If you missed the Pope’s latest message of love and peace a few days ago, I will try to capture one of the essences. The Pope rightly reminds us that it is not only humanity’s responsibility to safeguard the “earth, water, and air as gifts of creation”; we must also ensure that the “order of creation” and the “nature of the human being as man and woman” be respected. Any “devaluation” of that order will lead to the “self-destruction of man”.
The general media is right to quickly jump to the conclusion that this is the latest attack on homosexuality, something that the Pope had earlier labelled as a "tendency" towards an "intrinsic moral evil”. In the true spirit of Christmas, the message of brotherhood, love and peace continues with His Holiness’ call to “defend love against sexuality as a consumer entity”, and to defend “the nature of man against its manipulation”. According to Benedict XVI, modern conceptions of “gender”, so “often expressed and understood”, has led humanity astray, driving man to “act alone and to dispose ever and exclusively of that alone which concerns him”, even if it means “living contrary to the truth”. So much for his Orbi et Urbi speech a few days later proclaiming that “hope – the heart of the Christmas message – is meant for all men and women” and that “the grace of God has appeared to all”. The words and emphases are His, not mine.
It is sad that such a message comes out of the mouth of one of the most influential religious figures, who is supposed to be God’s representative on Earth. And this coming three decades after the first openly-gay American politician Harvey Milk was cold-bloodedly assassinated.
Milk’s political career and rise is wonderfully captured in the movie with the same name.A somewhat soft-spoken man, he ran for office from his little camera shop on Castro Street of San Francisco. He mobilised the gay community and gay-friendly businesses and associations, galvonised workers’ unions and ethnic groups on a liberal platform. Milk’s campaigning would become a grassroots and integrated political process that championed not only equal rights for homosexuals, but also social welfare for the disadvantaged and marginalised. After a number of elections, he finally became a city supervisor. During his term in office, he spearheaded the passage of a gay rights ordinance in San Francisco, despite the fact that all throughout the US various counties and cities were rolling back equal protection of rights to work and privacy for gays.
America in the 1970s was marred by Christian fundamentalism. In the aftermath of various bans on same-sex marriage in various states of the US in November 2008, it is perhaps striking to draw parallels with America of then and today, which is similarly lead by a (neo-)conservative political force buoyed by a strong religious right wing. Then, with the likes of Anita Bryant, the ‘Save our Children’ campaign aimed to spread “Christian beliefs regarding the sinfulness of homosexuality and the perceived threat of homosexual recruitment of children and child molestation”. Today, through similar Bible thumpers and orthodox religious fundamentalists,such fabrications of truths and false propaganda are still being perpetuated and sanctioned with people’s blind faith in God. The spreading of fear about threats to core family values, myths about the “gay plague” and the “corruption” of children is used to startle and scare. It would be only a matter of years before people ‘came out’ to reveal the hypocrisy and “true nature” of priests who on the one hand preach against homosexuality and condemn child abuse, yet on the other hand commit such ‘sins’ behind the altar.
In messages and words similar to Obama today, Milk emphasised hope, and the need to give people hope. It is hope that can lead peoples previously sidelined and forgotten to unite and believe that change is possible. It is hope that can transcend the imaginary boundaries of sexuality, gender, class and race to forge an unstoppable force connected with shared longings for equality and social justice. It is therefore no wonder that Time proclaimed Milk one of the 100 most influential persons on the 20th Century.
Shortly before Milk was assassinated, he uttered these bold words:
“If a bullet should go through my head let that bullet go through every closet door.”
Indeed, as the bullet pierced through his head that took his life, the bullet symbolically opened the doors of many previously closeted gays and lesbians. The assassin, a political rival of Milk, was left off lightly. An anti-gay jury agreed that junk food caused chemical imbalances in the perpetrator, and this defence was enough to lower the sentence to five years imprisonment for manslaughter.
Milk’s death, and his life of political activism, however, set an example for other gay-right activists to follow, and set a precedent for the gay-rights movement. Milk’s refusal to be silenced or to admit defeat when the country seemed to be against him, were based on that firm belief enshrined in the American Declaration of Independence: that “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creatorwith certain unalienable Rights”.
I end where I began, and return to the enlightened message that not only the current Pope, but also many before him, have repeatedly brought across to millions and millions of believers, young and old.
Lest you have forgotten, salvation comes to those who does the Creator’s work, and lives by the Creator’s rules—despite the fact that this same Creator, His very grace and benevolence, are supposed to have appeared “to the whole of humanity”. Though the Creator has created all men equally, the Pope kindly reminds us that the perversion of sexuality and sex is a great threat to the human race—a s great a threat as global warming and the continued destruction of the Earth’s fragile eco-system. If we do not recognise and deal with these threats, we are on a path to self-destruction. We must live the Truth, and defend the message and one and only “nature of man and woman” that our Creator has willed and created. That is the work and responsibility of the devout and the true.
This kind of message is also the seed of discord, intolerance, and wilful ignorance that has led to countless crusades, inquisitions and the spreading of despicable acts and words of violence and hatred in the name of religion.
Nothing says it best, or better, than Milk’s own words—or perhaps warning too: “That, THAT my friends, is true perversion”.
Christmas Eve, some classmates of mine who were still in the country got together and we had a big feast of French cuisine, with duck, seafood and all. It was nice, getting to know eat other better, through gossip, sharing, complaining, but most of all, through being together on the evening that a lot of people are with loved ones. I guess we either had no loved ones, or had loved ones who were simply too far away, and being together meant that even friends abroad can be like family too.
Starters got to dinner, dinner got to desert, and desert got to tea and more little sweets made from dates and walnuts. Before we realised it, it was already past 1, and much too late to catch my metro home. So I slept over. There were three people, one big bed, but I insisted sleeping on the floor. It felt kind of akward sleeping with two other girls on one bed… whereas probably most other guys would have relished at the opportunity. But, we all agreed, I’m an exception to most other guys.
My bed was a rabbit fur coat, and my blanket my winter jacket, and another long white winter jacket belonging to my friend. I fell asleep, and apparently starting snoring too. Embarrassing, but I guess given that I had just got back from a long trip abroad, the exhaustion and snoring is excusable. Sort of.
Woke up, groggy and tired, and longed for my own bed, and within the hour I was back home, putting on eye shades and went back to bed.
But I only had an hour or so to sleep, for I had to get up and prepare for my second Christmas dinner. A friend I had gotten to know recently invited me to his family’s place as a “friend and/or date”. An interesting way to put it, even more so, as I wasn’t really sure whether I was a friend, or a friend and a date, or a date. Regardless I gladly accepted the invitation, and was soon in the midst of his family. I knew no one, except my friend, and felt a little out of place and awkward at first. Especially as they all spoke French.
That soon changed. There’s something about Christmas and children that makes it so magical. That, and also being surrounded by friendly people, good food and fine wine.
There was a cute little boy who was one and a half, and a four year old girl. Their playfulness, laughter and curiosity lightened my mood. The soft music in the background broke the awkwardness, and soon I was mingling with the people, who were welcoming and pleasant to talk to. We joked I was the token Asian guy, bringing multi-ethnicity into the Christmas celebrations. But they were genuinely interested in my background, and invited me into their language and culture. Not to mention, it was my first time eating turkey, with cranberry sauce and jus for Christmas, as people would do on those cosy (read: cheesy) family Christmas movies. In a rare moment, I felt I belonged. This, only a short three months or so living in Canada.
Close to the time the last metro of the night was about to depart, I said goodbye. It was a hurried kind of goodbye, and kind of awkward too. Perhaps neither of us knew how to say goodbye. I had thought of previously what I wanted. So I took a chance, and leaned over. And he reciprocated, with kisses on the cheeks.
I left the United States in Security Code Orange. It’s the second highest alert level on a tiered system of (in)security instated after the events of 911. An ironically cheery-sounding computer generated voice echoed in the terminal building: “…the Department of Homeland security is here to ensure your security and safety.” Uniformed, and perhaps even un-uniformed, and armed policemen wandering the corridors and hallways was evidence of that.
I was seventeen when the Twin Towers fell, just days from my high school graduation. But I knew that the world would be forever changed. And it was. The triumphant emergence of liberal-democracies and capitalist forces from the rubble of the Berlin Wall was cut short. Unveiled was that the much celebrated and supposedly inevitable pressures of the liberalisation of markets and politics, and globalisation cultures and ways of living were seen, felt and lived by many as imperialistic. Tradition had no place, if any, in the age of modernisation. Fundamentalism was shunned aside as backward and dangerous. In their places, the material values of becoming bigger, better, newer and richer became guiding principles. And the United States—its way of life, its foreign dominance, military hegemony, and economic clout over much of the world— was (and still is) very much perceived as the heart of this all-encompassing empire rooted in liberal values and market economics. All the while, the vast majority of the world is left behind, as hungry, deprived, exploited agricultural and manufacturing bases to fuel the greed of economies in the northern hemisphere. It was a situation, combined with years of covert operations in support of one dictatorial regime after another and trigger-happy proxy wars to push back the Communist threats that culminated in civil unrest on a global scale. Against the hi-tech armies and soft-power subjugation of the modern empire, the simplest and most deadly and indestructible weapon is terrorism.
Terrorism, the war of the poor and the oppressed, had revealed once and for all the vulnerabilities of the liberal-democratic system. Fear, security, safety became catch-words and justifications for tightening measures and eroding freedoms. And the liberal-democracies, in their conduct—at times backed by brute force, and at other times via tirades of negative propaganda through the media– against so-called illiberal and rogue States unveiled their ugly faces as being the very antithesis of liberalism and tolerance. And now, seven years on from that defining moment in the world’s history, the security of life, the homeland, and the very democracy moulded from the barrel of the gun, is feeling still feeling the effects.
The homeward bound holiday crowd buzzed around me. Due to weather delays, I walked around the terminal building for some three hours. Perhaps my big backpack and bright red McGill library bag was too eye-catching. Or perhaps it was me walking around and stopping every now and then leaning closely against the windows to take pictures of taxiing and taking-off planes that make me seem like someone suspect. I felt like I was being watched constantly. Or perhaps I was just paranoid, and distrustful of the ‘system’.
In my wanderings in the past week, whether in the heart of the empire, in smalltown New Jersey, or in downtown Manhattan, I was reminded of continuous and pervasive presence of a possible threat, real or imagined. Warning signs, bumper stickers, mechanic computer-generated voices on loudspeakers, the presence of security personnel and police on streets already under the secretive but all-seeing watch of CCTVs. Every move and word and person surveyed, scrutinised, suspect.
This is a nation (perceived to be) under attack. Sure, the terrible attacks in 2001 are every reason to feel fearful and edgy. But the response, militarily and politically, to terrorism is eroding the fundamentals of a nation so proud of its civil liberties and their defence. How much can you give up in the name of security? When is a state ever completely secure? The military and society has been so mobilised and instilled to question and be constantly on guard against the smallest deviation from the ‘norm’ of proper behaviour. TV channels cycle moving messages from the troops based overseas, separated from family and loved ones in their patriotic calls of duty. Ads at metro stations portray how honourable and just it is to be part of the defence of the nation, defence of liberty and justice, not just in America, but the world over. The star-spangled banner is seen everywhere— the very embodiment of that sense of pride, sense of courage in the face of common enemies, and that very sense of purpose in a world dramatically turned against the US in recent years. The red, blue and white is on buses, in shop-windows, and wavers majestically in the wind and braves the cold on countless buildings and houses. The language of being patriotic, being American echoes in the media and hangs on the lips of the common person.
I boarded the plane, and smiled as I sat down in my seat. North of the border, a friendlier and less distrustful country awaited.
That, and the fact I managed to smuggle onboard a roll of toothpaste, contact lens solution, a 1l bottle of water and a big bottle of lotion exceeding the given 100ml limit in my carryon. Undercover, unsuspected, and undetected.
A cloud of dust. A plume of smoke, ascending to the heavens, beckoning a new beginning. Two towering icons, shaken images, muffled fear in the air. It was surreal, and I couldn’t believe it. Was this the latest advertising for another late Summer Hollywood blockbuster?
Then the second plane hit, like a remote controlled toy striking the side of the building, and leaving behind another long trail of smoke, destruction and death. A trail that would last well into the new decade of a new millennium, and the effects of which will linger for a long time to come.
Today, where two towers once stood, and which were once the very symbol of New York’s skyline on postcards, kitsch souvenirs and tacky T-Shirts, Ground Zero is a massive construction site. All around it, the remaining skyscrapers that were unscathed as the towers crumbled and collapsed like a houses of cards. In the reflection of steel and glass all around, it was as if I could still see the image of those thin white towers.
Soon, a memorial will stand where the towers once stood. Two hollow and hallow pits, with water falling into the dark abyss, will mark and commemorate the towers and people in them on that fateful day. Out of the steel salvaged from the rubble of the Twin Towers, a new battleship aptly named the USS New York is now being built, and scheduled to be commissioned as “an enduring tribute to those who lost their lives on 9/11 and […] will carry the spirit of New York wherever she goes in defense of our country”. A sculpture that had stood but not stands a few blocks away in Battery Park as a testament to the “hope and indestructible spirit of this country”.
Indeed, seven years on, New York is still abuzz with life and spirit. Perhaps less so with the economic downturn looming overhead, but when I wandered the city in the bitter cold of a clear winter’s day, the rush of people and glitter of Christmas decorations gave life to the city.
From the top of the Rock I admired the city’s impressive skyline, and indulged in my fetish for towering buildings. The Empire State Building stood before me, so much more magnificent than that 3D puzzle I have at home. Surrounding it, structures of steel, concrete, dark glass and reflecting windows each vied for a peek at the heavens above in the dense undergrowth of the Manhattan’s grid-like streets. In close to 12 hours, I had walked from Central Park, that ‘green’ (actually, white because of the snow) oasis downtown, past the glitzy and animated billboards of Broadway and Time Square down to the river bank where the Intrepid was moored. From there, I trailed the undiscovered side-streets of Greenwich Village and Chelsea all the way down to the old downtown area. The virile charging bull which famously guards one of the streets close to the stock exchange was sadly nowhere to be seen. As I wandered on, I figured that perhaps he had been chased away by a grim-looking bear.
With a hoard of people, probably the majority of whom were tourists, I took the ferry to Staten Island, and back. As the ferry cruised across the Hudson, I looked back at the city, reflecting in the golden hue of dusk, against a dimming sky of blue. Seagulls flew, waves calmly lashed, and in the distance, that French lady of liberty stood, her flame reflecting in the sun. How many millions have sailed across these very waters, been equally surrounded by the song of seagulls, and longed for the land ahead?
I continued my walk, this time going north, past familiar signs and that pagoda-like gate which unmistakably, like every else in the world, marked Chinatown. I continued further, up broad ways and avenues till the bright lights of glamorous stores and shops came to life at night.
On the streets of New York, millions went about their daily lives in, hurrying past this leisurely traveller who saw sights and signs that perhaps many because of their haste to get to places look at daily, but cannot see. With the playful display of changing light of day, I wandered around the city, peeking into alleyways, up at the confined spaces between skyscrapers. I walked over iconic manholes from which dense white clouds escaped, while in the background rang the sirens and horns of speeding busses and cars, as screeching wheels echoed in the labyrinth of rails below. It was like another world, a world of and in its own, with so many sights, smells and surprises.
New York, New York… I had made it there. And now I can make it anywhere.
His eyes were hollow, his mouth contorted in frozen agony. Silver skinned, his helmet sat crooked on his head, as he looked on to the wide field around him. The platoon stood still, rifles at the ready, their military ponchos wavering in mid-air. A breathtaking, awing sight. A sight even more eerie at night, I was told.
I stepped silently around the Korean War Memorial, and saw the reflection of the sculptures of soldiers on the black memorial wall. A reflection of the past, projected so vividly and harshly through to the present. Silhouettes, images, impressions of soldiers, civilians, war planes, hallowed villages, broken men, women and children appeared as I stepped close. A tribute to those who fought and died. How many nobody really knows. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, a million or more civilians, not to mention the many, many lost in action. “Freedom is not free” reminds a plaque towards which the sculptures of war-forlorn soldiers are marching. And the Land of the Free paid much of the price in conflicts large and small throughout the past century. Not to conquer, but supposedly in the defense of freedom, in the perpetuance of democracy, and in the struggle against tyranny.
Guam, Vietnam, Normandy, Tripoli, Formosa, Iwo Jima, Pearl Harbour, Berlin, Arnhem, Afghanistan, Iraq… “Countries they never knew and peoples they never met”. The heart of WashingtonD.C. is littered with memorials dedicated to the glorious dead, and spine-shivering quotes from visionaries, generals, and presidents past.
Walking around, you cannot but feel what sense of pride this nation has achieved politically and militarily in its relatively young age. A nation born out of and shaped by revolutions and the barrel of the gun. A nation bound by the bonds of brotherhood, bloodshed, and that common belief in the cause of that much trumped—but often empty-of-meaning— idea(l)s of “life,libertyand the pursuit ofhappiness”. Its prowess is known, its greatness is felt, at times in desperation and need, and at times in shows of hypocrisy and big power arrogance. A great nation, no doubt. One that as a citizen of this world, and as a witness of (hu)man-made histories and tragedies, you either develop a feelings of hate or love towards.
Reflecting in a narrow pool is watery image of the WashingtonMonument, erected on the 100th anniversary of the first President’s birth. Surrounding this giant marble candle, the stars and stripes of the United States of America flutter and flap in the wind. Even the most hardened sceptic cannot deny the effect flying flags can evoke deep inside. To one side, the dome of the Capitol glows in the dark in the background. To the other side, beyond the lit National Christmas Tree, past the silhouette of a giant chanuka chandelier, a faint glow illuminated the famous semi-circular archway of the White House. I stood there a few moments, and tried to peer inside, trying to imagine the man who has a proven record of not just being able to dodge difficult questions from probing journalists, but flying shoes too, was up to. No good visitor to the heart of the American empire can skip the very building where many presidents have come and gone, and the face and direction of much of the world’s history has been influenced and written.
A stern-faced Lincoln sits on his high chair and perpetually overlooks the city. The President that brought a once divided nation together and freed oppressed African-American slaves must have listened and watched attentively and proudly as Dr King stood at the steps before him and pronounced his dream. That same dream will soon be realised, and the house behind the rose garden, beautiful lawn, and cordon after cordon of fences, concrete buffers, sniffer dogs and armed policemen and security guards will no longer be as white as its name says it is.
Fourteen years ago, a boy skipped around the steps of these great monuments and posed candidly for pictures wearing an oversized T-shirt bought from a souvenir shop somewhere, He thought it was ‘cool’ to wear something which had the seal of the United States of America on the back and front. Fourteen years later, I wandered through the same streets, paths and alleyways of WashingtonDC, and had very different feelings to the same surroundings.
Perhaps there is a(n unhealthy?) sense of cynicism and criticism through the lenses which I see things today. A sense heightened by the forms and declarations I have had to fill in even before boarding my plane to the States. One cannot feel a bit apprehensive when the ‘greeting’ at the airport is having yours baggage poked and prodded, checked and scrutinised, not to mention having to take off your shoes and being subject to a body search. All in the name of national security… in the ironic state of insecurity, suspicion and “fight terrorism” which the country finds (or has trapped) itself in today.
The US government may have a permanent record of my finger and thumb prints. But my impressions, good and bad, of this great nation too have been captured, stored and worded.
Credits: http://www.cinema.ucla.edu/festival/fp10/presimages/HarveyMilk.gif
