Museum of Children’s Toys and Little Trains

In the Museum of Children’s Toys and Little Trains live the forgotten fantasies of us adolescents. The bobbing motion of the white rocking horse, the colourful pieces of a jumbled puzzle, the scratched paintwork of little cars and little buses that have long lost their tires, and the whirring and clanking of metal wheels against little railway tracks compete with flashing planes suspended from the ceiling for the attention of buried memories. Memories buried beneath under the surface the realisations and worries of adulthood as we each grow older.

Aslan ran around the museum excitedly, his screams and babble audible throughout the museum. There was a time when I played with little model railways, and imagined myself taking long journeys to lands far, far away as the trains sped around and around along the same tracks. Each round taking me further and further away from the real world, and into a world of my own that is where everything is pretty and where imaginings are real. On Christmas Day when I was twelve, I was told that I am too old for toys. And I have never seen them since.

But Aslan returned the toys to me, and in a number of different ways. Ever since he appeared in my life, I would venture into toy stores again, even if it is just to look and see what kids play these days. And at times I would think to myself what I could possibly buy him that would capture his wandering little mind for more than five minutes. For the past week or so staying with him in his little bedroom, I am surrounded by baskets and baskets of colourful playthings that sometimes unexpectedly make funny music and queer little noises when you accidentally step on them. Aslan does not seem to be too interested in his toys, even though he is only 18 months. He seems to have more fun with the buttons on the DVD player, and with taking out the shiny discs and putting it in again. And then taking the disc out again, playing around with it with his pudgy little fingers, before dragging it on the floor. Of course, he does not yet understand what scratches can do to a DVD.

Joy is also to be had when he presses the on/off button while you are trying to vacuum. On. Off. On. Of. Again. And again. And again. I get annoyed and tell him to stop, but he does it again and again. I want to raise my voice, but seeing his big inquisitive eyes staring back at me, I cannot but think to myself that it is his nature to play, and try to find another way of getting on with my ‘adult’ tasks. The washing machine with its electronic display, dials and buttons is also fast becoming another one of his favourite ways to pass time. The wet floor that has soiled his trousers and sleeves, and the washing powder in his hair does not seem to be cause for concern for him. Was I as curious as he was at his age? Was I as intelligent as he is, or is sure to become?

And how Aslan loves to bathe! Getting wet is his gift to anyone who has the fortune of having to bathe him. And I have willingly accepted that fortune, knowing very well that my clothes will be soaked and my hair drenched after he has had his fair share of splashing and rolling around the bath tub like a fish in water. Seeing him enjoy sponging himself as he watches his baby shampoo bottle bob up and down in the bubbly bathtub makes it all worthwhile.

Who would have thought that he has grown so big? And his voice so loud, his screams so penetrating? More and more, he has a temper of his own. And when it pleases him, he can throw a tantrum by rolling around on the floor and crying his tears out one minute, and the next he can climb back on his pudgy little feet again, and run around the bedroom as if the hideous fit moments before were all a planned and well-enacted scene.

But strangely, when his mother is away, he becomes ever so quiet, ever peaceful. As if his fits of baby fury were all meant to torment his poor mother who’ s not had a good night of unbroken sleep ever since he was born. A mother’s consolation of hearing from strangers and friends that the boy in her arms is so cute and so beautiful. And that Aslan certainly is. And a mother’s joy that overshadows whatever havoc and (dis)stress the baby can possibly cause is in watching the child’s eyes slowly close as he rests his head lovingly on your lap.

It is a sight that even angels would vie to catch a glimpse of.

Stille Nacht, Sainte nuit...

Normally, I am not religious. And I would certainly not call myself Christian.

But on a day when people are suddenly so pleasant to one another and when peace and hope seems to reign everywhere, if only for a day, or a fleeting moment, I attend mass with the masses. Haulicinents loose their effect on me fast, and for many others even faster.

The night was dark, bitter and shrouded in mist, and not a person was in sight on the streets of Strasbourg. It seemed like all the lovely lights and decorations were for me to enjoy, as I walked the almost half-an-hour journey towards Cathedrale de Notre Dame. The trams have long since stopped, as people hurried home earlier to enjoy the warmth of celebrations and loved ones however they can. After a (ful)filling dinner of goose pate, freshly-made tomato-garlic soup, rat-atouille, roasted duck and little pancakes with my friend and my godson, Aslan, I needed the long walk to the Cathedrale to walk off the calories.

As soon as I walked out the door, I could feel the cold hug my face. Thankfully, just yesterday I had bought a cosy hat at the Christmas market from a Quebequois who told me he happens to study at the very university I am hoping to go to, hopefully, soon. Or perhaps there are no coincidences, especially on Christmas Eve.

Il est ne, le divin enfant
Jouez, hautbois, resonnez, musettes!
Il est ne, le divin enfant
Chantons tous son avenement!

It is good to remind yourself the meaning of Christmas. And it is even better to realise that behind the lure of capitalist consumerism, beyond the shining wrapping paper and ribbons, and away from the hordes of stressed shoppers, that I have unfortunately also become part of at times, there is a deeper reason why this season is so specially seen and celebrated around the world (or at least a large portion of it). Indeed, if you were to sum up the two-hour ceremony praising the Lord, exhalting the sacrifice of He who died for our sins, and emphasising the chastity of the Virgin Mary, it is that peace, brotherhood and love for one another is what binds us around the world, in a world that is too often torn by conflict, hatred and divided between 'you' and 'me'. Temporarily, in the hall of Strasbourg Cathedrale, and in the depths of many churches, chapels and cathedrales the world over, people are united, for one day in a year, in prayer. Temporarily, people forget all the colours, the races and religions, and reach out to their neighbours, as the priest told us to shake the hands of our neighbours and wish them well.

O du froliche, o du selige,
genadevrubgebde Weihnachtszeit!

I stood in the crowd, as the Archbishop of Strasbourg waved his staff and preached to his flock below. Unique to its history and location, this is perhaps the only place where hymns are sung in two of the local languages, German and French.

Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht... Tout s'endort au dehors.
Nur das traute, hochheilige Paar, holder Knube im lokkigen Haar,
Au ciel l'astre luit, Au ciel, l'astre luit...

A beautiful combination of languages and culture, united in song and music, and a symbol of how faith and soothing voices know no barriers. The old, the young, a crying baby next to an annoyed devout Christian deep in prayer and the restless little boy who seemed to have been dragged to Midnight Mass, we all huddled together with curious tourists and flashing cameras in the great big hall of one of Europe's most impressive cathedrals.

I stood there, awed by the sheer size of the structure, surrounded by massive red Alsatian limestone pillars and by hymns that I hummed along to at times. Now and then, I could pick up the odd words and sentences from the priest's sermon to decipher what was being said, as the crowd occassionally answered in unison with a low echoing 'Amen'. It was hard to imagine that there I was, standing in the hallowed bowls of gigantic tribute to Catholicism that took countless manpower and resources as well as more than 4 centuries to complete. In a darkened corner of the Cathedral, where the Nativity scene is recreated with wooden puppets and a bed of hay, one is ironically reminded that Christ the devine and graceful Child was born in a humble stable alongside sheep and donkeys. The cathedral bells rang, and the organs sang, the children prayed, and the crowd was blessed, as wooden baskets were passed around, chiming. Amen.

Gloria in excelsis Deo,
Gloria in excelsis Deo!

I lit a candle, and made a wish. A simple wusg ne that I make every year, and one that will most likely be made every year to come.

May there be peace on Earth...
May all beings be free from all hatred and suffering.

A troublesome, and at times testing year behind me. Of depressions and disappointments, and of feeling lost and lonely as with so many other years in my life. But then also a year of new beginnings, of strong friendships being built, and of new experiences working. And a year when I look forward to new possibilities and opportunities in the next few months, which will hopefully change my life.

Leaving home

Two o'clock in the morning. Just came home from a dinner reunion of friends from university. We enjoyed a lovely dinner, and cherished each other's company next to a warm open fire. Outside, the land froze.

It sudden became very cold, the cold of a winter before talk of global warming began. The kind of cold that clears your lungs as you breathe in deeply, because it is so fresh and so very fragile. So cold that the dense fog condensed on barren branches of giant trees and turned them into frost coated towers that glisten under the yellow hue of the street lights. Grass put on a white wintry layer, as shrubs and bushes wrapped themselves with white tinsels.

Christmas is just around the corner, and the new year is waiting to be ushered in. After work tomorrow, I will be taking the long seven hours train journey, leaving home to go see my family in France. Leaving this house I live in with my brother, who is supposed to be the closest family I have for thousands for kilometers, but with whom I have no contact or communication at all. Needing to go somewhere else where I feel warmth and love, where I feel warmed and loved.

It's sad, in a way... that I can't enjoy the holiday season in my own home, and that I feel like escaping this place whenever I have the chance. But I feel rewarded and grateful, that I have friends and a baby boy who will be happy to see and receive me. Christmas, this season of gratitute and of love and care is magical see through the eyes of a young one.

Crimes

I cringe from the shock. The shock of reading horrendous accounts of terrible crimes. It's for my internship, which I've just gathered enought courage in the past week or so to do some work on.

...detained at Dretelj Prison, HVO members, including the prison warden and members of HVO units not attached to the prison, subjected detainees to beatings and cruel treatment, including constant fear of physical and mental abuse. Bosnian Muslim detainees were sometimes forced or instigated to beat or abuse other Muslim detainees. Muslim detainees held in the isolation cell were particularly brutalised. Muslim detainees were harassed, subjected to ethnic insults and humiliated.

I cringe from the descriptions. The descriptions of rapes, of children and elderly people detained in concentration camps, of men wilfully and arbitrarily taken away and shot, of death and destruction... descriptions of the worst excesses of human inhumanity toward fellow human beings. Of hate, and the actions that flow from the consequences of hate.

...soldiers repeatedly raped and sexually assaulted Bosnian Muslim women and girls detained at Vojno Camp. (Annex) Such episodes of sexual assault were often preceded or accompanied by beatings or threats that non-compliance would result in the woman's child (or children) being killed.

And I sit here in my room, sipping tea, listening to Christmas songs on the radio, occassionally munching on chocolate... but elsewhere so many have died and suffered in vain... and elsewhere, many more ar undergoing the same.

...regularly mistreated and abused, and allowed the mistreatment and abuse of, Bosnian Muslim detainees, both at the Heliodrom itself and at various locations where detainees were taken for forced labour or other purposes. There was regular cruel treatment and infliction of great suffering, with HVO soldiers and guards routinely beating detainees, often to the point of unconsciousness and severe injuries. Muslim detainees lived in constant fear of physical and mental abuse. Passing HVO soldiers often fired their weapons indiscriminately at Muslim detainees held in crowded areas. Other detainees were attacked by HVO guard dogs which were released by the guards for the specific purpose of inflicting injury and fear. Muslim detainees were often humiliated in various ways...

Someday at christmas men won't be boys
Playing with bombs like kids play with toys
One warm december our hearts will see
A world where men are free

Someday at christmas there'll be no wars
When we have learned what christmas is for
When we have found what life's really worth
There'll be peace on earth

Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you and me
But someday at christmastime

Someday at christmas we'll see a man
No hungry children, no empty hand
One happy morning people will share
Our world where people care

Someday at christmas there'll be no tears
All men are equal and no men have fears
One shinning moment my heart ran away
From our world today

Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you and me
But someday at christmastime

Someday at christmas man will not fail
Take hope because your love will prevail
Someday a new world that we can start
With hope in every heart

Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you and me
But someday at christmastime
Someday at christmastime

One day... someday.

Remember to enjoy yourself...

"This is supposed to be such a happy time of year, so why are you
stressed? Stop putting so much pressure on yourself and remember to enjoy
yourself."

Stressed... I really am. Really!

Been so tense lately, unable to sleep well at night, waking up late in the day, not eating well, and thinking a lot about work, so much I even dream about it in my sleep. And worse was that in the past few days, I had one of the worst stomach flus I have ever had in my entire life...

A large reason for my stress is my internship that I'm doing... or better said, not doing at all. Officially I've been 'working' for two months, but only two weeks ago did they give me the means for me to login and do work. For so many weeks, when I had time, I couldn't do any work... and no suddenly there is this big assignment, but I really have no time to do it, because of my other job... I really feel like quiting the internship, but I'm not sure how to tell them, especially since I've not done any work at all. And it seems the assignment they gave me is crucial to their trial... which makes me really feel guilty for not being able to deliver what I promised...

...and then there's work. Besides the lack of appreciation, and being told I cannot go to the Christmas dinner if I want to bring a date who is not a "partner", there's just so many little things that need to be taken care of. I have four assistents, but two of them have not shown up for some time, and this is the time when I need them the most. I understand they have exams and are busy with their own lives, but the worst is when you write to them and ask them to come, but they don't even bother to reply... Which means I have to pick up the work I gave them to do, and also do the work that I have of my own... Stress!

The last few days have been so unbearable, because of a serious bout of diahrrhea. It all started last Friday, when I felt really unwell. I thought it was the flu, and so I drank lots of juice and ate lots of fruits and vegetable. But I think I had an overdosis of vitamins, and my body simply couldn't handle it, so it all came out. I really had to go to the bathroom six, seven times a day, and evertime, just masses of liquid comes out, it's frightening. Evens so, my stomach feels like it's about to explode, because it seems to be filled with gas. My friend was really kind to me and bought me some medicine, and even cooked me some fresh home-made soup... but it turns out vegetable makes my conditions a bit worse, and for the last two days, things that came out of me were... green!

Only today did I start to feel better... and I cheered myself up a bit by going to buy a train ticket for next Friday.

One more week, and I'm going to France for Christmas... something to look forward to. Something to take away this stress, and hopefully let me enjoy myself in "such a happy time of year".

Christmas dinner at work

I have seen and heard many a ridiculous, and outright laughable, things at work. People politics, power and pompousness. But this is one has topped it all. At least for now.

About two weeks ago I was invited by 'The Management' (with capital 'T' and capital 'M') to a Christmas dinner. The purpose is to "express appreciation for all the good work" that has been done by the employees. Further, it will be "pleasant gathering [...] to strengthen collegial bonds", especially since getting to know your colleagues "on the homefront" is important "for a pleasant and balanced working environment". Of course.

I was enthused. Until I received the official invitation.

Apparently, it has been decided by 'The Management' that it will be chique event. The Management commandeth the dress code be "tenue de ville, gala, cocktail, tie-and-coat", everything under the motto "dress to impress" or "over the top". Already a turn-off for any (literally and metaphorically) red-blooded SOAS graduate indoctrinated to distrust petty little bourgeois exploits.

Then I realised you could bring a 'partner'. If someone I knew well was there, it probably would just be bearable. And perhaps, I thought to myself, it would not hurt to do a little personal PR and get to know my colleagues a little better. Besides, for all the work and time I put into my job, I deserve more than what I make.

So I rang the people in charge of organising the Christmas dinner, and told them I would like to attend, and bring a girlfriend along. I was asked whether there were any special dietary needs, and what our names were. I put down the phone, thinking I would be engaged on the evening of December 20th.

Moments later, I was called. "Is she the girlfriend, or a girlfriend?"

Curiously, I replied, honestly, "Just a girlfriend."

"I'm sorry, then you can't bring her. It has to be a partner."

I was surprised at the response. Since when are you only allowed to attend a Christmas dinner organised by your employer when the person you can bring along is a "partner"? "Sorry," I replied, expecting to feel the ridicule rise, "may I ask what the reason for that is?"

"It was a decision by The Management," was the explanation. As if the revelation of an untouchable supreme being is accepted and respected without questions. What is a partner anyways? "Someone with whom you have a deeply committed relationship". Ridicule peaked, and I did not know whether to laugh or cry.

Outrageous.

I listened to the secretary on the other side of the line explain the reasons why, and I felt she was not too happy about the decision either. A "deeply committed relationship"... the words echoed in my ears, like the annoying buzz of a mosquito while you are trying to sleep. I wondered to myself what that meant, as the image of a table seated with single-tons, surrounded by lavishly dressed and pompously made-up couples parading the room with glasses of champagne and polished silverware appeared before me...

Discriminatory.

Since when did my workplace decide who I can and cannot bring to a dinner party, the very purpose of which is to show appreciation for the hardwork I have been doing throughout these months? By what sacred decree is the hallowed definition of a "deeply committed relationship" stipulated? Are they going to probe into your private life? Are they going to ask how long you have been going out? How many times you have slept with one another? Or interrogate you on what the each person's role is in the relationship, just to decide whether you and your partner fall into the classification of what is "deeply committed"? Perhaps there will even be hired bouncers at the door trained for this purpose.

I regretted a little at my honesty, for if my friend and I were to just pretend that night we were (so-called) 'partners', no one would possibly know. But then again, why should I jeopardise my own personal integrity to play with their lovely little fabricated rules? I thought to myself the shocked and awed look on people's faces should I elegantly waltz in there hand in hand with a boyfriend. The Establishment frowns upon all that is unconventional and challenging to the established rules and present order.

I smiled. At the ridiculousness of the situation, at the absurdity of the justifications, at the firm determination not to go.

It was the kind of boyish smile that smiles itself when you know you are not stupid enough to submit yourself to such humiliation, when you know you are much better off without having to play along with their little fancy dressing-up games.

Phone call

I wish there was someone close I could talk to, some so close I could see and touch while I talk to.

Just called my mum on the phone, our usual phone conversation on a Sunday afternoon. At first, when she asked how I was doing, I was I was pretty alright... but somehow, the voice of my mum drew the truth out of me...

I'm not doing all that great after all... at work, I feel like I do so much and spend so much time and effort on what I do, but nobody seems to appreciate it at all... and then there's this internship that I'm 'doing', even though I've not done any work in the last two months at all...

I told my mum how terrible and down I feel sometimes, even though before I called her I promised myself I shouldn't bother her with my problems, because that's just selfish dumping all my problems on her...

But my mum was so caring, so understanding, and her voice drew tears out of my eyes... "Don't worry, son", she said, "It'll all pass, and it's not as bad as you think..." I tried to say things without giving the impression that I was crying, but it's difficult...

I try not to think of the distance between us, I try not to think of the illness and the stresses that she has at her own work... but it's difficult...

"Go for a walk, go clear your mind," she said softly, "You'll feel much better. And don't forget to dress warmly, because it's cold out there. And you need to take good care of yourself, especially when there's no one there to care for you." It felt painful to hear those words, even though they were soothing and healing...

No one here, that is correct. But there is someone far, far away.

Dream II

Yet another dream, or perhaps you could call it a nightmare. What is the difference between a dream and nightmare? Yesterday's seems sweet and romantic, but it was haunting too... a deep reflection of my innermost fears and anxieties.

And so was today's. To be honest I can't remember what really happened now, but I do remember waking up from the intensity of the dream in the dark of the night, and being really struck and awed by it all. I remember repeated saying "I miss you, dad. I really miss you..."

Indeed, the dream was about my dad. Ever since the beginning of March, when dad left after a troubled and tense visit here, I haven't heard anything from him. I regylarly think of him, and wonder how and what he is doing. But there is absolutely no communication at all. Before, he would speak to me on the phone from time to time when I call, but for the last nine months, nothing... nothing.

Sometimes I have terrible dreams with him in it... sometimes it's scenes of him suffering unbearable pain, scenes of him dying in front of me, or scenes of him arguing and shouting with my mum... Never positive or sweet things or images, only these terrifying thoughts and pictures.

And so it was the same tonight.

I wake up from bed, after a number of hours already being awake, but feeling unable to face the world, and feeling completely exhausted and drained even though I've slept for much too much.

And it leaves me wondering... how is my dad doing?

Dream

Yesterday afternoon, I felt my body start to ache and my head start to spin. Being around people who cough and cough make the chances of getting ill high, and I was sure that I was falling prey to illness.

Leaving work, I went to the supermarket and bought a lot of fresh orange juice
and lemons. Earlier in the day, I had bough tonnes of vegetables at the market, and I promised myself I'll treat myself to a big treat of vitamins. So I cooked a big pot of freshly ground tomato soup with ginger and garlic, and drank large doses of echinasea, the wonder cure against colds and flus, and I wrapped myself under the blanket and stayed in bed all night, watching the three hour long epic 'The Last Samurai', and then putting myself down to bed.

I woke up by the sound of my alarm radio, but I slept as I listened to the latest news and talk shows. In this half-state of sleep is when I'm most vulnerable to dreaming, and dream I did...

A dream full of passion and eroticism... involving someone I've had a crush on for sometime, and someone who I think has mutual feelings, but the feelings never got any chance to develop further. Let's randomly call this person R. In the dream R. and I do many sweet things together, like go on long walks, have heart-to-heart talks, look into each other in the eyes and feel the warmth grow and envelop us, and feel the connections grow closer. Our hands much touch once or twice, but never do we kiss or do anything more intimate.

Dreams are random, and the next scene we are in bed, lying next to one another... watching each other as we slowly fall asleep... Strange thing is, there is another person beside me,
so basically I'm sleeping in the middle of this bed, with R. on the one side, and this other person on the other. Then I realise who this other person is... it's this boy I had deep affection for while in high school. In real life, he never showed interest in me, because he's not (?) gay, and used to be really religious. Let's call him L.

But in dreams anything could happen, and things did happen. Even though I was more interested in R., and was facing him, L. kept on enticing me and speaking soft little words into my ears... L. started to touch me intimately, and the eroticism was overpowering, as the feelings I had for him before began to rise from deep within me. R. just lay there and watched, and did nothing, as L and I slowly and passionately pleasured one another...

The next moment, L. suddenly disppeared, and it was just me and R. in bed. R. stareted to cry, but I didn't know why. He started to cry and say I hurt him, say that I hurt him like no one has ever done, but I still didn't understand why...

"Because I love you... you never knew I love you... It was all a test, I wanted to see how much you'd wait for me, I wanted to see how long you would stay with me, if I pretended to show no interest... But look what you did..." He was crying like a boy who lost the most precious thing in his life, and was not consolable.

Indeed I never knew, never knew how much he cared or loved me... but how long do you have to wait, how much patience do you have, what do you have to go through to have to find out?

The letter L

Like any other boy who believes he deserves a little treat in life, I put a piece of cucumber and a few red and white seedless grapes into my dirty little trainer. I laid it to rest for the night, where it would sleep next to the fireplace in the office building along with many other shoes.

But unlike other shoes, mine had a little note on it for Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet.

"I have been very well-behaved this year! Heartfelt thanks! " I signed with a big "D", the first letter of my name, and put a smiley next to that.


I left the office, on a night of rain and wind.

The next morning, what ho, behold! My shoe was filled with a little package, with beautiful, colourful wrapping paper. And there was a scroll too, with a sweet poem. The kind-hearted and wise Saint Nicolas and his black slaves servants were here last night.

Carefully and excitedly, I tore open the wrapping, to see the expected chocolate letter. But when I saw what letter it was, it was as if someone took a pin and pricked through my excitement.

It wasn't letter I was expecting, and I even asked myself where in my name the letter "L" appears. I wrote my name in my mind, in full: David Kuan-Wei Chen... last time I checked, there was no L. I smiled at the irony, smiled at the fact that perhaps it was a joke. Or perhaps Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet were so busy they mixed up my letter with another. But still, I wondered what I should do with a letter "L".

Not that I'm not grateful for receiving a little surprise at work, even if simply as a simple token of appreciation.

But such carelessness shows just how much they... care.

Alles is liefde

Sinterklaasavond is the eve before Sinterklaas returns back to Spain. On this night, the Holy St. Nicolaas pays every household a visit, and leaves a gift for those good people who deserve the best things in life.

Even my office closed early today, and by 4 pm the streets were packed with cars as people rush home on this Dutch version of Christmas Eve. The tradition is that you put your shoe next to the fireplace, and by the morning, surprise, surprise you will get goodies. By 4pm, everyone had already left the office, but I stayed behinda bit longer...



I had bought some sweets and chocolates letters, and tip-toed around the office and putting it on the desk of my colleagues. It's something I do every single year to friends. I secretly give them a chocolate... sometimes simply by putting it through their mailbox, or placing it in a place they'd find it, or by sending it to people who live in another country anonymously. I don't really want anything in return, and I don't expect anything either... To me it's just good fun, and I like to think of the pleasant sweet surprise people get when they receive an anonymous gift. Spreading the love, if you will...

Yet, stil, on this evening when family gather around a warm fireplace, when dreams and wishes are made and fulfilled, when loved ones thank one another for all the happiness and warmth they give one another, it is lonely being alone.

After I delivered a gift to a special friend who has helped me a lot in the past year, I wasn't sure what to do next. It was around seven, and the streets were deserted, and cold. And it rained too, making it seem even more dreary. I went into a restaurant and had a cheap meal of Indonesian food, and then wandered the streets a bit more...



Then I saw something as I walked past the cinema. A poster for the movie "Alles is liefde" (Everything is love). I've heard about it for sometime, and knew that it was a Dutch movie based more or less on the original "Love Actually", which is a romantic comedy based around Christmas, when miraculous the most miraculous consequences occur, and strangers find one another and find love. The big difference with the Dutch version of this movie is that it has a gay couple, who kiss a number of times and even get married. Thanks to Dutch open-mindedness...

To be honest, at first, I was a bit uncomfortable going to the cinema alone, especially watching a movie that is about love and falling in love. All around me in that cinema hall, where around a hundred people, couples, families, young and old, and it seemed like I was the only one there all alone. But when the movie started, I blended into the dark and didn't mind too much any more.

The story-line is simple. Set in Amsterdam, around the time of Sinterklaas, and random people meeting by chance find one another, while others rekindle their love and rediscover one another's feelings for one another.... about families coming together again after troubles, and about a long lost son who discovers his long lost dad... It's sappy and romantic, the kind of things that you can easily lable 'movie magic', and the kind of coincidences that could only occur on a big white screen... Even so, this movie made me wipe away tears from the corners of my eyes. It was so touching for some reason, even though it was stereotypical, it touched me so much, because it embraced many of the dreams and ideas I live and long for...

"When you're young, you'll believe anything. Spinach will give you muscles, your father is the strongest man in the Netherlands, and Sinterklaas is real. But there will be a day that you look at the man's shoes and think... wait a minute, those are my fathers shoes. You always suspected something like that but it's all getting through to you now. It's nonsense to believe there's a man with a long white beard in Spain who takes the steam-boat to the Netherlands every year to put something in your shoe. And another thing, spinach won't give you muscles, The Netherlands will never win the world cup and you won't marry your teacher.

You will get older and more miserable. The only moments in life that you feel the same like you did back then are the moments you love someone. Truly love someone. Everything that is stupid or hurts falls away. Love is all and we have to keep believing that. So what if we all together decided; Sinterklaas is real. We'll still know that we'll have to buy the presents ourselves but it's the thought that counts. That we keep believing that it can still work out for us, with love. Because love is like Sinterklaas, you have to believe it, because else it's all lost."

It sums up my thoughts very well... and the actors, many of them famous, bring the dialogue and comedy and romance alive. Love is out there, to be found and unwrapped, like a special gift you have been waiting and wishing for, and will eventually receive. Even after disappointments, even if people let you down or don't give you the same in return, you have patience. Little gestures, little words, little glances, little moves... not just the love between lovers, but also between friends and family, between strangers too.

Because love is everywhere, and everything is love.

"If it's about love, then sooner or later we're all too lat. It's about those tiny happy moments in between. Moments when everything just about then fall precise into their places."

Issues

I was at work today, and suddenly a friend called. Within minutes she was in tears.

I guess like my horoscope says, I'm a caring person, and so people come to me with their personal problems. She's been having a lot of health issues, and because of the pressures of her work, she's been putting off going to the doctor. But now she decided it must be done, before things get any worse.

Sometime ago I helped her choose a good health insurance. The way it works here is you pay close to 100Euros per month, and most of the basic health care and emergency dental care is covered. It's a lot of money, and a big burden for example for people on low wages. And to be frank... the health standard is pretty mediocre, often having to wait a long time to get an appointment, and often doctors are so overworked they have no patience or the time to really deal with your problems carefully.

So my friend went to the doctor, and her doctor told she was being paranoid and actually said he had no time to make an appointment for her. She went to the hospital to see if she could see a specialist. When she arrived, she pulled a ticket to wait in line. When it was her turn, she walked up to the counter, and the assistant said it was the wrong ticket, and told my friend to get another ticket. So my friend did as she was told, and got the correct ticket. There was no one else waiting. And she was told to the very same counter where the lady said to her less than a minute ago that it was the wrong ticket.

This is bureaucracy, pure and simple. Apparently the assistent didn't see there was anything wrong asking my friend to get another ticket, even though there was no one around, and even though the assistant was responsible for the same tasks! This reminds me of this famous commercial by this insurance company.



The mother and daughter lost the purple crocodile yesterday, and returned to pick it up at the swimming pool. The crocodile is just behind the counter, but the man asks the mum to fill in a form... and the back side of the form. When she hands the form in, the man says to hand in the form between 9 and 10 tomorrow. Mum points out the crocodile is just there... the man agrees, but does nothing.

Hilarious, but so very true. Bascially it's very typical of what kind of useless and meaningless bureaucracy Dutch people come across when they deal with 'official' business. Papers to sign, forms to fill in, declarations to file... even though some things can be done so easily and more efficiently.

Pisces!

pretty accurate...

Caring and kind. Smart. Center of attention. Messy at times and irresponsible! Smart but lazy. High appeal. Has the last word. Good to find, hard to keep. Passionate, wonderful lovers. Fun to be around. Too trusting at times and gets hurt easily. Lover of animals. VERY caring, make wonderful nurses or doctors. They always try to do the right thing sometimes get the short end of the stick. They sometimes get used by others and hurt because of their trusting. Extremely weird but in a good way. Good Sense of Humor!!! Thoughtful. Always gets what he or she wants. Loves to joke. Very popular. Silly, fun and sweet. Good friend to other but need to be choosy on who they allow their friends to be.

Dine and wine

I had a really laugh-filled night tonight. I've been trying to arrange a dinner with the four assistants I work with for a while, but every time it was cancelled because someone couldn't make it. And finally, tonight was the night we could all sit down together and do something 'social'.

I've been working with them (or actually, they've been working for me!) for a couple of weeks now, and I feel like we don't yet know each other that well yet. I try to bring them together, buy little snacks and drinks to treat them, but still between some of the team there's still very little connection. There were even a number of incidents that caused some misunderstandings, but thankfully that's more or less resolved.

I feel kind of bad, since, well, I'm the 'boss', and I'm supposed to bring them all together, because that's what a team is about. It's kind of difficult, because some of them come only one day a week, and don't get to see the others. And I really treat them as equals, and told them also that no-one is above or under any one at all, because we're all around the same age, so there's really no way to act as if we're pompous and sophisticated office people. We're students, but with a part-time job!

So the dinner plan was supposed to 'socialise' us all, and it really worked. We got together at a nice Italian restaurant. It was really unique, because you go in and they give you an electronic card, and every time you order something, it's cooked in front of you, and you pay when you leave by giving back the card. I treated them to some 'bruchetta', and bought drinks too. And I guess the food and drinks brought us close(r) together, and soon enough we were making jokes and really feeling more comfortable around one another.

I had a bit to drink, and soon was feeling really tipsy, as were the others. One glass of wine, a large glass of strawberry frozen margharitas... and David starts to talk about anything and everything! Preferred positions, how big and firm, how nice and juicy etc, etc. Before I start sounding like a pervert, I really am not. Just, when you put together a number of tipsy students together, you are never too far from the topic of sex. And we laughed so much I could feel my cheeks really hurting!

Who would have thought that an evening of bonding between us would have turned into such uncontrollable bouts of laughter and fun!

Bright, bright sun shiny day

Woke up much too late... saw the rain and the gray clouds, and closed my eyes and went back to sleep. Not once, not twice, but three times. Until a friend called at around 1pm.

Time to get up. We chatted a while and exchanged lives. It's hard to get out of a slump when you're down... Getting up in the morning, I think of all the things that I need to do for work, and feel like if I just sleep it'll go away. But then again, subconsciously my dream pattern seem to be clouded by the fears and thoughts of work and things I still need to do.

Some days you feel like you're losing control of your life. Sometimes you look around your room and realise it's such a dusty big mess that it's not funny. You want to clean, you want to get yourself out of the hole you've dug yourself into, but it takes so much motivation, so much energy and a big push from within and without to get you started.

Oh yes I can make it now the pain is gone
All of the bad feelings have disappeared
Here is that rainbow I've been praying for
It's gonna be a bright bright bright bright sun shiny day

Swim

Floating, watching the black night sky above me blur occasionally with the pale fog coming out of my mouth.

Floating, freely, floating away to wherever the water carried me. I could only hear the muffled sounds of voices, watering in my ears as I lay on my back and floated.

The cold air was a contrast to the warm water I floating on. I felt I could float and just float away... away from thoughts of work, from the applications that are pending, float far far away from troubles at home...

Closing my eyes, it was as if I did float away.

Rwanda II

Yesterday I went to watch a documentary at the local arthouse cinema, since it was one of last days of the series 'Justice and Cinema'. It was two documentaries about the genocide in Rwanda, the first one called 'After years of walking'-- about how before the 'white men' came there were no such concepts as race, or such terms as Tutsi or Hutu or Twa, which was the cause of the horrible events in leading up to 1994. The other one was called 'Guardians of the memory', which dealt with survivors of the genocide who even today, more than a decade on, live lives that are never too far from the traumas then.

For one and a half hours, I sat there in my seat, many moments moved to tears by the disbelief of the extent of the attrocities, and stunned silent by the grief of grieving survivors. At times, even the sound of my own breathing seemed so inappropiate because it disturbed the sanctity of the innocence of the slain victims, and seemed to take away the true extent of the intense suffering of survivors... the mother who lost her sons and husband... the man who lost 26 family members... and yet another who at last count lost 146 family and friends. He stopped counting, because, like he said it, it was too painful to remember the person you had lost, and to remind yourself you'll never see them again.

For the last decade or so, Rwanda history books dare not mention the genocide, dare not use the words Hutu or Tutsi any more than has already been (un)necessary. It was as if that bloodied and torn page of recent Rwandan was torn away. A group of university students sit and discuss the merits of such a policy. Race and differentiation, a foreign concept, one said, while arguing that in the reconciliation stage, society need not be reminded of the divisions that began the worst excesses of inhumanity in Rwanda. But the brief words and ideas of a female student broke the silence, and took my breath away. How can you reconcile if you do not identify Tutsi or Hutu? Politically correctness does not always serve an end, when the very roots of the Rwanda genocide originated from political incorrectness manipulated and mass reproduced by the governing elites. If people no longer dare or are allowed to identify themselves as who they are, who are they reconciling with then?

Reconciliation is a dual process, involving victims and perpetrators, who at one point could very well have been victims. But either side is locked in the same conflict of interests, of humanity, and in the same pain, in the same country. The survivors live with the past constantly in every waking moment, if not also in their sleep and nightmares. The perpetrators now wear distinguished pink prison robes, and are made to do manual labour throughout the country. The victims and the survivors are thus daily confronted with the very people who were involved in the causes of their indescribable agonies. Churches filled with thousands and thousands of skulls and skeletons dot the country, while mass memorial graves, some home to over 50,000 uncovered remained, remind the locals and foreigners alike of how easy it was... and at the same time how difficult it is to imagine.

At the end of the documentary, two forlorn men sit on a hilltop, on the same hilltop where they, with mere spears and clubs, fended off people who had stormed up the hill in a blood thirsty rage to kill them, simply because of who they are. They ask the cameramen what they bring by interviewing them. With reddened eyes, behind sockets of untold burdens and unseen sadness, they ask where the (so-called) 'international community' was. Where was the 'international community' when the Rwandan people "were possessed by evil"? Where was the 'international community' when unknown numbers of children and mothers were thrown into garbage pits alive and stoned to death? The fleeting image of Mr Clinton, after the genocide had taken place, with his head hanging low in mourning and accompanied his entourage of body guards and big SUVs seemed to be making a meek mockery of the dead...

The two men sitting on the hill, surrounded by the remarkable beauty of Rwanda's mist-veiled mountains and green lakes, are the fortunate survivors... Or, perhaps, it was more fortunate to have been dead and buried, and not to have to relive the scenes of watching your neighbours and family mauled to death?

Cross-cultural understanding

I walked into the room, and a colleague of mine was just finishing a chat with a lady I had never met before. By the way she looked and dressed, she seemed to be Chinese, and my guess was right when she introduced herself.

We began a brief conversation, which ended as briefly as it started. She began by asking whether I was Chinese. I said no, and said that I'm Taiwanese, at least by birth.

"Oh, Taiwan is a part of China."

I once again repeated what I had just said, "No, I'm Taiwanese."

And she repeated again what she said. As if repeating a fiction will make it fact.

I responded by saying... nothing.

Silence is golden, at times, and these were one of these times. I simply smiled friendlily, as the lady left the room.

There was little point in correcting her or getting embroiled in a big debate about whether Taiwan is really part of China. She can believe what she wants to, but I know I am right, and I really did not need to loose myself in a first encounter.

This yet another episode of Chinese ignorance and pride was reminiscent of an incident that a lecturer of mine once mentioned... the stir Allain Pellet caused in the International Law Commission when he decried China's "intellectual terrorism" when the Chinese delegated made a commotion about Taiwan's practice as "unilateral state practice".

What is surprising, and perhaps a little sad, is that this lady was sent by the Chinese government to "spread Chinese language and culture". It serves as part of the People's Republic's strategy to promote cross-cultural and international understanding and learning. Soft power if you will, to soften up the regime's hard image internationally. And whereas before all things remotely related to ancient thinkings and philosophers were denounced by Beijing as "decadent" , today there are numerous institutes springing up all over the world aptly (or perhaps ironically) named after perhaps the most renowned and respected Chinese philosopher.
But then again, if my experience with this lady was telling, it definitely is not what I would call promoting understanding and learning.

"I wish I were you..."

(beautiful song for the Dutchies amongst us...)

I need something or someone to inspire me.

Ohter than just chocolate.
Other than just my cat.

As much as you like buffet

I've been really eating too much lately. Two days already this week I've been eating at eat-as-much-as-you-like buffet restaurants. I'm not worried about gaining weight, and in fact I probably need some extra kilos, but to feel like your stomach is about to burst open cannot be healthy.

The food is pretty good though... the first night was Monday evening, when I went out with a friend to celebrate the fact that I successfully organised a meeting with very, very important people (VVIP!). Basically they're members of this board which supervises the Competition I'm organising. And these people are not nobody! It was a meeting I had been planning for ages, and finally on Monday it took place. It was so strange, to be sitting in a room of all these famous and important people, people I've read about in my study books and in the judgements of the international law courts. But they were there, sitting at the same table at me, and talking to, and listening to me.

Of course, I had to address them each as "Your Excellency", but they were all so down to earth and approachable. I made a summary of what I've been doing, and how the organisation of the Competition has been going, and they seemed to be pleased. Phew...

So I went out to dinner with a friend at a Korean restaurant... grilled meat and fish and shrimp, kimchi, kimchi soup, all my favourite as much as you like! I ate so much, and because the food was so spicy, I had ' stomach problems' almost immediately afterwards...

And today again, I had buffet, this time at a Japanese restaurant. I met a friend I've not seen in almost five years, and we were so glad to find each other through Facebook! So we met up, I helped her a bit because she was moving house, and after that we went to dinner. Basically, you pay a certain amount, and then you can order 8 times, each time maximum 5 things per person, and you have one and a half hours to do this! Sound complicated, but eating isn't. You have dozens of sushis, soups, handrolls, grilled vegetables and meat to choose from. And I had a lot of raw fish, because, well, that's the most expensive thing on the menu! So I ate like five raw salmon sushi, raw tuna, raw octupus, raw shell-fish, raw fish eggs... Until now, I'm still alright, so it must be pretty fresh food.

But even now, almost three hours after our meal, I'm still stuffed.

Operation Enduring High

Name: Operation Enduring High

Objective: Smuggle contraband across the international sovereign state boundaries between the Kingdom of the Netherlands and the (divided) Kingdom of Belgium.

Object: Light narcotic substance commonly identified as 'Cremers Premium'. Dried leaves of the plant in the family of 'cannabis sativa'.

Quantity: 2.75grams, with a street value of €20

Logistics: Contraband to be transported from The Hague to Antwerp on the international train commonly known as 'Benelux train'.

Time: 17 November, 16.00hrs to 17.30hrs.
Possible operational hazards: Risk of customs controls and/or sniff dogs. However, intelligence gathered from operatives in the field report the risk is negligible.

Precautionary measures: Contraband was wrapped carefull in two plastic bags which previously contained 'smelly food'. Rubbish and a bottle of juice was thrown into bags to give impression that it is merely garbage, and to dampen the smell of contraband.

Status: Mission Accomplished.

Despite a guilty conscience, and thumping heart whenever the doors of the train carriage opened, the 'goods' were safely delivered as a favour to a friend.

Remarks: Don't try this at home. Or anywhere else.

"Woman see lot of things"

Woman see lots of things, and undgo untold many more.

It was a painful documentary to watch. Sitting there, at times you would hope the retelling of the horrors experienced by the three former girl soldiers in Sierra Leone would stop. But that is a mocking comfort, which perhaps comes from some twisted form of voyeuristic pleasure, you have as a member of the audience who can get up from his seat and just walk away after the 65 minutes of the film is over. For these girls, and many others, the horrors are retold and relived. Daily.

The descriptions are graphic, aided by well choreographed close-up shots of the women's faces, sullen eyes, scarred surface of their skins, and the moisture on their wavering pout lips. Unborn babies cut open alive from the pregnant woman's womb... orders to gouge out the heart of a hanging corpse to prove readiness to join the rebel forces, the rapes of infants below five, abused and tortured girls with swollen stomachs left on the roadside to succumb to a slow and undignified death... These are but some of the tragedies lingering from over a decade of civil war in Sierra Leone and neighbouring Liberia. After the war, the women continue to be victims in a society that shuns and openly tolerates the discrimination of women. Out of desperation, many turn to prostitution, while others willingly submit themselves to become slaves in exchange for meagre food and shelter for their children.

Words cannot explain the pain. Not even the tears. War is violent, and sexual violence had until recently been a taboo not recognised as a crime against humanity. Yet, the overwhelming majority are women who suffer at the moment literally the unspeakable is done to them, and who continue suffer pain and shame long thereafter. It is upsetting to just hear, to just imagine, but what is it like to be the victim?

But in these women, and in the children who run around with smiles on their faces, you see strength so lacking elsewhere. You realise that despite all odds, despite all the worst excesses of inhumanity that they have had to see and experience, there is hope. Hope of earning money, getting a proper education, and being able to open a shop, of being able to be an independent woman in a society dominated and corrupted by men. Hope of perhaps one day leaving the country and travelling abroad where it is easier to make a living. Whatever hope it may be, hope seems to transcend the horrors before, and spring eternally.

Never again... never again... You would think to yourself, and you would hope for the victims and for the children who run around and enact scenes of soldiers they have witnessed at border posts checking the papers of fleeing refugees...

But it is happening. Over and over again.

Sinterklaas

To the outsider, the annual arrival of the wise old (white) man and his black 'helpers' stinks of racism. But the Dutch tradition of Sinterklaas has been celebrated by young and old since the the 15th Century.

Legend has it the old wise white man St Nicolas of Myra travels to northern parts of Europe every year around December bearing gifts for the good children. He is accompanied by black helpers called "Zwarte Pieten" (Black Petes), who help Sinterklaas on his journey and helps throw candy and gifts at children.

The tradition is to put your shoe under the fireplace on the 5th of December, and surprise, surprise, the next day it will be filled with goodies and candies for those who have been behaving. Sort of like the tradition of Santa Claus, but Sinterklaas comes earlier, and first. Those kids who have been naughty will get coal in their shoes, and those really awful children will be put in a sack by Zwarte Piet and taken to Spain. I remember as a kid thinking that it actually would not be too bad, given the warmer climate and better cuisine there.


Actually, it is all a fable told to children so they would behave themselves. The tradition of giving gifts in fact was started by churches which collected money and goods for the poor to commemorate the death of St Nicolas, but evolved into a cause of celebration and cheerfulness every year. As for the Zwarte Pieten... well, the religious intepretation is that they are supposed to represent the devil incarnate, who Sinterklaas has managed to tame to help him on his long journey of spreading good and kindness. The more 'politically correct' intepretation of their servant-role is that they became black because they have to climb up and down the chimneys, and their faces happened to be covered with soot.

Today was the official arrival of Sinterklaas, and the most famous one is at Scheveningen, not too far from where I live. So with a friend, I went to welcome him as he cruised slowly into harbour on the SS Madrid flying the Spanish colours. Most likely he boarded somewhere down the coast and happened to have a Spanish flag with him. But since the Ambassador of Spain himself was there to welcome this old wise white man from Spain, the flag was a courteous gesture.


On board the steam boat where dozens of Zwarte Pieten, all jumping up and down, waving and singing at the cheering crowd of children on the dock. There were so many other boats all cruising around Sinterklaas' steam boat. Even lifeguards and police blackened their faces with face paint, and stereotypically painted their lips red, reminiscent of those early cartoons portraying those 'savages' in Africa. How exciting, especially to be in the middle of it all and have candies and 'pepernoten' thrown in your face. A mother and son frantically scrambled to the ground to pick up the sweets, even though the ground was wet and dirty from the rain.
Children put on the brightly coloured suits of Zwarte Piet, a custome originating from Middle Ages Spain, while others put on the red robe and mitre of Sinterklaas and paraded the dock happily, most probably unaware of the under-tones (no pun intended).

The air echoed with the sound of fog horns and sweet children's songs.



Welcome, Sinterklaas.

Val op!

"Look out for the police!"

Sometimes you heard things but it takes some time before it registers in your mind. So as I was cycling through the night, and when this lady I didn't know says that to me as she passes by on her bike, it took me some time to realise she was actually talking to me. And it took me even longer to know why, and to be grateful for the warning.

Indeed, less than a minute later was the police. Not one, but two and two more in a patrol car. I connected the dots to the recent news I heard that the police are 'cracking down' on bike riders without lights. A new regulation was introduced that when cycling at night you must have a front and a back light. The front light can be either yellow or white, and the back light has to be red. The lights cannot be flashing, and must be connected to your bike. If you don't conform, you risk a €20 fine, per light.

Thankfully, being the law abiding citizen I am, I did have my lights on. The only infringements were that my front light was green, and my lights were flashing, because it's more visible I thought, since the batteries are almost dead. I cycled slowly and carefully past the policemen. I was lucky, as their attention were focused on giving a ticket to some poor kid who rode his scooter without a helmet.

I cycled on, and home, but thought to myself about the ridiculousness of the new measures, the sight of five policemen gathered at a street corner trying to catch the unwary cyclist for such minor infringements.

Yes… in the light of the increasing wave of intolerance towards foreigners and homosexuals, and in the aftermaths of several school stabbings, and the exposure of the government spying on journalists, the country’s unlit night riders who criss-cross the The Netherlands’ cycle paths pose a serious threat to social stability.

Val op!

"Look out for the police!"

Sometimes you heard things but it takes some time before it registers in your mind. So as I was cycling through the night, and when this lady I didn't know says that to me as she passes by on her bike, it took me some time to realise she was actually talking to me. And it took me even longer to know why, and to be grateful for the warning.

Indeed, less than a minute later was the police. Not one, but two and two more in a patrol car. I connected the dots to the recent news I heard that the police are 'cracking down' on bike riders without lights. A new regulation was introduced that when cycling at night you must have a front and a back light. The front light can be either yellow or white, and the back light has to be red. The lights cannot be flashing, and must be connected to your bike. If you don't conform, you risk a €20 fine, per light.

Thankfully, being the law abiding citizen I am, I did have my lights on. The only infringements were that my front light was green, and my lights were flashing, because it's more visible I thought, since the batteries are almost dead. I cycled slowly and carefully past the policemen. I was lucky, as their attention were focused on giving a ticket to some poor kid who rode his scooter without a helmet.

I cycled on, and home, but thought to myself about the ridiculousness of the new measures, the sight of five policemen gathered at a street corner catching the

Yes… in the light of the increasing wave of intolerance towards foreigners and homosexuals, and in the aftermaths of several school stabbings and even exposures of the government spying on journalists, the country’s unlit night riders who criss-cross the The Netherlands’ cycle paths pose a serious threat to social stability.

Kigali, 1994

"Are you a survivor of the genocide?"
"Sort of."

No one survives a genocide. Not even those alive today.

The above dialogue begins the account of French journalist/director Jean-Christophe Klotz as he returns to Rwanda ten years after to try to piece together the people and places that had captured him ten years earlier in his documentary "Kigali, des images contre un massacre" (Return to Kigali).

Klotz was one of the few journalists who stayed behind when the killings began around April 1994. Most foreigners, including embassy staff, and the majority of UN staff had retreated as the country descended into chaos. But he chose to stay behind, determined to show the world that this is a place not to be forgotten. Being a Frenchman, whose country of origin actively supported and armed the very government that instrumented the genocide, he was putting himself at risk. Yet his determination allowed him to see and shoots scenes and moments that otherwise would have been lost in history. Or better said, lost in a version of history rewritten later to safe the sorry face of the incomplacency of the world.

With the benefit of hindsight, Rwanda will never be forgotten. But in the ensuing three months till July 1994, while close to one million Tutsis (and moderate Hutus) were masscred in their own homes, the 'international community' wilfully chose to turn a blind eye and forget, if only temporarily, that one of the worst excesses of human inhumanity was taking place in a far away land in Africa.

The documentary is a cut and paste of filming taken as the events of the genocide unfolded, and of interviews conducted in the present with those that were there at the time. The journalist visited a church, where more than a hundred women and children sheltered in the belief and hope that the government-sponsored troops would spare the House of God. But they did not. Safe for the priest, and a handful lucky others, all other civilian refugees were murdered, some inside the congregation hall. The image the cross hanging above the ransacked altar, a symbolism portraying Christ who died for the sin of man, evokes a sickening sense of sardony, as sickening as the children outside drowning in the pool of their own red dye.

No where was safe. Not churches, not homes, not even schools, where even children stabbed their fellow classmates to death. Everywhere, in Kigali and throughout the country of barely 7 million, bones and rotting remains were strewn like garbage. Children played football with a skull, as government-sponsored (Hutu) militia-men raided and cleansed the country. "The Beast", the locals called it, wreaked destruction and death wherever its presence was seen and felt. Men were brutally severed and killed with machetes, screwdrivers, hammers and stones, children and babies were split into two and shot, and women and girls (as one put it) like "abandoned pets", were raped and abused. How can it all be put into words? How can you describe something that doesn't make sense, asks the representative of the ICRC (Red Cross).

The "international community" knew, but did nothing. Western correspondents retreated as the last westerners withdrew, citing instability as the reason. But as the cameras and reporters left, the massacres and horrible crimes against humanity did not leave, only intensified. The Canadian UN commander in Rwanda pleaded for intervention, a French envoy called the White House, the Elysée, Westminster and the UN in New York, explaining the situation. But no help came. Instead, they had no alternative to sit down with the very Rwandan government ministers who were clearly behind inciting and initiating the systematic and organised wiping out of the Tutsi population.

The world watched, and stayed silent. As silent as when Auschwitz took place, as one put it. As early as 1993, more than a year before the events, foreign journalists filmed mass graves being uncovered in Rwanda, and confirmed reports of systematic killings. At the same time the former Yugoslavia was experiencing its own massacres and despicable acts of inhumanity. April to July 1994 was only the unstoppable climax of the rampage and insanity in Rwanda. But the world stood by. And thereby is just as guilty for its inaction as those who acted in the name of ethnic purity and hatred. Hatred for "not what they (the Tutsis) had done, but for who they were".

Three months and close to a million deaths later, France gloriously led a UN mandate into Rwanda under Operation Turquoise. Mr Nicolas Sarkozy, then spokesperson for the French Cabinet, trumpeted France's role to end the killings and bring justice. Much bloated and much belated. As French troops moved in, the media swarmed back to Rwanda again. They filmed rows of cheering crowds wielding the French Tricolore and shouting 'Vive la France'. And the media filmed refugees pouring towards UN troop outposts, in dire need of protection and food. The Rwanda Patriotic Front (RPF), who previously were fighting the government to prevent further massacres, now became demonised as the wrongdoers. Nobody bothered to check the facts, and the streams of refugees were taken for granted as victims fleeing their homes from the rebels. But in fact, many of the refugees were the very Tutsis, some of whom had been involved in the killings, fearing retaliation by the rebels, and now seeking protection of UN forces. Journalism can inform, but is also a powerful tool for political manipulation and deceit.

Suddenly the "international community" which for so many months sat by and wilfully watched hundreds of thousands massacred, were welcomed as saviours from afar, and glorified as the provider of aid and safe-haven. A travesty of the truth. A few months later, in November 1994, the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda was established, as a shining symbol of the "international community's" resolve to strike justice on those responsible for the "genocide and other systematic, widespread and flagrant violations of international humanitarian law". Justice late is better than justice undone.

But close to a million have been killed, and millions more have been traumatised. And this was in the glorious years of the 1990s when people celebrated the new post-Cold War peace and prosperity.

Could it have been prevented? Yes, if only we had cared a little more. If only we had bothered to find out what, and why as countless fellow men, women and children suffered and died.