew existed were released in those tears that temporarily watered my world. Pain, not so much because of the encroaching death, but of watching a dear friend fade ever so slowly and ever so painfully before you.

And then I braced myself, swallowed hard, bit my teeth tightly, and watched the pain. It is only so much, as the Buddha taught, it is only an emotion that comes and goes, comes and goes…

Comes and goes, as certain as life and death.

Brother troubles

It is a real shame that it has come to this. My brother only ever calls when there is something he needs. And recently it is help with money to renovate his house. It's been going on a while, and he really has invested a lot of time (and now money) into the place... but things seem to be getting out of hand.

The most recent episode revolves around an interior decorator. Long story short, she decided not to continue with my brother's work because for a while she was involved with work for my mum. Basically there was a difference of opinion, and she decided to quit, which basically leaves my brother without a decorator.

And the last two weeks, he has been calling and been angry on the phone, blaming left and right. I can understand it is frustrating, especially as he has to deal with the construction work and the renovations all by himself. But I don't understand what it is that he wants from mum, or from me. Every time he calls, he is full of anger, full of blame, keeps on saying how much trouble he has to go through, how much extra energy and money he has to waste, because my mum made a real mess of the situation...

But what purpose does it serve to blame and to scold someone after the deed has been done? I really don't know what he wants, what he expects mum or me to do. All I can say, as I have said so many times before, is to be realistic with the renovations, and to spend what he can, and try to make the best of the situation. This does not get to him very well, and in fact attracts a whole tirade against me (and my mum) for not caring, never caring and never willing to care.

I can speak to him, but I cannot get through to him. He is such a difficult person to talk to, and whatever I try to say, whatever sense (or what appears to be sense to me...) I try to get into him, he turns it into a weapon and uses it against me (or mum). What pain and anguish he has caused us... and yet what can I say about that? If I complain about his angry words, his blaming and his scolding, he turns it into how we do not give a damn about his life or wellbeing, how we do not understand his needs or do not care about his problems.

All I can think of is mum in the background... she is listening to all of this, and hurting deeply inside... how painful it must be to hear your own son scold and blame you for mistakes that cannot be turned back again... how painful it must be to bear the angry words and the deep consent hidden behind those words, and to know that it comes from the child you spent hours and tireless amounts of energy and time to bring up. And he actually bites back, demanding apology, demanding that you sit and listen to the scolding and the hurtful emotional outpouring.

I can see mum hurt and her hair become white over the past two weeks already...

Why, mum?

Am I pushing my mum too much? I get upset that she doesn't get up to exercise in the morning... I get upset that she rushes off to work, even though her superior told her already that she can go in much later so that she can have her morning exercises and take things slower...

Just now, I was telling her all this in bed, just before she went to sleep, and she seemed saddened. She turned away, and said she's going to sleep. And soon, she fast asleep and snoring. But I feel bad... for being so harsh on her, for scolding her and being too pushy.

She was sighing and again speaking in ways that seemed like she has no more hope any more. And that gets me really down and upset. "There is no cure," she said, "I will not get better. All the doctors say that."

But that doesn't mean that she can't coexist peacefully with the cancer. If it can't get better, then at least don't let it get worse with such negative thoughts and negative energies...!

It really pains me to see her like this. And it pains me even more that she puts her job and the number of hours that she can spend at the office before her health and her peace of mind. When I see my other friend, who has become so frail, so weak, so close to death with cancer and chemo, I fear, I fear and dread that one day I will have to endure seeing my own mother in such a sorry state...

How do I keep positive and remain happy and undisturbed by my mum's negative thoughts, and be there and be strong for her?

"I have a dream..."

I dare anyone to visit the hospital on any given day, at any given moment, and come out unaffected.

It’s been two weeks since I last saw my friend. During that time, I have been to lands and islands far, far away, and marvelled at deep gorges made of marble. I have dipped and swam in warm ocean springs bubbling from cracks in the earth, and eaten at a crowded dimsum restaurant in the company of complete strangers.

Yet, all this time, my friend’s world was confined to that sterile room in the oncology ward. Unable to walk more than a few steps without feeling his breath being stripped from his lungs, he has been seeing and living the sounds and wonders of the world, of life, through the presence, laughter, tears and voices of family and the occasional visitor.

Again I said little while I was there. What could one say in the face of pain and suffering? There was a numbness, a perpetual sort of silence that transcends all words, even words the most eloquent of poets cannot piece together. Again, he apologised for ‘wasting’ my time by going to see him, and for being in the sorry state he was in. The morphine is slowly eroding the control he has over his emotions and consciousness. The pain causes him to weakly wail and moan. He feet were swollen from inactivity, his body thin, and frail, no more than skin to bone.

Out of nowhere it seemed, his daughter sang, and made the room come alive, and fill with warmth and laughter.

“I have a dream…” That was the extent of her knowledge of the lyrics. Little did this three year old understand the significance of the moving words of this old ABBA song.

Silently, in my mind, the words slowly trailed across my heart… and in my prayers.

I have a dream, a fantasy, to help me through reality
And my destination makes it worth the while
Pushing through the darkness still another mile
I believe in angels, something good in everything I see
I believe in angels, when I know the time is right for me
I'll cross the stream, I have a dream


I'll cross the stream, I have a dream

Green Island Serenade

There is a song made popular in 1950s Taiwan called “Green Island Serenade” (綠島小夜曲). It describes the longing of a lover for his girl far, far away…

“This green island like a boat,
Rocking, rocking in the moonlit night
Girl, you are also floating, floating in the sea of my heart.
Let the sound of my song follow that slight wind,
Blow open your window drapes.
Let my heartfelt emotions follow that flow of water,
Endlessly pouring my heart out to you.
The long shadow of the coconut tree
Cannot hide my tender regards.
This radiant and beautiful moon light illuminates my heart,
The night of this green island is already so heavy and silent.
Girl, why are you still silent without words?”
(translation mine)

But just as easily, “Green Island Serenade” could been interpreted as a song to capture the longing of the hundreds of political prisoners who were once imprisoned on this tiny island off of Taiwan’s eastern seaboard.

They were imprisoned for daring to oppose the Nationalist Chinese dictatorship that established itself on Taiwan after the Japanese colonialists left in 1945. They were imprisoned for championing the rights of local Taiwanese people, who were oppressed, silenced and stripped of their property, land and jobs. Some were imprisoned for speaking out for the promise of an independent Taiwan—the same promise that was once made by the United Nations, yet buried by the complexities of the Cold War and warming Sino-US relations. For almost four decades, the Nationalist Chinese government imposed the longest martial law ever, and put all opponents in prison or to death. And Green Island, as beautiful, as luring, as much a tropical paradise as it is today, was perhaps the worst place one could be sent away to.

First came the “New Life Correction Centre” established in the 1950s, which was nothing more than a camp where high profile political prisoners were interned and sentenced to hard labour. Many of the roads, and even the airport, on Green Island owe their construction to the hard work of these prisoners. Later, in the 1970s, the “Oasis Villa” was established. Despite the name, the “Villa” was an euphemism for the “Green Island Reform and Re-education Prison”, intended to house those offenders ‘convicted’ of engaging in ‘rebellion’ against the government. Many of these ‘rebels’ were in fact democracy activists, and most would go on to serve in public office with the dawning of democracy from the late 1980s. Most prominent among the prisoners is the feminist scholar and pro-independence activist Annette Shiou-lian Lu, who was imprisoned for 12 years, and later went on to serve as the country’s Vice President between 2000 and 2008.

Today, the former maximum security prison is open to visitors. Faded writings on the walls recall a past of indoctrination and pro-China propaganda, while the empty cells (though much renovated) echoes with the emptiness in which the prisoners counted away the passing minutes and seconds of their youths. On a wall of the Human Rights Park, in the shadow of the gentle waves, hundreds of names are engraved, each with the inmate’s date of entry and release, or death. On another wall, more but not all of the names of the thousands upon thousands of Taiwanese people who suffered, who were tortured or killed by the Nationalist Chinese government.

I did not know the names. I did not know their stories, or the injustices that were done to them and to their families. Yet, each character, each date, each name engraved on the wall came alive in a haunting, heart-wrenching way, and reached deep down inside to choke me of my breath and tears.

I met a middle aged man, who stood silently before the walls. His eyes were red and moist. He spoke to me, and asked me to take a picture of him pointing to one of the many names. “This is my uncle,” the man said solemnly. I said nothing, and nodded in acknowledgment. In that momentary silence, it was as if he and I understood one another’s pain and love for this island and the fate of its people. After walking on for a few more metres and spotting a name high on top of the list, he pointed again and said, “This is my friend.”

Later, I learned that he was with a group of Taiwanese-American physicians who were on their bi-annual tour of Taiwan. Out of fear of persecution, prominent Taiwanese intellectuals, professors, doctors, and lawyers fled the island after the Nationalist Chinese government took over. Many of these Taiwanese people were blacklisted, unable to return to see their home and families until the lifting of martial law in 1987. Most found their way to the United States and/or Canada, becoming accomplished people in exile, yet continuing to support their long lost home and people through donations and a powerful lobby in the US. Even abroad, spies and secret agents of the Nationalist Chinese government gave Taiwanese in exile no rest (the recent movie “Formosa Betrayed” has a good portrayal of this, and Taiwan’s current president Ma Ying-jeou is one such spy who worked for the (then) authoritarian government). Perhaps, if it were not for the commitment of these overseas Taiwanese, and their efforts to secure the passage of the Taiwan Relations Act in the US Congress, Taiwan would have long been overwhelmed by the Chinese Communists.

“God bless you,” the middle aged man said as he left, “And God bless Taiwan”. I nodded, and lifted my thumb up to him. Outside, the stuffy confines and green metal bars of the prison, the sun was slowly setting. The sun had already set for many who gave up their lives for a struggle for a country and people they cared for and loved. The tranquil Pacific waved and waned, ebbed and flowed, spanning the distance between the island of Taiwan and this isolated little green island in the distance. The wind blew across time, across the soft, soft sand.

“In that era,

How many mothers

Wept through the nights

For their children imprisoned on this island?”

"Daddy, be brave..."

The nurse injected the concoction of toxins into his veins. He groaned, and I grimaced as I watched his pain express themselves on his tense, sunken and hollow cheeks. The syringe was as thick as a thumb, and as long as a pencil. The air was stale, wafting with the sour, sterile, sickly smell of the oncology ward.

"Daddy, be brave... Daddy, be strong..." The three year old's voice was so sweet, so soft, and moistened my eyes. She stroked his dad's arm gently, with such determination and care. I turned away, looked into the sunlight blazing in through the big, transparent windows of the hospital, hoping the sun would evaporate the tears. This sight, this smell, this moment... all too close, raw and emotional for comfort.

It's only been eight months since I last saw him. A friend I met by chance a few years ago, and who's not more than a few years older. Then, he was strong, handsome, and preoccupied himself day and night with affairs of the monastery in the mountains I frequented. Today, he has become so weak, so frail that I was almost afraid to hug him.

I gently patted him on the back, but words choked in my throat. What can you say to someone who has lost twenty kilos in the span of a few months without sounding condescending or pitiful? How do you take someone's pain away, when the morphine drips themselves are too slow to work? I smiled, felt my leg tremble and fidgeted with my fingers. Not a smile of happiness... but a nervous smile, hiding the sorrow and disbelief at seeing a friend disintegrate to such conditions.

His abdomen swelled with water, and with liquid that had some seeped into his lungs, his breathing was laboured. The chemo had worn him down, bit by bit, cell by cell, strand of hair by strand of hair. He spoke little in the hours I was there, and when he did he sounded apologetic and sorry that he was wasting my time being with him. His arm was left with little but skin over bone, and his eyes were tired and heavy. The voice that once held such power, that spoke in rhyme and poetry, that once spoke about the way of the Dharma with such confidence and certainty, had become coarse, beaten and sorrowful. His young daughter's boisterous movements and cheerfulness was a great contrast, but brought much needed life and laughter into the hearts of the visiting relatives.

"How good it is to eat, to walk, to sleep well..." he said, remorsefully. Indeed, all these things we take for granted every day become painful struggles when you are bed-stricken. The best medicine, the best doctors, the best hospitals cannot take away the cancerous cells that have infested themselves deep inside. Do you give in? Do you give up? Do you keep on fighting, bear the pain, the humiliation and defeat of being reduced to nothing but a sordid heap of bone and skin?

These are questions that I have had to face for a number of years... in the life of my friend, and in my recently parted father. A question that too is haunting the relationship with my own mother. I watch... am forced to watch as they all grow tired and weak, sad and hopeless. I try to smile, try to laugh, to joke and poke fun at the inevitabilities and realities of life, sickness and death. I try to remember the teachings of the Buddha, to remind myeslf of letting go of attachments. But ultimately I can only watch, watch, and painfully watch as they slip away slowly from my fingers, out of reach, out of touch. Deep down, I mourn for my inability to change fate, to change the mysterious and illussive ways of the universe. What I would give to ease their pain, to share their burdens and blow away their worries and fears...

But what else can I offer but my tears?

Surprise

I had to leave that place as soon as the mellow music began to sound in the background. Tears were filling my eyes, and my vision became a watery blur. Wandering around Danshui, I stumbled into the former home of Dr. George Mackay, the humanitarian doctor and Presbyterian priest who established the hospital I was born in. The old artifacts and the little room, which used to be his consultation office, made me emotional, and the music was what pushed it. Merely a few hours after landing in Taiwan, I was crying. Belated tears which I held because I did not want to appear weak, because I did not want to see my mum see me cry.

Three hours earlier I arrived home, put down my suitcase, quickly showered to cleanse myself of the sweat from hauling my belongings up the five flights of stairs. My heart was racing, and I was smiling unexpectedly from the anticipation of seeing mum again. I called her, and as expected, she was at the hospital.

Immediately I sensed something was wrong. It was in her voice. It was so... sad, so... silent. Gone was the energy with which she spoke when we spoke earlier just before I boarded my flight at Incheon. I rushed to meet her at the gates of the hospital. When I saw her, she somehow felt me coming and looked up. With arms outstretched, she beckoned me to come closer. We hugged and I patted her gently on the back, close my eyes momentarily as I savoured that moment of reunion.

There was a sadness on her face. A sadness compounded with disbelief, and perhaps confusion or even fear. The prognosis is not good. There is a 'lump', this time around a lymph gland. The doctor recommends immediate chemo.

"Some things cannot be predicted..."

Eight sessions, with around a two week interval in between each one. Each one lasts around two to three days. And each one takes a week to recover from. Until the next session.

"I've been eating well, sleeping well, and even 'doing it' well. Who would have known?"

The treatment will be more intensive, and the drug will be stronger than before. Hair will fall out. We strolled slowly together. I was close to tears, but clenched my teeth so that the tears would not flood over my eye lids and run down my face. How that moment hurt. How, as those words left her mouth, I felt like a heavy, heavy weight weigh down on my previously flighty and light heart.

"Last year when I stopped the treatment, the effects of the drugs took a long time to go away. And now I have to inject more poison into my body. I will become so tired, so weak..."

Right then, I felt like turning away, running away and crying quietly in the corner where one could see me, where no one could touch me. I knew I could not. I must be strong. I must be there for my mum. But how strong can I be when even now, as I type, I tremble at the thought of my mum under going treatment again? How strong can I be to have to watch her suffer, watch her strength fade from day to day, helplessly watch her feel the immeasurable amount of pain and anxiety that I cannot do anything to take away?

Mum is at work now, for an hour or so longer until she finishes for the week. As I walked to kill time before she finishes work, she accompanied me to the door. I walked slowly away, and turned back to see her stand there in front of her office and look back at me. I gathered the strength to wave at her. And she smiled back. She still stood there, and watching me as I disappeared into the crowd. I turned back again, only to see her, with sunken shoulders and a lowered head, gradually make her way into the office.

Mum, I am home.

Homeward bound

Sitting here at the airport, about to round up my trip to Korea. It's been an eventful trip, with missed connections, frustrations at the lost lugguage, being unbearably lost in translation. But there have also been positive experiences too. This truly is a unique country, so steeped in tradition, history and culture, yet all those roots to the past and to the Korean heritage is so well grafted onto modernity, technology and hope for the future.

Just spoke to mum on the phone, as today is the day when she receives the results of her latest checkup. She sounded good, telling me to go to all these places and to travel around and enjoy myself. I told her that I was in Incheon (where I really am), and she said it's a big port city, where dad and her visited before when I was very little. She once told me that I was so happy to see them leave, and even waved goodbye to them. Yet little did I know they were going to be away for a number of days, probably the longest I've ever been away from them. I can't remember if I cried after saying goodbye.

I am in Incheon, but little does mum know that I'm at Incheon International Airport. She recommended that I go to Jeju, a tropical island that's supposed to be very beautfiul and famous. She said that it's best to fly there as the distance is far to travel. I said I'll think about it. And I smiled inside. Indeed, I'll be flying to a tropical island, but just not the one that she was thinking of.

Later around noon she will probably be at the hospital. It's also around the time that I arrive in Taipei. She said she's been asking the Buddha for blessings, and hopes that things will be alright.

I will find out when I arrive.

Stuck in San Franciscio

There was a chillingly cold breeze blowing in from the Pacific. Night fell, and the streets of the normally vibrant city emptied. I strolled toward the pier, the same place where only two months ago was packed with bustling crowds of curious tourists and sightseers. Now there was only the occasional couple braving the cold in one another’s embrace, and some random commuters trying to rush home for the long weekend ahead. Even seagulls, abundant in the hot, humid summer, seemed to have hibernated.

Beneath the yellow glow of street lights I wandered alone. Somehow, a sore twist of fate and missed connections landed me this moment of reflection in San Francisco on this breezy October night. Leaves fell and danced at my feet, as trees shuddered. The spells of anticipation and deep disappointment at missing my Korea-bound flight had already subsided. As I looked around, I realised I was not the only one wandering around the city aimlessly.

A man and his friend pushed a cart filled with plastic bags and salvaged bottles down the pavement. Another clung onto a soiled and ragged sleeping bag as he limped on. A few lay on cardboards close to holes that vented warm air as the subway rushed past. The clanking of coins in a cup sounded as I passed a dark alleyway. I looked down, only to be confronted by the sorry scene of an unshaven man in tattered rags huddled together trying to keep warm. There was a pungent stench of unwashed clothes and frayed human hair that had weathered the elements for far too long. In a set of sunken eyes was the sight of pity, sorrow, and of destitution. “Change… Give me change…” For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he meant spare coins or was begging to some unknown force to somehow suddenly transform his current sad fate.

On top of a flagpole, a gigantic star spangled banner, perhaps mockingly too big and majestic, gently waved and slightly wavered in the wind.

Eastbound

Already October, and the leaves are changing colours once again.

The windy night will probably blow many onto the road, sweep them away as if they never were part of the lush, dense, green foliage that provided shadow in the heat of summer. Soon, the trees will be barren again. Shame I will not be here to see that gradual transition of the seasons.

Second last night here in Montreal for a while to come. The luggages are half-packed, and in that apprehensive mode before embarking on this long trip eastward. It will be quite a trip, and to be honest I am not really looking forward to it. The first journey across the Pacific will be horrible... 22hrs of travelling, in three different planes at three different locations. That is, if I manage to catch all the planes on time. One hour of transfering does not leave much leeway for error or delays... Hopefully I arrive in Korea incident-free...

Then the presentation on Tuesday. I think I am prepared.... even though for the past two weeks I've been avoiding working on it. The person I was working with (or supposed to be working with) didn't do much, and in the end had lots of criticisms on how the visual presentation was set up. Fair comments, on being too wordy and to lengthy... but there were even comments about the background blue colour, which really put me off. So I've been pretty depressed for some time, wondering about the quality of my work... wondering if I'm going to make a fool of myself standing there in front of people and talking about such a simple (read cynical) thesis as space cooperation. I think, or at least I hope, after the presentation I will feel more relieved...

Then yesterday I spoke to mum, and she sounded down. Anxious, perhaps, about her latest checkup, and talking in a way that seemed to suggest that she might not be here this time next year. It hurt to hear that, and I tried to sound confident, even so deep inside I was already mourning... already crying invisible tears. I wish I could be there for her now, comfort her, make her happy and smile. But I'm not there.

The only way I can be there is to change my plans. Originally I planned to stay a week in Korea to travel around a bit, but I cancelled all that. And now I'm set to fly back to Taiwan a week or so early. On the day that mum gets her latest checkup results. I'm imaging rushing to the hospital as soon as I arrive and sitting there in that narrow crowded corridor waiting to be called in by the doctor...
I want to be there, whatever the news.

Maybe I cannot help her, but hopefully my being there, however fleeting and brief, will distract her from her dark, brooding thoughts...

The East is still Red at 60

Thousands upon thousands of soldiers, men and women, stood on Tiananmen today as President Hu Jintao cruised by in his Chinese-made limousine. These members of the People’s Liberation Army, Navy and Air Force are awe-inspiring, vigilant, and no doubt proud to have been chosen to be part of the meticulously planned parade to celebrate the People’s Republic of China’s 60^th birthday. Even the sky was bright, sunny and manipulated. The whole atmosphere surrounding the ‘Gates of Heavenly Peace’ must have been reminiscent of that revolutionary song “The East is Red”:

The east is red, the sun is rising

China has brought forth a Mao Zedong.

He works for the people's welfare.

Hurrah, He is the people's great savior.

Chairman Mao loves the people,

He is our guide,

To build a new China,

Hurrah, he leads us forward!

The Communist Party is like the sun,

Wherever it shines, it is bright.

Wherever there is a Communist Party,

Hurrah, there the people are liberated!

The pomp and show, Communist kitsch and symbolisms will no doubt have been broadcast and shown around the world. Hu’s normal Western attire of suit and tie was today traded for a black Mao costume. Even if the era of everyone dressing in the same drab clothing is long gone, on occasion the General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party must don on that stern, sterile, smile-less look of a simple party cadre. A sea of children with red and yellow flowers and banners spelt out inspiring messages as "Listen to the Party," and "Be Loyal to the Party."

There were magnificent floats showcasing the People’s Republic’s achievements in the last six decades. There were floats representing all of China’s twenty-two provinces, and ‘autonomous regions’, including ones with happy, rejoicing Tibetans and celebrating Uyghurs all too happy to have been liberated and incorporated to be part of the “great rejuvenation of the Chinese nation”. Distant are memories and images of those dark times when the vast majority of the country was an impoverished mass of peasants suffering under the yoke of corrupt landowners and imperialist lackeys. China today is the world’s second largest economy, with shiny skyscrapers in bustling world-class cities like Shanghai, its very own Airbus production line, and the ability to send a man into outer space (and back). China, as a veto-wielding power of the Security Council, the only ally of North Korea, is undoubtedly playing a key role in regional and world affairs, and not afraid to show that its new-found wealth is fuelling vast investments and vested economic and geopolitical interests in Africa, and the developing world at large. There are even those who are quick to tout Red China’s recent decision to “go green” will be the trigger of most significant revolution in human history since the launch of Sputnik.

Then came the long awaited speech. There was silence, deafening, awe-inspiring, and glorious as Comrade Hu spoke beneath portraits of the Great Revolutionary Father Mao Zedong, and the Great Mastermind of “Socialiasm with Chinese Characteristics” Deng Xiaoping. Hu urged the millions of Chinese people, ‘told’ to watch the celebrations at home, to "work hard to achieve new victories in building a moderately prosperous society in all respects and write a new chapter of a happy life for the people". This is a different China, a new China, a China that is forever a “rich, strong, democratic, civilized, harmonious and modernized socialist country”. The waves and waves of applause and cheering must have rivalled the moment when Mao, on that very square, uttered in his squeaky voice that “the Chinese people have stood up”.

Dreams....

It's been a while since I last had such intense dreams. Must have been early morning, in that twilight zone between morning and night. It was so intense, I could feel myself 'cry' dry tears and cringe in sorrow. In my vision appeared two people I miss in my life, and who have unfortunately passed away already. And I never thought I would see them in my dreams... especially not together.

First to appear was my grandmother (on my dad's side). She and I were really close, as when I was young, I used to spend time with her during the summer. It's been a while since I last thought of her, but in the dream she was still the sweet and kind old lady I remember her as. A smile with few teeth remaining, wrinkled skin, and worn hands from years of working and toiling to raise a family of seven... I realised in my dream how much she meant to me, how I really miss her, and how little I've thought of her...

And somehow my grandmother merged into my dad, who appeared too. I forget what we did or said, but he was there. And it's been a while since he last appeared before me. He looked the same, healthy and thin, and that unmistaken smile. He felt warm, gentle, and spoke in a way that broke me, even though I no longer remember what he said...

I woke up, and felt so alone... naked, and exposed. I clutched onto a pillow next to me, and longed for human company. No matter who, just someone to hold me, to comfort me, and to whisper to me that things are alright. To just tell me that things are not as lonely as they seem...

Looking

What am I looking for?
Maybe if I stop looking, I'll find it.

Official song of the Deaflympics 2009

聽得見的夢想 (Dreams you can hear)
Sung by mandopop diva Chang Hui-Mei (A-Mei).





Translation mine:

The stars silently flash with light,
Humming and singing with the musical movements of angels,... Lees Meer
Breeze from the mountains warm up [your] raised chests,
Raising your silent and brooding expectations.
Cover [the], hand placed on [the] heart,
Close [your] eyes [and you] can see the distance.

Never been afraid,
You and I are the same.
There is nowhere [we] cannot reach.
The warmest treasure
Through the vision of concentration [we] hear dreams.
The most realistic strength
Hides the silent skies,[we] hear hope.

Laughter is love’s bridge,
In the process [we] treasure even the pain.
Maybe the journey is longer,
[But I] see you arrive with pride.
Cover [the] ears, raise [our] hands toward the sky,
Use the heart to receive cheer’s fame.
Sweat is the medal radiating with blinding light
Lighting the places you hurdle [across].

My Canada Day

Some nineteen hours since I left home, after boarding three different planes at three different locations, I finally made it across the Atlantic. A long journey it was, braving thunderstorms, missed connections, lack of sleep, and the cruel fate of forced (albeit temporary) separation from one of my suitcases full of my momentos. Still clinging onto my clothes was the scent and saltiness of the North Sea.

Though I arrived a little later than planned perhaps, last year, and on this very day, the warm breeze of a late summer’s night in Montreal blew in the winds of change. I remember my very first step on Canadian territory in my Birkenstocks. Despite the losses of the previous few months, I was fortunate to be given a new opportunity. A new country, a new city, a whole new world lay before me, waiting to be discovered. How exciting and refreshing that was!

I remember my very first meal, of couscous and shrimp brochettes, on a terrace beneath the shadows and reflections of towering skyscrapers. And I remember my very first sight of the Rodderick Gates, behind which in the months to come opened up a wealth of memories and learning at McGill.

That first night, I wandered through the unfamiliar streets of a then big and foreign city. I knew no one, and no one knew me. Cars, horns and sirens whizzed past, while the sound of random chatter and laughter passed me by, almost intensifying a growing sense of loneliness. The sky darkened, and night had fallen. And the closest thing I could call ‘home’ for the coming two weeks would be a downtown hostel.

Life hurries on, and at times I am left trailing behind trying to make sense of all that has happened. And of all that is still to come.

One year on, and I have slowly began to build up a life, a home, friendships and a sense of belonging. Right here, right here in Canada.

On Lake Katchewanooka

There was an ever so faint trail of mist, white, lingering and hovering over the smooth, smooth surface. Light was just dawning as the sun slowly rose. All was quiet, all was still, save for the sporadic birdsong and the creak of some lonely cicada. Or perhaps it was a cricket?

The lake, undisturbed and unstirred from a sleepy, moonless night, rippled underneath. The sky, blue and clear, lightly dabbed with clouds of cotton white, reflected on the watery mirror that spread into the distance. The sound of water drip-dropping from my oar onto the lake’s almost flawless face was almost embarrassingly loud.

With every stroke, a thin silvery whirlpool emerged and faded. With every paddle, the lake parted before the bow, bowing to form gentle waves that would ebb, flow and fall across the horizon onto silent shores.

Early morning and two people on a simple canoe glided over the Katchewanooka. I looked into the murky depths of the lake, overgrown with weeds and water grass, parts of which were so dense and thick that it resembles a nebula of greens. In other parts of the lake, the water was so shallow we seemed to be skirting the ground, ever vigilant of the treacherous rock or boulder that could sink our little vessel.

We skimmed the surface on the lake under my rhythmic movements. Pull, lift, pull, lift, steady as a beating drum, and the canoe rocked forward. In a field of reed we stopped and listened. To the quiet whisper of the winds, the soft flow of water, and the rustling sounds of grass dancing and nodding their heads.

For a moment we seemed to be alone in this great big world. Dark silhouettes of trees crowded the shores around us, and little lily pads floated to softly stroke the side of the canoe. Nothing but wild, raw nature, untamed in its beauty, unmatched in its tranquillity and serenity. We faintly drifted to the sway of the breeze and currents. Until the distant murmur of a roaring motorboat cruelly brought us back to reality.

It was such a simple joy, being there, paddling away, and at times simply drifting away to wherever the currents pleased. A simple joy of doing something so quintessentially Canadian in a little canoe on a big, broad lake.

“If you’re going to San Francisco…”

The taxi lurched forward, gliding gently over the paved pathway. Outside the transparent glass, a gigantic neon-light crab went by. A tingling crowd had gathered before a row of stalls at Fisherman’s Wharf vending steamy clam chowder and fresh king crabs. The scene was like the silent still of a travel documentary, yet lively and real.

“So you’re a visitor from out of town, right?”

“Yeah, just here for a few days. I’ve heard so much about the city, it’s so exciting to be here,” I replied.

“Yeah, San Fran is unique alright. Inspiring and rich in colours and culture everywhere you go,” he said with a smile.

On a street corner, a group of youths sat gathered in a circle shaped like a the crescent moon. One guy with long sideburns played a guitar, while a girl with long beaded hair and flowery dress danced. Her movements were carefree, light and mesmerising, as if she had not the slightest worry in the world. “Who were those people?

“Them? Hippies, they call them. And it all began in what they called the “Summer of Love” of 1967. Youngsters began to flock to San Francisco that year. To use a phrase of the time, they came to “turn on, tune in and drop out”, and they lounged on colourful psychedelic buses all over town, but mainly in the Haight-Ashbury area. They believed in free love, experimented with drugs to free the mind and experience different levels of consciousness. And they championed respect for the environment, spoke of “flower power” and “green power” even before scientists alarmed the world about the effects of global warming. Have you heard that song “San Francisco”?

“Not sure. How does it go?”

And with that, the he began to sing. His voice was mellow, yet forceful; calm, yet able to carry the words and their meanings across time and into my ears.

“If you're going to San Francisco,
be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
If you're going to San Francisco,
you're gonna meet some gentle people there.”

“ ‘Gentle people’, huh?” I repeated, hinting that I was unsure what that meant.

“Yeah, I think Scott Mckenzie capture it best with his song. Hippies were not a bunch of idealist layabouts, as they were dismissed as in those days. They genuinely believed in something real. They believed in the possibility that love and human compassion can change the world. They spoke out against the establishment, which they believed was based on exploitation and oppression of the lower classes.”

“Classes? As in those juniors in my school?”

“No, ‘class’ was a social invention of the 20th Century. It was a psychological barrier created in the minds of narrow-minded people who believed themselves to be better than others because they had more wealth or power or influence.”

“But that’s outrageous!” I said, with disbelief in my voice, “Aren’t all men, women and children born equal, with equal rights and all deserving of the same respect?” We passed a group of tourists who stood in the middle of the road, posing and photographing. I gazed up, and saw a steep and crooked road wind its way uphill as vehicles meandered down. Pedestrians battled the sharp gradient, and climbed the steps that were highlighted with floral decorations.

“That’s how it is today, sure. But back in the day, some people did not have a say because of their gender or because of the colour of their skin. People with dark skin colour were traded as commodities and used as ‘slaves’. Certain people, because of their religious beliefs or traditional ways of living, were exterminated en masse. Many young girls and boys were forced into prostitution. And there was hunger, famine, homelessness and poverty.” The green, tiled roof of Dragon’s Gate gave way to the bustling market of vendors and hawkers swarming Chinatown’s narrow streets. The ring-ring of the bell alerted passerbys of ancient cable cars that climbed and slid down San Francisco’s steep slopes with ease.

“No wonder they called those days the Dark Ages. What a terrible place to be,” I said, reminded of pictures in my textbook of a ragged man begging on the street. Even now, I could see it before me. That soiled face, those sunken eyes wallowing in shame, in hopelessness and desperation. Something about that image made me look again. Though it was just a picture, I felt pity, I felt deep sympathy, and at the same time I felt resentment too at how the world then, with all its riches and fortunes, could possibly ever allow a fellow human being to fall to this dilapidated state of existence. Surrounding him, in dozens of hole-filled plastic bags, were all his belongings. Discarded plastic bottles he could exchange for a meagre few cents, left over bits and pieces of unfinished sandwiches and take-aways.

“Well, that’s all in the past now,” the driver said, his voice taking me back to the present, “Nowadays the future is clearer, brighter, free of all those miseries. Luckily, contrary to how Hobbes put it, life in the world of today is no longer “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short””.

I smiled hearing that, grateful that humanity has somehow, despite the struggles, conflicts, differences and wide range of beliefs, managed to find a common purpose. I thought back at how far human beings have come from those dark, dark days. I thought about how in exploring the vast, endless reaches of boundaryless space has allowed us all to realise how miniscule and insignificant we are in this universe. It was this realisation that spurred that communal will to mould weapons into ploughshares, to come together and embrace other cultures for the sake of humanity’s continued existence, and indeed, very survival. The vehicle jumped a little, and I was thrown back into the seat. Beyond the steep decline before us, the city sprawled like an organised maze of towering skyscrapers, brightly coloured Victorian townhouses and sporadic greenery. A wide body of water lay on the horizon, glistening magnificently like a mirror in the sun.

“Have you not heard that classic song, “Imagine”?”

“I may have. How does it go again?”

Once again, he broke out into song. His voice smooth, full of drama, full of romanticism.

“Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace”

I hummed along with him, my heart moved by the melody and simple, simple words. Outside, engraved on a rectangular stone monument, I could just about make out Rachel Carson’s saying that “those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find resources of strength that will endure as long as life lasts”.

A majestic, white building with majestic columns and graceful arches loomed before us, awing in sight and posture. Puzzled, I asked, “What is that building?”

“Oh, that. That’s the War Memorial Opera House. And next to it is its identical twin, the Veterans Building.”

“War memorial? Veterans?”

“You’re probably too young to remember. And you’re lucky not to have experienced or lived through wars. Those buildings were dedicated to the soldiers of the First World War—the first of many great, big wars to come. In fact, in the last century, war and conflict were commonplace. They fought for all sorts of reasons. For territory, for resources and for wealth. People tortured, killed and slaughtered one another like mad, and justified it in the name of racial or religious purity. And sometimes just for pride and for the sake of it. All sorts of atrocities were committed, including pillage, rape, extermination and forceful internment. Human beings were like savage beast then, but at least animals do not kill or injure others with the malicious intent of doing so.”

“But wasn’t war outlawed as an instrument of policy in the Kellogg-Briand Pact?” I asked, somewhat proud that I actually remembered something from History.

“Yes, it was. But the 20th Century—the so-called Century of Wars—was marred by war and conflicts. You know that the United Nations was established here in San Francisco, right? Yeah, right there, in the City Hall building. That beautiful building over there with the impressive gilded dome and spire.”

“I see it.”

“Well, after the Second World War, a group of Allied Powers came together in that very building and vowed “to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war”. They even promised to respect fundamental human rights, and obliged the international community to “practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbours, and to unite our strength to maintain international peace and security””.

“Such noble causes! What happened?” I asked, curiously.

“Those idealists didn’t foresee that the idea of the Nation-State, which was so sacredly protected and which formed the foundation of the new world order, was founded on selfish interests and political ambitions of individual States and their politicians. How could one talk about an international community, yet still cling onto the idea of divided borders, of national interests and sovereignty? Whatsmore, the UN was fundamentally flawed in that the Allied Powers crowned themselves with the inviolable position of “guardians of the peace”. Yet in the face of humanitarian catastrophes and ongoing conflicts, the Big Powers did nothing. They self-interests triumphed over common understanding and sense.” The vehicle seemed to grunt in agreement.

“Those are such foreign ideas to me. Don’t we speak in terms of humanity, of Earth Home and of humankind as a whole now?” I said, even more puzzled now. What kind of world government is established and run by the select few and powerful?

A colourful mural of people of all colours and races, laughing, dancing, singing, hugging and handing hands, adorned the walls of a building. “Yeah, but this came only after many more wars, many more natural and human-made disasters that brought us to the brink of annihilation before we realised that there is more that unites us than divides us”.

The vehicle sped past a theatre. On its side, in large illuminated letters was the word “Castro”. Across the street, an enormous flag fluttered in the wind, bearing the colours of the rainbow. “So this is the Castro District, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess you could say the life of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community in San Francisco is itself a reflection of the gay movement. Life Magazine even named the city the “Capital of the Gay World”, and one of the first pride parades was held right here”.

“Pride? How are gays any different from straight people?”

“Well, there may be no difference today, but back then, gays were discriminated against. Some were even beaten up for holding hands, others were hounded by the police. And some were even killed by gay-bashers and religious fanatics who condemned the “homosexual lifestyle”. A layer of fog was by now forming. Thin, mystical like a gray, semi-transparent veil unrolled by an invisible hand in the heavens, the fog crept quietly over parts of the city.

“As if it’s a choice,” I said solemnly.

“Exactly. But people those days were blinded by fear and intolerance. When the AIDS epidemic broke out, some even gave it the derogatory name of “gay cancer”. It took courageous pioneers like, Harvey Milk who endlessly believed in dialogue and practiced non-violence, years of struggle to finally establish equality, marriage and rights that many of us take for granted”.

The vehicle rode on, through the dense and lush foliage of a park. Over the treetops, I could see the top of a Japanese styled pagoda. Next to it, a distinctive building made of twisted metal and mesh spiralled upwards and houses the de Young Museum.

In that muddle of reflections and thoughts that jumped between the past and the present and the world that flashed quickly before my eyes, I noticed the vehicle had come to a halt. The glass doors opened, and he pointed out into the distance. “We’re here. Look at that there. The most photographed bridge in the world. Probably,” he said.

“Thank you very much,” I said as I stepped off, “You’ve been so kind and welcoming. I’m really grateful”.

“Anytime. Enjoy your stay. And peace be with you,” he said, as he pulled away from the pavement.

I stared for a few moments, captivated by the sheer size and beauty of it all. All the pictures, postcards, movies and wordly descriptions could hardly do it justice. Out of the fog, two red towers soared skyward, unfazed and unshaken by the cold and ever-changing weather creeping in from the wild Pacific. A testament to human engineering and ingenuity, the Golden Gate stood like a causeway into the unknown. A bridge too far, yet connecting the wide expanse of the Bay in a long, straight line, almost as if cutting the wild ocean from the tame, tranquil waters embracing the shoreline and beaches adorning San Francisco.

Fog horns of the bridge and massive container ships sounded and echoed rhythmically like the call two long lost friends trying to locate one another through the subsiding veil. Seagulls spread their wings and caught the free current of the winds. Their flight was liberating to watch, their call was almost soulful, and their small bodies in the endless sky all around reminded me of how small yet connected we are in this great, wide cosmos of living and inanimate beings.

I looked across the Bay, at the inviting and unspoiled raw hilltops of the Marin Headlands. Their arched backs and curved bodies meandered along the tranquil shoreline, and the hills lay silently like gentle giants sleeping against the dusking sky. Stranded at sea, the rocky shores of Alcatraz rose like the shell of a half-submerged turtle. Behind me, the fine dome of the Rotunda peered above the treeline, and stood almost lonelily as one of the sole survivors of the devastating 1906 San Francisco Earthquake and Fire. Far away, in the heart of the Financial District, a pyramid-shaped white structure poked into the heavens alongside a host of skyscrapers all vying for a place. On top of a hill, Coit Tower stood like a well-wishing candle, and almost seemed to burn ivory white.

Greedy men have come and left this city in search of striking it rich with tales of gold. World leaders have once arrived here with loud sounding promises and yet departed without having heard or heeded the words of San Francisco’s “gentle people”. Mother Nature has many times unleashed her most deadly power and devastatingly shaken the city to a hollow hell of burning buildings and suffering. Yet, the spirit, liveliness and peaceful mood of this metropolis on the Bay continue to live long and prosper through and through.

It is through stories and lives of the American Indians who lived in peace with nature, the songs of the hippies, the industriousness of the Chinese and Hispanics, the perseverance and endurance of the blacks and gays that San Francisco today still maintains that air of human hope and unity.

Even if it is nicknamed the Foggy City.

Sleepless in Seattle

I was hungry, having not eaten much since the quick excursion to Wreck Beach before heading to Vancouver Airport to catch my flight southward. Hungry I was, until I took a few bites. A seagull stared down at my plate of halibut, fries and salad, and eyed my cup of clam chowder. A sea breeze blew in the scent of fish and salt.

My mind wandered, away from the hustle of the Seattle seaside boardwalk in the light of the dying day, past the emptying Pike Market, and back to the street corner where I first saw the lady. I only passed her by briefly, yet something made me turn around to take
another look as my footsteps carried me further.

Beneath the soiled, ragged clothes and a blanket she had wrapped around her to fend off the gathering evening chill, was a face of sorrow, a face of agony. It pained me in that fleeting moment as my eyes darted across her face. She leaned over a bench, on which her plastic bags of precious belongings cluttered. She held her hand to her face, her forehead and cheeks contorted into a powerful expression of human suffering right before my eyes. The rush-hour traffic was dying. Passerbys walked on by.

I too walked on by, yet the haunting image of the homeless lady lingered as I took another bite. The food I was looking forward to which came so highly recommended in the guidebook suddenly tasted so bland. The dusking sun suddenly seemed so dull. Only the moon, its face bright and pocketed, glowed in reminder of a face I came across not so long ago.

The seagull still stared at my half-finished plate of food. I got up and asked for a container, and quickly marched back toward where I first met her. The food steamed beneath the transparent lid, yet more and more it lost its appeal. My appetite was somehow already fulfilled.

I laid down the plate on the bench, and walked on by.