The taxi lurched forward, gliding gently over the paved pathway. Outside the transparent glass, a gigantic neon-light crab went by. A tingling crowd had gathered before a row of stalls at Fisherman’s Wharf vending steamy clam chowder and fresh king crabs. The scene was like the silent still of a travel documentary, yet lively and real.
“So you’re a visitor from out of town, right?”
“Yeah, just here for a few days. I’ve heard so much about the city, it’s so exciting to be here,” I replied.
“Yeah, San Fran is unique alright. Inspiring and rich in colours and culture everywhere you go,” he said with a smile.
On a street corner, a group of youths sat gathered in a circle shaped like a the crescent moon. One guy with long sideburns played a guitar, while a girl with long beaded hair and flowery dress danced. Her movements were carefree, light and mesmerising, as if she had not the slightest worry in the world. “Who were those people?
“Them? Hippies, they call them. And it all began in what they called the “Summer of Love” of 1967. Youngsters began to flock to San Francisco that year. To use a phrase of the time, they came to “turn on, tune in and drop out”, and they lounged on colourful psychedelic buses all over town, but mainly in the Haight-Ashbury area. They believed in free love, experimented with drugs to free the mind and experience different levels of consciousness. And they championed respect for the environment, spoke of “flower power” and “green power” even before scientists alarmed the world about the effects of global warming. Have you heard that song “San Francisco”?
“Not sure. How does it go?”
And with that, the he began to sing. His voice was mellow, yet forceful; calm, yet able to carry the words and their meanings across time and into my ears.
“If you're going to San Francisco,
be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
If you're going to San Francisco,
you're gonna meet some gentle people there.”
“ ‘Gentle people’, huh?” I repeated, hinting that I was unsure what that meant.
“Yeah, I think Scott Mckenzie capture it best with his song. Hippies were not a bunch of idealist layabouts, as they were dismissed as in those days. They genuinely believed in something real. They believed in the possibility that love and human compassion can change the world. They spoke out against the establishment, which they believed was based on exploitation and oppression of the lower classes.”
“Classes? As in those juniors in my school?”
“No, ‘class’ was a social invention of the 20th Century. It was a psychological barrier created in the minds of narrow-minded people who believed themselves to be better than others because they had more wealth or power or influence.”
“But that’s outrageous!” I said, with disbelief in my voice, “Aren’t all men, women and children born equal, with equal rights and all deserving of the same respect?” We passed a group of tourists who stood in the middle of the road, posing and photographing. I gazed up, and saw a steep and crooked road wind its way uphill as vehicles meandered down. Pedestrians battled the sharp gradient, and climbed the steps that were highlighted with floral decorations.
“That’s how it is today, sure. But back in the day, some people did not have a say because of their gender or because of the colour of their skin. People with dark skin colour were traded as commodities and used as ‘slaves’. Certain people, because of their religious beliefs or traditional ways of living, were exterminated en masse. Many young girls and boys were forced into prostitution. And there was hunger, famine, homelessness and poverty.” The green, tiled roof of Dragon’s Gate gave way to the bustling market of vendors and hawkers swarming Chinatown’s narrow streets. The ring-ring of the bell alerted passerbys of ancient cable cars that climbed and slid down San Francisco’s steep slopes with ease.
“No wonder they called those days the Dark Ages. What a terrible place to be,” I said, reminded of pictures in my textbook of a ragged man begging on the street. Even now, I could see it before me. That soiled face, those sunken eyes wallowing in shame, in hopelessness and desperation. Something about that image made me look again. Though it was just a picture, I felt pity, I felt deep sympathy, and at the same time I felt resentment too at how the world then, with all its riches and fortunes, could possibly ever allow a fellow human being to fall to this dilapidated state of existence. Surrounding him, in dozens of hole-filled plastic bags, were all his belongings. Discarded plastic bottles he could exchange for a meagre few cents, left over bits and pieces of unfinished sandwiches and take-aways.
“Well, that’s all in the past now,” the driver said, his voice taking me back to the present, “Nowadays the future is clearer, brighter, free of all those miseries. Luckily, contrary to how Hobbes put it, life in the world of today is no longer “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short””.
I smiled hearing that, grateful that humanity has somehow, despite the struggles, conflicts, differences and wide range of beliefs, managed to find a common purpose. I thought back at how far human beings have come from those dark, dark days. I thought about how in exploring the vast, endless reaches of boundaryless space has allowed us all to realise how miniscule and insignificant we are in this universe. It was this realisation that spurred that communal will to mould weapons into ploughshares, to come together and embrace other cultures for the sake of humanity’s continued existence, and indeed, very survival. The vehicle jumped a little, and I was thrown back into the seat. Beyond the steep decline before us, the city sprawled like an organised maze of towering skyscrapers, brightly coloured Victorian townhouses and sporadic greenery. A wide body of water lay on the horizon, glistening magnificently like a mirror in the sun.
“Have you not heard that classic song, “Imagine”?”
“I may have. How does it go again?”
Once again, he broke out into song. His voice smooth, full of drama, full of romanticism.
“Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace”
I hummed along with him, my heart moved by the melody and simple, simple words. Outside, engraved on a rectangular stone monument, I could just about make out Rachel Carson’s saying that “those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find resources of strength that will endure as long as life lasts”.
A majestic, white building with majestic columns and graceful arches loomed before us, awing in sight and posture. Puzzled, I asked, “What is that building?”
“Oh, that. That’s the War Memorial Opera House. And next to it is its identical twin, the Veterans Building.”
“War memorial? Veterans?”
“You’re probably too young to remember. And you’re lucky not to have experienced or lived through wars. Those buildings were dedicated to the soldiers of the First World War—the first of many great, big wars to come. In fact, in the last century, war and conflict were commonplace. They fought for all sorts of reasons. For territory, for resources and for wealth. People tortured, killed and slaughtered one another like mad, and justified it in the name of racial or religious purity. And sometimes just for pride and for the sake of it. All sorts of atrocities were committed, including pillage, rape, extermination and forceful internment. Human beings were like savage beast then, but at least animals do not kill or injure others with the malicious intent of doing so.”
“But wasn’t war outlawed as an instrument of policy in the Kellogg-Briand Pact?” I asked, somewhat proud that I actually remembered something from History.
“Yes, it was. But the 20th Century—the so-called Century of Wars—was marred by war and conflicts. You know that the United Nations was established here in San Francisco, right? Yeah, right there, in the City Hall building. That beautiful building over there with the impressive gilded dome and spire.”
“I see it.”
“Well, after the Second World War, a group of Allied Powers came together in that very building and vowed “to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war”. They even promised to respect fundamental human rights, and obliged the international community to “practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbours, and to unite our strength to maintain international peace and security””.
“Such noble causes! What happened?” I asked, curiously.
“Those idealists didn’t foresee that the idea of the Nation-State, which was so sacredly protected and which formed the foundation of the new world order, was founded on selfish interests and political ambitions of individual States and their politicians. How could one talk about an international community, yet still cling onto the idea of divided borders, of national interests and sovereignty? Whatsmore, the UN was fundamentally flawed in that the Allied Powers crowned themselves with the inviolable position of “guardians of the peace”. Yet in the face of humanitarian catastrophes and ongoing conflicts, the Big Powers did nothing. They self-interests triumphed over common understanding and sense.” The vehicle seemed to grunt in agreement.
“Those are such foreign ideas to me. Don’t we speak in terms of humanity, of Earth Home and of humankind as a whole now?” I said, even more puzzled now. What kind of world government is established and run by the select few and powerful?
A colourful mural of people of all colours and races, laughing, dancing, singing, hugging and handing hands, adorned the walls of a building. “Yeah, but this came only after many more wars, many more natural and human-made disasters that brought us to the brink of annihilation before we realised that there is more that unites us than divides us”.
The vehicle sped past a theatre. On its side, in large illuminated letters was the word “Castro”. Across the street, an enormous flag fluttered in the wind, bearing the colours of the rainbow. “So this is the Castro District, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess you could say the life of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community in San Francisco is itself a reflection of the gay movement. Life Magazine even named the city the “Capital of the Gay World”, and one of the first pride parades was held right here”.
“Pride? How are gays any different from straight people?”
“Well, there may be no difference today, but back then, gays were discriminated against. Some were even beaten up for holding hands, others were hounded by the police. And some were even killed by gay-bashers and religious fanatics who condemned the “homosexual lifestyle”. A layer of fog was by now forming. Thin, mystical like a gray, semi-transparent veil unrolled by an invisible hand in the heavens, the fog crept quietly over parts of the city.
“As if it’s a choice,” I said solemnly.
“Exactly. But people those days were blinded by fear and intolerance. When the AIDS epidemic broke out, some even gave it the derogatory name of “gay cancer”. It took courageous pioneers like, Harvey Milk who endlessly believed in dialogue and practiced non-violence, years of struggle to finally establish equality, marriage and rights that many of us take for granted”.
The vehicle rode on, through the dense and lush foliage of a park. Over the treetops, I could see the top of a Japanese styled pagoda. Next to it, a distinctive building made of twisted metal and mesh spiralled upwards and houses the de Young Museum.
In that muddle of reflections and thoughts that jumped between the past and the present and the world that flashed quickly before my eyes, I noticed the vehicle had come to a halt. The glass doors opened, and he pointed out into the distance. “We’re here. Look at that there. The most photographed bridge in the world. Probably,” he said.
“Thank you very much,” I said as I stepped off, “You’ve been so kind and welcoming. I’m really grateful”.
“Anytime. Enjoy your stay. And peace be with you,” he said, as he pulled away from the pavement.
I stared for a few moments, captivated by the sheer size and beauty of it all. All the pictures, postcards, movies and wordly descriptions could hardly do it justice. Out of the fog, two red towers soared skyward, unfazed and unshaken by the cold and ever-changing weather creeping in from the wild Pacific. A testament to human engineering and ingenuity, the Golden Gate stood like a causeway into the unknown. A bridge too far, yet connecting the wide expanse of the Bay in a long, straight line, almost as if cutting the wild ocean from the tame, tranquil waters embracing the shoreline and beaches adorning San Francisco.
Fog horns of the bridge and massive container ships sounded and echoed rhythmically like the call two long lost friends trying to locate one another through the subsiding veil. Seagulls spread their wings and caught the free current of the winds. Their flight was liberating to watch, their call was almost soulful, and their small bodies in the endless sky all around reminded me of how small yet connected we are in this great, wide cosmos of living and inanimate beings.
I looked across the Bay, at the inviting and unspoiled raw hilltops of the Marin Headlands. Their arched backs and curved bodies meandered along the tranquil shoreline, and the hills lay silently like gentle giants sleeping against the dusking sky. Stranded at sea, the rocky shores of Alcatraz rose like the shell of a half-submerged turtle. Behind me, the fine dome of the Rotunda peered above the treeline, and stood almost lonelily as one of the sole survivors of the devastating 1906 San Francisco Earthquake and Fire. Far away, in the heart of the Financial District, a pyramid-shaped white structure poked into the heavens alongside a host of skyscrapers all vying for a place. On top of a hill, Coit Tower stood like a well-wishing candle, and almost seemed to burn ivory white.
Greedy men have come and left this city in search of striking it rich with tales of gold. World leaders have once arrived here with loud sounding promises and yet departed without having heard or heeded the words of San Francisco’s “gentle people”. Mother Nature has many times unleashed her most deadly power and devastatingly shaken the city to a hollow hell of burning buildings and suffering. Yet, the spirit, liveliness and peaceful mood of this metropolis on the Bay continue to live long and prosper through and through.
It is through stories and lives of the American Indians who lived in peace with nature, the songs of the hippies, the industriousness of the Chinese and Hispanics, the perseverance and endurance of the blacks and gays that San Francisco today still maintains that air of human hope and unity.
Even if it is nicknamed the Foggy City.
12 August 2009
06 August 2009
Sleepless in Seattle
I was hungry, having not eaten much since the quick excursion to Wreck Beach before heading to Vancouver Airport to catch my flight southward. Hungry I was, until I took a few bites. A seagull stared down at my plate of halibut, fries and salad, and eyed my cup of clam chowder. A sea breeze blew in the scent of fish and salt.
My mind wandered, away from the hustle of the Seattle seaside boardwalk in the light of the dying day, past the emptying Pike Market, and back to the street corner where I first saw the lady. I only passed her by briefly, yet something made me turn around to take
another look as my footsteps carried me further.
Beneath the soiled, ragged clothes and a blanket she had wrapped around her to fend off the gathering evening chill, was a face of sorrow, a face of agony. It pained me in that fleeting moment as my eyes darted across her face. She leaned over a bench, on which her plastic bags of precious belongings cluttered. She held her hand to her face, her forehead and cheeks contorted into a powerful expression of human suffering right before my eyes. The rush-hour traffic was dying. Passerbys walked on by.
I too walked on by, yet the haunting image of the homeless lady lingered as I took another bite. The food I was looking forward to which came so highly recommended in the guidebook suddenly tasted so bland. The dusking sun suddenly seemed so dull. Only the moon, its face bright and pocketed, glowed in reminder of a face I came across not so long ago.
The seagull still stared at my half-finished plate of food. I got up and asked for a container, and quickly marched back toward where I first met her. The food steamed beneath the transparent lid, yet more and more it lost its appeal. My appetite was somehow already fulfilled.
I laid down the plate on the bench, and walked on by.
My mind wandered, away from the hustle of the Seattle seaside boardwalk in the light of the dying day, past the emptying Pike Market, and back to the street corner where I first saw the lady. I only passed her by briefly, yet something made me turn around to take
another look as my footsteps carried me further.
Beneath the soiled, ragged clothes and a blanket she had wrapped around her to fend off the gathering evening chill, was a face of sorrow, a face of agony. It pained me in that fleeting moment as my eyes darted across her face. She leaned over a bench, on which her plastic bags of precious belongings cluttered. She held her hand to her face, her forehead and cheeks contorted into a powerful expression of human suffering right before my eyes. The rush-hour traffic was dying. Passerbys walked on by.
I too walked on by, yet the haunting image of the homeless lady lingered as I took another bite. The food I was looking forward to which came so highly recommended in the guidebook suddenly tasted so bland. The dusking sun suddenly seemed so dull. Only the moon, its face bright and pocketed, glowed in reminder of a face I came across not so long ago.
The seagull still stared at my half-finished plate of food. I got up and asked for a container, and quickly marched back toward where I first met her. The food steamed beneath the transparent lid, yet more and more it lost its appeal. My appetite was somehow already fulfilled.
I laid down the plate on the bench, and walked on by.
05 August 2009
Pilgrimage to Paine Field
There is a reason why Seattle is alternatively known as the “Jet City”. Though the Boeing Company’s headquarters is now located elsewhere, this is still the region in which William Boeing first realised his dream of building a better aircraft to serve humanity. And indeed, some seven decades after the maiden flight of Boeing’s first flimsy linen and wooden seaplane, the company that bears his name continues to be a, if not the, jetsetter in aviation.
It was at the Everett Factory that the first jumbo 747-100 rolled off of the production line, down the runway at Paine Field, and soared into the skies. For decades, thousands more jumbos took to the heavens, bridged far away continents and shortened distances between people and places. Indeed, as the introductory film on the Future of Flight tour reminds us, compared to a 14 month epic voyage across the seas from London to Vancouver in the 17th Century, modern aviation is saving us both much precious time and money.
The Everett plant began operations in the late 1960s, and has today expanded to become (what is claimed to be) the biggest building on Earth by volume. It was said that due to the immense size of the building, together with the heat generated by the million or so light bulbs, clouds actually formed near the ceiling and that it would sometimes rain down on the thousands of workers below. Modern air-circulation systems prevented all that, and with the expansion of the plant came 26 overhead cranes capable of carrying up to 40 tonnes, and close to 4km of underground tunnels beneath the factory floor, the walls of which are lined with many more kilometres of piping and wiring.
All this is necessary to keep the production of Boeing’s twin isle wide-body jets going 24hrs a day. The mighty 747 may have today been overtaken by its European rival, yet Boeing’s innovative technologies, such as better fuel efficiency and quieter engine output, coupled with passenger comfort-oriented features, like ambiance lighting and bigger windows, have become integrated into Boeing’s latest products. The 747-8, with its swept back wings and composite alloys is nicknamed the Intercontinental, and will have the range to bridge city-pairs as far apart as London and Sydney or New York and Tokyo. Next to the reinvented jumbo is the world’s record-holding long-haul jet, the 777, which in 2007 flew non-stop for 21 hours from London westward to Hong Kong. Also my favourite plane at the moment, the Triple Seven is also the record holder for the passenger jet with the largest and most powerful engines, the GE90 Turbofan. And no future can be without dreams, hence Boeing’s 787 Dreamliner, with its much reduced noise and fuel emission levels, light weight and streamlined shape, is (said to) set to revolutionalise plane travel in the coming decades.
I gazed in awe at the immensity of the assembly plant, and began to feel so small. Spread all over below were machinery of all shapes and sizes, as cranes inched overhead on the ceiling. There were hundreds of cabinets containing precision instruments and tools, as well as rows and rows of computer terminals and stress engineers hunched over vigorously testing, and retesting specifications. For a plane to be put together, first the wings are meticulously put together, then sections of the fuselage, and towards the end, the wings, fin, wings and body of the aircraft is pieced together like a snap-fit model plane. At this stage, the fuselage looks green, the colour due to a layer of protective vinyl sprayed on to protect the metal from scratches and bumps during the assembly process. Meanwhile, as all the assembling of the exterior of the aircraft is taking place, seats (or cargo compartment if it’s a freighter), wiring, computers, and some 6 million or so bits and pieces of bolts and components are placed inside the plane. All this can be complete within 3 days, and it takes another 5 days for the entire plane to be spray painted to the customer’s custom logo and design.
I stood there for a while, breathed in the slight scent of welding, listened to the cacophony of drilling and hammering, and watched the (wo)men rush, sometimes on bikes or even golf carts, back and fro like busy ants below. In one corner of the 777 assembly line was a plane with the distinct orange and green fin of Eva Air, while two other 777s carried the unmistakable red dot of JAL. On another side of the hangar, the world’s first 787 to be placed in commercial service—which will soon enough bear the blue and white livery of All Nippon Airways— seemed to glisten and outshine the rest.
“All Asian airliners,” a local visitor muttered, “What happened to American carriers?” Deregulation, and years of heavy indebtedness, cutthroat and destructive competition, overcapacity, downward price pressures, and, at times, poor management sprung to my mind.
No cameras were allowed on the tour on-site, but I have seen part of the secret behind Boeing’s success, watched first-hand the stringent yet efficient production process unfold before my own eyes. I even gave Boeing back part of my scholarship money in exchange for scale models, T-Shirts and fridge magnets of my sponsor’s latest aircrafts. On the panorama deck I looked out onto Paine Field. A row of finished 777s stood on the tarmac waiting to be delivered. The last 747-400 ever produced hid in one corner, while two 787s stood still close to the runway, their lights blinking as if impatient waiting for the next test flight. In the distance, the gigantic hangar doors of the world’s largest plane assembly plant were closed tightly.
The runway was deserted, for now. But this very plant, these very paved tarmacs, and down this very skid-marked runway, planes will hurtle, rise and soar into the skies on their maiden flights.
It was at the Everett Factory that the first jumbo 747-100 rolled off of the production line, down the runway at Paine Field, and soared into the skies. For decades, thousands more jumbos took to the heavens, bridged far away continents and shortened distances between people and places. Indeed, as the introductory film on the Future of Flight tour reminds us, compared to a 14 month epic voyage across the seas from London to Vancouver in the 17th Century, modern aviation is saving us both much precious time and money.
The Everett plant began operations in the late 1960s, and has today expanded to become (what is claimed to be) the biggest building on Earth by volume. It was said that due to the immense size of the building, together with the heat generated by the million or so light bulbs, clouds actually formed near the ceiling and that it would sometimes rain down on the thousands of workers below. Modern air-circulation systems prevented all that, and with the expansion of the plant came 26 overhead cranes capable of carrying up to 40 tonnes, and close to 4km of underground tunnels beneath the factory floor, the walls of which are lined with many more kilometres of piping and wiring.
All this is necessary to keep the production of Boeing’s twin isle wide-body jets going 24hrs a day. The mighty 747 may have today been overtaken by its European rival, yet Boeing’s innovative technologies, such as better fuel efficiency and quieter engine output, coupled with passenger comfort-oriented features, like ambiance lighting and bigger windows, have become integrated into Boeing’s latest products. The 747-8, with its swept back wings and composite alloys is nicknamed the Intercontinental, and will have the range to bridge city-pairs as far apart as London and Sydney or New York and Tokyo. Next to the reinvented jumbo is the world’s record-holding long-haul jet, the 777, which in 2007 flew non-stop for 21 hours from London westward to Hong Kong. Also my favourite plane at the moment, the Triple Seven is also the record holder for the passenger jet with the largest and most powerful engines, the GE90 Turbofan. And no future can be without dreams, hence Boeing’s 787 Dreamliner, with its much reduced noise and fuel emission levels, light weight and streamlined shape, is (said to) set to revolutionalise plane travel in the coming decades.
I gazed in awe at the immensity of the assembly plant, and began to feel so small. Spread all over below were machinery of all shapes and sizes, as cranes inched overhead on the ceiling. There were hundreds of cabinets containing precision instruments and tools, as well as rows and rows of computer terminals and stress engineers hunched over vigorously testing, and retesting specifications. For a plane to be put together, first the wings are meticulously put together, then sections of the fuselage, and towards the end, the wings, fin, wings and body of the aircraft is pieced together like a snap-fit model plane. At this stage, the fuselage looks green, the colour due to a layer of protective vinyl sprayed on to protect the metal from scratches and bumps during the assembly process. Meanwhile, as all the assembling of the exterior of the aircraft is taking place, seats (or cargo compartment if it’s a freighter), wiring, computers, and some 6 million or so bits and pieces of bolts and components are placed inside the plane. All this can be complete within 3 days, and it takes another 5 days for the entire plane to be spray painted to the customer’s custom logo and design.
I stood there for a while, breathed in the slight scent of welding, listened to the cacophony of drilling and hammering, and watched the (wo)men rush, sometimes on bikes or even golf carts, back and fro like busy ants below. In one corner of the 777 assembly line was a plane with the distinct orange and green fin of Eva Air, while two other 777s carried the unmistakable red dot of JAL. On another side of the hangar, the world’s first 787 to be placed in commercial service—which will soon enough bear the blue and white livery of All Nippon Airways— seemed to glisten and outshine the rest.
“All Asian airliners,” a local visitor muttered, “What happened to American carriers?” Deregulation, and years of heavy indebtedness, cutthroat and destructive competition, overcapacity, downward price pressures, and, at times, poor management sprung to my mind.
No cameras were allowed on the tour on-site, but I have seen part of the secret behind Boeing’s success, watched first-hand the stringent yet efficient production process unfold before my own eyes. I even gave Boeing back part of my scholarship money in exchange for scale models, T-Shirts and fridge magnets of my sponsor’s latest aircrafts. On the panorama deck I looked out onto Paine Field. A row of finished 777s stood on the tarmac waiting to be delivered. The last 747-400 ever produced hid in one corner, while two 787s stood still close to the runway, their lights blinking as if impatient waiting for the next test flight. In the distance, the gigantic hangar doors of the world’s largest plane assembly plant were closed tightly.
The runway was deserted, for now. But this very plant, these very paved tarmacs, and down this very skid-marked runway, planes will hurtle, rise and soar into the skies on their maiden flights.
04 August 2009
Wild Pacific
Perched on the top of a tree, it looked down at the bay below. A pair of powerful talons gripped tightly onto a leafy branch, as its white feathery head turned and scanned the surrounding world. I inched closer, so close I could see the combed feathers of the mighty bird's coat, yet the eagle did not stir. Perhaps this traveller in a bright blue hoodie was not interesting enough.
Shrouded in mystery, veiled in mist, the light morning breeze was dense with dew. Water and the air merged into one, a curtain of gray that stretched into the distance and consumed the space all around. Surrounded by the faint figures of evergreens that swayed in the wind in the distance, and the low rumbling of a boat engine, there was a strangely attractive feeling of wild desertion.
Desolate and deserted nature may be, yet in the midst of it all, surrounded by the sounds, smells and emotions evoked, was often an unspoken sense of romance and liberation. A feeling that I, save for the clothes that I bore and the camera that I carried, have returned home to the wilderness from which we all came.
On the brochures that had originally lured me to the isolated little town of Ucluelet were breathtaking scenes of majestic mountains and green forests mirrored on tranquil water. Instead, for two days it seemed as if I had suddenly left the scorching summer heat of downtown Vancouver and been transported into the dead of a damp, blistery winter. Yet beauty, and especially the unblemished and raw kind, outs itself in different ways in different temperatures, and does not necessary need the sun to accentuate it.
Originally I had planned this stay in the far-flung western coast of Vancouver Island for myself, but seeing that my cousin had just moved to Canada, I thought it might be helpful for him to get to know and understand this country by seeing more of it. So at the very last minute I took him along. Together we packed lightly and set off, unsure really what to expect. But two days of hiking and biking brought us closer to nature. And closer together too.
Parts of the trail were dark and broody. Jagged and untamed rocks spread pierced out of the water. Waves ebbed and flowed into estuaries, and lingeringly twirled around in whirlpools. Lost driftwood, and at times even more lost bottles, struggled to keep their heads above the immense volume of water all around them. Other parts were green, and alive with vegetation and slugs that languished over the pathway beneath the footsteps of infrequent hikers. At times wild deer would graze on the roadside, then shyly step away to make way for the human intruders. Numerous signs adorn the pathwath that warn people to be wary of big hungry grizzlies, who
like to scavenge of leftovers.
Vancouver bound
(on board AC 111)
On board and around an hour away from
Hopefully this trip, to cities and on paths never before travelled, will help me rediscover how resourceful I can be. It is always good to go somewhere you’ve never been, and find your way there.
Like finding your way in the trip of life.
19 July 2009
Opening Ceremony of the 2009 World Games, Kaoshiung
There are rare moments nowadays when I feel proud to be from Taiwan.
And the spectacular opening ceremony of the World Games 2009 in Kaoshiung is one of them.
It is beautiful mix of songs, fireworks, light displays and music that express the rich blend of culture, nature and humanity of Taiwan and its people. Amazing!
Budaixi, a unique puppetry art indigenous to Taiwan.
Chen Chu, Mayor of Kaoshiung giving an emotive speech in both Mandarin and Taiwanese
"We all believe, in this international community, every single country should not be forgotten and neglected. Everyone should join hands and cooperate. The whole of humanity, due to this continued cooperation to overcome struggle after struggle in order to make the world even better. Taiwan, Formosa, a beautiful, kind country that is struggling in the midst of difficulties. Kaoshiung is a warm, friendly city. Here, we together work for the 2009 World Games to create humanity's peace and prosperity..."
Hayley Westenra, Nada Sousou
Dance of the Tao Tribe from Lanyu Island.
The ceremony of the Third Prince, a revered local deity in Taiwan folk culture.
Fireworks of the Opening Ceremony
And the spectacular opening ceremony of the World Games 2009 in Kaoshiung is one of them.
It is beautiful mix of songs, fireworks, light displays and music that express the rich blend of culture, nature and humanity of Taiwan and its people. Amazing!
Budaixi, a unique puppetry art indigenous to Taiwan.
Chen Chu, Mayor of Kaoshiung giving an emotive speech in both Mandarin and Taiwanese
"We all believe, in this international community, every single country should not be forgotten and neglected. Everyone should join hands and cooperate. The whole of humanity, due to this continued cooperation to overcome struggle after struggle in order to make the world even better. Taiwan, Formosa, a beautiful, kind country that is struggling in the midst of difficulties. Kaoshiung is a warm, friendly city. Here, we together work for the 2009 World Games to create humanity's peace and prosperity..."
Hayley Westenra, Nada Sousou
Dance of the Tao Tribe from Lanyu Island.
The ceremony of the Third Prince, a revered local deity in Taiwan folk culture.
Fireworks of the Opening Ceremony
18 July 2009
Night out
It's been a while since I last had so much fun. Started with a little "Wine and Cheese" at my new apartment, and four close friends came by to warm the house up. Not the first time I've had people over at the new place, but definitely the most people I've had at any one time here. And the food was elaborate, with cheese from Vermont, and lots of wine, and I made some great baked paprikas filled with tofu and shitake mushrooms. Had a good time, just chatting, relaxing and enjoying one another's company.
Then my friends encouraged me to go out. To be honest, at first I was reluctant, and feeling somewhat 'ugly' to go out. But eventually I did, and I'm glad I did. Went to a bar/restaurant at the Village, then later went dancing at a trendy 90s bar/club. Initially, I was feeling somewhat ill from all the food I had earlier in the evening, but the music, the dancing and company made it all the better. Soon I was dancing away to hits from my teenage years, miming the lyrics and moving shoulder to shoulder with my friends.
It was 3am before we finally left the place, and drizzling a little. But I insisted on going home on my bike. The idea of sleeping over at my friend's place, together with two other couples seemed just a little too much for comfort, so I said I'd rather cycle in the dark and rain to go home.
Home alone, like the many nights before this night. But at least I can sleep well and rest well after all the fun and excitement I've had this night.
Then my friends encouraged me to go out. To be honest, at first I was reluctant, and feeling somewhat 'ugly' to go out. But eventually I did, and I'm glad I did. Went to a bar/restaurant at the Village, then later went dancing at a trendy 90s bar/club. Initially, I was feeling somewhat ill from all the food I had earlier in the evening, but the music, the dancing and company made it all the better. Soon I was dancing away to hits from my teenage years, miming the lyrics and moving shoulder to shoulder with my friends.
It was 3am before we finally left the place, and drizzling a little. But I insisted on going home on my bike. The idea of sleeping over at my friend's place, together with two other couples seemed just a little too much for comfort, so I said I'd rather cycle in the dark and rain to go home.
Home alone, like the many nights before this night. But at least I can sleep well and rest well after all the fun and excitement I've had this night.
14 July 2009
Tormented by nightmares
Day after day, I've been having nightmares. Frightening ones, ones in which I cry and weep, hurt and feel deep, deep sorrow. Just woke up, thinking that my eyes and face are wet from tears. Somehow I dreamt of dad, he came to me, and told me all about his favourite foods. Fermented egg, salted egg, little squids, pork knuckle, potato leaves... all his favourite foods. And in the dream, I felt a strong sudden urge to get up and prepare these things for him. To honour him, to remember him, to respect him, and show him how much he means to me still....
And I woke up, feeling such deep loss, such deep pain and longing. The day's already begun, but I am left wandering in the lingering past...
And I woke up, feeling such deep loss, such deep pain and longing. The day's already begun, but I am left wandering in the lingering past...
02 July 2009
Canada Day
It's alright 1am, and I'm sitting in my apartment at 2560 Allard. This has been my first home since I settled down in September. Many good memories, but some also bad experiences. If it weren't for the noisy neighbour upstairs and kid who's always running around next day, or for the strange bugs and flies that appear out of nowhere, I'd have stayed longer.
Fortunately I found a new place literally around the corner from here. It's a nice apartment with big windows, three rooms. Needs a little painting, and some work here and there, but otherwise it's really cosy. Well, at least as far as I know, since I've not slept there yet. But if all is well, and goes well, I have a feeling it might be a place I'll try to make a warm, cosy home at, even if it's for the short term. And I think my cat will like the place too. Seeing the large window sills and the balcony made me smile and imagine the kind of fun and lazying about she could have there.
Yes, it was Canada Day yesterday, and true to Quebecois tradition I also started to move some of my things. Now just the big heavy pieces of furniture, and I'm all set.
It's a day I guess I could pauze and reflect on. Not so much because I'm Canadian, but because I have been made to feel welcome and wanted in this country. A far cry from the subtle and inert racism and xenophobia I experience and sense in the Netherlands or Europe generally, I feel so strangely at home. All these people, black, yellow, white, from all these different heritages, cultural backgrounds and with so many religious faiths all coming together to celebrate, to waive that red and white banner. They're all proud, proud to be Canadian, to be born, to be living, to have come to this wonderful country, this blend of mutual acceptance, blending and cosmopolitanism that is a model of for the future of this world.
Happy Birthday, Canada.
And while it is a joyous day here, I also cannot but not remember that it is/was also my dad's birthday. Were he here to see this world, to experience with me what I experience now, this joy and achievement here in Canada, I think, or at least I'd hope, he'd be very proud...
28 June 2009
Reflections on a Sunday
It's been a long while since I wrote. I'm not sure why, but recently I've just not had the motivation, nor the inspiration to write. Write like I used to before at least.
I guess to write I need some trigger, some kind of strong emotional or sensual experience that will push the words out of me and onto the screen. But to be honest, recently there's not been much, at least not since I got back from my (now almost) two month break.
Been busy searching for an apartment, and I seem to have found a place. Can move in by this week, and I'll be really glad to get that over and done with. For the last two weeks I've just been living in limbo, expecting, or at least anticipating the big move so I can finally be settled down and get myself working again. When you've got things packed away in boxes, it's difficult to do that... the mind and heart is disturbed and unsettled.
Other than that, I've been becoming listless, lazy to put it bluntly. The other day I spoke to mum and she got her test results back. From what she told me, things are alright. There are still lumps around her waist, but nothing else. The dotcor gave her a clear to continue working, and she seems somewhat happy with that. What's bothering her now is really her knee, and she says she really needs to move house soon.
I wrote down my feelings to a dear friend about how I feel about all this, and how it's affecting me:
I went to sleep after that conversation... I don't know why, but the conversation drained me, and I slept for a long, long time, even though it was morning already. And since I've been sort of avoiding phone calls (sorry, hope you can understand) and social events. I guess I just needed some time alone.
I'm glad things are alright, and that my mum does not need to (actually, more accurately, does not want to) undergo chemo again. But it feels like a battle every few months, waiting anxiously for the results, hoping things will turn out well, and if things are alright, another few months of waiting for the clear. If that's what it feels like for me, imagine what it must feel like for her?... Of course sometimes when I'm with her somewhere, the thought does cross my mind that it might be the last time that I'm with her... whether it's in Switzerland, Leidschendam, or just at AH around my house. Anytime could be the last....
But really, it could be my last time too. We're all dying [...] and nobody knows for sure who will go first, or how. The question is then what we do, or say, to one another while we're still around. All I, or anyone, can is try to do the best, to be kind, compassionate and loving, even if we get irritated and annoyed sometimes.
Maybe it's simple self-consolation to think or believe this way. But in the face of death, this is the most optimistic way of looking at things. For everyone, and for everyone's sake.
That's how I feel at the moment. Still in limbo, still half-searching for something I'm not sure what and not even sure I will find. Companionship perhaps... someone to share my feelings and thoughts with... all these pent up emotions are eating me slowly, and I sleep them away, only to feel worse afterwards for wasting my precious life and youth away...
25 June 2009
Tribute to Michael Jackson
As a child I had no clue what he sang about.
But I do remember his CD, on the cover of which were his piercing dark eyes. And I do remember watching video clips filled with different coloured people, moon walks and scary monsters with fangs. And of course, how could I forget the beautiful background music of that iconic moment when the orca finally leapt to freedom?
Hold me
Love me and feed me
Kiss me and free me
I will feel blessed
(Will you be there?)
Later, his voice would often send shivers down my spine, sometimes moisten my eyes, and always makes me feel rejuvenated with hope and passion for living. His words brought people together. His songs broke language and cultural barriers. They were about sorrow, human compassion, common understandings, and were constant reminders to the people of this world of the great potentials if we could only forget petty differences and prejudices.
Beat me, hate me
You can never break me
Will me, thrill me
You can never kill me
Jew me, Sue me
Everybody do me
Kick me, Kike me
Don't you black or white me
(They Don't Care About Us)
Despite the fame and riches he enjoyed, he continued to sing, and do so with soul and a very human touch. Sometimes even uniting with other talented musicians and artists to champion peace, spread love, and promote respect for this home we call Earth.
What about all the things
That you said was yours and mine...
Did you ever stop to notice
All the blood we've shed before
Did you ever stop to notice
The crying Earth the weeping shores?
(Earth Song)
His actions and songs advocated noble causes, or maybe even impossible dreams in the state of decay and war we find ourselves in today. But he reminded us, with his moves, his trademark shrieks, and that cheeky smile and those eaglespread arms about the little steps that can affect change.
I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change
(Man in the mirror)
It is no wonder that millions have been swept away by the King of Pop, and that millions will now mourn and weep at his loss. He cautioned people against the blindness of hatred, reminded us about the sorrow that unites us all as much as happiness and hope, about the forgotten and the downtrodden. He spoke to people’s hearts with such personal and emotional depth. Because “It Don't Matter If You're/Black Or White”, ask yourself
How does it feel
When you're alone
And you're cold inside?
(Stranger in Moscow)
Michael Jackson may be gone, may have lived the last years of his life in obscurity and media induced negative publicity, but no doubt his songs, his music, and that soft, soft voice will continue to move the world.
And… perhaps one day even heal it.
Heal The World
Make It A Better Place
For You And For Me
And The Entire Human Race
There Are People Dying
If You Care Enough
For The Living
Make A Better Place
For You And For Me
(Heal the world)
But I do remember his CD, on the cover of which were his piercing dark eyes. And I do remember watching video clips filled with different coloured people, moon walks and scary monsters with fangs. And of course, how could I forget the beautiful background music of that iconic moment when the orca finally leapt to freedom?
Hold me
Love me and feed me
Kiss me and free me
I will feel blessed
(Will you be there?)
Later, his voice would often send shivers down my spine, sometimes moisten my eyes, and always makes me feel rejuvenated with hope and passion for living. His words brought people together. His songs broke language and cultural barriers. They were about sorrow, human compassion, common understandings, and were constant reminders to the people of this world of the great potentials if we could only forget petty differences and prejudices.
Beat me, hate me
You can never break me
Will me, thrill me
You can never kill me
Jew me, Sue me
Everybody do me
Kick me, Kike me
Don't you black or white me
(They Don't Care About Us)
Despite the fame and riches he enjoyed, he continued to sing, and do so with soul and a very human touch. Sometimes even uniting with other talented musicians and artists to champion peace, spread love, and promote respect for this home we call Earth.
What about all the things
That you said was yours and mine...
Did you ever stop to notice
All the blood we've shed before
Did you ever stop to notice
The crying Earth the weeping shores?
(Earth Song)
His actions and songs advocated noble causes, or maybe even impossible dreams in the state of decay and war we find ourselves in today. But he reminded us, with his moves, his trademark shrieks, and that cheeky smile and those eaglespread arms about the little steps that can affect change.
I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change
(Man in the mirror)
It is no wonder that millions have been swept away by the King of Pop, and that millions will now mourn and weep at his loss. He cautioned people against the blindness of hatred, reminded us about the sorrow that unites us all as much as happiness and hope, about the forgotten and the downtrodden. He spoke to people’s hearts with such personal and emotional depth. Because “It Don't Matter If You're/Black Or White”, ask yourself
How does it feel
When you're alone
And you're cold inside?
(Stranger in Moscow)
Michael Jackson may be gone, may have lived the last years of his life in obscurity and media induced negative publicity, but no doubt his songs, his music, and that soft, soft voice will continue to move the world.
And… perhaps one day even heal it.
Heal The World
Make It A Better Place
For You And For Me
And The Entire Human Race
There Are People Dying
If You Care Enough
For The Living
Make A Better Place
For You And For Me
(Heal the world)
24 June 2009
Tribute to Michael Jackson
As a child I had no clue what he sang about.
But I do remember his CD, on the cover of which were his piercing dark eyes. And I do remember watching video clips filled with different coloured people, moon walks and scary monsters with fangs. And of course, how could I forget the beautiful background music of that iconic moment when the orca finally leapt to freedom?
Hold me
Love me and feed me
Kiss me and free me
I will feel blessed
(Will you be there?)
Later, his voice would often send shivers down my spine, sometimes moisten my eyes, and always makes me feel rejuvenated with hope and passion for living. His words brought people together. His songs broke language and cultural barriers. They were about sorrow, human compassion, common understandings, and were constant reminders to the people of this world of the great potentials if we could only forget petty differences and prejudices.
Beat me, hate me
You can never break me
Will me, thrill me
You can never kill me
Jew me, Sue me
Everybody do me
Kick me, Kike me
Don't you black or white me
(They Don't Care About Us)
Despite the fame and riches he enjoyed, he continued to sing, and do so with soul and a very human touch. Sometimes even uniting with other talented musicians and artists to champion peace, spread love, and promote respect for this home we call Earth.
What about all the things
That you said was yours and mine...
Did you ever stop to notice
All the blood we've shed before
Did you ever stop to notice
The crying Earth the weeping shores?
(Earth Song)
His actions and songs advocated noble causes, or maybe even impossible dreams in the state of decay and war we find ourselves in today. But he reminded us, with his moves, his trademark shrieks, and that cheeky smile and those eaglespread arms about the little steps that can affect change.
I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change
(Man in the mirror)
It is no wonder that millions have been swept away by the King of Pop, and that millions will now mourn and weep at his loss. He cautioned people against the blindness of hatred, reminded us about the sorrow that unites us all as much as happiness and hope, about the forgotten and the downtrodden. He spoke to people’s hearts with such personal and emotional depth. Because “It Don't Matter If You're/Black Or White”, ask yourself
How does it feel
When you're alone
And you're cold inside?
(Stranger in Moscow)
Michael Jackson may be gone, may have lived the last years of his life in obscurity and media induced negative publicity, but no doubt his songs, his music, and that soft, soft voice will continue to move the world.
And… perhaps one day even heal it.
Heal The World
Make It A Better Place
For You And For Me
And The Entire Human Race
There Are People Dying
If You Care Enough
For The Living
Make A Better Place
For You And For Me
(Heal the world)
22 June 2009
Ptown
I stood in the middle of the sea. Or so it seemed. The wind swept my face, as droplets of rain and the salty sea danced around me. The sprays felt cool and calming, and with each breath I felt rejuvenated with the refreshing smell of the great outdoors. In the distance, behind a veil of mist and dew lay a sleepy little town, hidden from sight.
Early Sunday, and together with a friend I ventured onto the rocky causeway that stretched across the bay. The night before, I sat on the same causeway under the cover darkness. Save for the softness of my own breathing, the sucking rhythm of the sea sounded like a low gratifying sigh in the darkness. The stars hid, and but the sky was broad and impressive.
By morning, the sea had gathered strength and splashed all around us. In the morning drizzling rain, braving the breeze that seemed to gather more and more courage, the attempts to balance ourselves on the damp gigantic boulders was a challenge. Each step was carefully calculated, each stride determined and firm. Even lashing waves and sudden showers of the sea that tried to turn us back could not dampen our spirits, and we went on.
At the eastern edge of Massachusetts is an arm-shaped stretch of land that surrounds Cape Cod Bay. Provincetown lies at the tip of this (…very) unique geographic phenomenon. The quaint little town is very different from when Pilgrims first founded it in the 1600s. Today, it has a known reputation as a seaside resort for the LGBT community. Despite the gray spell of weather, the vibrant lively, colours of the town could not be hidden.
The main street is filled with bohemian galleries, cafes, clubs and boutiques that sell everything from tacky fridge magnets and T-shirts to arts and crafts created by locals. The streets and alleys are narrow, and with the tourists that flock there in the weekends and holidays are crowded with character. There are charming cottages and houses with white picket fences and beautiful gardens. Owners in their rocking chairs friendlily smile and wave to passerbys, and the occasional transvestite strutting down the street. Small-town America in its warm and most welcoming form.
Besides the scenic coastline, and numerous trails that traverse the dune-scape, there is a reason why people come all the way out to Provincetown. There, the Star - Spangled Banner seems to flutter proudly alongside rainbow flags and flags of Peace. Symbolically, this is truly a place in the ‘Land of the Free’ where people of all sexualities and orientations live in harmony in a community that thrives on and celebrates diversity, inclusiveness, and hope.
It took a generation, setbacks and continuing struggles to build such a community. A place where it is not frowned upon to see couple of the same-sex walk hand-in-hand down the street. A place where how you choose to dress or behave is not met with the angry retorts of hell-fire and damnation. A place where families and children play on the same sandy beaches where couples openly display their affection for one another. For what does it really matter whom you love and choose to spend precious moments of life together with?
I looked at the sleepy town in the distance, tried to picture that dreamy, yet beautiful community hidden behind the veil of mist and dew. And in the lashing rain, and growing furore of the wind and waves, wondered when the world will be like the little town of Provincetown.
21 June 2009
under the stars
My friend and I sat under the stars on a causeway jutting out into the sea. At one point, I moved my body and we rested on one another back to back. It felt so beautiful, the world felt at ease. I felt warm, and there was this feeling I could not describe. We touched, but I was scared.
What is this feeling? Who is this person who came into my life just six months ago? Why do I feel light and happy to see him, to hang around him, to lie next to him? I'm so afraid. So afraid.
What is he feeling? Doesn't he have a partner already?
I'm so afraid, feel so vulnerable yet comfortable. The sky, the world, the sea all around us... And we sat there in silence. I sat next to him and felt warm inside...
What is this feeling? Who is this person who came into my life just six months ago? Why do I feel light and happy to see him, to hang around him, to lie next to him? I'm so afraid. So afraid.
What is he feeling? Doesn't he have a partner already?
I'm so afraid, feel so vulnerable yet comfortable. The sky, the world, the sea all around us... And we sat there in silence. I sat next to him and felt warm inside...
06 June 2009
"The Power of Compassion in Turbulent Times"
(pictures here)
I saw the Dalai Lama today, (somewhat) up close and personal. Perhaps in my worldly ignorance and spiritual backwardness, I could not see the “wolf wrapped in a habit, a monster with human face and the heart of an animal” that the Chinese government has described him as once. The Dalai Lama was but a simple Buddhist monk, in simple robes, with simple words.
Yet, this simple monk with simple words, has an almost infectious, child-like chuckle. One often triggered by anecdotes from his many encounters with world leaders and commoners alike, and by the self-recognition of his broken command of the English language. Though his sentences and grammar may be broken, his sense and profundity is whole and genuine. His simple words carry wisdom, reach the core of common sense, is at times grounded by science and worldly facts, and all cemented by the fundamental and universal message of compassion and kindness. These are virtues to be recognised and nurtured. To be passed on to future generations through education, training, and daily practice. Not only for personal growth and spiritual development, but also for greater social peace and unity in the family, community, country and world at large.
To develop the potentials of affection and compassion within us, it is important to master over the opposite emotions of hatred and aggression. Patience and tolerance can offer the mind— the judge and jury of all our interactions and perceptions of the world—a sense of calm and peace essential to develop wisdom. Wisdom to remain undisturbed, focused and determined. Even in turbulent times.
The Dalai Lama lectured, his arm occasionally gesturing at the audience of some ten thousand. I received his intense gaze, voice and wisdom as if he was speaking to me personally. Even through a big screen, it was as if his presence could be felt. Not in the way that healers, self-proclaimed gurus and voodoo-doers claim to have the power to reach within your soul and magically cure you of all ailments and worry. The Dalai Lama’s method was, as he had forewarned, perhaps less elaborate and more disappointing. He appealed, merely but no less importantly, to the humanity and commonalities that we share as breathing and bleeding human beings.
People from all over the Netherlands, and even beyond, flocked to catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama. He was like a celebrity, but without the glitz and glamour, and not needing the pompous red carpet. Though, for a few moments, in an attempt to humour the locals, he played the hip gangster by putting on a tacky souvenir black and white cap with Amsterdam scribbled all over it and black sunglasses. The hall reverberated with laughter and lightheartedness, contrasting with the almost holy silence when the Dalai Lama spoke in all earnestness and seriousness about living with compassion and wisdom.
Before the Dalai Lama’s visit, the media regurgitated China’s warnings to democratic countries of the “severe consequences” for allowing such public displays of support for Tibetan ‘separatism’. It is ironic that on the Chinese government’s website dedicated to human rights yesterday, there was a headline (in big, red captions) reminding the world that any contact with the Dalai Lama will not be tolerated. An entire website is dedicated to demonising the Dalai Lama and his “clique of splittists”, reminds people not to believe the vile lies that the Dalai Lama spreads through his “political activities”. In China’s eyes, the Dalai Lama’s “attempt to hoodwink and manipulate their few domestic followers to carry on making turbulence and to hold back the rejuvenation of the Chinese nation” is doomed to fail.
Yet, where is the political agenda in the Dalai Lama’s reminder to people, whether religious or secular, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim or Jewish, whether black, yellow or white, of the inherent potential of compassion and human affection that lie within each and every one of us? What is the great threat of urging people to cultivate tolerance, compassion, and understanding, of standing up for transparency, truth and sincerity, especially in as turbulent times as today? Where is the source of subversion and ‘splittism’ in talking about humanity’s yearning for and progress towards greater transparency and universal truth, as received and perceived from all angles and opinions?
Perhaps the ‘West’ is conspiring against China. The Dalai Lama’s evilness and that dagger behind his smile must be what attracts millions of followers, supporters and sympathisers worldwide to witness his appearances and listen to his preachings. For there can be no other reason why this “ monk in a crimson cassock [who] has many tools for disguise to survive the international criticism against violence and terror” is a Noble Peace Prize Laureate, an honorary citizen of Canada, and of various world cities .
Not that titles and awards, recognitions and words of praise and flattery matter much to this simple Buddhist monk with an air of humility and lowers himself to the level of the common folk. His calls of compassion and tolerance is his only weapon, his patience and constant search for the middle way is his only defence against the torrent of negative propaganda against him and his government-in-exile. And throughout the past fifty years, despite longing for returning to the homeland, the Dalai Lama has called for dialogue, engagement, and compromised to only seek autonomy within China. Throughout the ordeal and forced exile, the courage and hope and optimism the Dalai Lama still speaks of the difficult, but ultimate wisdom in extending compassion and affection to the enemy.
Angry words, full of hatred, full of delusion and greed, only perpetuate misunderstanding and confrontation, only serve to prolong the causes of wars and conflicts, which were rife in the 20th Century. Has the world progressed since then? Have people around the world matured? Yes. Witness the popular peaceful revolutions that toppled authoritarianism and tyranny. Recall how at the dawn of the last century nations rallied in pride to go to war, and yet in the context of Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan millions took to the streets. Listen to the language of human rights, self-determination and democracy echoing with peoples and leaders.
Those are all great changes, perhaps all too grand and far away for little people like you and me to affect. Yet, we as human beings, in our everyday lives, in our every day speech and actions, can make a difference to ourselves, and to those around us.
There is hope yet. Hope, even in turbulent times.
I saw the Dalai Lama today, (somewhat) up close and personal. Perhaps in my worldly ignorance and spiritual backwardness, I could not see the “wolf wrapped in a habit, a monster with human face and the heart of an animal” that the Chinese government has described him as once. The Dalai Lama was but a simple Buddhist monk, in simple robes, with simple words.
Yet, this simple monk with simple words, has an almost infectious, child-like chuckle. One often triggered by anecdotes from his many encounters with world leaders and commoners alike, and by the self-recognition of his broken command of the English language. Though his sentences and grammar may be broken, his sense and profundity is whole and genuine. His simple words carry wisdom, reach the core of common sense, is at times grounded by science and worldly facts, and all cemented by the fundamental and universal message of compassion and kindness. These are virtues to be recognised and nurtured. To be passed on to future generations through education, training, and daily practice. Not only for personal growth and spiritual development, but also for greater social peace and unity in the family, community, country and world at large.
To develop the potentials of affection and compassion within us, it is important to master over the opposite emotions of hatred and aggression. Patience and tolerance can offer the mind— the judge and jury of all our interactions and perceptions of the world—a sense of calm and peace essential to develop wisdom. Wisdom to remain undisturbed, focused and determined. Even in turbulent times.
The Dalai Lama lectured, his arm occasionally gesturing at the audience of some ten thousand. I received his intense gaze, voice and wisdom as if he was speaking to me personally. Even through a big screen, it was as if his presence could be felt. Not in the way that healers, self-proclaimed gurus and voodoo-doers claim to have the power to reach within your soul and magically cure you of all ailments and worry. The Dalai Lama’s method was, as he had forewarned, perhaps less elaborate and more disappointing. He appealed, merely but no less importantly, to the humanity and commonalities that we share as breathing and bleeding human beings.
People from all over the Netherlands, and even beyond, flocked to catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama. He was like a celebrity, but without the glitz and glamour, and not needing the pompous red carpet. Though, for a few moments, in an attempt to humour the locals, he played the hip gangster by putting on a tacky souvenir black and white cap with Amsterdam scribbled all over it and black sunglasses. The hall reverberated with laughter and lightheartedness, contrasting with the almost holy silence when the Dalai Lama spoke in all earnestness and seriousness about living with compassion and wisdom.
Before the Dalai Lama’s visit, the media regurgitated China’s warnings to democratic countries of the “severe consequences” for allowing such public displays of support for Tibetan ‘separatism’. It is ironic that on the Chinese government’s website dedicated to human rights yesterday, there was a headline (in big, red captions) reminding the world that any contact with the Dalai Lama will not be tolerated. An entire website is dedicated to demonising the Dalai Lama and his “clique of splittists”, reminds people not to believe the vile lies that the Dalai Lama spreads through his “political activities”. In China’s eyes, the Dalai Lama’s “attempt to hoodwink and manipulate their few domestic followers to carry on making turbulence and to hold back the rejuvenation of the Chinese nation” is doomed to fail.
Yet, where is the political agenda in the Dalai Lama’s reminder to people, whether religious or secular, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim or Jewish, whether black, yellow or white, of the inherent potential of compassion and human affection that lie within each and every one of us? What is the great threat of urging people to cultivate tolerance, compassion, and understanding, of standing up for transparency, truth and sincerity, especially in as turbulent times as today? Where is the source of subversion and ‘splittism’ in talking about humanity’s yearning for and progress towards greater transparency and universal truth, as received and perceived from all angles and opinions?
Perhaps the ‘West’ is conspiring against China. The Dalai Lama’s evilness and that dagger behind his smile must be what attracts millions of followers, supporters and sympathisers worldwide to witness his appearances and listen to his preachings. For there can be no other reason why this “ monk in a crimson cassock [who] has many tools for disguise to survive the international criticism against violence and terror” is a Noble Peace Prize Laureate, an honorary citizen of Canada, and of various world cities .
Not that titles and awards, recognitions and words of praise and flattery matter much to this simple Buddhist monk with an air of humility and lowers himself to the level of the common folk. His calls of compassion and tolerance is his only weapon, his patience and constant search for the middle way is his only defence against the torrent of negative propaganda against him and his government-in-exile. And throughout the past fifty years, despite longing for returning to the homeland, the Dalai Lama has called for dialogue, engagement, and compromised to only seek autonomy within China. Throughout the ordeal and forced exile, the courage and hope and optimism the Dalai Lama still speaks of the difficult, but ultimate wisdom in extending compassion and affection to the enemy.
Angry words, full of hatred, full of delusion and greed, only perpetuate misunderstanding and confrontation, only serve to prolong the causes of wars and conflicts, which were rife in the 20th Century. Has the world progressed since then? Have people around the world matured? Yes. Witness the popular peaceful revolutions that toppled authoritarianism and tyranny. Recall how at the dawn of the last century nations rallied in pride to go to war, and yet in the context of Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan millions took to the streets. Listen to the language of human rights, self-determination and democracy echoing with peoples and leaders.
Those are all great changes, perhaps all too grand and far away for little people like you and me to affect. Yet, we as human beings, in our everyday lives, in our every day speech and actions, can make a difference to ourselves, and to those around us.
There is hope yet. Hope, even in turbulent times.
30 May 2009
By the lake
Fate should have it that I would spend an hour sitting by Lac Leland silently meditating. Some erroneous booking meant that mum and I could spend one more day away, and Evian we decided to go and stay for the extra night. While mum did her message, I wandered down the bay, and found a quite crop of rocks by the shore and sat.
For perhaps the first time ever, I striped to only my jeans, and was naked on top. I wanted to capture some of the sun, and receive the healthy vitamins that people often speak of. At first I was alert, constantly aware of the waves, the sounds, the dampness from the sprinkles of water that splashed against the rocks, bothered by the humming of planes overhead or boats speeding past. It took a while before I could sit there, close my eyes and observe my breath, my feelings, my emotions and thoughts. It was not for long, but it was the first time in a long time that I could sit down and calm myself, collect myself and try to be at ease and rest.
In the distance, a few guys lay sunbathing. I could not but look and wonder, at times even fantasise about their bonds and that sense of friendship, just guys at the beach, half-naked in the sun in a romantic setting. Swans swam by, sometimes really close by that I was awakened by the sound of their feet splashes against the water. They looked at me, and made me wonder whether the temporarily calm and solitude I had managed to recover was the source of their attraction. Or perhaps they were just looking for food…
Such tranquillity, if only temporarily, of me and the waves, the sound of the waves, and the warmth of the early Summer sun. If only I could bring those moments with me wherever I go, and be with such tranquillity and calm wherever I am.
25 May 2009
After the storm
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…
24 May 2009
Nostalgia
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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?
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