Celebrations

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, and caught my train home.

Code Orange

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.

New York, New York

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.