Down South

Down south, it is so much warmer. Close to 28C today as I sat in the sweltering heat. Had to strip down to my undergarments to keep cool, for the sun was almost unbearable.

Second day of my stay in Chiayi. Eating with relatives, meeting and chatting, sometimes even just sitting down at a table and listening to the grown-ups talk. It brings us all together, even if for a very limited amount of time, reconnecting us, and defining us again as family and relatives.

To be honest, I feel a little gap, a divide in the circle of relatives. Yesterday was spent mostly with people on dad's side, but it felt like we had to be careful what we said, or how we acted, because some of them don't have a high opinion of us... Besides, sitting in that loud and crowded restaurant was exhausting, and I really didn't feel like talking much.

Today was much different though, with mum's relatives. A quiet little room for lunch, just the few of us, great food, and good conversation. The atmosphere was much more at ease. Tomorrow, we plan to head south to Kaoshiung to visit uncle and his family.

The only thing is... mum has been having severe diahrea for the last two days. It all started when she suddenly threw up yesterday while we were about to enter a restaurant. She saw a pile of intestine lying there, and just couldn't help it. Puke poured out of her mouth, her nose. I turned just in time to catch her arched over and throw up right there on a crowded street. I cleaned up her clothes, patted her back, and bent down to wipe her shoes. She had put on nice clothes to go see relatives, but after that she looked so frail and so embarassed...

I am concerned.

Side effects

Sometimes I'd silently stand by her bed and watch her sleep. Watch her rest. Watch her recover, if ever that is possible. The top of her head has grown a little grayer. Even the faded dye cannot hide the passage of the seasons, and time slowly creeping, ticking away. Her cheeks have grown thinner, and her eye lids more layered. Perhaps from age, or perhaps from fatigue. On her face, patches of freckles have appeared where there were none before. As people get older, they get freckles. But the more chemo people get, the more freckles they get too. I cannot tell which from which.

And sometimes I'd lie by her side, and feel the faint beating of her heart. Quietly so as not to wake her, I'd reach out to touch the tips of her fingers. Fingers, thumbs, toes, the ends of which have become increasingly numb. Worsened when she touches cold things, she says, and worsened also when the weather suddenly becomes cold and damp, like it has been recently. All part of the side-effects, which more and more are taking over, and more and more are prolonged. It will take two years for all the effects to completely go away. I try to imagine what that numbness, that tingling sensation must feel like. Is it like putting your fingers in the socket? Or the feeling of hitting your funny bone, only more permanent? While reaching out to touch the tips of her fingers, I'd wish that those uncomfortable sensations would leap into my body and stay with me instead of her.

"Don't worry about me," she'd say, "I'll be alright. When you're not here, I still have to manage on my own."

And so I will leave, and soon she will be on her own.

Vegetable vendor

Her hands were rough, and dry, like bark. Her nails dirty from soil and toil.

"Fresh vegetables from the mountains!" she called out. And then I recognised her. Those eyes, that careless and uncombed tuft of hair with fringes of white, and a mole just above her upper lip. She has a smile, small but infectious, one that distracts from her deep wrinkles and wind-beaten cheeks. Normally she sells her basketfuls of greens up in the mountains nearby. Spinach, cabbage, carrots, leeks, onions, and vegetables I do not even know the names of. Whenever we go up there, we would buy from her. Fresh, home-grown and exchange a chat or two. Perhaps the festivities had driven her down to the city in hope of a little more money to welcome the new year.

Her shoes were worn, having been worn for who knows how long already. The threads had split, giving away to a little hole that revealed the roughnes of her foot. She wore a yellow windbreaker, the surface of which had remnants of dry mud, and the traces of raindroplets. "Fresh, these are all fresh from the ground. I cut them a few hours ago. At 2am."

"2am?! Wasn't cold then?" A chill blew, as if in response.

"Yes, but I have to if I want to get to market on time," she said. I looked at her rough hands again, dry and rough like bark, and tried to imagine her gathering vegetables under the cover of dense, dense gray clouds, braving the howl and cold of gale force winds at 2am while the rest of the world slept soundly in warm beds.

"And your husband helped you?"

"He returned. Last year," she answered. A Taiwanese euphemism for someone who passed away.

"Mine too, on new year's eve of all days," my mum said.

And right there, was a shared moment. Shared grief, sorrow, yet also of shared comfort, and a momentary silence that seemed to quietly say "I understand how you feel". Especially on this eve before the new year.

Around us, the usual din of the market, of vendors' calls, of cars buzzing by continued, drowning our thoughts.

One year on

My words singed, turned brown, and then disintegrated into charcoal black. Gentle words, words of gratitude, words of description, powerful words that convey my feelings and confusions throughout the year, words in black and white, words that transcend time and space. Now and forever, lost, consumed by the bright orange creatures of fire and smoke that grew ever stronger as they tossed their heads and hands in a colourful dance. In the great big stack of burning paper, in the midst of soot and at times unbearable and uncontrollable flames, the letter I had written to my dad disappeared into a heap of ash before my eyes. Small pieces of paper, fueled by lively flames, took flight and hovered, up, up into the heavens. Offerings, prayers and wellwishes for those who have already moved on.

More than 14 hours had passed since arrived at the grounds where dad's remains have been laid to rest almost a year earlier. We woke early to avoid the rush hour traffic, and ventured through the mist to the Pacific coast. Even now, I can still see how against the stark and pitch, pitch black silhouette of mountains, the dawn sky gradually brightened. A silvery sliver of the moon hung almost unnoticed and too shy to shine up above. The same moon, a little shier, would return to accompany us on our long journey up and down the island as part of an elaborate ceremony to commemorate the anniversary of dad's death.

One year after one's death is a special event here, and a pivotal milestone on the road to reincarnation. In local beliefs, the world of the living and the dead intersect and interact in a symbiotic nature. True to Taiwanese customs, the spirit of the deceased is believed to linger in the world after death. To offer the spirit a home, immediately after death, high priests or Buddhist monks are called in to direct the spirit into small wooden memorial plaques, which are worshipped and kept in temples or even in people's houses.

It may sound strange to be offering food, flowers and incence to a piece of wood. Even stranger when some bow and kowtow before a little piece of wood with a few scribbles on it. But somehow a plaque bearing names of the ancestors and forefathers (and -mothers) offers hope and comfort. Like all rituals and rites, remembering the deceased, honouring those who came before us gives people solice, and perhaps a way of self-therapy to deal with the inevitable loss and death of a loved one. Respect, reverence and remembering the ancestors is a way to preserve virtues and values of gratitude, appreciation and humility.

Frogs croaked, and crickets cried. A feel of dew blew through the light sea breeze as night dropped its dark curtains. In the distance, I could hear the waves of the ocean washing and flowing against the shore. I looked back at the day that had come and gone. I have long longed for this day to come. Not out of anticipation, I do not think, and certainly not out of excitement, but perhaps more out of a feeling that I wish to be able to come to terms with the permanent absence of my dad in my life. Even (or maybe especially?) one year later.

The light scent of fresh flowers, the pungent smell of fresh fruits and dad's favourite dishes and delicacies. Before the ancestorial plaque I stood, eyes closed, hands cupped together in reverence. The little piece of wood looked insignificant, yet bore the marks and scribbles of much emotional and family history. At the day's end, I had learned that I am but a little link in a long lineage that spans over four generations, or possibly more. I saw the names of my ancestors. People who lived in times when the island was considered a hideout for ruffians and pirates... people who lived during the Japanese colonial era... people who underwent prosecution and the terror of the invading Chinese Nationalist government. People I never knew existed, but somehow felt a close connection to, even though we have never met, and never will. Reading their names, I tried to imagine their faces, their lives and voices. Pasts and lives forever lost, yet have always been a part of who I am today, and where I come from.

Closer to my generation, I could identify names that sounded more familiar, and picture lives that were once part of my own. There was my grandfather, who raised six children and sent them all to university just by repairing bicycles... my grandmother, memories of whose calming smile and kindness can still bring me to tears... And the most recent addition, the name of my own dear dad, whose voice and face often still dwells in my thoughts and dreams.

The bell chimed, the night mist grew dense. The frogs still croaked, and the sea still ebbed and flowed, as it has done over and over again in the past year, in the past decades and centuries. The natural cycles and movements of the world continues, in life and long after death.

In the flames that consumed my letter to my dad, and mesmorised my thoughts of the people who came before me, I felt calm, surprisingly peaceful and blessed.

Chemo-ordeal

"Ouch...! It hurts a lot", she cried. From a distance, I sat on a chair and watched her cringe and frown as the needle penetrated the skin. The syringe, and the long, winding plastic tube which flowed from it, immediately dyed blood red.

Hospitals are not merry places. Mum said she felt nauseated as soon as she could smell that particular scent of medicine and disinfecting solution. The smell of sickness, perhaps even of death. Harrowing, the sound of faceless patients coughing, wheezing, holding onto dear life for that much longer.

I looked at their faces, many half hidden behind a breathing mask. But the sorrow, the pain, tears and fears cannot easily be hidden. It shows in their sullen and sunken eyes, in their skin darkened by poisonous chemicals aimed to kill cancerous cells, yet at the same time break and weaken patients and rob them of life. I closed my eyes, and inside wished that these people around me, and so many sick and dying people everywhere, may somehow find some sort of comfort, a little semblance of happiness. Even in suffering.

Two more days of chemo-ordeal begins again.

Note

I saw a little piece of scrap paper today. Just a piece of paper, probably not more different from any other. Yet one side were a few words scribbled on:

"Staying at [the hospital]!
The lottery [ticket] is for the living expenses!
Keys for 1) motorcycle 2) mail box."

That was all. Just a few short and simple sentences. But perhaps the last words that dad ever wrote. Later, mum explained that that was the note she found one day. They had not talked for a while, yet the words carried that dry sense of humour and that sense of caring that dad could never really easily express in person. A few days later, he passed away.

I looked at that piece of scrap paper, and stroked the paper, feeling the texture, feeling the beautifully written words as if they somehow carried more than the green felt-tip pen they were written with. There was a connection to a past, a history and story that soon will be one year old.
Dad's potrait sits silently on his bedside table, his bed has been unused since he left. In the closet, his suits still hang, and his scent lingers on.

And in my mind, thoughts of him linger on too.

Natural process

I stood on the plateau overlooking the valley below. Sun set, the world was coloured orange and gold, warmth fading slowly as the sun dropped slowly into the mountains with their backs hunched over the horizon. The air filled with the chirping of insects, and gentle song of birds. The dogs stood around me and wagged their tails in glee. The sound of water flowed quietly in the background.

It's been almost a year since I last stayed at the monastery. A little haven of peace, an undiscovered place of peace and bliss hidden away in the mountains of central Taiwan. As a lone stranger I wandered onto the monastery grounds almost three years ago. I was not sure what to expect, and only little more than the basic ideas about the Buddhist teachings and way of life. But almost immediately, I was mesmerised. By the beauty, the tranquility that nature had to offer, by the leaves that seemed to come alive in the wind, by the sounds of invisible creatures that lived in the dense forests surrounding us, by the mountains, sometimes draped in silky white mist, sometimes flush with green, which forever changed their colours and appearances.

The first time I visited, I only had enough clean clothes to last two days, three days max. In the end, I stayed over three weeks, and only left somewhat unwillingly to go back to the din and chaos of city life. I'd return in the course of the years, again and again. The place has become like a home, the people there like family, and the Hawaiian monk who resides there like a guide, a friend, and a father. Through him I learned about mindfulness, compassion, loving-kindness, and living with wisdom. Through him, the previously nervous and agitated me calmed down and took things as they came and went in meditative reflection. Though far from being an enlightened being, I am today a tiny step closer, and the peace and understanding of the everchanging nature of the world and things today has changed me, my world, and the world around me.

A few days ago my Buddhist master asked me a simple question. What would you do if you only had 6 months to live? I'd travel the world, I said, go to all sorts of places, see the world, because there is so much to see. And I'd write about it all, I'd share it with people stories and places that one could only imagine. Because after I'm gone, those words will be what is left of me.

It is perhaps an ideal answer, from an idealist not yet faced with the stark reality of having not much time left. We seem to live life believing we'd all die old, if we think about death at all that is. When death lurks nearby, waiting and praying, and may pounce on you at any time, the answer to the simple question may be much, much different.

This much I know from a friend, and from my mother.

Walk through Taipei

Strolled through the city, next to towering skyscrappers, the bright lights and flashing neons abuzz with life. It's been over two years since I last went to the Xinyi District. What used to be parking lots and grass fields now are construction sites and the skeletons of buildings near completion. How much has changed in the span of time!

Mum and brother left to Hokkaido this morning. I encouraged them to take a holiday together, to get away and spend time together. Though I never imagined somewhere even colder than the blustery winds and cold spell that is hitting Taipei now. But earlier in the afternoon I received a call, and brother said that they arrived safely, and have already enjoyed their first soak in the hot springs, an open-air one at that, and at the same time snow was falling. Must have been some sight and experience.

So I came home to an empty apartment. Though auntie A-Hua is living here, she has a 24hr shift today at the local hot spring hotel. I chatted with her over breakfast, and she lamented how much of a hard work her job is. It's not that she's always working, but she has to be there at least 24hr on call, ready to clean up after guests have used their bath facilities. She works one whole day, and gets one day off. Seems fair, but then again if you calculate the hours, one whole day means three working days for a normal 8hr/day job. And on days when it's really cold, people constantly stream in, even in the early hours. This is, after all, a city that doesn't really sleep. I listened with compassion, trying to imagine the hard work, but at the same time hoping that she would continue with her work, as it's given her financial independence and security. Later as I wandered through the streets, I came across at least two homeless people. The economic depression is really visible.

I came home just now, and closed the door. I sat down, and there was a silence, an emptiness. It's a big apartment, and sitting there in the living room, looking around, I realised how lonely it can get here. Especially if I just looked around, and see all these objects, belongings, pictures and reminders of me, brother, and of dad too. Is this what mum feels at the end of the day?

A moment

Once I stood on the bank, watched in silence with my dad who was equally silent. It was a clear day, with wind almost too shy to blow, and a calm bay that lay lazily beneath our feet. Into the distance spread a pristine stretch of blue, light at first, then gently fading into a darker shade further out to sea. Clumps of cotton-like clouds floated overhead, soft decor for the sky that fused into one with the water on the horizon. The mountain ridges, partly scarred and blemished rough, partly smooth, lush, and green with grass, soared above the water's surface. Far, far away, a lonely little island rested, unwavering, small and lost in the big, big ocean surrounding it.

We stood and admired the sky, the land and the sea. I imagined those sailors who came across this scene long, long ago, and was closer to understanding why they called it the "Beautiful Island". I broke the silence, and simply said, "How beautiful this is". My dad nodded in agreement.

As the car skirted the coast, I looked at that same sea, caught in that muddle between the present and the past, feeling estranged and yet somewhat familiar too. Barely six hours hours earlier, my plane had flown past these very shorelines. It is all the same sea, but at different times, under very different circumstances. Whereas the sea and this landscape is for me but a beautiful memory of shared and treasured moments in the past, for almost a year now dad watches these waters and the mountains day and night. This is where he would have most wanted to rest, we think.

I stood before dad's memorial, and put my palms before my chest in prayer. A monk chanted lowly, Buddhist music chimed, and the scent of incense filled my eyes and nostrils. A solemn moment, one I had tried to imagine over the past few weeks and months, and had finally come. I cannot describe that feeling then... that feeling which is a blend of longing, of sadness and loss, yet at the same time struck and awed by the feeling of serendipity, comfort and gratitude.

Somehow, despite being spread thinly over different countries, different continents, and in different realms of existence, our family had come together once again.

One Native Life

There are in life fleeting moments that remain. A face, a scene, a voice, a sound, a feeling. Something that captures you, or that you capture. And deep down inside you feel as if there were an overwhelming and profound realisation that somehow things, people, time and places are connected. You cannot explain it, you cannot name it, but you feel it. Or it feels you.

In the subway tunnel I walked, glad to have escaped the night chill and slight drizzle of snow. He walked toward me, I took a look at his face. That fleeting moment. It was as if I had seen him before. His toned skin, wrinkled with age, with experience, with sorrow. His hair, rough weathered and graying, tied at the ends into two short braids. The expression was one of tiredness, but one that betrayed that however tired he was, he had to go on. His heavy boots echoed in the long, narrow tunnel, and on his back he hauled a small sac, as he hurriedly passed me by , on his way.

I looked ahead of me, allowed that image to sink in, to connect, to be realised. I turned back to look, but the tunnel was again empty. Into the warmth of the subway I had come, whereas out into the cold, cold night he went.

Perhaps I let my fantansies and stereotypes drive me and what I want to see. Perhaps "One Native Life" I am reading has coloured my mind to see the Native Indian in everyone with tonned skin and braided hair. But in those few seconds as our paths so unexpectedly crossed and then again traveled in separate ways, in separate directions, it was as if I could sense that man's pain and burdens. The one shared by so many First Nation Natives who are wandering the estranged lands of Canada in search of the native land once was truly theirs.

After one reading of Objibway Richard Wagamese's autobiography does not make me an expert in what is a complicated and troubled chapter of Canada's history. But the author, in such simple words, has crafted and captured a world and a past that is not only his story, but perhaps the story shared by many natives forcibly uprooted from their birth communities in childhood, and subsequently placed in residential schools in an attempt to assimilate the native children into (white) Canadian society. It was believed that though you cannot change the fact that they are (native) Indians, you can remove "the Indian out of them". What ensued is over a century of segregation, discrimination and destruction of native peoples, their cultures and languages. The result is a generation of vagrant natives growing up in foster homes, often subject to abuse, belittlement and inacceptance. The traumatic effects explains much of the homelessness, employment, substance abuse and high incidence of health problems and depression among First Nationals.

The irony is that the natives were there before the white Europeans and other immigrants. The term 'Canada' itself is a Huron term for "our village". "[H]ow cruelly a nation could forget one of its founding peoples", and dismiss the ways and livelihoods, the coexistence with nature and this wide, mysterious universe as savagery and hedonism. The First Nationals live(d) in harmony with the land, awed by the spirit of every rock and tree and creature, seeing and respecting the life and the beauty in the world around them. Modernity, imperialism and racism together aims/(-ed) to tame the land, to make slaves of the world and its resources, and worst of all, to tame peoples who once lived wild and free.

Now hundreds of thousands have lost their traditional connection with the land, their land, and are struggling to find themselves, find peace, find acceptance in a land that has become all too foreign. Many Natives wander the streets as "one of the lost ones, one of the disappeared ones, vanished into the vortex of foster care and adoption", thrown into a world of "separation, of cultural displacement". Yes, the government has apologised, and there are compsensation and survivor programmes aimed to wash away the anguish and pain. But how do you repare lives lost and families torn apart? How do you erase the memories of abuse, neglect and living life as ghosts that nobody sees and recognises?

Perhaps... perhaps that man, that stranger who seems to have suddenly become all so familiar for some unexplainable reason, is not a Native, is not lost, and is not longing for belonging. But that fleeting moment in the subway was reason enough to connect, to reflect, to realise, and most importantly, to share.

For he and I, and you and I, are all human beings trying to make the best out of time here on this land. We all have traumas, jubilations, defeats and triumps. We all shed tears of joy and sadness, and we all gaze with awe at the beauty of the rising and setting sun. We all marvel at the wonderful creatures that nature has adorned the land to keep us company. We are all in search of a home, in search of peace, love, security, and the kindness and compassion of another fellow human being.

That's what makes us human. It's not the colour of the skin, the culture we were born and live in, or the language and ways through which we conduct our lives that makes us human. It's in sharing a simple story, in sharing a little bit of all those simple but profound elements that make life worth living is captured, felt, and... shared.

Crash

I saw the Earth beneath, radiant in the glow of the first rays of the day. Land, curved like an arched back, green, lush, indivisible, peaceful without boundaries or borders. Water, lakes and seas, reflecting the sky like mirrors, smooth and pristine.

The plane glided, as the motors silenced in the final descent. I sat back in my seat, my eyes focussing on the world outside that got bigger and bigger. Anticipation, excitement ran through my mind, sending shivers. I could see the shadow of the plane, drawing nearer, faster as the plane inched toward land.

But out of nowhere, two walls closed in on either side. This isn't right, I thought to myself. I realised then where I was... the train tunnel entering Schiphol Airport. How could the pilot mistaken railway tracks for the runway?! I wanted to call out, alert others of this terrible mistake. Too late...

View from the air... the plane descended slowly onto the tracks. With two nacelles at the tail attached to the fuselage, it could have been an MD90, or Fokker100. What was sure was that if the plane did not pull up, it would hit the overhead wires. I tensed as I watched the plane, rear wheels first, slam into the wires, causing sparks to fly and the crack of metal tearing to echo. The wings tore off, and slammed against the tunnel walls, as the fuselage sunk through the electrification wires like a piece of log and slid onto the railway tracks.

The plane, or what remained of it, rode the rails for some time. The screeching sounds, irritating and deafening, reverberated in the darkening tunnel. Sparks flew wildly as metal ground with metal. Then suddenly a shine of light from up ahead. An ICE train sped toward the plane. Impact, as the high speed rail crashed onto the nose, causing the engine and all the carriages that followed it to cascade onto the fuselage.

Back in the plane... I quickly unbuckled my seat. A roar rumbled through the walls of the cabin, as windows cracked and crumbled like shards of ice. Dust, flame, smoke, and screams of panic and horror filled the cabin. Down the aisle I could see the ceiling of the cabin collapse under the weight of the speeding train the plane had just collided head on with. People scrambled, some trampled under the feet of fleeing passengers. Amid the confusion and violence of explosions and flying papers, luggage and glass were rambling prayers, Hail Mary's, and cries for help.

I stepped onto the aisle, ready to sprint to the back of the plane. Then I realised I forgot my travel pouch, with all my important documents and my very important camera, so I reached for it. By then the running herd of fleeing passengers had run past my seat. I was trapped. All the while, the blinding headlights of the ICE engine had torn itself into the cabin and was advancing fast, mowing everything, everyone in its path down...

I woke, shaken, but somewhat relieved.

Thank goodness I am not flying KLM tomorrow.

Sleep and dreams

I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping recently, and I suspect it's related to a number of emotional downs I've experiencing at the moment. It's been going on for a couple of weeks now, and two nights ago was probably the worst. The typical pattern of sleeplessness is that I'd go to bed around 11pm or so, then suddenly, for no reason, just wake up at around 1 or 2am. I'd close my eyes and will myself to sleep again (this "willing", which as I learned, is not the wisest thing to do...), but then half an hour, an hour, two hours, three hours later, I'd still be in bed, awake... on the verge of sleep, but then unable to fall into it. It doesn't help that my bright digital clock keeps on reminding me of the time, and how late (or actually, early) it was...

The worst is that the next day I feel terrible, and tired, unable to really focus, and really depressed too. So, yesterday I did some online search into insomnia, and got myself some help. I 'raided' the drug store for some natural pills and remedies for sleeplessness, like valerian and St John's wort, and bought myself a bottle of camomile foambath, and relaxing oils. I set the warm water running and filled the bath, lying in it for a good half hour, until I was all wrinkly. Got dressed, and sat on my bed, with eyes closed, meditating a little, before I lay down to sleep....

Fatigue overcame me, and before I knew it I was asleep... not completely uninterrupted, as I had to get up once to go to the bathroom, but even after that I could almost immediately go back to sleep again. So I guess the self-help remedies did help.

And that's when the dreams started.... first was one that made me wake up, smiling and feeling all warm inside. It's been a long time since a dream has been so pleasant, especially one involving my dad. I saw him, and he was very well, looking very healthy and smiling a lot. That in itself made me very happy, very confident and assured. That in itself made me know that he was doing well, and that there was nothing that bothered him even after he departed. I woke up, clutched my arms around the teddy bear, and I could remember myself uttering "dad, dad..." before I went back to sleep again.

...soon enough, a series of dreams swept over me like the flow of the sea. So many, pleasant or unpleasant, I cannot remember any more. But there was one that I remember vividly, since it was very romantic, and I remember waking up feeling my heart race in arousal. In the dream, I was lying in bed, in a half-awake state. I had a guest who slept over, and he was sleeping at the foot of my bed. He was someone I'd gotten to know recently, but I was never sure whether there were anything between us other than just friends who did things togetehr occassionally.

Back to the dream... I crept slowly toward him, and watched him sleep. He looked so soft, so beautiful, and I was smitten. I kissed him softly on the forehead, and he woke, opening his lazy eyes slowly, then his lips turned up to a sweet smile. A little gesture that said and meant that he wanted more than just a kiss on the forehead. I crept down to the floor, and lay next to him. We cuddled each other in our arms, and kissed. Intense, immense explosion of emotions overcame our bodies...

I woke up, and it was far to late...

First post of 2009

I walked home in the light snow. Snow that floated down so slowly, some of which landed on my nose and tingled my skin. It was a clear, crisp night, cold, but not so much so, at least not as cold as I have experienced, and dare I say gotten used to somewhat. First transition from the old to the new year in Canada, and I think the first of many to come.

I spent the new year moment at Berri UQAM station. The moment came and went, and if it weren't for the loud banging and cheers of fellow passengers, I would not have known that a new day, indeed, a new year had begun. I guess it was how I wanted it.... not to get caught up in the uproar and rave of it all, not to have too many high expectations and hopes for a new year, so as not to feel bad about myself if I should not attain them.

At least I was not alone. Next to me, a new friend, a friend I've gotten close to, and who's gotten close to me. Both of us in that stage of life, trying to understand life, understand ourselves, so as to be able to receive the love that we need, and that we deserve.

Had a long chat with a friend that I've gotten to really know, and like. About all sorts of things, about the order of things in the world today, about life, family, and accepting yourself before you can accept love in your life. Again, like someone once told me, a partner should never be there to fill a void, to make you feel whole. A partner is there to add meaning and add love to an already confident and loving and lovable you. Anything less would be just selfish, and unhealthy to the person and to you. I sat there in the dim light of the cafe, music playing in the background, grasping my teacup, and slowly grasping this idea, this idea that I hope I will have the tenacity and the openness to accept into and live by in my life.

Originally my trip back to Taiwan was planned for the 16th, but somehow I was prompted to change my flight. Much to my surprise, that day was really bad for travelling, and the only available date was 9 January, a whole week earlier, meaning that I will miss one extra week of school. Not much to my liking, and I feel a little anxious having to skip school for so long... but sometimes there are more important things in life than school, and I must convince myself of that, and tell myself that it is not wrong to work on myself, work on my family first, then school work later.

Indeed, I would very much like to work on my feelings, my processing of dad's passing, in the hope that I can make peace with it, and make it part of my life that I can look at and feel comfort. Not regret, not sorrow (even though that is at times unavoidable), but to be able to look back and see that dad has gone further in a process of life (and in his case, death-- death being part of life), and that I can see his process as part of a continuation of my relationship with him, even though he may not physically be there any more.

So here's to a happy and peaceful 2009, of luck and good wishes, to me, and to all.

Savour Milk

Credits: http://www.cinema.ucla.edu/festival/fp10/presimages/HarveyMilk.gif

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 20^th 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 Creator with 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”.

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.