Family reunion

I hugged my mum tightly, and started sobbing. Tears ran down my face, and everything was a blur. I broke down, and as if the intimate touch of another person I had so longed for broke the barrier that I had built up inside, the tears became unstoppable. All the frustration, the longing, the anger and aching pain flowed with the tears, as I hugged mum and rested my head on her shoulder.

Less than one day since my parents arrived, and my worst nightmares have already played out before my eyes. The things I dreaded, but dare not put down in words erupted, with all the shock and awe and fright still lingering on in the slight way my fingers now tremble.

A family reunion turned into a family split. We went to pick up my parents at the airport, and perhaps twenty minutes after were together dad threw a tantrum over the smallest thing and began scolding my mum left and right in the arrivals terminal. It was over a piece of luggage that mum took from him to lighten his load, but because she hadn’t told him, he got all upset and angry and went on all about responsibility. I stood there, and as usual tried to calm the eruption by saying it was OK, nothing was lost. For my brother, who had already more or less given my dad a cold reception when they saw each other, it was of course more fuel to his deep-seated anger and animosity towards dad.

All seemed well and dandy until dinner. We sat around to eat, brother sitting opposite dad, but throughout the entire meal brother neither looked or spoke to my dad. My dad got upset and muttered about how indignant and rude my brother had gotten since they last met almost three years ago. I sat there, and said nothing, but again felt tension and resentment resurfacing. Deep inside, I shook and wondered how long it would be till things escalate.

Not long. Suddenly out of the blue, and before retiring to his bedroom, dad told mum in a menacing tone that he would rather burn this house down than leave it to my brother. Mum was of course heart-broken, for the hopes that she had had of bringing the two together were again torn to bits. Brother overheard, and started to (over)react, listing all the wrongs that dad had done in the past few years, like never being a ‘real’ dad, like neglecting the family, like treating mum badly etc. etc. etc. My mum and I listened to his tirade. My mum tried pointlessly to try to calm brother down, to bridge the peace and gap, and try to smooth the tensions. At one point I responded (perhaps wrongly) by telling my brother that he is actually exactly like dad, in every single way, including the way he gets angry at the smallest little thing, the way he talks down to people and the way he treats his girlfriend, exactly like how my dad treats mum.

Then followed another tirade, this time against me, again accusing me of neglecting my house work, of forgetting to turn of the light, of not feeding the cat, of hanging the curtains wrong, of never being home (and then of being home all the time). His eyes bulged in rage, his fingers pointed and his voice boomed in the air. A more angry and terrifying person I’ve hardly encountered.

I stood there and listened, shaking my head in the disbelief at all the accusations I was again hearing… all the accusations over nothing that somehow turned into something so huge and sinful. I was so wrong, wrong and wrong again and again and again.

Perhaps the sound of brother shouting woke dad, and made him come downstairs. Without knowing what was going on, and still angry at the way brother had treated him, my dad burst out swearing, shouting, finger pointing. Like father, like son. Brother shouted back, in the same menacing tone and words and finger pointing, and accusing him of being a worthless dad. “Dirty PIG! Scum of the earth! SWINE!”, my dad replied. Mum stood there, and I could hear her heart break in her sighs and see her pain in the way she shook her head in sadness and disappointment. I stood by and told her not to interfere, not to get in the way, and to just let them fight and argue and say whatever they needed to say to each other. But when there seemed to be no end to the horrible abusive shouting and finger pointing, I told both of them: “You two are exactly alike, in the way you shout and gesture, in the way you treat your [girlfriend/wife]. You are exactly the same. If he is a pig, you are a pig. If he is scum of the earth, you too are scum of the earth”.

That stopped the shouting, and dad stormed upstairs. I wandered towards the kitchen, trembling from the horrors I had just witnessed, my head spinning from the upsetting family drama that had just unfolded, and had just confirmed my fears that this façade of a family reunion would erupt into a cold, cold war. My mind was full of pain, my heart aching. Mum silently followed me. As soon as I saw her near, I could not help myself…

I closed both arms around her and started sob like a little helpless and hurting boy. Sob like I’ve not done for a long, long time, because I finally had a shoulder to cry on. Behind my closed eye lids the images of the shouting and arguments replayed themselves, criss-crossing with the images of the scars and wounds on mum’s body, which she had shown me earlier, from the operations she had undergone in the past year to remove her malignant tumours. I sobbed, feeling her grip tighten on me, as we seemed to be sharing each other’s pain and sorrow, as if we both understood all too well what the other is going through. I sobbed, feeling remorse and numbness, feeling sorry mostly for her, because she has to put up with this, because she has tried almost all her life to care and support this family together, but everything seemed to be breaking down and worsening even more and more. I sobbed, for her, because as a cancer survivor this is exactly the very last she needed. I sobbed, for my dad and brother, for they constantly dwell in their miseries and anger and resentment toward each other, but do not see just how alike both are. I sobbed, for my family, the last tatters of which is being torn and shredded like a cruel, mean joke. In the back of my mind, ‘Why?’, “Why?”, “Why?” repeated themselves over and over again.

I cry as I write this… as I think about all these terrible things mum has to endure, about all the anger and resentment running so deep and so clear in my family, about the dreams and hopes and prayers I had as a little kid of a happy, united family… The pain… the disappointment… the injustice… the suffering… they all seem to draw more and more tears from my eyes as I type, and type.

It feel soothing to cry, so calming to let all the bottled up emotions and longings flow with the tears. For a while I was still broken, words wallowing on my lips like the tears wallowing around my eyes as I tried to express my wishes and hopes for this seemingly hopeless family. “All I want is that people get along. All I want is for you and dad to live a peaceful and happy life together. All I want is for brother and dad to reconcile. I want this to end. This horrible conflict. I want it to end”. The more I spoke those words, the more emotional I felt.

Boys don’t cry.

But I was never a boy, so let me be one for once.

Calmer...

2am. A few hours ago I was so frustrated and angry that I felt dizzy and unwell, but now it's as if that episode of anger and frustration never happened. Again, it's from experiences like this that you learn to try and not to get angry, because frankly you're only hurting yourself, and others, by spreading bad karma.

The rooms are more or less tidy (or at least tidier) now. The flowers have been arranged, bed linen changed, extra blankets set aside in case they get cold, and brand new towels and woollen socks (to keep their feet warm at night), have been laid out for them. The fridge and cupboards are full of food for us to feast on. And I've managed to get some of the work finished too.

A few hours more, and I'll be at the airport to wait for my parents to walk through that arrivals gate. It's exciting, joyful to be together as a family again, but at the same time , at the back of my mind, I fear the not-so-exciting, not-so-joyful things that may just erupt when we are around one another too long.

Whatever will be, will be.

Family stress

In about twelve hours, and my parents will be here. At the moment I'm feeling so anxious and irritated at the same time. Still so much school work to finish, but the house work is still undone. I cleaned up two days ago, and two days later it's back to the same old mess. Papers lying around, cups and plates thrown here and there, clothes everywhere. Disgusting. Just disgusting.

The more I clean, the more irritated I get... I think I'm just on the edge of shouting, or even crying because it's just all too much. Why the hell should I have to do all this, when I have so much work to do myself? I work two days a week, study the rest of the week, and still have to try find time to clean up, cook and do grocery shopping. And what do these other people do? And why should I have to clean up after someone's breakfast, lunch and dinner? Or why should I have to remove cigarette ash and butts from the sink because some smoker is too lazy to do it himself? When you use something, put it back to where it belongs. When you open a box or a can, throw the empty container away in the bin. When you're finished eating, put the plates in the dishwasher. How retarded can you be to just dump everything everywhere and hope things will clean up after themselves?! A few steps to get to the bin is not too much effort to ask, right? Rubbish! Complete rubbish!

I want my parents to come and see that we're doing well and living in a safe, clean environment, so that they don't have to worry about us. I want them to enjoy their stay here, because they've been working so long and hard, they deserve a break from life and stress. So on the one hand I want to clean up the mess, but on the other I just feel so angry why I'm the only one doing it. It's our parents, not just mine.

I thought family getting together is supposed to be a joyous and fun event. But really I'm starting to dread it. And the three weeks have not even begun.

Valentine's Day

Woke up to the sound of rain drops on my window. Only had the luxury of four hours sleep, as I was up almost all night studying and filling in this application for an internship. I really didn't have to get up this early, but since my parents are arriving in less than 48hrs, the fridge cannot be empty.

So... sleepy and drowsy, I dragged myself out of bed, and headed to the market at 8am. It was drizzling all the way, and cold, and nothing seemed to be going well. Because of this new light-railway system that's being tested in the city, lots of trams were rediverted or simply didn't go where they usually went... which meant lots of waiting and delays.

I bought really a lot of food and fruits this time, since it's lunar new year, which for us is sort of the equivalent of Christmas. In the end, I was carrying a huge bag and backpack full of groceries, whereas my monthly loan had pretty much emptied. To save time (and energy, since I was pretty much sleepy still) I left the groceries in a storage locker at the station, and rushed off to work. Pretty funny thinking back on it... storing all these fruits and vegetables in a locker at the busy station... security people were probably scrutinising my every move, wondering what I was up to.

As usual, it was 'gezellig'... it's this wonderful Dutch feeling and word of which there doesn't seem to be an English equivalent... it's sort of a mixture of something or someone being fun, cosy, warm all at the same time. And we, bacherloretes and bachelors, sat around chatting, gossiping, sipping hot tea over apple pies and chocolates, while it rained and rained outside. Oh yeah, we worked too.

The pompous gala event is this Saturday, so we were talking about what to wear. I burst out laughing when I heard in detail what was expected. It's a basically a day of celebrations and lectures at the Peace Palace, to be rounded off with a 'white bow' dinner party. Ladies are expected to wear a formal evening dress, whereas for men it's more complicated. Everything is down to the detail, because what you wear is who you are. So the formal attire consists of a:

• Black tailcoat with silk (ribbed or satin) facings, sharply cut-away at the front
• Black trousers with a single stripe of satin or braid in the US or two stripes in Europe
• White stiff-fronted shirt, with cotton pique dickie, boiled or heavily starched)
• White stiff wing collar (attached to the shirt with collar buttons)
• White bow tie (usually cotton pique)
• White low-cut waistcoat (usually cotton pique, matching the bow tie and dickie)
• Black silk stockings
• Black patent leather pumps or shoes

Of course, to look especially posh and elegant, a top-hat (rabbit included), cane (to point and poke people with, and to support yourself in case you've had one too many bourbons), white gloves (touch not where other people touched) will do the "magic trick". Silk, of course, not cheap cotton or rags. And dare not forget those shining, dazzling cufflinks, that according to someone can be bought for only 300 euros at a certain store in Zurich. Wrist watches are a definite no-no, for it will equate you with the common man, and you really wouldn't want that. Instead one of these flip-open gilded clocks hanging from you side pocket is the proper convention. If you wear glasses, better get a 'one-eye lense' to play the part of the sophisticated member of the gentry, but looking more like a pirate captain. If you have to be bourgeois, do it with (literally) "class".

As I listened to the description, I was reminded of those satirical cartoons of capitalist fat cat with dollar signs in their eyes. An image of ridiculousness and disgust. Thankfully, I'm not going to the gala dinner. I cancelled, because really I'd rather spend my time with my family. Something about a bunch of men and women walking around in these gowns and dresses just abhores me so. Maybe because I believe there are more important things in life than members of an exclusive club gathering together to give one another pats on the back... maybe it's to do with the fact that it's all seems like one big facade of a fashion show to show off who is more powerful and rich. Call me left, call me a closet communist, but really, who are you trying to impress?

At the end of the day, take off the layers and accessories that cost hundreds or even thousands of euros, you are naked. Bare, exposed and vulnerable as any other man or woman on the street. Strip people of their pompousness and arrogance, and you'll find them as scared of life and death as any human being.

This was my Valentine's Day. Like any day, really.

Birthday trip!

Just sort out details for a trip I'll be taking next week to a far, far away and exotic land known as Belgium.

Sometime ago my professor sent us invites to attend this three day seminar on international humanitarian law, organise by the International Committee of the Red Cross and the prestigeous College of Europe.

I've always wanted to know more about international humanitarian law, or, ironically it's called the 'laws of war'. It basically deals with the rules and regulations that govern the coduct of warfare, like what weapons are allowed, the protection of civilians etc, and is a fascinating, if not very current topic. Most likely I'll base my thesis on this field of international law, so the more I know the better.

It'll be in Brugge (Bruges), an amazingly beautiful town in eastern Flanders, and initially a bunch of my classmates were supposed to come too. We were supposed to go and enjoy the wonderful Belgium beers, chocolates, and 'vlaamse frites' (Belgium fries!)... but then they all cancelled at the last minute because frankly next week is a horrible week to take a trip. Which also means I'll most likely spend birthday alone, again : /

But I can't blame them. Hundreds of pages of reading, and two paper deadlines. It's a LOT of work. And since we have this ridiculous rule (more suited for primary school children than master students I think!!!) that if you miss more than one class, you are no longer qualified for the course, I basically have to leave right after class Monday afternoon, attend the three day seminar, and rush back Thursday night in order to get to class Friday morning. And to manage all the deadlines and reading, I've basically been working day and late to get everything finished.

It wasn't easy to make the accomodation arrangements. I searched online for a cheap hostel to stay in, and I entered the credit card details and pressed "confirm". All I wanted was a simple single room, and there was a bargain for around €75 for three nights at this place with great reviews... but no, somehow I ended up with four rooms costing over €250, and not even at a hostel near where I intended to stay! Crazy how online transactions work...

Hectic, tiring, and I know I'll be taking my fun-filled books with me on the train, but I hope it's worth the effort.