Kitty fled, hid and eyed out of the window at the flashing lightning. A violent and thunderous storm invaded the land, unleashing torrents of rain, deafening echoes through dense, dark clouds the whole night long. I remember waking up at various instances, only to fall asleep in a dreamlike state of mind amid the din and the terrible flashes of light. I thought to myself how others in the house must have slept…
In the morning, mum told me that she dreamt of dad. A strange dream, of him coming to her, and resting his head on her shoulder. She felt her shoulder heavy and sore in the morning, but this feeling of having someone rest his head on her shoulder is nostalgic, refreshing and brought back memories. Dad used to do that, she said, but it’s been a long, long time. She said she felt comforted seeing dad the same way, in his old self, as if nothing had changed. Moreover, it was comforting to have someone rest his head on her shoulder… it’s the comfort and protection that you seek when you come home at night… now that’s all gone. I tried to recreate that feeling, but I knew I could not…
Outside, it was thundering. A pre-summer storm, brewing, grumbling and flashing. Kitty was scared, or perhaps intrigued, by the curious suddenness, loudness and bright flashes. I lay in bed next to mum, as she recounted stories and memories of times gone by…
…how when I was so little and took the train to school everyday on my own… how mum took up driving lessons because she wanted to be able to bring us to school before… how I was left here to fend and feed myself when I was just 14… how cruel it must have been to leave me, to leave us behind… how easily I, we, could have turned out badly, but how luckily we did not…
Feelings of nostalgia washed over us, as we recounted old days. Then I was so small, and those days now seem so far away now. How big I have grown, and how also very distant I have become from this place, this home.
I feel it especially this time, as I come home to the Netherlands, and see that so many things are still the same… the way brother is, the way things are placed and organised (or not…)… the way the houses and people appear to be the same. To someone like me, who has flown across the world, lived a new life and lived new experiences, it feels constraining, somewhat frustrating too to be back in my ‘old’ life, in my old surroundings.
What can I say when brother is still the same moody self? What can I do when all he does after coming home from work is sit down and watch movies or play games online? I see mum, disappointed and bitter, despite repeated attempts to get him out of the chair, to get him to move, or to get him to be engaged in conversation… yet, almost nightly I see him, back faced to us, hunched over his computer in the living room, lost in his own little world.
Perhaps brother is suffering, brooding, and escaping this world, this loneliness and frustration he feels deep inside… perhaps he cannot express what he feels, cannot put into words the touchy-feely emotions that trouble him, because he has been socialised to be strong, to be a man, to be devoid of weaknesses like emotions, and indeed, the very fact of having weaknesses as such… I see him, unhappy, somewhat lost, and lonely, unhealthily getting bigger due to his diet and the incessant smoking… I wish to help him, but I do not wish to ruin him by continuing an old and unhealthy pattern of allowing him to be dependant on others… he must stand up on his own, learn to live life alone and learn to take care of himself, love himself and be content with himself…
Otherwise, like today, like so many times and days in the past, mum goes to bed, full of worry, full of stress and pain and frustrations at the fact that his son, in whom she and dad have invested so much time and effort, is losing himself in old habits, in depression and unexpressed and unspoken anxieties…
Perhaps, it is I that need help… for I am forever being critical and being unaccepting of the circumstances here. But when I come back here, and see that life continues as if I have never left, I am left with a sense of responsibility, of guilt that I left, that I will leave again soon to pursue my own life, to declare my independence. Yet back here, in the minds and lives of my family and loved ones, things still remain the same.
The unspoken silence, the untouchable distance, the reality of calling and talking merely based on whenever needs and wants arise… are we family still?
The catamaran skirted through the islands, hopping from one port to another along the way from Bergen to Flam. The view was numbing and quickly changing from almost open seas to narrow waterways surrounded by high peaks and rock faces. Thin trickles of waters sometimes fell like white strings down the cliff faces, cascading into the water down below. Rare green pasture at the foot of the mountains offered sanctuary to small farms and grazing animals.
Colourfully painted cottages sprinkled along the shore, and lonely boats that rocked on the surface of the water seemed to stir as we passed. At some places, the water was so undisturbed and clear that an alternate image of the mountains and blue, blue sky reflected on the surface of the water. In this tranquil setting, the roar of our engine and white foam and turbulence in the water as we sped through was at times embarrassingly load and disturbing.
Close to arriving at my final destination, the town of Flåm , I was somewhat disappointed. After so many hours being surrounded by the raw nature of the fjordscape, what lay before me was a gigantic white oddity moored in the harbor that coughed black smoke into the air. Out of the belly of this shiny white monster, thousands of holiday-makers seemed to poured and slowly flooded the little town of what normally is merely 500 hundred souls. Speaking to a local, I was informed that throughout the summer more than two thousand similar types of cruise-ships would arrive here, each time swamping the town almost fivefold its population.
Once on shore, almost instantly I went off the beaten track, took a bike and pedaled into the countryside, deep into the valley. A windswept sign pointed up the hill, so I ventured onto a barely recognizable path upwards. It was a steep climb, and there was barely any on the path. Except for the muffled sounds of a running creak and echoes of falling water, I was surrounded by only the sing-song of the birds and humming of the bees.
With every climb up, I got hotter and hotter in the afternoon sun, but was soon rewarded with impressive views of the valley below. In the distance lay the town I had just left behind, hemmed in from both sides by towering snow-peaked mountains. The fjord ends at the town, with the water resembling a gentle hand that silently embraced cupped the still, sleepy land. Sudden ruffling movements in the bushes more than once made me think about legends of ugly trolls that live in such Norwegian wilderness.
But I was away, up on the hill, looking down, and away from all that hustle and noise. And glad that I was alone, surrounded not by tacky souvenirs and overpriced vendors, but by the beauty and wonders that nature had to offer.
I took the long way, through Copenhagen and Stavanger in order to get into Bergen. It was some effort waking up at 4 in the morning to catch the flight, but the long way was also the cheap(er) way, and I was rewarded with flying on three different types of planes, and rare breathtaking scenery.
My first glimpse of Norway was from the air. We approached from the South, crossed countless expanses of waters before finally encountering land. Beautiful land, bits of which lush green and some were yellow with blossoming flowers. Little lambs ran freely around, as brown cows grazed in an almost surreally idyllic setting. Little islets, solitary crops of land and patches of grass rose from the vast open sea, while boats skimmed through the surface of the water like darting white arrows. There was even a drilling platform, a massive metallic eyesore in the middle of nowhere, but also the source of natural wealth beneath waters around Norway and the reason why sparse 4.5 million Norwegians are among the most affluent in the world.
As plane flew closer inland, I could see snow capped peaks in the distance. Beneath us, the shadow of the plane skirted over rough, sparsely populated land of jagged rocks, hills and mountain ranges that arched over into the horizon. Then suddenly, cut into the mountains were stretches of deep, blue water, flowing like veins arteries into the land. This was the world-renowned fjord formation, a remnant of the last Ice Age, when retreating and melting ice shields carved deep ravines, impressive towering cliffs and inlets of deep estuaries that meander from the mountains into the North Sea almost along the entire length of Western Norway. Fjord country is a unique landscape, some of which have been drafted onto the UNESCO’s list of World Heritage Sites.
The plane descended slowly, and closer and closer I was to this miraculous land.
There is a lonely sense of romanticism standing alone on the empty pier jutting into the sea. Lonely, because of the piercing wind and sad-sounding call of seagulls, but romantic because of memories that seem to lurk beneath the gray depth of the sea at my feet. Were it not for my McGill hoodie, it might have been like any evening in my youth. Evenings when I'd just grab the bike and brave the North Sea winds to catch a glimpse of the setting sun.
Despite the familiar salty smell, that tingling grains of sands against my skin, and the ever-changing display of colours in the dusking sky, circumstances have changed a lot. It was around this time last year that the foundations of the big move across the Atlantic to Canada were being laid. A year later, who would have thought the beach that lay behind the dunes would now be so far away and difficult to reach.
But wherever I live, I guess there will always be the wind, the sand and the sea in my memory.
Everything seems to be so surprisingly green and refreshing. Or perhaps it’s the effect of being cooped up in a small space for much too long and being unable to sleep.
As I rode the train home, I noticed how Spring is so beautiful… how this country is so beautiful. The country and home I have lived in for so many years, and now is merely a place I frequent when the opportunity arises. There’s a fresh scent, of grass, of new budding leaves, of new life. Beautiful with the sun beaming down on the Earth.
I thought about it for a long, long time already. If I remember correctly, since late last year. But I postponed it every time, again and again because I wasn't sure if I was 'ready'. Even though, I think, deep down inside, I have always been ready. So I decided today, and I made the move. I've adopted a new cat!
Her name is Panda, from her beautifully black and white tuxedo coat. She's around one and a half years old (they think), and so unfortunately put outside when she got pregnant by her previous owner. And in many ways, she reminds me of Kleine Kat... the nose that's half white and half coloured, the shiny V-neck white coat on the front of her chest, and those big, bright eyes. Innocent, yet playful, curious, and yet radiating with intelligence.
She was shy at first, perhaps a little annoyed that she had been taken to attend an Adopthathon. This is where a dozen or so cats are brought from the shelter to a specific location in the hope of getting adopted. The shelter currently has two hundred or so cats, even more now that it's Spring and that little kittens are being born... and the economic crisis isn't helping either, since a lot of pets are being abandoned because people can't take care of them anymore.
To be honest, I've been browsing the website of the shelter for a long while already, and I narrowed the cats to a select few. I wanted a quiet cat, calm, and affectionate cat that likes to be petted and held, but is also not afraid to be alone during the day. And Panda, at least as far as I can see, seems to fit that description well.
As soon she entered the apartment, she carefully stepped out of the cage. She sought for a good hiding place, darting from corner to corner in search of a good hideout. But eventually, she found the toys, the scratch box, the green grass and litter box that I had carefully prepared for her. And she became more curious than afraid. I held out my hand, and within moments she was coming over and butting me, purring and with her tail straight up. At one point, she even lay on her back and played 'paw' with me.
Now, she lies asleep in front of me. She's quiet, and yelps a little sometimes. I wonder if she is missing the last of her kitten... but I hope soon that will all change, and that soon she will get used to the home that I can provide her. I really hope, like Kleine Kat, whom I have not forgotten or no longer miss, I be able to provide Panda a loving place, a place of belonging and security that she has been missing for far too long.
Last week, Jackie Chan found himself in a different kind of spotlight, one that is a far cry from the Hollywood glitz and glamour he is used to. The star of such (in my opinion poorly acted and low class) movies as Rush Hour and Who am I, perhaps Chan was a little lost when he uttered that "Chinese need to be controlled", and "if [Chinese] are not being controlled, [Chinese] will just do what we want". To make matters worse, he called freedom-aspring Hong Kong and freedom-practising Taiwan "chaotic".
In fact, Chan has recetly not simply jibed at Chinese people in general, or insulted the democratic societies of Hong Kong or Taiwan. In the same week or so, on a visit to the single-party city-State of Singapore, he claimed that because Singaporeans lack "self-respect", the Singaporeans too need a government to control them.
Chan's statement is at best a poor generalisation, and at worst outright an outright patronising (and verging on racist) remark that Chinese people cannot govern by themselves, "as if they were potential and deserving outcasts in a Chinese version of Brave New World — somehow deficient and hence to be purged". The kung-fu legend seems to believe that people in Hong Kong and Taiwan are like the Chinese in China; that they think alike, act alike, and therefore must be governed and controlled alike. This, depsite the fact that both the peoples of Hong Kong and Taiwan (and lest we forget, Singapore) have experienced completely different versions of history and democratic processes compared to China:
Chan has not only insulted Taiwanese, who spilled blood building their democracy, and people in Hong Kong, who have worked hard to retain freedom in the territory since the handover to China, but has also come very close to expressing racist sentiment in genetic terms.
If, as he claims, Chinese need to be “controlled,” then this implies that they are genetically predisposed to chaos and incapable of functioning without a system that imposes order — an authoritarian system.
At issue is the age-old argument between Confucianist and Legalist tradition. By attempting to argue that democracy would not work in China, Chan championed the Legalist tradition that justifies and supports strong control from a paternalistic, unaccountable central power — like Beijing and the Chinese Communist Party’s politburo.
The implication that Beijing would rather not reveal is that despite 5,000 years of culture, and nearly 3,000 years of Confucianism, Chinese need to be controlled because — though few will say it — they are too dumb, too stupid and too selfish to rule themselves democratically.
I guess Chan can afford to make these thoughtless (and yet provocative) comments, because he is now living the American dream in his big mansion in Los Angeles, far, far away from the the "chaotic" societies which he so-proudly claims need to be "controlled". This is, after all the same guy who sang at Beijing much touted (though at times mimed and carefully orchestrated) coming-out event last year at the 2008 Olympics. The same guy who will soon be singing at the "Believe in China" concert. However well the star-cum-sing can sing, his "Chinese need to be controlled" statement must have been:
Music to the ears of the government of Beijing, which has long been peddling the “we're the only thing holding this place together line,” and laughable nonsense to democrats in Hong Kong and Taipei, who seem to like their chaos just fine thank you. And all in time to mark 60 years since the Communists seized power in China and the Kuomintang in Taiwan went their own way.
It's worth noting that Chan, who was born in colonial-era Hong Kong and has made millions of dollars as a Hollywood film star, has never lived in the sort of repressive regime that he's advocating for his countrymen. As he proved by his comments this weekend, he obviously feels quite free to say whatever he wants.
Ironically, Chan often plays the part of kung-fu heroes "who have grabbed initiative and refused to accept fate", who kicked and punched for justice, for the poor and disenfranchised against the mean and oppressive. With his remarks, Chan seems to be playing the role of an anti-hero:
As the economies of the democracies have tumbled, the world’s autocracies have been on the march. Chan’s words, however, have put China’s authoritarians on the defensive for the moment. And they’ll remain there as long as thousands of Chinese continue to act like Jackie Chan characters, heroes seizing initiative and refusing to accept fate.
The star's agent was of course quick to defend that Chan's statement has been grossly misinterpreted and taken out of context, because his comment was in response to a question about censorship in the entertainment industry. If that is the case, then Chan would be happy to note that his latest movie Shinjuku Incident has been banned by the Chinese government because of its "unflattering portrayal of illegal Chinese immigrants and for its violence". Of course, Chan should have no problem with the ban, because in his own skewed world-view, the ban must be justified order to curtail freedom of information and knowledge, or otherwise people would start unleashing "chaos" and fighting and killing on the streets.
Unfortunately, whether purposely or not , the "kung-fu clown's":
... argument echoes precisely the same line that colonialists everywhere invoked as justification of their continued occupation of their colonies. It's also the same argument that the power elite in China, including Communist Party members and the business barons who cut deals with them, invoke to justify the perpetuation of one-party authoritarian rule in China and the abridgement of a range of freedoms for its people.
Chan made his comments shortly after Chinese Prime Minister Wen Jia-boa delivered the keynote speech at the Boao Forum For Asia. Indeed, the Chinese government/Chinese Communist Party's (remember, in China the Party=Government and Government=Party ) propoganda mouthpiece, the People's Daily was quick to manipulate Chan's remarks to justifiy its authoritarian control and (of course) deride Taiwan's democratic credentials:
"...if a society has yet to form a common sense of social morality, individuals will always need someone to look over their shoulders and to keep them in line. People in such a situation seem not to be able to afford the absence of a functioning government, or they will be thrown into the state of anarchy and feel confused. The Chinese mainland is generally a society in which government still plays an instructive or even enlightening role in standardizing the public conduct. The reason may lie in both history and reality: the whole decade of the so-called 'cultural revolution' wrought untold havoc to the time-honored Chinese civilizations, suffocating almost all the human ethics and courtesies."
The People's Daily's commentary said the backlash against Chan and the angry response of netizens were uncalled for. All an illogical result from "feeling of confused and petrified" about what "freedom" really means. So the Party has, to the benefit of all freedom-loving people around the world, kindlyelaborated what freedom really means in practice:
The linchpin of [...]logic is but a simple balance between freedom and discipline. In this light, if freedom outweighs discipline, there will be chaos; and vice versa, if too much discipline or 'control' is exerted upon the public, there will be less freedom guaranteed to them. Following the above logic, people will easily form the common knowledge that one cannot have both freedom and discipline at the same time. Extendedly speaking, this logic also means that the Chinese have yet to keep a good equilibrium between the two. Once the discipline imposed on them is relaxed, the Chinese will be 'too free' to be tamed, and disorderly conduct will thereby arise. So was born Chan's conclusion: We Chinese need to be controlled.
It's as if people were pets that need to be taught and "tamed", or otherwise they'd run wild and (yes) free. No doubt as to who will be in charge of the "taming" process.
Hollywood stars are prominent celebrities, whose words and actions speak loudly and leave indeligible impressions on millions of fans around the world. Some take up the noble cause of championing greater attention for the ongoing genocide in Darfur, some the speak out against the continuous oppression and "cultural genoicide" in Tibet, while others remind us of the realities of global warming, animal rights, refugee crises, and the plight of AIDS orphans.
And then you have a star like Jackie Chan, who seems content to be repeating the Orwellian newspeak of the Chinese government and defend why it is that millions of Chinese people should have to live under a state of control with the "government [playing] an instructive or even enlightening role in standardizing the public conduct". Even Steven Spielberg was quick to distance himself from the Chinese regime when he realised working for the Opening Ceremony of the Bejing Olympics was asking for trouble.
I end with a memorable quote by Chief Inspector Lee, whom Jackie Chan played in Rush Hour 2. Perhaps when Chan was memorising the line, he did not fully grasp its meaning. Or its significance:
Not being able to speak is not the same as not speaking. You seem as if you like to talk. I like to let people talk who like to talk. It makes it easier to find out how full of shit they are.
The music brought me to tears. Beethoven's despair, anger and self-resentment, yet also expression of heroism and admiration of greatness and magnomity.. The Eroica Symphony has for a long time been a favourite... it accompanied me through those uncertain days of the first months of university in London... and this mornng, it accompanied me through the first fragile moments of my waking.
The worst parts of the exam period is over. For the past few weeks I've been dreading these three days of intense exam-after-another. French written test, then space law, the latter of which I've not really studied much for. But I think I did well in both.
But the underlying despair is not really the fear of not being able to do... but the hopes and expectations that I sense others have in me, and the great fear that I am disappointing them. Ever since the 'loss' in the moot court, this feeling seems to have multiplied, and I am left with a sense of loss and disappointment in my own abilities, similar emotions that had lingered for months since I arrived in Canada. Feelings, and now for the last few days, also dreams of my dad...
In the dream I am questioned by two people I know from school. What my motivation was for getting the fellowship and money I had received to study for (almost) free. At first I was admenant, defending myself, saying and listing all these things that I 've done as a part of my "service to the community"... but one person kept on insinuating, kept on implying how useless, how unmotivated, how worthless I was, and that I was not deserving at all of the fellowship....
Then I broke down under pressure, and cried. Through tears, in a wavering, sobbing voice, my torments poured out. Do you know what it feels like to loose someone? To loose someone and then to have dreams of him? To loose someone and then having to start a complete new life again? I know I have been underperforming, I know I have not really been my best lately, and how I want to be back to my 'normal' old self again, back to that boy who could, who excelled, who was not afraid to just work, just write and who seemed to impress people without even wanting to.... But I feel like I'm losing it, losing that magical touch, that inspiration, that charm and wonder that resisded in me before. And left behind, the empty shell of someone emotionally distraught, fatigued, lacking in depth, in meaning, perhaps even angered, but definitely going from day to day only through the grace of life's own momentum..
Dreams of my dad.... who had already passed for over a year now. Where is it all coming from? Why am I having them still? I don't want to revert to my emotional weaknesses and traumatised psyche all the time to explain my personal failings and inability to perform up to speed... But I feel sometimes so exhausted, overwhelmed already from the feelings and thoughts running through me, through my conscious, and undoubtedly the myriad of stormy emotions that run through my subconscious...
A few days before the start of the exam period. It's late at night. I know I should be going to bed soon, especially if I want to break from that routine of waking up late and sleeping late, especially if I want to avoid feeling drowsy and down during the day.
It's been a somewhat rough few days. Probably doesn't help that I'm locking myself indoors and only going out when necessary. I just feel somewhat demotivated, lost... alsof ik ontbreek aan inspiratie, kleur en daadkracht in mijn leven (for some reason, when I stumbled into the bathroom this morning, that sentence just came to my mind). And I feel daunted by the exam ahead, especially since I've not read much of the required readings, and to be honest, a lot of the issues covered don't interest me much. Worse is, it's my field of study: space, and I'm supposed to be the all-so-brilliant fellow...
Then I hear mum's voice, mum's enouragements and kindness on the phone, and I feel rejuvenated. If only for a little while, I feel like I could go on again, I could face all this and strive forward. Try your best, she said, it's not like we expect a lot from you... you know when you've tried your best, and that is enough... don't put too much pressure on yourself, don't feel too stressed and upset.... don't be too hard on yourself... Very touching words. And deep down inside, I feel soothed. If only for a little while...
They fall like snowflakes, spiral slowly down, down into the river that devour them below. But they only fly and fall once the snow has come and gone. Flighty and bright, blossom petals bloom and shed like sprinklings of snow from the sakuras in the slightest breeze.
I walked around the Tidal Basin, kicking at the rain as it drenched my clothes and hair. I gazed at distorted silhouettes and the wavering reflection of my own image barely recognisable in the pools of dirty rainwater. Ripples radiated and died. Birds twittered above, and squirrels scurried as I approached.
The museum crowds huddled around, patiently queuing to get indoors. The normally inquisitive and culturally-minded me was lost, and my mood was dampened. Perhaps by the incessant rain, perhaps by fatigue, and perhaps by the events of the past few days.
It has been intense to say the least, and I have still to recover from the accumulated lack of sleep over the course of several weeks. And Saturday was the height of it all. There we were, together with 8 other teams, all vying for the prestigious place of representing North America in the Finals of the space moot. But we all knew only one team would go through.
I was extremely proud of my team mates, and as was my professor, and even some of the judges who came to speak to and congratulate us. My co-counsels were articulate, well-versed in the law and the facts, quick on their feet. While some teams erred on the law, seriously misquoted ICJ cases and facts, we were confident and consistent in all we argued and defended. We seemed invincible, and we knew it. But mediocricy seemed to have an unfair advantage.
To be fair, we scored badly in our written briefs. It was kind of expected, especially since we rushed to complete it in a relatively short period of time. Had we had more time, for research, for brushing up our written arguments, for moulding every sentence, every word into one coherent and forceful voice, we would have fared so much better and further ahead. But that’s too late now. It is, as always, frustrating to see and know that some team with only mediocre knowledge of the law deserved a place in the Finals.
Cliché as it may sound, and perhaps sour to admit and remind yourself as a sort of self-consolation, it is not all about winning that matters most. The experience, the time spent together as a team, the efforts combined to go through ups and downs. I guess all those elements, the hard work through late nights and early mornings, those efforts sneaking food and drinks into the library, those illuminating moments when we managed to develop a offensive strategy of attack, the closer ties we have built along the way… they matter more than winning.
As I sped home, blue skies revealed themselves behind the dense gray clouds, and the sun came out of hiding. The brief spring shower has come and gone.
He caught my eye almost as soon as I stepped in. I glanced in his direction a number of times, and there was something about him that seemed to capture me.
He fidgeted nervously with his wallet, fingering with cards, pieces of paper and faded pictures. Now and then he'd look up, and I'd turn away to hide my look. The carriage violently lurged from one stop to another. The rest of the world seemed oblivious.
Then he unrolled his sleeve, and there were cuts. Fresh ones, some still bleeding. Scabbed ones from wounds before. Scars of hidden, untold miseries. All along the inside of his arm, red and hideous against his pale, smooth skin. He looked around, his head twitched. And out came a key that began to carve.
"Why are you doing this?" I wanted to grab him, to make him stop.
"It's too painful..."
"What's too painful? "
"The pain... at home..." He continued rubbing the sharp edges of the key against his arm. Did anyone else notice? Did anyone else care?
"Whatever it is, you don't have to do this to yourself..." I wanted to hold him close, tell him it'll all be alright. Tell him that it'll be over soon, even if it's a lie to deceive and comfort.
"I can't take it any more..." He looked at me, if only fleetingly. But it was enough for me to see the fear, anxiety and hurt deep down those blue empty eyes. Guilt-ridden, timid, yet crying out for help.
The tires screeched, and the train came to a bumpy halt. The doors loudly slammed opened, and the crowd began to pour out.
In one swift movement, he stood up, threw his hood over his head, and strode out of the carriage, disappearing to become one of the unknown, unseen, unheard and faceless bodies on the crowded platform.
I stood in an almost empty carriage. With all those words unsaid left alone in my head.
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