Free Tibet!

Cartoon by Jeff Stahler at Cagle.com

“Due to security reasons the name of the author is omitted”

This line appeared in the Dutch Volkskrant under a report on the recent protests in and around Tibet. In all my years of reading the news, I have yet to see simply the words “From a correspondent” underneath the headline with no mention of the correspondent’s name. But in the climate of the ongoing crackdown by soldiers and security forces, together with reports of censorship and of deportations of international journalists by the Chinese government, this is the reality.

Another reality is that eight years ago, a regime that could never have been too proud of its human rights record and democratic credentials was to the surprise of many awarded with the honour of hosting the 2008 Olympics. How Beijing has rejoiced since, and how Beijing is doing all it can to ensure that this will be the Olympics to overshadow all others in history, as a homage to China’s “peaceful rise” to becoming a world power. Continuously the International Olympic Committee shrugged off critics of Beijing Games by reiterating that sports has nothing to do with politics. In the words of IOC President Jacque Rogge, the “IOC is a catalyst for change in China but it is not a panacea, […] It is a sporting, non-political organization and we cannot solve the problems of the world."

The tanks and machine guns are rolling into Tibet. Over 100 protesters, or perhaps even more, are dead, some due to the Chinese government, which itself has admitted to firing upon civilians. The IOC can at least try harder than merely congratulate China on improving its air quality ahead of the Games. Indeed, as the coordinating body of world’s foremost sporting event, it has great influence and leverage over the host states. While martial law falls on Tibet, there is not a mention of the unrests and crackdown by the Chinese authorities on the website of the IOC. Whatever happened to the promises China made upon winning the Olympic bid to make significant improvements in its human rights situation?

Wei Jingsheng, a Chinese winner of several human rights and democracy awards who spent over 15 years in prison for his pro-democracy activities, wrote in the International Herald Tribune:

The IOC's unwillingness to pressure Beijing at this moment is tragic because these Olympics are a turning point in modern Chinese history.

By acting as host to the Olympics, the Communist Party's rulers have turned their palace into a global glass house. They can no longer show the smiling face of the "peaceful rise" of China to the world and the stern face of brutal suppression at home.

The Olympics will force China to show its true face. Only international pressure, by the IOC and others, will make sure it is the face we all want to see.

Due to China’s continual inaction over the continuing bloodshed in Darfur, Oscar-winning director Steven Spielberg (rightfully) resigned back in February, after mounting pressures calling for his disengagement from what has been deemed the “Genocide Olympics”. With the deteriorating situation in Tibet, the Dalai Lama has repeatedly warned of a China’s active engagement in a “cultural genocide”, that has in the past half a century threatened to wipe out all remnants of Tibetan language, religion and culture. What pride the Olympics dream is, to be hosted by a country now coupled closely with two of the most severe atrocities in modern history! So much for the ideals of “peace and progress, harmonious development, living in amity, cooperation and mutual benefit” that the official organisers of the Games trump on their website.

Of course, as with everything and anything related with 3 Taboos (Tiananmen, Tibet or Taiwan), the Chinese government’s propaganda machine has ensured any sensitive news is moulded to reflect the great visions and twisted lies of the Chinese Communist Party. Thus, ordinary people and anti-government dissidents are not being rounded up or placed under constant house arrest in order to preserve Beijing’s image of a peaceful and clean city… the unrests in Tibet were caused by unruly Tibetans under the instigation and control of the Dalai Lama, and only 13 people have died, all caused by mob anger… and there are no free and fair presidential elections in Taiwan this Saturday.

Cartoon by Jeff Koterba, at Cagle.com

A commentary in the Chinese government’s mouthpiece, Xinhua, ran the following tirade against the internationally acclaimed His Holiness the Dalai Lama:

“…the monk in a crimson cassock has many tools for disguise to survive the international criticism against violence and terror: his preaching of peace, tolerance and benevolence to the Nobel honor and U.S. medal which added to his undeserved aura.

Make no mistake people, we have all been fooled by this conniving two-faced monk, who is the equivalent of the Catholic Pope in Tibetan Buddhism! The Chinese government went as far as to insinuate that the Dalai Lama’s eye for terrorism comes from having been educated by an old-Nazi. The slur against the latest winner of the US Congressional Gold Medal continues:

“this impudent politician did not show any sign of shame when he disassociated himself from the conspiracy as an innocent monk, leaving his followers standing as cat's paws by persuading them, in a canting manner, "not to resort to violence" reportedly in a statement after the serene abode of the gods was disturbed.

What flowerly language. Similar sentiments are echoed by an irrate and finger-pointing Chinese premier Wen Jiabao, who at a press conference blurted out:

There is ample evidence that this incident was premeditated, masterminded, incited and organized by the Dalai clique. This once again shows that the claims made by the Dalai clique over the years that they seek peaceful dialogue and not independence are nothing but lies. Their hypocritical lies cannot cover the indisputable facts.

Indisputable acts of what? That the Dalai Lama, who has lived in self-imposed exile for half a century, is in fact a terrorist mastermind on par with Osama Bin Laden? That this inspiring spiritual leader with millions of followers, whose consistently promotion of “peace, understanding and harmony” is the reason he won the Noble Peace Prize, should be unmasked as a fake?

I would personally trust the Dalai Lama over any government that is constantly ranked at the bottom along with other human rights violators and oppressors of freedom of press. I would rather trust what I freely hear and freely read in the news about Tibet than believe the views of a government which will not blink to throw you in prison for merely carrying a photograph of the Dalai Lama.

A commentary today in the Chinese government’s mouthpiece, the People’s Daily, praised the crackdown in Tibet as being “restrained”. And China’s restrained reaction to the Tibetan uprising apparently enjoys “broad international support”... from the likes of Syria, the Democratic People’s Republic of (North) Korea, and the very important Fiji, as well as Serbia (still sour of its loss of Kosovo).

In yet another commentary, the Chinese government has vowed to “resolutely [crack] down on and severely [punish] a handful of lawless criminals”, and clarifies in what is widely seen as the strongest language by China on its handling of the Tibetan uprising that:

we must see through the secessionist forces' evil intentions, uphold the banners of maintaining social stability, safeguard the socialist legal system and protect people's fundamental interests, and resolutely crush the "Tibet independence" forces' conspiracy and sabotaging activities so as to foster a favorable social environment for reform and development and for people's happiness and welfare. [...]

After decades of construction and development, Tibet is enjoying its best-ever time of progress and stability, the paper says. Accelerating development, improving livelihood, maintaining stability and opposing separation are the road the region has to walk on if it is to prosper. Secession is against the people's will and sabotage is doomed to fail […]

To be clear, Tibet has never been an integral part of China. If it were, why did China need to invade in 1950 and forcibly oppress uprisings that have to date caused over 1 million deaths? Under international law, Tibet can even be said to have enjoined sovereign independence before the Chinese invasion. Admittedly, Tibet’s relations with China has historically been that of a vassal under the suzerainty of the Chinese Emperors. However, Tibet has always enjoyed much freedom to govern its internal affairs according to its own distinct culture and religion under the reign of the Dalai Lamas. This peaceful coexistence ended with the so-called “liberation” of Tibet. Atrocities and a reign of terror ensued that has repeatedly been classified as a genocide outright. The so-called “Seventeen Point Agreement for the Peaceful Liberation of Tibet”, under which Tibet recognises its “return to the big family of the motherland - the People's Republic of China” was not more than a diktat signed by the then Tibetan government as Chinese troops were already brimming on the borders. Immediately after the Dalai Lama and Tibetan government fled into exile, the Agreement was repudiated, and since then the Dalai Lama has called for “a meaningful autonomy” for Tibet, whereby Tibetans have freedom in cultural, political, religious and economic affairs. He is willing to meet and negotiate with the Chinese leadership, and has repeated extended the olive branch. It is Beijing, with its warped vision of the Dalai Lama as a “splittist” and “terrorist”, that is refusing to acknowledge His Holiness’ goodwill.

The cause of the recent unrest, like those back in 1989 and even before, is the Chinese government’s strategy of turning Tibet into any other Chinese province. By actively attracting Chinese people to emigrate to Tibet, the economic and political powers are now unfairly biased against the Tibetans in favour of those with loyalties to Beijing. Monasteries are under surveillance, Tibetan language and culture is increasingly marginalised, while even the Panchen Lama, who will be he Dalai Lama and according to tradition can only be reincarnated, is handpicked by the Chinese Communist Party, and resides in Beijing. A then unknown Communist Party cadre by the name of Hu Jintao was the Party Chief of the “Tibet Autonomous Region”. It was he who ordered the violent suppression of similar uprisings in early 1989. Today, he has been “elected” (twice, no less!) to the position of President of the People’s Republic of China. So who is responsible for the brutal suppression of the uprisings in Tibet now? Hu.

What a message Nancy Pelosi sent to the international community, when yesterday she stood side by side with the Dalai Lama in a show of her solidarity with the Tibetan people. Dubbed the third most influential political figure in the US, the Congressional Speaker attacked China’s violent handling of the Tibetan uprisings. In an emotive speech, Pelosi could not have put it in better words:

“Today, this delegation from the United States Congress is here to shed the bright light of truth on what is happening in Tibet. In sanskrit the word non-violence means ‘truth insistence.’ Insistence on the truth is what this is all about. We insist that the world know the truth about what is happening in Tibet.

“If freedom loving people throughout the world do not speak out against China's oppression in China and in Tibet we have lost all moral authority to speak on human rights anywhere in the world. The cause of Tibet is a challenge to the conscience of the world.

Why is the rest of the world silent as China continues to oppress the Tibetans? Why is the UN silent when human rights are constantly being trampled on by one of its veto-wielding powers? Why is the IOC playing dumb when the country it foresaw would usher in “a landmark moment in Olympic history, and is obviously an event of huge national interest in China” is now revealing its true ugly nature? And they claim to be freedom loving?

The Olympic Games are a great opportunity for China to show off its huge strides in development and economic progress indeed. But it is also an opportunity for the world to pay attention to many of the abuses and failings that continue to plague this self-proclaiming super power.

A tyrant that puts on a lavish suit that many are envious of is still a tyrant. And a China that can put on a stunning Olympic Games is still the oppressive and brutal regime that it has always been. The Olympic dream has not improved the lot of ordinary people in China, nor has it lived up to the promises of greater media freedom and transparency as previously trumpeted. Instead, the outburst of violence in Tibet reveal all too well the continual suffering and fears of the oppressed Tibetan people, of the democracy activists and political dissidents, that China would rather the world forget under the limelight of the glitz and glamour it tries so hard to showcase.

But China has invited the world to its doors when it accepted the honour of hosting the Games. And besides the glory and gradeur that it boasts, it should not be afraid show the dark and shameful sides which will forever present an obstacle to achieving that superpower status it so aspires to reach.

And we, the citizens of this world, the very citizens who love freedom and abhor the suffering of those who have none, should not be afraid to look and to see.

Not just to look what is fundamentally hypocritical about the Olympic Games which are supposed to celebrate unity and humanity, but also to see the silence of our leaders who claim to love and support freedom, yet fall suddenly despicably silent when it comes to dealing with a China where there is none.

Links:

See The Guardian’s excellent coverage on Tibet and the recent uprising.

CNN reports on China’s media censorship, as does the BBC.

For commentaries offering a more “balanced” side of the uprising in Tibet, go to the

Chinese government’s mouthpiece, Xinhua New Agency. And here you see a whole site of the Chinese government dedicated to condemning the “separatist activities” of the Dalai Lama. Additional reporting by China’s official news channel (ironically abbreviated as) CCTV.

A good website keeping a monitor on China’s censorship of news and the Internet.

Official site of the Dalai Lama.
Website of the Free Tibet movement.

Dreaming of dad

A leopard, golden and spotted black, slick and slim, oozing with beauty and a deadly silence. Not just any leopard, but a Formosan Cloud Leopard, indigenous to the high mountain forests of Taiwan, nowadays extremely rare, and rarely seen.


It approached me, and I was stricken with fear. He silently stepped toward me, I wanted to run, but could not. Something somehow made me stay, even though I was trembling. The leopard squinted, lazily like a cat, and circled me. His breath felt warm. Out of nowhere came this urge, and my hand raised itself to touch the leopard's patterned fur. He felt soft, tender and gentle, and the leopard stopped in its path for me to pet, like a tame cat, were it not for the sharp fangs that glistened whenever the leopard opened its mouth.

I stroked the leopard me, and it started to purr, loudly. In the following scene, I was on the leopard's back, riding it, as he sprinted on and on and on through the dense forest floor. I felt such joy, elation and liberation as I grabbed onto the leopard's fur and moved with the leopard's movements, swiftly and silently.

We came to a stop, and the leopard set me down. As if the leopard was tired from the running, he rolled on its back and lay there with his head softly rubbing the earth. I knelt down next to him, and started to stroke him, stroke him, stroke him ever so softly, as he purred and purred with pleasure. His eyes closed as his paws hung loosely from the relaxed and lazy posture the leopard was in. Reassured, I patted him on the chest, and felt his heartbeat, while my other hand stroked the leopard's soft coat on his head. I felt such warmth, such connection with him, even though they say the Cloud Leopard is normally a shy but vicious creature of the jungle. I knelt beside him, but could only see and feel the tenderness and beauty of the leopard in every stroke of my hand.

Slowly, slowly, the leopard's purr grew softer. His heartbeat also slowed, and his paws gradually no longer moved as it did before from side to side expressing comfort. I stroked it even more, admiring the beauty and tranquility of this gift of nature before me, and felt grateful that I could be so close to it in such a peaceful moment. What a precious moment!

I woke up... my heart ached and wrenched as a deep, deep pain throbbed through my chest. I felt myself cry out, but there was no sound, but an emptiness and a silent echo that made the deep void inside me even more empty-feeling than the moment before...

It was pitch-dark. Then it began. The emptiness turned to tears, and I sobbed in bed. Images of dad flashed before my closed eyes, images of his kind face, echoes of his soft voice. Another image flooded into my memories... the image of those tender moments when I stroked his face and hands as he slowly, slowly, slowly went to sleep... the long long sleep he would no longer wake up from. More tears flowed, and I felt the pillow case dampen as I buried my face in it to dampen the sounds of my howls... My howls from the pain, loss, and realisation that my dad is finally gone, and that I will never see him again.

Rarely have I felt pain of such intensity, and never in the past month since my dad's passing away have I shed so many tears. I did not know where those tears came from. Perhaps from the stored tears that were kept dammed inside in those times when I felt I could not break for the sake of others around me. Wherever they came from, the tears uncontrollably flooded through my eyes. I tugged at the thick douvet and the blanket I was under, and remembering that dad had bought the blanket for me to keep me warm during the cold winter months, I cried even more... even, even more.

I cried myself asleep, and before long, I drifted back into the world of dreams where I was again reunited with my dad.

Home again

The plane tore through the dense clouds, into a world of gray and rain. The cabin shook, and the passengers shrilled slightly as the turbulent air made the plane drop suddenly. Moments later, we landed, welcomed to The Netherlands by pouring rain and a cold, cold gust of wind.

Welcome home, David. And the first welcome sign was a big fine by the revenue bureau. I simply cannot lie, and when the customs officer asked me whether I bought anything from abroad, I said a laptop. He looked at it, estimated the cost, and I was later to pay 19% value added tax (VAT). 150 Euros, merciless and no discussions. Enough to pay a month's worth of food. So much for buying the laptop I have always wanted in Taiwan, thinking I would save a lot on costs.

Luckily, brother was at the airport to pick me up, and his company made the trip home in the rain almost bearable. The roads were empty, soaking in rain, and the wind was strong. Coming from the bustle of Asia, you could easily mistaken a lazy Sunday morning in Europe as the land of the dull and the dead. Only when my cat greeted me with her miauw and tail at the door did it seem like there was any life or warmth.

A 16 hour flight, over 9000kilometers across the world, and I have arrived in another world. Perhaps it is the weather, perhaps it is the tiredness and grogginess from attempting to sleep sitting almost straight up because I was afraid to wake up the person behind me hadI lowered my seat, but this place is such a contrast from the home I left back in Taiwan. And yet, less than two months ago, this place seemed like the comfortable and quiet home I could return to for shelter and warmth. It will take some time before I get used to here again...

Last night, I said goodbye to my mum, turned the corner of the staircase as the image of her standing in the doorframe disappeared from sight. Moments before, we hugged deeply, twice. More moments earlier, I handed her a notebook, the cover of which, in small print, said: "Somethings if not done now will never be done". Flip open the first page, and I wrote the words: " Smiling is the best self-cure". When mum received news that she could be discharged from the hospital a few days ago, I had taken a picture of her which captured that intense and heart-felt joy of relief. I had enlarged that, and developed some other pictures of flowers, sunsets and of me, for my mum to keep her company as she faces the next few sessions of chemo therapy in the coming months.

To be honest, I got frustrated as the time ticked by to the moment of departure. Why did I have to leave? Why did I have to leave my mum behind? There seemed so little time to do all the things I wanted to do... like tidy my dad's room more, so that mum would not have to face it all alone... like clean up the house, so that mum would not have to strain herself wiping and washing... But the last few days of my stay in Taiwan seemed to go by so quickly, without me realising it. Tuesday last, my mum came out of the hospital. The next day, we stayed home to recuperate, and Thursday I quickly went out to meet a friend and to do a quick shop of the things I need... Friday I went to see my dad at the temple... and Saturday was the day of departure itself. Naively I would think to myself, as I often did as a child, how wonderful it would be to be able to stop and turn back time.

But time passes with every tick of the second hand. And the past six weeks have gone by so quickly. Thinking back, what have I really done? Mum thinks a lot, and as we hugged one another goodbye last night, she thanked me again and again for all that I have done... but somehow I think I did only what I could, and only what a son ought to do. Nothing much more, nothing less.

At the airport, just before I headed for the departure gate, I made a last-minute call to relatives and friends to bid them all farewell, and to wish them well for the coming time till we meet again. I spoke to a cousin of mine I have always been very close to, and naturally tears began to fell as I recounted that moment when dad passed away... I saw those moments I held dad's hands in my own, I remembered those words I whispered to dad in the hope that he would let go and move on peacefully. And I could not control myself but started to cry in the airport hall. It seemed like all the spotlight was on me, all at once all these people started to appear and pass me by out of nowhere. I turned against the wall, and wiped my tears. "I think I have no regrets. I hope I have not disappointed them. I hope..." I said silently to my cousin as I chocked on my own tears, "I hope that dad and mum will be proud of me..." My cousin reassured me that they are indeed proud of me, and that they have every reason to be.

The plane roared upwards, and the wheels made a thudding sound as they left the ground. My physical 'connection' with my home-land was severed in that very moment, as the plane flew higher, and higher skward. The plane turned around and started to head south, along the western coast of Taiwan, flying over the lit and bustling towns and cities below. I was unfortunately sitting on the side of the Taiwan Strait, which was pitch dark, save for the very occasional faint flicker of fishingboats below.

"Goodbye, my home! Goodbye, my loved ones! May you all forever remain as beautiful and peaceful as I remember you."

I have made this trip many times before. I have bid farewell to my parents many, many times before in my life. Each time, leaving them is such a painful and sad process, and I can easily remember each departure clearly. I can still remember the tears, taste the sourness I felt in my heart as I tried to grasp onto those moments when they were still standing before me just before they are separated by the glass wall of the departure hall.

But this time, as the plane soared on higher and further away, I was somehow at ease with myself... I was not crying, as I had expected, but my mind moved on from moment to moment, resting in that very moment, without lingering in the past or wandering around in the possibilities and dramatic scenarios of the could-bes.

Sixteen hours later, the plane touched down in the rain and the wind. And I was home again.

Departing

This time tomorrow, I should be on the plane, flying over the ocean, further and further away from land. This time tomorrow, I should be leaving home, to go home.

How I will miss this country, and the people! The friends who have been there to support me, the relatives and family who have been there to welcome me into their arms, and even the strangers who out of nowhere appeared to guide me when I am lost. On this eve of my departure, I think back at the many days that have gone by since I landed on this little island more than a month ago, and I remember all those people with gratitude and with a smile.

What a trip it has been! Of tears, smiles, sadness, and reconciliation. So sudden, and so full of surprises, and now it is coming to an end. Death and illness I have experienced up close, and I have been able to deal with both with an equanimous mind, and come out somewhat stronger and more at peace than ever before.

Music

Once more, much of the food was untouched. We sat down to a quiet dinner, and seeing mum eat so little, how could I eat?

In the background, the stereo played one of mum's favourite music pieces. "The sound of bell emitted in the evening from an ancient temple" (古剎晚鐘) it is called. A beautiful recording of the chiming of bells and percussion instruments that evoke a feeling of serenity as well as awe. Mum said the music used to make her cry whenever she heard it. Sitting opposite me at the dinner table tonight, her eyes seemed to water.

She recounted the days in the past while dad was still around. Though they did not speak much to one another, it was still somewhat 'comforting' to know someone is at home with you. After I am gone coming Saturday, there will just be an empty house.　

I really cannot say much, except console her by telling her that it will not be that bad. There are plenty of things she can do to fulfill her time... like do caligraphy writing and drawing, do TaiChi, and meet up with her good friends for a day of fun and food. She seemed to be less sad after I said that.

The soup became cold as we chatted. Mum recalled a CD which I had not had the opportunity to open yet. Perhaps I unconsciously dread seeing the contents... I first got ahold of it on the eve of dad's death. The doctors had burned a CD containing dad's medical records and X-Rays, which they wanted to show us. But dad passed away even before there was a chance to do so. Mum said she cannot bear to see those pictures, at least not yet. Her eyes watered as she told me that it was in January when they first discovered that the cancer had started to spread from dad's liver to his lungs. Then, there were only a few gray areas on his lungs... within a month those gray areas had become large patches of fresh infection. "How quick it happened... too quick..."

Speaking to mum in the past few weeks, I think dad's passing has had a great impact on her in many ways. Not just losing someone she's been married to almost three decades, but also a subtle realisation of the seriousness of her own illness. Before she would be unable to let go of her work and worry about all sorts of things, but now she is slowly realising nothing is more precious than dear life. Or at least, that is what she says.

I looked at her, and told her like I have repeatedly said many times before. Be happy... be happy and enjoy every moment that life has to offer. Everything else is but an extra.

Unwell

Immediately after returning from my trip south, I headed to the hospital. Mum's scheduled chemo therapy began Saturday, and lasted until today.

It was a grueling process, and she was restless in that room. Tubes were connected to an artificially installed vessel around her right shoulder, and the cancer-killing medicine was slowly infused into her body. The first day, she could eat like she normally would, but on the second day she lost her appetite. Just the smell of really pungent food made her nauseous. I looked on, watching her worried and tired expressions with worry and helplessness.

The minutes passed by slowly, and even slower for my mum. I would bring her fresh food and cut fruits, but she would only eat a little. We passed the time reading, watching senseless TV shows and sensationalist news that is repeated over and over again. We meditated together too, and that seemed to give us moments of peace, if only for a little while. Occasionally I would take her for a walk... merely up and down the corridor, eight, nine or even ten times the same route, because the nurses said it is best not to go out, because her immune system would be vulnerable. And, well, it would not look very good in her pink hospital wear.

I slept next to my mum, on this narrow green sofa which was too short for my legs. It was uncomfortable, and I would wake up everyday feeling more tired and somewhat feeling really unwell ... but being able to watch my mum as she lay there peacefully asleep made all the sores and discomfort go away.

The nurses were so kind and so helpful it was touching to see. There was one nurse who worked the early evening shift until midnight everyday. Her voice was so soft and soothing, and whenever she came to check up on my mum she would stay and chit-chat, and reassure my mum that it is all going well, and that there is nothing to worry about. Now and then, she would take my mum by the hand and hold her to give her support. When I left this morning, I went to this special nurse and thanked her, thanked her wholehearted for all that she has done. All she did was smile and nod at me, as if to tell me that this is all part of her work.

Mum's face lit up instantly as the doctor came to say that she can go home again. To her, staying there seemed like a prison, and she would, if she could, rush home that very moment. We packed our bags and made our way home. But soon, tiredness began to show on her face, even though we were barely home yet.

The first thing she did was lie down, and mum immediately fell asleep. Her hair wild on her pillows, her arms limp at her side, her eyes closed under saggy lids...

While she rested I went to the market to pick up lots of fresh and nutritious foods. After chemo, the most important thing is to make up for the lost cells and energy by eating well and eating a high-protein diet, so as to prepare for the next chemo session. Tonight, I made her fresh miso-soup with salmon bits and tofu, made a little stir-fried greens, and warmed up some turnip cakes that she loves to eat.

She only had a little to eat, and took only one sip of the soup before putting it down again. "I'm sorry... I know you meant well, but I really don't feel like eating." She went back to rest soon after, leaving the soup still full, the fish and tofu bits untouched.

Journey South

The train sped through the across the land, rice paddies and banana trees fuzzily flew past outside my window. Cities that previously took hours to reach are now merely tens of minutes apart. As a train fan, this huge transportation revolution was much anticipated, and I remember a few years ago I went to a special exhibition to gather as much information about the Shinkansen 700-T as I could. Though I was exhausted from the accumulation of lack of sleep and running around, riding the new 300km/hr Taiwan High Speed Rail (台灣高鐵) made me extremely giddy and excited.

Just hours before, Dad's urn was placed into the 'deposit box' in a temple in Jinshan. It would be his final resting place, and it seemed that the whole procedure went on smoothly. As we rode up the mountain to the temple, it was drizzling, and gray. But after dad's bones and ashes were set in place, the sun began to shine. A good omen, tradition says. The door of the deposit box was sealed, and we stood there momentarily, each silently speaking to dad.

Almost exactly one month after dad passed away, entering the urn temple was (for the time being) the last ritual that has to be observed. We had carefully chosen an urn cut from amber-coloured marble. The piece most likely came from Taroko (太魯閣), a naturally formed gorge cut throughout the millennia by a stream that runs down from the towering mountains of central Taiwan down towards the Pacific Ocean. One of the last family outings with dad two years ago was to that very area.

Rituals and rites command observance and respect, flowing from practice that has passed down from generations ago. They offer comfort to people, for the performance of certain rituals is believed to ward of bad luck and bring prosperity and good fortunes, for the living and the dead. Yet at the same time, some rituals are at times constraining, if not incompatible with modern life. What use is all the chanting and prayers, all the paper money burning and offerings? Why must the relatives of the dead stay home and mourn for exactly 49 days? Is it not enough that each person remembers the deceased in his own way? Death is such a natural and simple matter which everyone will experience sooner or later... why make it so complicated and difficult?

So it was sort of a relief after everything was over and done with. With only around two weeks left of my stay here Taiwan, we decided to travel a bit to pay relatives and friends a visit, and also to thank them for their support throughout these difficult times.

First stop was Chiayi (嘉義), where my dad was born and where most of my relatives are. A little provincial city, most famous for its “chicken rice” (actually made from turkey meat) and for the nearby Alishan mountain resort, it is a must-go place for me. The relatives greeted us warmly and made us feel right at home. We thanked them for being there for dad, and taking care of dad all these years, and over sumptuous feasts, we talked about dad and the things that made him special. The food was exquisite, and there was more than enough for everyone who sat around the big round table which is supposed to symbolise the unity of the family. But I was not hungry, and only eating as much as I could, smiling as much as I must. Some told of the last time they saw dad, of how happy and energetic-looking he still was not more than two months ago. And now the empty extra chair looks especially empty.

It was a whirlwind trip, and I saw everyone that I wanted to see, and even visited the ancestral shrine to pay respects to my grandparents. They were the ones who raised my dad, and his five other siblings, through simply repairing bicycles and washing clothes for other people. I remember the little workshop still, which was not much bigger than perhaps 10m squared. I used to play there, and flip through the cupboards and drawers to find all sorts of rusty repair tools and nails and cogs and bike chains. And there were huge rats too, gray and swift that would run from one side of the room to the other while nobody paid attention. And then there were the stray dogs that nobody wanted, but which wandered past daily, because my grandma would kindly leave leftovers for them to eat. I spent many summers in that little house, keeping my grandma company. And only now and then would any of the children come home to visit.

That little workshops is now a brand-new four storey apartment. There is nothing left of the workshop, or of the dark, narrow corridors of the house where my dad grew up in. instead outside is the main thoroughfare, and the first floor is rented out to a lottery shop, which attracts hundreds of fortune-seekers everyday. How times have changed! All that remains are two portraits of my grandma, and my grandpa, who I have no memory of because he passed away when I was just two years old. Yet, the more I look at grandpa’s black and white portrait, the more I am reminded of my dad… the same thin, high cheeks and high forehead, the powerful eyes and bushy eyebrows, and the same faint smile.

I left Chiayi, left the hustling cars and motorcycles and the neat rice paddies that stretch on for as far as the eyes can see, and headed toward central Taiwan. Our destination was Puli, a sleepy town surrounded by mountains and famed for its scenery and unspoiled environment. Back in 1999, when one of the fiercest earthquakes in recent years struck, the region was the most devastated. Over two thousand people died, most instantly from fallen buildings, others from mountains that literally imploded or solid ground that shifted for kilometers. Today, the barren mountain tops entering Puli carry a memorial to the devastating force of nature, but slowly green is returning to land that were for many years just soil.

I first came to Puli (埔里) in the cool of early Autumn around two years ago. There lived a Theravada bhikkhu (Buddhist monk) in the mountains, they said. Many go to him seeking counseling and the Dharma, and many return home happy and temporarily enlightened by his wisdom, I heard. I went there not knowing what I would find, and only had clothes for two days. In the end I stayed for three weeks, and went back again two more times to stay there more.

It may be the magnificent scenery, overlooking a valley surrounded by mountains that change their moods as the weather transforms from moment to moment that attract me. Perhaps it is the amazing sunset, or the call of insects and croaking of frogs, or perhaps the swift, free motions of little swallows and watchful eagles circling in the skies. The loving dogs that live there make great company too. But I think, most of all, it is the tranquility that makes me so grateful for being able to discover such a wonderful place, and it is the warmth and love of those there that make the place a home I could return to whenever I wish.

This time around, I was able to take my mum and my brother along with me. Throughout all the things that have happened in the past month, and that are still happening now, I wanted nothing more than show my family this wondrous place, and let them come into contact with the bhikkhu who has been there, either in prayers or in mails, to support and cousel me whenever I am in need. Indeed, upon arrival my mum and brother became relaxed, and took in deep breaths of fresh air and the surrounding scenery, as their thoughts seemed to let go of the troubles and noises in the city.

I found some of the answers I had been searching for. Ever since dad passed away, to be honest, I have not felt much sadness or shed many tears. I feared it was simple indifference, that I was losing my 'human-ness', especially in the light of an event which would normally make any one distraught. But no, my silence and calm is not indifference, I learned, but a natural reaction which comes when you know you have done the right thing while the person was alive. Because you have nothing to regret and nothing to be remorseful about, you are able to face the death of someone with a tranquil mind and heart, like I did. Instead of sadness and tears, I smiled and at the thought of dad's kindness and felt warm just thinking of the many sacrifices dad had made. Indifference is when you feel nothing, but truth be told, I did, and still do feel dad's passing.

The bhikkhu counseled me, and I felt refreshed and touched from the fact that he could see into my mind and speak my thoughts like very few could. Once again, as with so many times in the past few weeks, I felt this surge of gratitude I cannot express... the kind of gratitude that arises from such simple acts or words of kindness from a complete stranger... from the care of nurses who were with my parents while they were in hospital... from the support family members who were there to stand by me as we struggled through difficult times. And in Puli, I felt deep gratitude toward the bhikkhu, and others, who offered my family and I shelter and comfort in times of distress and confusion; who offered us the time and the compassion and understanding so that we are able to heal gradually from having the fortune to come into contact with so much beauty and kindness.

How does one 'repay' such kindness, such compassion and support? By doing the best we can, by being kind to others, by seflessly helping and being (for)giving to others in need, or even when they are not in need. It is like that movie Pay it Forward, which stresses what goodness the kindness of an individual can bring to the world and make it a better place.

I waved and hugged my friends and relatives goodbye. I would turn back occassionally to wave again and again as I slowly went further and further away. One thing that is certain is that life is uncertain, and who knows when I will return , or whether I will see these people again... but as I waved goodbye, my mind was once again awash with the pleasant thoughts of the warmth and gratitude I feel towards these people.

Final farewell

Dad would have loved the Formosan Lilies. How beautiful they were, how fragile, yet at the same time so fancy and fragrant. Pure white, with a blush of pink and red. The flower, being the unofficial national flower associated with qualities of purity, grace, vitality and courage that embody the Aboriginal Peoples of Taiwan, is often used to adorn funeral halls. Perhaps these are the very qualities that the family members need to carry on life after death.

The lilies surrounded dad’s portrait. Serene, and magnificent. My mind was against awash with a strange sense of calmness, the same kind of calmness I experienced as dad’s life slipped away in my hands. Dad’s smile felt so warming, and so close to heart. I stood there silently for a moment, and admired the flowers. Some lilies were already open, radiating a pleasant scent throughout the room, while others have yet to blossom. Whatever state the bud is in, one thing is certain: all will one day bloom, take on its natural beauty, but will also eventually wilt and perish. That is the nature of all life.

Aptly named bai3he2 (百合), the literal translation of the Mandarin term for lily is “perpetual union”. For perhaps it is true that death does strangely bring people together. Relatives and friends gathered in the hall well before the official ceremony began at 11 in the morning. Relatives and friends slowly drifted into the small hall. I nodded to them with a faint smile and bowed gently with my hands together before my chest as a gesture of respect and gratitude for their coming.

Many had ventured from hundreds of kilometres away to bid dad farewell. An aunt, the youngest sister of my dad, flew all the way from the States just to attend the final ceremony. Solemn were their faces, moist their eyes and noses from personal memories and mourning of a quiet beloved man who gave much but asked little in return.

Much bowing, prostrating, kowtowing followed, all in accordance with age-old traditions. Not only

my brother and I must show to pay respects to dad and show him filial piety, also the attending relatives and friends must bow before dad and offer him food and flowers. As dad’s sons, our role in the whole ceremony is more elaborate, for we must show deep reverence towards him, and bow before him various times at various intervals. Personally, it seemed more like an overtly and carefully choreographed public display of how filial and virtuous as sons we were, when actually real respect and real gratitude comes from deep inside.

In a private reception with dad, I saw him lying in the coffin. Most of his body were covered with a yellow cloth bearing the markings of Buddhist prayers written in Sanskrit. But I could see the black suit, red tie, and white shirt with pale thin vertical stripes that we had carefully chosen out for him to wear on this final leg of his journey in this world. By his feet, lay four sets of clothing, which as tradition dictates, is meant for each season of the year.

Dad’s eyes were closed, but his mouth was still half open from the moment when he passed away in the hospital, when he was wearing a respirator mask. His eyebrows were thick, as I remember them, yet there were little hairlets that were clinging onto his cheeks, which were perhaps left there in the haste to make dad still cosmetically viewable after almost an entire month in the freezer.

Before seeing him, I thought seeing dad again would trigger me to burst into tears and howl at his side. But seeing dad again I did not feel frightened, neither did at all I feel pain from sadness. Instead, I knelt down next to him, and spoke to him in silence…

I wished him happiness, good health, and most of all, peace forever after. Silently I told him to take good care of himself, and thanked him again, as I have done many times before, for all he has given me, and more. I pressed my fingers against my lips, and placed my fingers on dad’s forehead to ‘kiss’ him goodbye. My fingers felt ice, ice cold, and my touch smudged the thick make up a little. The heavy breathing in that hospital ward, the beeping of dad’s heart as monitored by a machine were distant memories.

In the background, a small orchestra played traditional Taiwanese flutes to the tunes of one of my favourite songs. The lyrics carry the ageless written wisdom of a poet in the Sung Dynast, over a thousand years ago. The words that most suits dad’s final farewell are beautifully captured in the verse:

People have their griefs and joys, their togetherness and separation,
The moon has its dark and clear times, its waxings and wanings.
Situations are never ideal since long ago.
I only hope we two may have long long lives,
So that we may share the moon's beauty even though we are a thousand miles apart.

Though we are now more than merely a thousand miles apart, deep down inside, I know that many parts of dad and me are still intricately intertwined and bound together. In the final letter that I wrote dad, and in the dozens of old pictures that accompanied dad’s coffin into the cremation furnace are countless memories of words and places, emotions and hugs that dad and I shared together. Priceless memories can never be burnt, nor turned into ash.

Into the furnace dad went. Then it dawned upon me… I would never be able to gaze upon dad’s face ever again, at least not in real life… this was the final and ultimate moment of farewell, as the steel forks lifted dad’s coffin into the furnace and the doors slowly shut.

Out of the furnace dad came. An hour later. Ash and bones. Bones, broken and evenly smashed by machines. Bones, some slightly dyed green and orange, remnants of the medicine that were injected into dad’s body during his first and last chemo-therapy. Brother and I picked at the bones, and placed them into the marble urn we had chosen.

The lid was closed and sealed.

Farewell…farewell, dear dad!

"Time to say goodbye"

Slight drizzle, overcast skies.

Light tears, clouded spirits.

Dad's clothes carried his smell. I sat on his bed, as mum and brother gathered around and cleared out his closet. For the past month or so, we dare not disturb his room too much. I only went in in the evenings to turn on the light, the one he used to use to spend hours reading with. For the rest, his belongings, mug, papers, and glasses lie resting peacefully as they were the day he was brought into the hospital.

Brother wiped his tears. Mum sobbed. I remained still, and continued folding the clothes dad would need to take with him, when he finally crosses over to the Other World tomorrow.

"Up till this age, I have never folded dad's clothes before," brother said, sadly. More tears flowed. I remained still, memories of dad's smile and kindness in my heart, the scent of dad's odour drifting up my nose, and the feel of the fabric soft on my fingers.

"Think of the good things about dad," mum said.

Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye.
The musical steps of the library you used to climb up and down daily...
the green nature clouded in mist and wafting with the smell of fresh sulphur in the mountains you so loved to loose yourself in...
the restaurants we shared many meals and many precious moments in...
the living room where we sat in, sometimes in silence, other times, chatting, catching up and sharing life stories,
the hospital ward where you so peacefully passed away in my arms, in the company my prayers and butterfly kisses,

Dad... the past few weeks, I have tried to go to the places you went before. I have tried to go see the sights and hear the sounds that were once so familiar to you, and to me. But nowhere, not in the bedroom where you told me bedtime stories and held me in your arms to sleep, not in the offices where you toiled night and day to provide us a decent and carefree living,
nowhere holds the memory of your being and life more freshly than in my heart and soul...

I know I may not have been the perfect son, dad, as I did not go to Cambridge, as you would have liked, and I never had a girlfriend you had hoped for. I know sometimes I made you angry because of my stubbornness and live-and-let-live attitude to life and all that it brings. I know I may not have attached the same importance to pride and material enrichment as you did, and perhaps I have been blunt and rude in saying certain things that a child should never have said.
But even so, even despite all my flaws, throughout my life you have stood by my decisions and choices, and supported me wherever I went.

You gave me the freedom to excel in the subjects I loved most, you gave me the means to travel the world and see peoples and cultures that make me richer than many others. You gave the the freedom to discover the world, and learn from my own mistakes, and you gave me the means to spread my wings and fly, when others were still save and sheltered. Most of all, in your silence and in your tender sternness, you held high hopes for my future, even though I at times had none.

Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye.
I hope you can be proud of me, proud of me for what I have done, and for what I have still yet to achieve. As ever, I do not know where the future will take me, and this may be a source of worry for you, as always. But believe me, dad, I will try and I know I will succeed, as always. For I know, behind me, even though you are no longer there, you will be there to support me.

How you have sacrificed yourself, how you have worked so hard to provide for me, I will never realise. And sadly, I will never ever be able to return the favour. I can only hope that with my quiet determination, hard-work and humble virtues, I will one day be able to contribute some good to the world, as you have always hoped for.

Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye.
Your passing left behind scores of memories, beautiful and vivid. Of course, as with everything in life, there were dark periods and solemn memories... but your presence and life in my life, and in the lives of others, is too precious to be clouded by obscure thoughts.When I think back, I cannot but smile and feel my insides warm up in comfort. And I hope your memory will forever continue to live on within me, and be captured by these little words.

As I flipped through the photo albums in your room, I am touched and brought back in time by the countless pictures of you... of you in your vibrant youth, of you in those days when we were living abroard... of you holding my hand, hand in hand, passing through the years of innocence. How young we were then, how happy and free. I hope tomorrow you will take these pictures with you, and forever treasure the people who loved and cared for you dearest of all. Know that, though in your final years we slowly grew apart due to time and distance, in my heart, dreams and memories, your face and your words still stay with me.

Time to say goodbye, dearest dad.
Time to bid farewell, however difficult and painful it may be. Time to wish you a peaceful onward journey, as you go further and further away, and gradually vanish away like dust in the wind.
I have been able to keep my eyes dry till now, I have spoken to you everyday when I offer your food and cigarettes, but I am not sure whether I can hold myself tomorrow. But know, dearest dad, know that should tears flow down my cheeks, should I turn away and sob, I am forever grateful to have known you, to have been cared for by you... and to have been loved so dearly by you, even though you never said it out loud.

Memories of you may fade, as the pain and the love may fade with time, but the fact that I owe my life and successes to you and your sacrifices, hopes and dreams will remain, forever, and ever.

Dearest dad...
May you be peaceful,
May you be free,
May you be happy,
And may you be free from all sorts of suffering,
Forever and ever...

your son,
yours forever,
WeiWei
偉偉

"Time to say goodbye"

When I'm alone
I dream on the horizon
And words fail;
Yes, I know there is no light
In a room
Where the sun is not there
If you are not with me.
At the windows
Show everyone my heart
Which you set alight;
Enclose within me
The light you
Encountered on the street.

Time to say goodbye,
To countries I never
Saw and shared with you,
Now, yes, I shall experience them,
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall experience them.

When you are far away
I dream on the horizon
And words fail,
And yes, I know
That you are with me;
You, my moon, are here with me,
My sun, you are here with me.
With me, with me, with me,

Time to say goodbye,
To countries I never
Saw and shared with you,
Now, yes, I shall experience them,
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall re-experience them.
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall re-experience them.
I'll go with you,
I with you.

2.28

I lightly tapped mum on the shoulder. No response.

I tapped her again, her head rested on the pillow, her face buried under the duvet, back against me. "Mum...?"

She groaned a little, and turned around to look at me. "I feel ill, and I feel so cold!" She looked tired, and unwell. I sat next to her, as she continued to sleep. Crow-feet pressed lightly against the corners of her eyes, the wrinkles on her eyelids show tiredness and old age, the light breathing and breath against my cheeks a source of comfort and warmth. Loneliness, loss, over-exhaustion, worry, stress and death. Mum has experienced it all. And now her body is slowing down, telling her that her years of worries and fears have triggered a turbulent symptoms that will weaken her even more and more as time passes.

I let mum sleep more, and quietly walked downstairs, hoping that she can soon regain that vigour and strength that I so admired and so looked for for protection while growing up.
Now, I can only hope to return the favours by pouring her warm cups of water and making her meals in the hope that her health can be nursed back to what it used to be.

I too woke up this morning feeling really sick. While making breakfast, the food I was cooking made me like throwing up. Nausea, dizziness, and soreness all over. Perhaps the weeks and weeks of exhaustion is taking its toll on my health, and I felt like the cold is reaping in its award.

Originally, I had planned to go and attend the commemoration ceremony of the 228 Incident, but I was too tired and feeling so miserable I rolled back into bed after offering breakfast to my dad. Dad would have wanted to attend the ceremony, which remembers the tens of thousands of Taiwanese civilisans massacred by the invasion of Nationalist Chinese troops, and the beginning of over 40 years of martial law known as the White Terror. It began in 1947, coincidentally the same year my dad was born in. Now, 61 years later, Taiwan is peaceful and free. Now, 61 years later, my dad is also hopefully peaceful and free.

With two days until the funeral on Saturday, most of the arrangements have been made. Throughout the past few weeks, we have been busy looking for a suitable final resting place for my dad, and it seems we found one in the mountains of the North-East Coast, overlooking the sea. Friends and relatives came by our house to pay respects to my dad, and spoke of how kind and gentle a person he was. They praised his calm nature, his love of reading, and emphasised his excellent writing skills. Perhaps this is a heritage that I will hopefully be able to inherit now that my dad is gone.

Traditions

Dad spoke.

But I was not the one he spoke to. Not even when I have been sleeping next to my dad's shrine ever since he passed away. Not even when my hand was the last to touch dad as he was placed into the freezer.

Instead, dad spoke to this Daoist master. A master who has the ability to communicate with spirits and the dead. And he also does fortune-telling too.

Taiwan is a place rich with traditions. This island has throughout its history absorbed peoples and cultures from East and West, and assimilated religions and beliefs from near and far. People have their roots in Confucianism, which makes them learned in idea(l)s such as filial piety and respect for law and order. At the same time, they have a strong influence from the Japanese past and upbringing, and are under the constant bombardment of Western fashion and culture. The result is an unique hybrid of faiths and traditions.

This means, often you have statues of a (Mahayana) Buddha placed next to the Chinese Guanyin (Godess of Mercy), while merely a few feet away sit the local deities for the wind, the earth, fire and water . All this often together under one roof. Buddhist monks mingle with Daoist priests. Local customs of burning paper money mix with chantings of Sutras from ancient India. No combination of rituals and rites seem too surprising, and many submit themselves to these rites and rituals often without knowing exactly why or how. Sometimes it amounts to pure superstitition, at others times pure mysticism and cult-like worship. It is both a fascinating socio-historical insight into life on this island, but at times, also daunting to understand, let alone practice perfectly.

For the past few weeks, I am just beginning to learn the intricacies of all these rituals and traditions, and to be honest, some are simply outright outrageous and nonsensical.
When it comes to the dead, the rites are especially long-winded and complicated, which is part of the reason my dad can still not be cremated, even though it has already been almost a month since he passed away. It is not just a matter of cremating him and placing the ashes in an urn. We have had to find a suitable location to place his urn, which all depends on his birth and death time and date, and in addition we must find a suitable time to do this.

According to the tradition, each person has three spirits, one of which remains in the body of the dead, and the other two fly away and wander the world after dying. These three spirits must be gathered together by an elaborate ceremony of chanting and sorcery, gongs and bells, for them to return home. And the reason why many people have an ancestral plaque bearing the name of the deceased inside their homes is because it is widely believed that the dead, though invisible to normal people, usually will return and continue to live in that plaque. It is this plaque, often wooden, that is worshiped and referred, and before which fresh food and fruits, incense sticks and paper money, together with the favourite things of the deceased, are offered regularly. This is just a thin icing on the rituals that need to be performed.



To make sure the spirit comes home takes time, and a lot of effort. And for the many, many days since dad's death, we have been busy with this. My mum knows of this grand master who apparently has great abilities, and he has been involved in many of the planning and ceremonies. The day before yesterday, he suddenly called and told my mum that my dad spoke to him, and the grand master said that dad is sad that none of us have visited him at the mortuary, where dad's body is lying in a freezer. It is of the utmost importance that we go see dad, the master said.

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. Why did my own dad not communicate with me, but communicated with a master of ceremony and voodoo-- the very kind of people dad detested to the bone while he was still alive? Most ridiculous of all, we were told that we should open the freezer and let dad 'see' us. I was outraged.

It is correct that I have not paid respects to my dad at the mortuary since his death. But apparently waking up every single morning to cook dad breakfast and offer him cigarettes is not quite enough. I must open the freezer and let he see me. Why? Why?

I began to sob at the thought. It baffles me, as it has baffled me several times in the past few weeks, why people are so concerned with the dead when they are dead, but not when they are alive? What use is it to give the dead a proper burial according to all the rites and rituals from generations and generations ago, when you do not show any compassion or love toward the dead when they are still living? How can any amount of chanting or voodoo help the dead toward a peaceful existence in the hereafter, when while alive you let the person down and give him regrets and disappointments? It is to me beyond sense how people can can blindly obey rituals and rites, but never stop to ask themselves whether their intentions and their hearts are pure and clear. A thought stuck to mind from this, and other turbulent encounters with unheard of myths and rituals... when dad passed away, I felt little sadness and shed little tears... why most the living make me so sad and make me shed so many tears?

I bluntly told my mum and brother that I refuse to open that freezer, and that they cannot force me. I want to treasure my own memories of dad, to treasure that peaceful posture at the moment of passing, and I absolutely do not want to have it ruined with view of the stiff and darkened flesh on my dad's cold corpse. Why must I go let a dead corpse see me? Is it not enough that I hold my memories of my very own dad in my heart and mind? Is it not enough that I send metta (loving-kindness) and wellwishes to my very own dad in silence? Can I not mourn dad's loss in my own quiet and calm way? Traditions dictates that I cannot... or at least better not, unless I want to suffer from bad luck and risk experiencing disasters rain upon me.

If so be my life and fate, so be it.

When I got to the mortuary, I went in first. Along a wall of freezers, I found dad's. Number 440. I knelt down before it, and put my hands together. Silently I whispered to dad, firstly apologising for not visiting after he passed away, but I told him, and I think he already knows, he is in my heart. With eyes closed, I knelt there, sent him prayers of good wishes and my hopes of his happiness and newly found freedom. Perhaps he also received the little words and wishes I sent up in the sky lantern the day before. Nothing more do I ask for on my birthday.

My brother softly walked to stand beside me, and I started to turn and walk away, thinking perhaps he had gotten the guard to come open the freezer. But my brother called me, and asked me to come back. He too realised that it is not necessary, and will only accentuate the pain of loss over nothing. We went to the mortuary, as told, and we saw dad. Perhaps not in so many words, but we saw him in our hearts, and felt him through our palms and fingers as we placed them on the door of the freezer. And I think we can come to peace with that. And as can our dad.

This is just a simple example of the kind of superstition that makes my life sour and complicated, and sadly even more so in this difficult time when I have to deal with dad's passing away and be strong physically and emotionally to comfort my family.

And there may be more to come.

21 February

"Dear Dad
Be Peaceful
Be Happy
Be Free"

With those words, my sky lantern lifted up into the dark sky, rising and rising together with tens, hundreds, thousands of other hopes and dreams and wellwishes that rose to the heavens.

Watching the lanterns rise, I was filled with a sense of awe, taken aback by the serene beauty of the scene of a swarm of lights like stars traveling further and further away, taking the words of the people below up to those above who would hear and read them. I hope my dad can also read mine.

The mountains gathered mist, the river slid smoothly below, while the moon shone at its brightest and roundest for the first time after the Lunar New Year... also for the first time after dad's death. A part of me was saddened, and empty.

On this night of my twenty-fourth birthday, I have already lost a dear part of me that can never be recovered. Except those fleeting moments when dad's face and words are briefly recaptured in memories and pictures.

I hope dad can also feel this pain too.

20 February

Mum was discharged from the hospital yesterday, after having spent three days almost constantly in bed with a tube buried inside her left right shoulder. She says she feels alright, and that her digestion is more or less normal. But this morning when I was cooking in the kitchen, she came in and as soon as she smelt a pot of soup, her stomach became upset, and she started to choke from vomit.

After chemo-therapy, the patient normally has an aversion to food. My dad would feel sick at the thought of food, and told my mum not to even mention that word. Luckily, my mum can still eat a little and has not thrown up yet. Mum did say that she feels her heart is pounding, and that her blood pressure level may be really high, as predicted by the doctors. I squeezed fresh grapefruit and mixed it with Yakult, and she drank a two big glassfuls. My auntie, the youngest sister of my mum, has also been staying with us for the last two weeks, and has been preparing lots of delicious and nutricious foods to make her body strong and balanced.

I looked at my mum carefully today, as she lay in bed to rest, and I noticed... noticed the saggy, eyes, and the darkened and wrinkled eye lids. There was a tiredness in those eyes I never saw before, even though she still spoke clearly about everyday things and details of my dad's funeral plans as if she did not undergo any excruciating treatment.

Ward C069

The past two days I have spent at the hospital. Mum was admitted late Sunday evening in preparation for her chemotherapy shots, and I stayed with her every night at the hospital, on a bench next to her bed.

The doctor says the new 'target therapy' raises the chance of success between 15 to 20%. But as with all medicine, there are side effects, including nose bleeds, hormonal imbalance, higher blood pressure levels... and a minimal, but not negligible risk of intestinal rupture and bleeding, which will require immediate surgery. Mum's colon cancer is already at an advanced level, and tumours have started developing around the lymph glands. Two years max, if the medicine does not succeed. Many more years, if the treatment is well received, and if the diet and daily habits are well looked after. Within a time span of less than two weeks, two shocks to my life.

Brother indeed began looking very stern and concerned, and became irritated at the fact that he was never told until two days ago, whereas I knew more or less how bad my mum's situation already is. Accept it, mum has always said. Life consists of birth, aging, illness, and death, as the local saying goes. But when I think about it, some people skip the illness part and go on living a healthy life until the inevitable death. Why both my parents have to undergo such fate... and why now, and together?

The sound of haggard coughing, wheezing, gargling of phloem... the weak, almost inaudible whisper of an old wrinkled lady telling her children her regrets and worries... the beeping of machinery, the stench of old laundry mixed with medicine. Hospitals are not a pleasant place, but a place where the air is stale, and the people stern looking and fragile. Save for the kindness and warmth of those angels in white, whose comforting words and smiles bring in sunlight into the artificially lit ward, there is little to cheer up the mood. I look at mum, eyes closed, sleeping, drugged by the medicine, and notice for the first time how the hairs around her ears have turned white.

Dad spent the last moments of his life in a hospital bed. Dad spent the last few days of his life confined within the confines of the huge hospital complex. The walls may have pictures of mountains, birds, and even photographs of Keukenhof where we once were together as a family, but nothing can replace that freedom of being able to wander the world freely, and free of illness. Thinking of dad, and how he must have wandered those very corridors, and at times sneaked outside for a quick cigarette, I feel comforted, but at the same time saddened. I look at the sad faces of patients and their relatives, I look at the cripple and the vegetated man in a wheelchair. So much pain, so much suffering... who will take care of them?

Her eyes closed, her arms still, and her posture serene and motherly. Sitting next to mum, I am for a moment glad. I can take care of her. While I still can.

Sunshine

Ever since I returned to Taiwan ten days ago, there has not been a day of sunshine. Until this morning.

As usual, I got up around six in the morning, and prepared food and fruits for my dad to 'eat'. It is an ancient tradition that is repeated twice a day, once in the morning, and once in the evening. We do not believe the dead leaves home as soon as he is dead, but usually stays around for sometime, until the spirit of the dead realises that it has to move on to the next realm of existence.

Usually I prepare rice with three dishes, one type of meat, and two kinds of vegetables. For the vegetables, one has to be the Chinese leek (韭菜, 'ku-tsai'), because in Taiwanese the word is a homonymn of the word for 'ever-lasting', As Taiwanese people and culture adore all sorts of symbolism and imageries, the name and lush green leaves of the leek is supposed to symbolically represent the everlasting togetherness of the deceased with the relatives. It happens to be also one of my favourite vegetables.

As I offered the food to dad's shrine, a beam of golden sun ray came through the window, and another, and another, until within moments the whole house was filled with refreshing sun light. The sky looked clearer, brighter, a far, far cry from the dull, gray and depressing days of mist and rain and storms before. When mum woke up, I proposed to take her up to the mountains.

Moments later, I rode the motorbike down the winding road up the Yangming Mountains ( 陽明山). Famed for its dozens of dead volcanoes that give source to various lakes of hot springs, this mountain range forms part of a national park that is merely around ten minutes away from my house. The mountains tower over a thousand meters, and form a tall column of green, sometimes white during the winter months, that leads all the way to the blue, blue Pacific.

We used to go up the mountains every weekend as a family, and take long baths that can clear away all sorts of worries and supposedly prevent and cure all sorts of diseases. This morning, it was just my mum and me.

The smell of sulphur lingered in the morning mist the closer we got close to a valley of hot springs. Down below, I used to clamber on the rocks and buy fresh eggs that would become hardboiled within minutes of putting it in the lake. Yellow vapour spews smoke and dust into the air, and often falls down as refreshing rain, making the area lush with life and plants.

We walked past a few vendors selling fresh mountain vegetables and fruits, the likes of which I have never seen before, let alone can name. The old ladies tending the stalls were so kind and friendly, the kind of genuine friendliness that I can only feel in Taiwan, and that always make me me feel all warm inside. Instantly, two dishes of stir fried wild vegetables were served, to be washed down with hot vegetarian sesame oil soup. For desert, I bought a piping hot sweet potato that was purple in colour, and so sweet and soft in flavour.

One old lady asked for my dad, and was sad to hear his passing. She used to call dad her 'brother', while dad would greet her as 'older sister'. They knew each other well, for my parents would often go up the mountain buy fresh organic vegetables from this lady. She had whitening hair, but a bright smile and soft voice that was calming. "We come and we go," she said, "All we can do is wish him well, and send him loving-kindness." I thought of dad, and how he must have rode the same road as I did, how he must have stood in the same place and chatted to the same old lady as I was doing then...


Throughout the day, more relatives came over and pay respects to dad's shrine at home. As a tradition, people give 'white evelops' with money to the remaining family members. I think it comes from the days when people were really poor, and every little bit of money helps to pay for the funeral arrangements, which can be rather costly (and therefore lucrative) business here. In return, those who visit get a towel (巾), which in Taiwanese has the same sound as 'root' ( 根 / 'gin'). The gift of the towel is supposed to symbolise the cutting off of the 'root of sadness', in the hope that the mourning will soon be over, and that better days will come. Of course, a towel is also always handy to wipe away tears.

Later in the afternoon, we received a phone call. A long awaited phone. From the hospital. After almost a week, there is finally a bed free for my mum to go in and receive her chemotherapy injection treatment. Hastily, her things were packed in a little suitcase with wheels, and we soon we arrived at the ward for cancer patients.

On the bed were linen bearing the same markings as the ones that were on dad's bed not so long ago. He passed away in a building two stones throw away. And now my mum is going in for treatment. She was optimistic, and was not in the slightest way worried or scared. At least, if she was, she was not showing it.

I smiled and joked as we rode the lift to the ward, thinking that I must not be sad or worried for that would make her feel even more so. But deep down inside, I knew the coming few days would be a critical phase of a new infusion treatment, which targets only the cancerous cells, and leaves all other healthy cells intact. So effectively this means there will (hopefully be) less of the usual side-effects of hair loss and tiredness. But the treatment is really expensive, and can lead to higher blood pressure levels, so mum must remain in hospital for a number of days.

I will visit, and bring her fresh food and fruits.

And bring her good wishes and my blessings too.

Clothes

This afternoon, I sat in a cafe close to home. Around a week ago, I was in the same cafe, having just finished a light lunch, and seated down to enjoy my flower tea which is supposed to soothe the mind. Then the phone suddenly rang. It was from the hospital. Dad's condition went from stable to critical again, and it does not look good. I nearly dropped my cup in my haste and rush to the hospital. I made it, to spend the last half an hour or so with dad. Later dad passed away.

Together with mum and brother, I picked out dad's favourite clothes. Taiwanese tradition says that at the moment of burial or cremation, the deceased must wear clothes that he likes to wear most in order to have a good 'passing' to the next life. At the foot of his coffin, we were also asked to place other sets of dad's pajamas, undergarments, socks, shirts and jackets. Even the deceased need to change.

I shifted through dad's cupboard, my nostrils tickled with the scent of fabric softener, closet freshener, and the scent of dad. It is a mixture of scents which whenever I bury my nose in the fabric and close my eyes cause this strange calmness and tranquility within to take over. I picked out a black tailored suit , which still had the original labels on the sleeves. Dad had them made the year before his retirement, but because he was always so thrifty and so hard on himself, he never wore it. I picked out a white striped shirt, the collar of which was a little gray and worn out. Of the underwear he had, most of no more than rags, and some even had holes in them. Dad would often joke that they kept him cool, especially in the sweltering heat of Summers in Taiwan. Of the T-shirts he had, many I recognise from years ago. One was from more than ten years ago, in the Summer of '94, when we took a vacation to the States... another was a T-Shirt which I got after my high school graduation trip to Spain. Both were worn out, and the markings and wordings have become faded. Dad had taken them to wear, even though there were a dozen brand new clothes lying around unopened and still in their original wrapping. He was such a person, who had a lot to spare, a lot to give to others, especially to me, but never gave enough to himself, and never really had the opportunity to enjoy the luxury and good life he had built up from scratch.

In the drawers were old pictures of dad. Some taken so many years ago, when I did not even exist. He looked so young, so energetic then. He was skinny, like me, and always had tanned skin, which my brother inherited. The oldest son of a poor family from southern Taiwan, he was the first son to go to university and was attracted to the bright lights and big city of Taipei, where he soon became a little bank clerk. Dad worked his way up, gaining promotions and recognition through hardwork and dedication, and eventually won an opportunity to go abroad to work. Because of dad, my life, and the life of my whole family changed dramatically. Without dad, I probably would not be writing this now.

Dad once told me he came to the big city with just two thousand New Taiwan Dollars, which in today's terms can just about pay for a good meal at a nice restaurant. He saved every penny, and sent much to my grandparents for their pension. He married my mum, worked two jobs, bought a motorbike, then a car, then a house, then another house. Dad worked till he fell ill, till he became depressed, and for many years dad lived an isolated life with himself and his books.
I often tried to cheer him up, console him, and tell him that he should enjoy his retirement, and enjoy the fruits of his own success and prosperity. But dad's happiness and health continued to ail. In the past year or so, I heard little from him, and could not easily reach him. Last month, when he entered the hospital for chemo therapy, he was jubilant and had faith in the treatment. He said when he returns, he wants to finally buy the big 44 inch plasma screen TV dad has been looking at for sometime. "If I'm going to be home so often now," he told my mum, "might as well make it comfortable and enjoyable." And then he was gone.

He once told me that when he was young, he could not afford the luxury of good food or relaxation, but now that he can afford it, his health cannot. But even so, he always made sure I had enough, and even more than enough. I held onto the old clothes, and browsed through the old picture albums of me and dad on trips here and there, I began to feel the sadness creep up on me. I feel it oftentimes these days, between rushing from place to place to deal with funeral arrangements and everything that dad left behind. That emptiness and hollow feeling of feeling nothing in a place deep inside which once was filled with something concrete you could point to, something solid you could touch and speak of. Now there are only memories. Memories, and little pieces of paper with dad's scribbles, and little cards and letters I had sent dad in the past to tell him how much I appreciate his sacrifices, and to tell him how he must take better care of himself.

The empty bed, the empty bedroom, and now the empty cupboards and drawers. Remnants and reminders of my dad who worked so hard, but did not have the time or place to enjoy himself.