The Netherlands....?

I gave the answer I always give. The answer that, in a dozen words, summed up my life and origins. "I was born in Taiwan, but have lived most of my life in the Netherlands".

"The Netherlands...?," she echoed, and as if the name triggered an automated response, continued "Isn't it very racist?"

I paused. Perhaps because I was stunned about the reaction, or perhaps I was stunned about how to respond to such an unexpected reaction-- a reaction that does not include the cliche of the land of tulips, windmills and terribly tall people. I was almost hesistant to answer. Hesistant, as if confirming that remark was an injury against my own country, against my own people.

But I thought again, and the words came out almost naturally."Yes..." Perhaps the girl saw and realised the hesitance and discomfort that I felt. But it was the truth. It was my experience, and I cannot deny it. "It is a somewhat racist country". As if the word "somewhat" qualified the statement. Somehow made it all the more better, made the country all the less racist. But racist, nonetheless.

I went on to explain why I thought so... and across my mind, the string of incidents flooded out. A country that wants to deport coloured Dutch citizens born-and-bred in the Netherlands to their 'home' country whenever they commit a serious crime... A country that forces only coloured immigrants to take humiliating "integration" exams about what a democracy is and why it is wrong to hit women... A country that cries of the terrible phenomenon of "Islamisation" when a Muslim is handpicked to be the mayor of Rotterdam... A country which stereotypises coloured people as being backward, uneducated and unsophisticated that they do not know how to operate a debit card machine... A country in which the media explicitly must report the (coloured) origin of the person in a criminal investigation... If being "racist" does not describe it, I am not sure what other word would.

"So I guess in a way, coming to Canada I wanted to 'escape' The Netherlands", I added. Escape, like Ayaan Hirsi Ali did, like so many (dare I say myself...) talented individuals have already done or planning to do. Because somehow their identification with the Netherlands goes no more than the passport they wield. And even then the passports are scrutinised, as if the passport was forged or bought on the criminal black market.

Harsh words. Disturbing critiques. And a guilty conscience I somewhat am left with having them, especially all the services and great privileges the country has provided me with. But am I to say that life in the Netherlands is all rosy, and that the country is as tolerant and accepting as it prides itself to be?

A Jihad for Love

When Ahmadinejad said there were no gays in Iran, I scoffed. Others joked because they were either all executed, or too scared to come out. Gays are everywhere. Next door, downstairs, upstairs. And yes, even in Muslim countries too.

And it is in (certain) Islamic* countries that gays (lesbians, bi's, and trangendereds) must struggle especially hard... in search of recognition, or in most cases, in denial. A Jihad for Love is a well produced documentary about such a struggle, for, contrary to common misconception that jihad means only 'holy war' (and even more misconceived, against the 'West'), the true meaning of the word simply means 'struggle'. Struggle against society, struggle for individuality, struggle for the basic human right to be treated as an equal, struggle for acceptance, and not just recognition.

Following the lives of a number of brave individuals in a number of (predominantly) Islamic countries, the film explores the sensitive discussion on the relationship between being Muslim* and being homosexual. A taboo topic, which explains why many of the faces are blurred. But the blurring of faces does not take away the truth and courage behind the stories being told.

"Stone him to death!"
"Throw him off a cliff!"
"100 lashes of the whip!"

What is it about homosexuality that is so abhorrent in the eyes of Muslims? Most people would point to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah (which is also what many Christians and Jews would point to too). Interesting though, as an imam in the documentary explains, God's destruction of these towns was not because people were homosexuals per se, but the fact that the deacadent men of Sodom and Gomorrah engaged in homosexual rape against the visitors-- i.e. the forced engagement of homosexual acts. It is because of the wickedness that the people of Sodom and Gomorrah are punished, but this is often (mis)interpreted to be a blanket condemnation of homosexuality, and a justification for the punishment (or worse) of homosexuals.


*I know, there is no such thing as 'the Muslim' people in the world, just as there is no such thing as 'the Islam' or 'the West', so this is just a vert poor generalisation.

Rail away

I stirred, and the world awoke.

Slowly at first, the first sliver of dawn crossed the land. Then, gradually and certainly, the sun came out, its rays caressing the tops of bare and broken trees like a gentle touch, while the frigid night slowly sank away. Frost, and flakes of ice that glimmered like tinsel in the morning light, flew past the window. The train rocked steadily on.

Just the day before, a crazy thought crossed my mind. A leap of faith, a sudden determination that removed (almost) all doubt, and a few hours later, I am journeying into the northern prairies and forests, into a land I have never been before, but somehow seemed so familiar from pictures in brochures. Soaring pine trees with upturned arms embracing the heavens, enchanted woods of green, yellow and red, rolling creeks reflecting the world in its watery surface, jagged rockfaces covered with a layer of ice, broad estuaries, the distances spanned by lonely railroad bridges. And now, I was finally here.

What lay at the end of the line I did not know. Did it matter? Sometimes, breaking away from the routine of school and work, even if it meant a 'temporary absence' (read: skipping class) does good to the soul. A still world flashed past, barely enough time for me to see and admire all the beauty in the lifelessness that is just beginning to see the life of day. A vast land stretched, till an endless horizon. I imagine those pioneers who first scouted these lands so very long ago. Did they too feel such a similar sense of awe and inspiration as I did with the nature all around? Mountains stretched like the crooked backs of sleeping black bears. Suddenly, the lonesome whistle of the engine was embarrasingly loud.

Sometimes the rail tracks run parallel to one another, across this stunning yet desolate landscape. There are moments when a single track must run its own course alone, encounter bends and winds and steep obstacles uphill. At other times, the tracks splits, and trails along the smooth calm sea, white picket fences of quiet little towns, and empty stations with but a wind-roughened sign and bare bench. Like people, tracks cross, come together, and part again, only to meet and merge into one further down the journey.

Rail away, rail away...


  
  (On a 17hr journey to surprise and support a friend who is going through a very rough low point in life...)