Goodbye 2009

One more day till the end of the first decade of the millennium. It seemed like yesterday I was sitting at home alone and playing Sim City 3000 in those first few moments of the first year of the 2000s. And now, some nine years later, I have changed, and so have many circumstances of my life changed.

The number of blog postings for this year has halved since the previous year. Maybe I just don't feel the inspiration or the frustrations to write much any more. I know that quantity counts less than quality, but to be honest, I have been lethargy and verging on lazy this entire year. I am not sure what it is, or why that is... But I do know much of the time I have spent sleeping, or in that sleep-like state of mind lying in bed. Dazed, unmotivated, unchallenged and, dare I say, depressed.

It is true I have good friends here, and a mother who cares about me dearly far away. Yet inside I feel somewhat empty of feeling, like there is a void that is longing to be filled, like there is something that is waiting to be discovered. Is that longing for love? Longing for closeness, for closure with the passing of my father, longing for some dramatic achievement and recognition, or simply longing to finish my long-overdue thesis and finding some stability?

I do not know. But maybe 2010 will hold the answer.

Intense dream

I fell asleep quickly in the room fit for four people. Outside, the lights of towering buildings close to Vancouver’s False Creek shined like beacons at night.

Then I woke up, with such intense loneliness and longing for my dad. Such longing that I have not felt for a long, long time. I longed for his presence, for him to be next to me, for him tell me that things will be alright. I was curled up in bed, hiding almost under the blankets, and felt the world was so empty. Then tears rolled and streaked from one eye to another, as I was on my side.

Perhaps it is seeing my cousin alone, and somehow his sense of being alone here has rubbed off on me.

Farewell, Formosa

Mum must be asleep by now, as it is past eleven in the evening. She usually sleeps early, at least tries to, though when I’m around her sleep time is delayed often by last minute talking and fiddling about. On the way to the airport, mum said she always misses me the first few days that I am gone. She gets so used to me being around, and then suddenly I leave, leaving an emptiness in the big house.

I guess I can imagine how that must feel like. I leave home now, but this time it does not seem so bad. I hugged her tightly, twice, and stroked her back softly. In my mind I quietly wished her peace and happiness, and told her out loud to take good care of herself. I will return soon, in two months time. It seems short, but it can also be a long time too.

This trip home, to Taiwan, has been eventful. Though I did not get to see mum move to her new house (in fact, the renovations have yet to take place, after a month or so of delays…), but I did pack some things up into boxes for her. Not much, but important things… things that otherwise might be too difficult for her to pack, because of the memories and the stories behind the pictures, letters, and memorabilia. Especially those in dad’s room. I told her to wait for me and/or brother to return before moving the big things. I hope she will wait, and not exhaust herself too much.

The trip with my friends was enjoyable, despite some of the tensions that surrounded us and clouded my mood at times. I guess I wanted to plan and have the ‘perfect’ trip… but didn’t realise how difficult it is to coordinate the times, minds and whims of four people. I don’t know about them, but I got to see parts of Taiwan’s nature, culture and people that I never realised lay so close beneath the surface, and I feel there is so much more there is to discover, to explore and to learn about my own home. This feeling is somehow mixed with the gloomy thought and hearsay that I have encountered about Taiwan’s demise, about China’s rise and zealous ambition to swallow the island and its people whole no matter what. The current political situation, with the Chinese Nationalists back in power again and cozying up with the Chinese Communists, is extremely perilous for Taiwan’s future, and the fate of its people, and their desire for independence and freedom from pepertual colonialism. Perhaps, this island, and its people is destined, despite of or maybe because of its beauty and riches, to be an lonely child with many parents as claiming to have an interest in the child’s welfare.

And, perhaps the most painful of all, next to learning and living with mum’s illness, is watching my friend fade slowly away in the hospital. I’ve been to see him three or four times, and every time he gets weaker and weaker, like a fragile flame that can be blown out at any moment without notice. I cried for him, because it pains me so to watch a fellow human being suffer, to watch a friend I know, though perhaps not well enough, slowly, but seemingly steadily drift in his morphine-dazed state of mind, towards death.
I wrote him a card, wishing him the best, happiness, peace, and most important of all, wishing that he can let go, and let Dharma take its natural course. It is only ever so much.

So here I sit, next to the conveyor belt at Gate C4, ready to board, ready to leave home to go back home. Thank you Formosa, thank you friends and family, for your care, for your being there, and for making me feel welcome every time. Most of all, for making me feel at home.

Goodbye, dear friend...

“David… I’m dying.”

I almost could not hear him.

“…dying,” he repeated. A coarse whisper that took much effort and energy.

I did not know what to say, except hold onto his hand tighter, and look at him more intensely in the face.

Are we not all dying? Is that not the natural way of things, the way of the universal law of Dharma? We are born, we live, we get caught up in worldly emotions and material things and we suffer, some suffer more than others. And then we die. That is all.

But that realisation is sadly one which most make upon death. My friend was not crying, nor shivering in fear as he told me that he is dying. He was calm, despite being weak and tired. He was firm, despite the months and years of ongoing treatment, and dashed hopes of finding a treatment

Leaning in close, our cheeks touching, I bid him goodbye. It felt like a final farewell, and perhaps both of us know it. “Let go,” I said, “May you be happy, peaceful…” I gripped his thin hand and fingers one more time. I turned away to walk away, but turned back to see my friend waving. His arm was thin, frail and the movements were weak, but the small smile on his face was genuine. I walked back, and grasped his hand again. “Take good care”, I said, and finally left.

I had to lean against the window, and let the tears flow for a few minutes. Outside, were rows and rows of hospital wards that had seen much birth, suffering, and death. Such pain went through me, such raw emotions I never knew existed were released in those tears that temporarily watered my world. Pain, not so much because of the encroaching death, but of watching a dear friend fade ever so slowly and ever so painfully before you.

And then I braced myself, swallowed hard, bit my teeth tightly, and watched the pain. It is only so much, as the Buddha taught, it is only an emotion that comes and goes, comes and goes…

Comes and goes, as certain as life and death.

Brother troubles

It is a real shame that it has come to this. My brother only ever calls when there is something he needs. And recently it is help with money to renovate his house. It's been going on a while, and he really has invested a lot of time (and now money) into the place... but things seem to be getting out of hand.

The most recent episode revolves around an interior decorator. Long story short, she decided not to continue with my brother's work because for a while she was involved with work for my mum. Basically there was a difference of opinion, and she decided to quit, which basically leaves my brother without a decorator.

And the last two weeks, he has been calling and been angry on the phone, blaming left and right. I can understand it is frustrating, especially as he has to deal with the construction work and the renovations all by himself. But I don't understand what it is that he wants from mum, or from me. Every time he calls, he is full of anger, full of blame, keeps on saying how much trouble he has to go through, how much extra energy and money he has to waste, because my mum made a real mess of the situation...

But what purpose does it serve to blame and to scold someone after the deed has been done? I really don't know what he wants, what he expects mum or me to do. All I can say, as I have said so many times before, is to be realistic with the renovations, and to spend what he can, and try to make the best of the situation. This does not get to him very well, and in fact attracts a whole tirade against me (and my mum) for not caring, never caring and never willing to care.

I can speak to him, but I cannot get through to him. He is such a difficult person to talk to, and whatever I try to say, whatever sense (or what appears to be sense to me...) I try to get into him, he turns it into a weapon and uses it against me (or mum). What pain and anguish he has caused us... and yet what can I say about that? If I complain about his angry words, his blaming and his scolding, he turns it into how we do not give a damn about his life or wellbeing, how we do not understand his needs or do not care about his problems.

All I can think of is mum in the background... she is listening to all of this, and hurting deeply inside... how painful it must be to hear your own son scold and blame you for mistakes that cannot be turned back again... how painful it must be to bear the angry words and the deep resentment hidden behind those words, and to know that it comes from the child you spent hours and tireless amounts of energy and time to bring up. And he actually bites back, demanding apology, demanding that you sit and listen to the scolding and the hurtful emotional outpouring.

I can see mum hurt and her hair become white over the past two weeks already...

Why, mum?

Am I pushing my mum too much? I get upset that she doesn't get up to exercise in the morning... I get upset that she rushes off to work, even though her superior told her already that she can go in much later so that she can have her morning exercises and take things slower...

Just now, I was telling her all this in bed, just before she went to sleep, and she seemed saddened. She turned away, and said she's going to sleep. And soon, she fast asleep and snoring. But I feel bad... for being so harsh on her, for scolding her and being too pushy.

She was sighing and again speaking in ways that seemed like she has no more hope any more. And that gets me really down and upset. "There is no cure," she said, "I will not get better. All the doctors say that."

But that doesn't mean that she can't coexist peacefully with the cancer. If it can't get better, then at least don't let it get worse with such negative thoughts and negative energies...!

It really pains me to see her like this. And it pains me even more that she puts her job and the number of hours that she can spend at the office before her health and her peace of mind. When I see my other friend, who has become so frail, so weak, so close to death with cancer and chemo, I fear, I fear and dread that one day I will have to endure seeing my own mother in such a sorry state...

How do I keep positive and remain happy and undisturbed by my mum's negative thoughts, and be there and be strong for her?

"I have a dream..."

I dare anyone to visit the hospital on any given day, at any given moment, and come out unaffected.

It’s been two weeks since I last saw my friend. During that time, I have been to lands and islands far, far away, and marvelled at deep gorges made of marble. I have dipped and swam in warm ocean springs bubbling from cracks in the earth, and eaten at a crowded dimsum restaurant in the company of complete strangers.

Yet, all this time, my friend’s world was confined to that sterile room in the oncology ward. Unable to walk more than a few steps without feeling his breath being stripped from his lungs, he has been seeing and living the sounds and wonders of the world, of life, through the presence, laughter, tears and voices of family and the occasional visitor.

Again I said little while I was there. What could one say in the face of pain and suffering? There was a numbness, a perpetual sort of silence that transcends all words, even words the most eloquent of poets cannot piece together. Again, he apologised for ‘wasting’ my time by going to see him, and for being in the sorry state he was in. The morphine is slowly eroding the control he has over his emotions and consciousness. The pain causes him to weakly wail and moan. He feet were swollen from inactivity, his body thin, and frail, no more than skin to bone.

Out of nowhere it seemed, his daughter sang, and made the room come alive, and fill with warmth and laughter.

“I have a dream…” That was the extent of her knowledge of the lyrics. Little did this three year old understand the significance of the moving words of this old ABBA song.

Silently, in my mind, the words slowly trailed across my heart… and in my prayers.

I have a dream, a fantasy, to help me through reality
And my destination makes it worth the while
Pushing through the darkness still another mile
I believe in angels, something good in everything I see
I believe in angels, when I know the time is right for me
I'll cross the stream, I have a dream


I'll cross the stream, I have a dream

The SARS

It was drizzling and dark when I approached the Golden Lotus. A surreal flower suspended in bloom, perched on a pole in the middle of a square close to downtown Macau. The petals were chunky, lifeless and sterile, especially in the glow of the artificial lighting.

The square was deserted, and I was alone. For a few moments, I stood silently under the yellow floodlight before the gift from the State Council of the People’s Republic of China to the people and government of Macau. Ironically, earlier in the day I had posed before the “Forever Blooming Bauhinia”, which is the Reunification Monument marking the return of neighbouring Hong Kong to the People’s Republic.

These golden flowers are gifts of great significance for and from the Motherland. They are memorials and a tribute to the glorious reunification of the Motherland with its long-lost territories of Hong Kong and Macau, which had been given away in humiliating treaties with European powers years ago. In 1997 and 1999 respectively, members of the armed forces of the People’s Liberation Army marched through the two former colonies, and the five yellow stars flew for the first time alongside the flags of the new Hong Kong and Macau, which become Special Administrative Regions (SARs—no relation to the severe acute respiratory syndrome) of the People’s Republic.

The return of these two territories were made under the principle of “One Country, Two Systems”. Thus, under Hong Kong’s constitutional document, the Basic Law, China solemnly promises that “the socialist system and policies shall not be practised in the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region, and the previous capitalist system and way of life shall remain unchanged for 50 years”. In other words, the existing political, legal and economic structures and democratic protections in both former colonies will remain untouched. Previous treaty commitments made by former colonial powers, such as those governing protections of fundamental human rights and civil liberties which are not applicable to China and its vast population, would continue to be the law of the land in the SARs. The “One Country, Two Systems” formula is the same one that China has been using (alongside the thousand plus targeted missiles) in attempts to entice the people of Taiwan to “return” to the Motherland.

True, Hong Kong and Macau remain the two isolated places in vast China to enjoy freedoms of expression, assembly and genuine rule of law. Nowhere else in China can Falun Gong practitioners openly spread flyers that denounce the Chinese Communist Party and show posters that reveal the atrocities committed by the regime’s machinery of oppression and propaganda. Nowhere else are the events of Tiananmen 1989 more deeply remembered and mourned annually on June 4 than in Hong Kong Park.

Yet, a decade or so from the momentous return to the 'Motherland', Hong Kong has become a tax-free shopping mall for the nouveau riche from the Mainland, while Macau is quickly becoming an adult playground to satisfy the insatiable Chinese urge for gambling. The Chief Executives of both territories are effectively handpicked by business and political elites with close ties to Beijing, and promises of universal suffrage remain to be realised. How can such a system, in which an overbearing authoritarian regime constantly looms and pulls the strings in the background, ever be acceptable, let alone applicable, to the people of Taiwan, who for the past few decades fought for and gained unprecedented freedoms in a budding democratic society?

The drizzle continued, and the palm trees swayed gently in the wind. I looked around, and saw that I had overstayed my welcome and was being watched. At the corners of the square surrounding the Golden Lotus were booths, white and compact with shuttered windows and pairs of eyes staring out from them. A random man walked past me in plain clothing, yet there was a coiled wire coming out of his ear. He said nothing, and I said nothing, but I quickly moved away, ever wary of the eyes that followed me into the distance.

No, I did not have paint or eggs in my bag which I intended to throw at the Golden Lotus to deface this glorious golden gift from the Motherland. And no, I did not wish to disrupt the upcoming celebrations of the tenth anniversary of the return to the Motherland. I was not even wearing my prized T-Shirt bearing a Tibetan monk standing face to face with a soldier of the People’s Liberation Army.

I am but a simple student with a white space monkey and a kitsch fridge magnet with the portrait of Chairman Mao in my bag.

Welcome to Korea

Who would have thought that within the first one and a half hour of arriving in Korea I would be walking around in public completely naked? Certainly not something I had anticipated doing after an 18 hour trek across the Pacific Ocean and Japan Sea.

Yet I finally feel clean again. All that grease in my hair cleansed after that long shower and soothing soak in the sauna. All the worries and anxieties seemed to melt and flow away. All that discomfort and pain I felt in my backside and legs, especially during those maddening final few tens of minutes and seconds before touching down at Incheon, seemed to be diluted by the clear, hot water.

I closed my eyes, and cleared my mind. Why get upset about the terrible cantine-style and children’s-sized ‘food’ they serve on United Airlines? What does it matter if I had to dish out US14 for a simple udon soup at Narita Airport? Can I do anything about the fact that the current whereabouts of my suit and case (read suit-case) is still a mystery due to the incompetent handling by United ground staff? And what can I do about the fact that my credit card suddenly decided not to work any more, or that I have been wearing the same clothes (and yes, underwear) for the past two days?

Sitting there in that clear pool, at close to midnight, some fifty hours after I set out from Montreal, I could not but smile at the ridiculousness of it all. Five cities and airports, four different planes, three different airlines, and a hell lot of air miles later, I finally made it. I could have wept at the exhaustion and strain on my mental and physical health, but I could have just as easily kissed the ground a-la-pope as soon as I stepped off the plane. Such ridiculousness that could not have ever happened had I not come on this trip. The excitement of flying in gigantic metal birds, the anticipation of encountering strange new cultural experiences and anecdotes, thrown in together with the bumpy turbulences, hindrances, setbacks and disappointments of journeying to foreign lands.

Yes, there is this strange sensation of having flown so far to be here, right now, sitting in this darkened lounge with a dozen Korean strangers all dozing away, while in the background some melodramatic Korean soap runs.

You travel, you learn, you watch, you experience. And at times, you laugh at the ridiculous and bizarre things that get thrown your way. Like today.

Green Island Serenade

There is a song made popular in 1950s Taiwan called “Green Island Serenade” (綠島小夜曲). It describes the longing of a lover for his girl far, far away…

“This green island like a boat,
Rocking, rocking in the moonlit night
Girl, you are also floating, floating in the sea of my heart.
Let the sound of my song follow that slight wind,
Blow open your window drapes.
Let my heartfelt emotions follow that flow of water,
Endlessly pouring my heart out to you.
The long shadow of the coconut tree
Cannot hide my tender regards.
This radiant and beautiful moon light illuminates my heart,
The night of this green island is already so heavy and silent.
Girl, why are you still silent without words?”
(translation mine)

But just as easily, “Green Island Serenade” could been interpreted as a song to capture the longing of the hundreds of political prisoners who were once imprisoned on this tiny island off of Taiwan’s eastern seaboard.

They were imprisoned for daring to oppose the Nationalist Chinese dictatorship that established itself on Taiwan after the Japanese colonialists left in 1945. They were imprisoned for championing the rights of local Taiwanese people, who were oppressed, silenced and stripped of their property, land and jobs. Some were imprisoned for speaking out for the promise of an independent Taiwan—the same promise that was once made by the United Nations, yet buried by the complexities of the Cold War and warming Sino-US relations. For almost four decades, the Nationalist Chinese government imposed the longest martial law ever, and put all opponents in prison or to death. And Green Island, as beautiful, as luring, as much a tropical paradise as it is today, was perhaps the worst place one could be sent away to.

First came the “New Life Correction Centre” established in the 1950s, which was nothing more than a camp where high profile political prisoners were interned and sentenced to hard labour. Many of the roads, and even the airport, on Green Island owe their construction to the hard work of these prisoners. Later, in the 1970s, the “Oasis Villa” was established. Despite the name, the “Villa” was an euphemism for the “Green Island Reform and Re-education Prison”, intended to house those offenders ‘convicted’ of engaging in ‘rebellion’ against the government. Many of these ‘rebels’ were in fact democracy activists, and most would go on to serve in public office with the dawning of democracy from the late 1980s. Most prominent among the prisoners is the feminist scholar and pro-independence activist Annette Shiou-lian Lu, who was imprisoned for 12 years, and later went on to serve as the country’s Vice President between 2000 and 2008.

Today, the former maximum security prison is open to visitors. Faded writings on the walls recall a past of indoctrination and pro-China propaganda, while the empty cells (though much renovated) echoes with the emptiness in which the prisoners counted away the passing minutes and seconds of their youths. On a wall of the Human Rights Park, in the shadow of the gentle waves, hundreds of names are engraved, each with the inmate’s date of entry and release, or death. On another wall, more but not all of the names of the thousands upon thousands of Taiwanese people who suffered, who were tortured or killed by the Nationalist Chinese government.

I did not know the names. I did not know their stories, or the injustices that were done to them and to their families. Yet, each character, each date, each name engraved on the wall came alive in a haunting, heart-wrenching way, and reached deep down inside to choke me of my breath and tears.

I met a middle aged man, who stood silently before the walls. His eyes were red and moist. He spoke to me, and asked me to take a picture of him pointing to one of the many names. “This is my uncle,” the man said solemnly. I said nothing, and nodded in acknowledgment. In that momentary silence, it was as if he and I understood one another’s pain and love for this island and the fate of its people. After walking on for a few more metres and spotting a name high on top of the list, he pointed again and said, “This is my friend.”

Later, I learned that he was with a group of Taiwanese-American physicians who were on their bi-annual tour of Taiwan. Out of fear of persecution, prominent Taiwanese intellectuals, professors, doctors, and lawyers fled the island after the Nationalist Chinese government took over. Many of these Taiwanese people were blacklisted, unable to return to see their home and families until the lifting of martial law in 1987. Most found their way to the United States and/or Canada, becoming accomplished people in exile, yet continuing to support their long lost home and people through donations and a powerful lobby in the US. Even abroad, spies and secret agents of the Nationalist Chinese government gave Taiwanese in exile no rest (the recent movie “Formosa Betrayed” has a good portrayal of this, and Taiwan’s current president Ma Ying-jeou is one such spy who worked for the (then) authoritarian government). Perhaps, if it were not for the commitment of these overseas Taiwanese, and their efforts to secure the passage of the Taiwan Relations Act in the US Congress, Taiwan would have long been overwhelmed by the Chinese Communists.

“God bless you,” the middle aged man said as he left, “And God bless Taiwan”. I nodded, and lifted my thumb up to him. Outside, the stuffy confines and green metal bars of the prison, the sun was slowly setting. The sun had already set for many who gave up their lives for a struggle for a country and people they cared for and loved. The tranquil Pacific waved and waned, ebbed and flowed, spanning the distance between the island of Taiwan and this isolated little green island in the distance. The wind blew across time, across the soft, soft sand.

“In that era,

How many mothers

Wept through the nights

For their children imprisoned on this island?”

Tranquil sea

The sun rose slowly, just as the guy at our homestay said it would. I sat on the deserted beach, felt the morning drizzle, and the occasional spray of the ocean brush across my face. Before me, a spread of waves ebbed and flowed across the crescent shaped sandy beach.

Moment by moment, the colour of the tranquil sea changed. With each ray of light that daringly pierced through the shelter of the clouds and mountains. First, a deep, deep blue, then eventually a shade of aqua marine that fades into green in the distance.

The winds howled as it rushed down from the sea and sending vapours freely flying.

Grains of sand stung my skin, and I sensed the powerful roar of the sea crash at my feet.

Save for three stray dogs who slept nearby, this slow, romantic dance came and went. Between the sea and the sky, the brightness of a whole new day took form and rose with the sun.

"Daddy, be brave..."

The nurse injected the concoction of toxins into his veins. He groaned, and I grimaced as I watched his pain express themselves on his tense, sunken and hollow cheeks. The syringe was as thick as a thumb, and as long as a pencil. The air was stale, wafting with the sour, sterile, sickly smell of the oncology ward.

"Daddy, be brave... Daddy, be strong..." The three year old's voice was so sweet, so soft, and moistened my eyes. She stroked his dad's arm gently, with such determination and care. I turned away, looked into the sunlight blazing in through the big, transparent windows of the hospital, hoping the sun would evaporate the tears. This sight, this smell, this moment... all too close, raw and emotional for comfort.

It's only been eight months since I last saw him. A friend I met by chance a few years ago, and who's not more than a few years older. Then, he was strong, handsome, and preoccupied himself day and night with affairs of the monastery in the mountains I frequented. Today, he has become so weak, so frail that I was almost afraid to hug him.

I gently patted him on the back, but words choked in my throat. What can you say to someone who has lost twenty kilos in the span of a few months without sounding condescending or pitiful? How do you take someone's pain away, when the morphine drips themselves are too slow to work? I smiled, felt my leg tremble and fidgeted with my fingers. Not a smile of happiness... but a nervous smile, hiding the sorrow and disbelief at seeing a friend disintegrate to such conditions.

His abdomen swelled with water, and with liquid that had some seeped into his lungs, his breathing was laboured. The chemo had worn him down, bit by bit, cell by cell, strand of hair by strand of hair. He spoke little in the hours I was there, and when he did he sounded apologetic and sorry that he was wasting my time being with him. His arm was left with little but skin over bone, and his eyes were tired and heavy. The voice that once held such power, that spoke in rhyme and poetry, that once spoke about the way of the Dharma with such confidence and certainty, had become coarse, beaten and sorrowful. His young daughter's boisterous movements and cheerfulness was a great contrast, but brought much needed life and laughter into the hearts of the visiting relatives.

"How good it is to eat, to walk, to sleep well..." he said, remorsefully. Indeed, all these things we take for granted every day become painful struggles when you are bed-stricken. The best medicine, the best doctors, the best hospitals cannot take away the cancerous cells that have infested themselves deep inside. Do you give in? Do you give up? Do you keep on fighting, bear the pain, the humiliation and defeat of being reduced to nothing but a sordid heap of bone and skin?

These are questions that I have had to face for a number of years... in the life of my friend, and in my recently parted father. A question that too is haunting the relationship with my own mother. I watch... am forced to watch as they all grow tired and weak, sad and hopeless. I try to smile, try to laugh, to joke and poke fun at the inevitabilities and realities of life, sickness and death. I try to remember the teachings of the Buddha, to remind myeslf of letting go of attachments. But ultimately I can only watch, watch, and painfully watch as they slip away slowly from my fingers, out of reach, out of touch. Deep down, I mourn for my inability to change fate, to change the mysterious and illussive ways of the universe. What I would give to ease their pain, to share their burdens and blow away their worries and fears...

But what else can I offer but my tears?

Korea, sparkling...

Perhaps my mood in those six short days in Korea had been hijacked by the anxiety of presenting a paper, and the frustration of having to deal with an uncooperative airline. But looking back, as with many experiences and moments in life, it was not so terrible after all.

Someone told me that there is romance to be found in being lost in translation, and perhaps now with the benefit of hindsight I am gradually starting to feel it. To be honest, of all the places I have been in the world (so far…), I have never been exposed to this sense of ‘alie(n)-nation’ as I have felt in Korea. Encounters with the locals often result in the other person and me talking at cross purposes in our own tongues coupled with wild, exaggerated gestures and games of charades. Admittedly, the odd written traditional Chinese character does seem to get the message across.

It does make me wonder: Why is it that in a sophisticated society with such highly educated people the standard of English (or Engrish) is so bad? Or perhaps it is my utterly sordid (read: non-existent) grasp Korean— which goes no more than “anyounghasehyo” (hello) and “gamsahamnida” (thank you)—that is to blame for the ‘culture shock’ in those few hours of arriving.

Despite the problem of not knowing what it was I was ordering at the restaurant a lot of the time, the country and its people did gradually grow on me. And the cuisine, despite the overabundance of kimchy and chilli paste, which gave me a sore throat and stomach, was healthy and always so neatly arranged on beautifully crafted ceramic ware.

Strangely, in Korea, there are many sights, sounds and smells that remind me of my homeland Taiwan. From the narrow and winding side-streets and alleyways with stinking open sewers, to the disorienting bustle of people and traffic; from the flashy and dizzying flash of neo-light displays and ubiquitous convenient stores and restaurants, down to the obsession with cleanliness and washing hands, and the oddly placed English proverbs in front of urinals and bathroom cubicles. If it were not for the scribbles of lines, circles and squares, often I felt I could easily closed my eyes and imagined that I was back home already.

There may be a number of reasons why there are so many similarities. Taiwan and Korea are both “Asian Dragons”— countries a few decades ago were poorer than most African States, but today have thrived to become economic power houses and earned positions in the top twenty trading nations. Both countries lived under decades of dictatorship, but today are held up as models of how to achieve a bloodless transition to a free and open democratic society. Both Korea and Taiwan seem to exist vicariously on the last theatres of the Cold War, living with the constant threat of war emanating from their trigger-happy communist neighbours, while playing the role of pawns in the grand-scheme of the United States’ post-WWII attempt to cling on to its geopolitical influence in the Asia-Pacific.

Both countries experienced Japanese colonisation, albeit very different versions of it. While Korea bore the excesses of forced assimilation of Japanese language and culture, Taiwan, perhaps due to its status as Japan’s first overseas possession, was treated benevolently (if colonisation can ever be described as such) as a model colony. Different national sentiments too may explain the difference in the two countries’ colonial experience. Koreans, with a history as a proud, boisterous and, at times, hot-blooded people, are not ones to submit to foreign reign without resistance. On the other hand, Taiwanese people, being docile Pacific islanders who have seen European colonisers come and go, and the influx of the Han Chinese diaspora throughout the centuries, may be just content to adapt to whatever fate and history blows in from the ocean.

Evidence of the strong attachment Koreans have to national identity and pride lies in the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis, when ordinary Koreans en masse and voluntarily handed in whatever gold and valuables they muster to the government in order to stave of a deep nationwide recession. Not infrequent have I heard stories of second or third generation overseas Koreans having to endure social pressures and frowns for engaging in a relationship with a person of another race.

Whatever the merits are of such a homogenous, or perhaps closed, society, any visitor to Korea cannot deny that it has served to preserve much of the native historical and cultural heritage, which elsewhere in the world is being either gradually erased or overwhelmed by the onslaught of capitalist consumerism, McDonald’s and the tedious desire to build tall, shiny skyscrapers.

Indeed, Korea is a country steeped in Confucian traditions and mannerisms, and guided by the Buddhist belief in equanimity and balance. Indeed, the Taegeuki, the flag of the Republic of Korea, has at its centre the sign for Chinese yin and yang in perfect balance, forming the unity and endlessness of a complete circle. Surrounding the circle are trigrams from Yi Ching, or ‘Book of Changes’, an influential text of divinations, which dates back to almost a millennia before Christ, and which dictates that all universal processes are underscored by the balance of opposites, and undergo the inevitability of change. Yet, with church spires and Bible thumbing evangelist abound, the vast majority of Koreans are actually Christians who have somehow grafted their ancestral roots and deep-seated Korean-ness onto the technological advances and omnipresent capture of Wi-Fi and the latest 4G handsets. The stories of such conglomerates as LG and Samsung owe their success not just to the hard-working work ethic and strong sense of community, but also derive from the ability to make, brand and sell anything and everything from container ships to jet engines to PDAs and instant noodles.

But leave the sprawling and modern cities, and you leave behind the noise, the traffic, and call of street vendors. Which I did when I clandestinely freed myself from the stuffy academic debates of the conference, and ventured to Gyeongju. Located in the South-Eastern corner of the Korean Peninsula, the ancient city was the old capital of Korea during the Silla Empire, which united warring Korean factions and reigned for almost a millennia. The city is filled with ruins, castles and temples, a tribute to the region’s rich history and heritage. No wonder UNESCO designated the city’s limits as a significant World Heritage site.

Somehow I managed to negotiate a bike, and felt my mind and spirit immediately freed as I peddled quickly into the countryside. On a busy road, I cycled past peaceful hills which lay like giant boulders in fields of gold and yellow in a scene reminiscent of Van Gogh’s paintings. The Autumn sun beat down on stems that were laden with heavy luscious grains of rice ready for reaping. A gentle breeze sent the tranquil scene swaying, and was captured in smooth surfaces of the little creeks and ponds that dotted the landscape.

Twenty kilometers or so outside Gyeonju lies Bulkuksa, ‘Temple of the Buddha Land’. Though ransacked and burnt to the ground during Japanese invasions in the 16th Century, it was eventually restored to its former glory during the authoritarian period of the 1970s. As Korea’s most prominent temple, the complex is home to several of the country’s national treasures, including the Seogatap (Pagoda of Buddha) and more elaborately designed Dabotap (Pagoda of many Treasures). Both stone-carved pagodas are a testament to the wisdom and calm nature of Buddhist teachings, as well as the opposites and contrasts of the world. While the former is simple in shape and form, representing the depth of the spiritual domain, the latter is highly decorated, symbolising the complex and chaotic nature of the material world.

Elsewhere in the temple complex, are various shrine halls that house different incarnations of the Buddha in his different terrestrial and celestial forms. The roof edges are ornately and colourfully designed, carved in shapes of dragons and other mythical creatures, whose ferocious looks are supposed to scare away evil spirits. Tiles and temple walls were etched with natural and simplistic designs of flowers and leaves, as well the Buddhist swastika—commonly known in East Asia as the symbol for eternity and serenity.

A few kilometres further up the mountain, hidden behind the dense foliage, is Seokguram Grotto. Hiking up the mountain took up a good hour, and left me panting in the heat. Overlooking the land below, and imagining the sea in the foggy distance, how painstakingly tough it must have been centuries ago for the craftsmen and artists to haul those gigantic rocks and building materials up the steep gradients.

Inside the grotto itself, a tall Buddha statue sits atop of a lotus flower, with leg crossed and hands in a posture that symbolise fearlessness and resistance to the evil ways of the world. The smooth sculpture radiates with an almost divine sense of stillness, yet the Buddha’s serene face and expression hold such strength. All around the Buddha, sublimely carved into the face of the domed structure, are the Buddha’s disciples and various other deities. For centuries till this day, the Buddha’s silent gaze guards over this land, day and night, night and day. The “Land of Morning Calm”.

My dear suitcase

My dear suitcase,

I was overjoyed to hear about your safe arrival in Korea, and that you and I will be reunited soon once more. Tell me, have the ground staff at San Francisco been treating you well in the days we were so forcibly separated? Where were you hiding that they could not even locate you, even with the latest tracking technology and a luggage tag so clearly and boldly strapped onto your handlebar?

Please forgive me, but honestly I did not abandon you on purpose. After being stranded in San Francisco, my initial response was to inquire about your whereabouts. I was worried that you had boarded the plane that I had missed by a mere 15 minutes. Those crucial 15 minutes turned into 24 hours of waiting for the next best connection, after I rejected the ridiculous idea that United Airlines proposed, which was for me I fly back to the East Coat to Washington, then to Los Angeles in order to catch a flight from there to Korea. I told them: I just came from Montreal!

But however long I had to wait, know that you were my main concern. I knew I would eventually get to Korea-- even though I received no compensation or reimbursement for my lodgings, food, transit to and from the airport-- but the question was would you? United personnel told me, on three separate occassions no less, that you were still around, and that you will be loaded onto the flight I was rescheduled on. Even when I checked in the next morning, United reassured me again that you were coming along to Korea with me.

But it turns out they were wrong, and I suspect too afraid to admit it. Instead they made up a story, tried to placate me with tall tales while they bidded for time to find you. Or at least I would like to hope they made the effort to locate you. The very next day, as soon as I landed at Narita, I asked again about your wellbeing, and the airline personnel assured me that you were getting cosy with your fellow travel buddies in the belly of the plane of the onward connection to Korea.

Nothing could be further than the truth. When I arrived at Incheon Airport, I waited, and waited, and waited. The baggage concourse emptied, and soon so did the terminal building. Then the concourse stopped moving, and in that spacious baggage pick-up area, I stood there and could almost hear the echo of my heart breaking. You were nowhere to be seen.

I filed a "Missing Luggage Report" immediately, and they spent an hour trying to figure out what had happened, in vain. I gave them my collection of boarding passes (by now enough to start an album), and gave them details of my grueling trip from Montreal to Chicago, to San Francisco, to Narita, and eventually landing exhausted and unbathed two days later at Incheon. It was already past ten on Sunday night, some 55 hours after we both happily left home in Montreal. Who would have thought that fate had destined us to be separated so dramatically and for an uncertain amount of time?

But, little did I know, more drama was to follow. Believe me, I called the airline every single day, on some days twice or even three times. Tuesday last, I was thrilled to be told that you were making your way to my hotel. The afternoon came and went, and night tiptoed on the horizon and eventually fell. I waited, and waited, and waited, but there was not even a shadow. The ever so courteous airline was of course kind enough not to even bother to keep me informed of the latest developments.

I called the next day, only to be told by that you had suddenly gone missing again. Somehow you had 'appeared', and then did a miraculous vanishing act in their records. That you were coming was yet another blatant lie.

All this time, tag code "UA362154" was the only link I clung onto in the hopes of locating you, and yet the online tracking system did not recognise the code. I tried calling the United helpline in the US, in Canada, and in Korea. They all told me to wait, to be patient, but I feared for the worst... Kidnapping... theft... it all crossed my mind. A fine and sturdy, black and well-travelled suitcase like you is much sought after. Especially as on either side of your fine body, you have those beautiful tattoos of all the flights you have taken and all the places you have been to. Worst of all, I thought of the possibility that perhaps someone was jealous of the sticker"If it ain't Boeing, I ain't going" that you proudly bear on your chest , and decided to hold you hostage.

Then I rang again this morning, and somehow the airline managed to find you. Why didn't you let people know you were hanging around at SFO all this time? And did you request to be placed on "Airline of the Year" Asiana, despite the fact that I was forced to downgrade to the disjointed United?

How thrilled I was that you are arriving, and so well timed that you would arrive one day before I leave again. The conference already began and is nearing its end, and my presentation was already over and done with. I had to make do with makeshift last-minute shopping for new clothes, socks and underwear, even though I longed for the warmth and familiarity of the contents of your body.

Did you know the airline was actually going to send you in a truck to my hotel, even though in the same evening I would have to haul you all the way back to the airport again to catch a flight early the next day? As much as I would have liked to be reunited with you earlier, I told the airline that there was little sense in sending you to me, and there's even a chance we might cross paths and miss one another, as we have already painfully done. I suggested to the airline to simply load you onboard the flight I will be taking to Taipei.

But they said that they could not do that. That would pose a "security risk", was the reasoning, for you cannot be handled or checked on board a flight by a third party. I protested vehemently, and questioned the airline on the absolute nonsense they once again were feeding me.

If you cannot fly or be left alone because you supposedly pose a "security risk", then how can you be abandoned at SFO (of all countries to be paranoid about security threats...) for 5 days and eventually check yourself aboard a 12hour flight across the Pacific when I was not even aboard that flight? Were not these examples more of a security risk than automatically loading you aboard the same flight that I will be taking anyways? Apparently, the airline had not caused me enough grief and anxiety, not to mention financial expenses already and was putting more obstacles between you and me.

More phone calls, more complaints, and eventually United gave in and agreed to my request. How much effort did it take to locate you, and to convince them what would be the most logical and efficient way of reuniting with you? How much time did I waste listening to broken reassurances and fantasies told by one airline personnel after another?

I will see you, bright and early, Friday morning.

I hope it really is you

Surprise

I had to leave that place as soon as the mellow music began to sound in the background. Tears were filling my eyes, and my vision became a watery blur. Wandering around Danshui, I stumbled into the former home of Dr. George Mackay, the humanitarian doctor and Presbyterian priest who established the hospital I was born in. The old artifacts and the little room, which used to be his consultation office, made me emotional, and the music was what pushed it. Merely a few hours after landing in Taiwan, I was crying. Belated tears which I held because I did not want to appear weak, because I did not want to see my mum see me cry.

Three hours earlier I arrived home, put down my suitcase, quickly showered to cleanse myself of the sweat from hauling my belongings up the five flights of stairs. My heart was racing, and I was smiling unexpectedly from the anticipation of seeing mum again. I called her, and as expected, she was at the hospital.

Immediately I sensed something was wrong. It was in her voice. It was so... sad, so... silent. Gone was the energy with which she spoke when we spoke earlier just before I boarded my flight at Incheon. I rushed to meet her at the gates of the hospital. When I saw her, she somehow felt me coming and looked up. With arms outstretched, she beckoned me to come closer. We hugged and I patted her gently on the back, close my eyes momentarily as I savoured that moment of reunion.

There was a sadness on her face. A sadness compounded with disbelief, and perhaps confusion or even fear. The prognosis is not good. There is a 'lump', this time around a lymph gland. The doctor recommends immediate chemo.

"Some things cannot be predicted..."

Eight sessions, with around a two week interval in between each one. Each one lasts around two to three days. And each one takes a week to recover from. Until the next session.

"I've been eating well, sleeping well, and even 'doing it' well. Who would have known?"

The treatment will be more intensive, and the drug will be stronger than before. Hair will fall out. We strolled slowly together. I was close to tears, but clenched my teeth so that the tears would not flood over my eye lids and run down my face. How that moment hurt. How, as those words left her mouth, I felt like a heavy, heavy weight weigh down on my previously flighty and light heart.

"Last year when I stopped the treatment, the effects of the drugs took a long time to go away. And now I have to inject more poison into my body. I will become so tired, so weak..."

Right then, I felt like turning away, running away and crying quietly in the corner where one could see me, where no one could touch me. I knew I could not. I must be strong. I must be there for my mum. But how strong can I be when even now, as I type, I tremble at the thought of my mum under going treatment again? How strong can I be to have to watch her suffer, watch her strength fade from day to day, helplessly watch her feel the immeasurable amount of pain and anxiety that I cannot do anything to take away?

Mum is at work now, for an hour or so longer until she finishes for the week. As I walked to kill time before she finishes work, she accompanied me to the door. I walked slowly away, and turned back to see her stand there in front of her office and look back at me. I gathered the strength to wave at her. And she smiled back. She still stood there, and watching me as I disappeared into the crowd. I turned back again, only to see her, with sunken shoulders and a lowered head, gradually make her way into the office.

Mum, I am home.

Homeward bound

Sitting here at the airport, about to round up my trip to Korea. It's been an eventful trip, with missed connections, frustrations at the lost lugguage, being unbearably lost in translation. But there have also been positive experiences too. This truly is a unique country, so steeped in tradition, history and culture, yet all those roots to the past and to the Korean heritage is so well grafted onto modernity, technology and hope for the future.

Just spoke to mum on the phone, as today is the day when she receives the results of her latest checkup. She sounded good, telling me to go to all these places and to travel around and enjoy myself. I told her that I was in Incheon (where I really am), and she said it's a big port city, where dad and her visited before when I was very little. She once told me that I was so happy to see them leave, and even waved goodbye to them. Yet little did I know they were going to be away for a number of days, probably the longest I've ever been away from them. I can't remember if I cried after saying goodbye.

I am in Incheon, but little does mum know that I'm at Incheon International Airport. She recommended that I go to Jeju, a tropical island that's supposed to be very beautfiul and famous. She said that it's best to fly there as the distance is far to travel. I said I'll think about it. And I smiled inside. Indeed, I'll be flying to a tropical island, but just not the one that she was thinking of.

Later around noon she will probably be at the hospital. It's also around the time that I arrive in Taipei. She said she's been asking the Buddha for blessings, and hopes that things will be alright.

I will find out when I arrive.

"My sister's keeper"

I have a particular habit of watching sad movies on a long flight. Moving movies, movies that are deep, or perhaps depressing. Movies that try to portray the human side of life and, naturally, of its counterpart.

So no surprise that on this trans-Pacific flight I was fixated by My Sister’s Keeper.

The cabin air was dry, but my eyes were not almost throughout the movie. On a tiny screen not much bigger than the display of my camera, I watched the movie as we brushed the skies over Alaska. A simple story, if simplified, about a family living with a dying child with severe leukaemia, and the attempts of a determined mother who has done and continues to strive to do everything she can to save the daughter’s life. Death is cruel and inescapable, and the girl eventually succumbs to fate. Prayers cannot withstand the spread of sickly cells. The world’s best medicine cannot reverse the failure of the kidneys and gradually the poisoning of the blood. And even love, though deep and with miraculous abilities to heal, cannot heal the girl’s terminal illness.

Watching someone struggle and cling onto dear life is difficult. Even more so if it is someone dear, someone close, someone you wish you could give or do anything if only to win one last brief moment with. But ultimately you lose the person. You try to hold your tears, in vain, as you hold onto the person’s still warm hands, and feel, and watch. Watch, powerlessly and unwillingly, as life wanes and fades, as the slightest twitch of the fingers stop.

Watching someone’s eyes grow yellow, head go bald, and arms become frail and thin is unbearable. You are pained and cut deeply by the contrast between images of a time when there was not a worry in the world, when life was filled with good health and happiness. The next moment twisted by the uncertainty and apprehension of going into the cold, sterile environs of the oncology ward. You think of the beautiful memories, lasting and long, repeatedly played over and over again in your mind… of times spent laughing, of childhood and growing up, of the romantic moment sharing a sunset, of silently watching from a distance as the person is peacefully asleep.

And yet, they become so wretchedly contaminated with the realities of death, and dying. How do you let go? How do you let go, but at the same time remind yourself that you will not forget, because if you forget this person dies with your lost memories?

My Sister’s Keeper spoke to me. Personally. But it is also a reminder to everyone of us how fragile life can be, and how easily one can become so caught up with the onslaught of death, whenever it may come. And as sure as the sun will rise, death will come. In the face of death, fear and uncertainty often consumes us. And in the face of someone else’s death, loss, regret and deep, deep sorrow often swallows us.

But it is not the dying that is the end all or be all. And neither is the girl’s death the highlight of the movie— if death could ever be a highlight of anything. It is the first kiss, the hugs before bed, the warmth of being wrapped in your parent’s arms, the uncontrollable outbreaks of smiles and laughter over a family meal, the joy of jumping around in the sand next to roaring waves that matter. It is the in-betweens, the intimate moments, and the shared times captured by a little picture or caught by plain words as they float around with the passage of someone’s lifetime that count, and that are worth remembering.

In those final moments, the girl hands her mother a little scrapbook filled with photographs, scribbles, cut out messages and drawn hearts. Perhaps to leave something behind in this world, and in the lives of others she has come across. Or perhaps to tell her mother that death is not necessarily the end.

Stuck in San Franciscio

There was a chillingly cold breeze blowing in from the Pacific. Night fell, and the streets of the normally vibrant city emptied. I strolled toward the pier, the same place where only two months ago was packed with bustling crowds of curious tourists and sightseers. Now there was only the occasional couple braving the cold in one another’s embrace, and some random commuters trying to rush home for the long weekend ahead. Even seagulls, abundant in the hot, humid summer, seemed to have hibernated.

Beneath the yellow glow of street lights I wandered alone. Somehow, a sore twist of fate and missed connections landed me this moment of reflection in San Francisco on this breezy October night. Leaves fell and danced at my feet, as trees shuddered. The spells of anticipation and deep disappointment at missing my Korea-bound flight had already subsided. As I looked around, I realised I was not the only one wandering around the city aimlessly.

A man and his friend pushed a cart filled with plastic bags and salvaged bottles down the pavement. Another clung onto a soiled and ragged sleeping bag as he limped on. A few lay on cardboards close to holes that vented warm air as the subway rushed past. The clanking of coins in a cup sounded as I passed a dark alleyway. I looked down, only to be confronted by the sorry scene of an unshaven man in tattered rags huddled together trying to keep warm. There was a pungent stench of unwashed clothes and frayed human hair that had weathered the elements for far too long. In a set of sunken eyes was the sight of pity, sorrow, and of destitution. “Change… Give me change…” For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he meant spare coins or was begging to some unknown force to somehow suddenly transform his current sad fate.

On top of a flagpole, a gigantic star spangled banner, perhaps mockingly too big and majestic, gently waved and slightly wavered in the wind.