Been looking forward to this trip for a number of weeks, and finally: the land of Israel awaits!
I wonder what awaits me there, in this troubled land of world religions and of intermingling peoples and cultures.
What strange sights, what beauties, what shocks and awes to clean the mind of stereotypes and open up eyes to a whole new world, situated in the cradle of the old.
So I finally received the documents that I have been waiting for for over a month. The legalised death certificate of my dad, and proof that I am indeed his son.
Internationalist have to deal with private international law when it comes to matters like death and inheritance, and in order for a document issued by the authorities of one State to be recognised by another State, you need to go through a procedure called legalisation. So I started this whole process back in March, and took all these official documents, first, to the district court to get it officially notarised, and then to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to get it official certified. Then, I had to take it to the Dutch embassy in Taiwan to get the document legalised.
And this is where the problem comes. There is no Dutch embassy in Taiwan, because there are no official diplomatic relations between the two States (due to China's protests and bullying). There is however a bureau called the "Netherlands Trade and Investment Office", which actually does much more than just point investors in the right direction. This is actually the place you go to apply for visas, for consular assistance, and everything else that you may think is associated with the work of an embassy. The only difference is that it is NOT called an embassy.
I opened the letter from the "Netherlands Trade and Investment Office" just now, and to my surprise was the accompanying letter, signed and stamped by the "Head of Administration and Consular Affairs":
"Legalisation of Taiwanese documents is unfortunately not possible. Due to the lack of diplomatic relations between the Netherlands and Taiwan, there is also a lack of possibility to authenticate the formal competence and signature/stamp of the Taiwanese authorities through the means of legalisation.
The Authority which has issued the accompanying piece (of document) is known to the Netherlands Trade and Investment Office in Taipei."
So what does this mean? To be honest, I do not know.
It is a gray area of international law that I have yet to come across, but it is no less fascinating. Partly because it is an affront to be told, directly and indirectly, that I come from a country that has no status whatsoever in the so-called international community. It makes you wonder what credentials and what privileges new States such as Kosovo have in order to become part of this community.
It is also fascinating, partly because by implication, the lack of diplomatic relations between my two home States may mean that my existence and birth in Taiwan is implicitly denied outright. Does this mean that I am "illegal", in the sense that I do not exist in law? If I do not legally exist, does this mean I have no rights (and rights to claim) at all? Thank you, China, for pressuring the international community to sever all sorts of diplomatic links with Taiwan so that I, and many millions, have to face this kind of difficulties in claiming my inherent right to existence. But ironically, I as a Taiwanese citizen have more freedom to travel anywhere in the world than the ordinary Chinese. The world of diplomacy and politics works in mysterious ways.
Of course I am sure that I am not the first Taiwanese to be faced with this problem, especially given that out of some 198 States in the world, only 25 officially recognise Taiwan and has diplomatic relations with this international pariah. But I am curious how the Dutch authorities will deal with this issue, and whether they will recognise my relations with my dad as "legitimate".
I am quitting my job! In fact I told my workplace already a number of weeks ago that I do not plan to stay on until the very end of my contract, which is end of July. I just do not see any need to, and to be honest my work organising the competition has been done, and done very successfully. And so I can leave this job, and be glad I did a great job that people are going to remember. Whatever happens after me, or how my employer deals with finding a replacement is no longer my concern.
To be honest, I am quite disappointed and bitter about my workplace. Not the work that I do, not because I have to put in so many extra hours and even weekends to make sure that the event last week was a huge success. It is just that the workplace is stuffy with people who care more about image and money than really what you are doing... and the recognition I get is close to minimal. I had an appointment with the personnel secretary to discuss the days I had saved up for leave. Since I started last August, I did not take a single holiday... instead I was working overtime, more than double the laughable 22.6hours that I am officially employed for. I asked whether the overtime that I worked every single day could be turned into my leave days... and the reply was no. At least, not that simple. To qualify for overtime-turned-days-off, I must first 'apply' for it every time I work extra. Which means, every single day since I started working I must go tell my superior after 5pm that I will be working extra. And only then can they calculate my overtime, and turn that into days off.
I explained to the lady that my job is impossible to accomplish with just 22.6hours a week. How can a function that used to employ two people working close to 40hours a week in total be accomplished in just a little more than half the amount of time? And how do you expect people to work motivatedly by slashing people's salary? Outrageous. Then the lady said I should talk to my superiors and arrange something. But she was the one in charge of personnel...
Anyways, this is just the kind of rubbish I have to face at work, and the more I see it, the more I scoff at the kind of disorganisation and bureaucracy that is my workplace. How can a university that loves to pride itself on its (self-trumpeted) reputation and (false) high quality of education be so rotten and exploitative of its employees?
So I will in three weeks time leave this workplace and be glad I am able to get away. Others are not so lucky.
My brother had recommended the movie to me back in February, but because of all the personal issues happening then, I avoided watching anything which I thought might make me even more emotional. Indeed, as predicted, the movie made me cry. Not just a tear out of the corner of my eyes. But really cry, as in, tears flowing down my cheeks, and my heart filled with such heart-wrenching sourness and pain from having been so touched and moved by the lines and the interactions between the characters.
The fate of two dying men portrayed by Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholaso are brought together when they go into hospital to be diagnosed with incurable cancer. One is from a simple family, filled with love and happiness, and clings onto hope and faith. The other is a bitter and successful millionaire who has little love and boundless amounts of money, but is an utter cynic and has no faith. Their last days are intertwined as they make a list of things they wish to fulfil in their last days. Not just fun and excitement, but also reconciliation and making contact and peace with lost loved ones. Because there is no greater pain than dying with regret.
Seeing the two lie in bed, with tubes connected to their bodies, I cannot but think back to the image of my own dad lying in bed, silent and dying... He did not speak. He did not struggle, and now and then he opened his eyes to look at me. I smiled back, and still he did not speak. He could not speak. But what was going through his mind? What did he want to say? What wishes did he want to fulfil?
The thought of this made me cry... the thought of my hands cupped around his, that feeling of his skin against mine, that warmth of his cheeks clinging onto mine... I miss that. How I so miss that.
Suddenly, a deep sadness overcame me. It was dark, time unknown, and I started to weep. Thoughts of the absence of my dad, images of the audience before me applauding in a standing ovation, echoes of the countless words of success and congratulations, the sight of my mum in hospital. It was just too much to bear, too much to handle.
I hugged the blanket that dad had given me last time he came to see me. He said the blanket would keep me warm, and I especially needed it last night. The days of the Competition has finally come to an end. What a relief it was. I stepped out of the Peace Palace grounds, saw the sun, felt the light Spring breeze, and felt a heavy, heavy weight lift. The past few weeks have been such a tension to carry, the past few days such a ride between ups and downs, disappointments and embrassments. All I needed was a break, and sleep, to recover from the emotionally draining and physically abusive experiences.
I slept, but I know that my memories and dreams were filled with flashbacks of the events in the last few days. The embarrassment of humiliating a number of special guests, the discomfort of having to deal with unpleasant bickering between my own assistants, the unease I felt when people wanted me to pose take pictures with them, as if I were some kind of hero and idol... But on the other hand, there were the genuine kindness and assitance of strangers and dear ones, the genuine, warm words of gratitude and congratulations, and the hugs that I received from total strangers who were so appreciative of and impressed with the organisation.
I stood on that stage, people applauding before me, giving me nods of approval, smiles of appreciation and respect. I blushed, and smiled, nodding back, my heart silently calling out to them and thanking them for their kindness and for their recognition. But at the same time, a nagging thought pestered me and faught against the sense of personal achievement and success... what of all these things that went horribly wrong? What of all these failings like the incident of a collapsing colleague, the chaotic and confused award ceremony? What of the disappointed and humiliated looks of the sponsors who had come from so far away?
And, as the crowd applauded, I could not but think of and thank my mum, my dad... They could not be there, they could not see this impressive hall, this impressive crowd, and they could not feel or begin to imagine the overwhelming sense of pride and triumph that overcame me and swept me so suddenly away... I missed my mum, my dad... I missed them terribly, and wished they could be there to see it all, to feel it all, to hear all the words of congratulations and gratitude that showered over me again and again. But dad has sadly gone... mum is sadly missing.... and left behind is an emptiness that echoed again and echoed in my heart as the sound of applause echoed again and again in my ears...
The pain, the pride, the sadness and the smiles of joy. Mingled together like a poisonous mixture that drained me so like a trauma. Time flew by, people passed me by, hands gripped mine, and hugs embraced me. And inside is an emptiness that I cannot express.
An emptiness that expressed itself in the tears that fell as I suddenly awoke in the middle of the night, and cried.
I'm exhausted... drained, physically and mentally from the confusion, stress, insecurities and praises of the past two days. Finally, the Finals are upon us, and the Teldersdays are almost over. Today at the closing party, I was not very happy... distraught, dazzed, tired and drunk with some kind of deep, deep sadness I cannot explain... And all these people congratulating me, all these people applauding like I have never seen or heard before.... honoured and at the same time feeling defeated because I feel empty inside against the full onslaught of tiredness....
Tired, but still buzzing, partly from the excitement, partly from the ride of emotions throughout today. The Competition I have been planning together with my team started today. Three court sessions, nine courts, and two hundred guests. It's not easy, and this morning I had a stressful few hours when a number of things didn't go according to plan.
Stress, relief, gratitude, and worry... a mixture of emotions. And finally this day is over. Guests thank me, with such praise and gratitude, and I cannot but be appreciative and touched by their kind words and gestures. It moves me to tears, almost, the way they describe my hardwork and dedication. It's all come together, and all thanks to so many who have been there to support me, thanks to so many who have been there to help and extend a hand, or an ear.
I just came home, walking past the woods of Clingendael. Wearing the suit I wore to dad's funeral... I really wish dad could be here to see all this. I really wish mum could be
Two days before the start of the Competition, and I am so frustrated. Last night, I lay in bed but could not sleep, even though I was so physically tired. My mind was awake, and racing with thoughts. Even trying to watch my breath or meditate did not help, and I just got more and more tense until I was so tired I fell asleep.
The last three weeks have been like this... a constant routine between work and sleep, work and sleep, and still there seems to be much to be done at work. Pressures from above telling me to cut down costs and bring in more money... and pressure of trying to make sure all two hundred or so students and guests from all over the world will enjoy a competition they will remember. And together with colleagues who really are sometimes not as enthusiastic as I want them to be, I feel kind of impatient that things are moving at such a slow pace.
I do not like to 'hide' behind my victim role, but sometimes I just wish people would be more appreciative of what I have been through and work with me more. I have just gone through a great loss, and my mum has to go into hospital for treatment every other week... these are really not easy burdens to combine with the work of mine as the coordinator of this event. A lot of work could have been done a long time ago, but still now we are just starting it seems... Frustrating... and I see myself getting somewhat short-fused about it. Not that I start shouting or screaming, but the work atmosphere is somewhat tense because there is so much pressure, from time and from the amount of work waiting to be done...
And suddenly, just now I got a call from a colleague. He spoke about the very things that had been bothering me, and he told me to look at the bright side of things. I had gone through so much, and the event is going stronger and stronger and coming together as we speak. Guests will be applauding for all the hard work I have done, despite all the odds. Just a few months ago, people wanted to pull the plug on this event, but I managed to revive it and bring it even more glory and fame... all these are not little achievements, and of course if there were a more cohesive team, then it would be easier, but things are still going well.
Tears oozed out of my eyes as he said all those things.... all this hard work, all this time at the office, and working evenings and weekends, and indeed everything is coming together. All I can think of is imagine how my parents would be so proud of me if they could see me, a few days from now, in the Great Hall of Justice, with over 200 people applauding at the work that I (and with the help of so many, many others) have accomplished...
How proud my dad would be... because all that I have been working for, is for him to see, and for him to be proud of me.
I cried at the office today. It was while speaking to a friend I had promised to meet for a long time. I had to call and cancel our appointment, because I was just overwhelmed with work and did not have time to even go out of the office. It has been like this ever since I got back from my leave two weeks ago.
She is a really sweet person, and just last year became a mother to a healthy and beautiful baby. I have seen the baby twice, and held her in my arms. When I see the baby's eyes, I feel how lucky she will be her whole life, because she has such a caring and loving mother that is my friend.
I am not sure what it is about my friend, but everytime I speak to her, she brings out the 'child' in me. Her voice is so soothing, her words so comforting. Just after I retired from Taiwan, I called her to tell her I had come back. The way she told me everything would be alright made my voice waver. It was as if she could feel my pain, as if she could reach inside and touch me, even though we were just on the phone. The motherliness of my friend is so powerful.
And again today, the same happened. I felt really bad having to cancel our appointment, but she was very understanding, and supportive. She told me to take it easy, and said we could meet when I am less busy. I thought of the many many days that have gone by since I returned to work, I thought of the days that I went to the office and just sat down without getting up until it was already night time.
At that point my eyes started to water again, and as if she could hear my tears, she told me to hang on there, to be strong, to go on despite the odds. That made me just feel even more touched.
I sat down at my desk, full of things to do, full of papers to be looked at and emails to be answered. I shut my eyes tightly and wiped my tears away. It was then that she said to me something that was so touching...
"...my parents passed away when I was just twelve, and I know how hard it is. When I feel sad or when I want to have my parents around, I would pinch myself. When I feel the pain, I know I am half my mother, and half my father. So you hang on there. Take a deep breath, make yourself a nice cup of tea, and just sit down for a few moments..."
And for those brief, few moments thereafter, the pressures from above, the bickering, the work politics, the money problems I have had to be faced with ever since the very moment I returned to work barely two weeks ago just disappeared.
Disappeared... like the clouds that would float on high and disappear the next time you look up.
Close to 2am. Taiwan time, close to 8am. Mum is in hospital again for her bi-weekly chemo therapy. It is going well she says, and most likely she can go home tomorrow later afternoon. My auntie is there, sleeping in that narrow couch-bed I used to sleep in, and as I called she was out to buy breakfast. Mum says she still has the appetite to eat, so she wanted this oat meal mix and some fried rice and cereals. “Just like what you bought me when I was in hospital,” she said.
Yes, just as I had bought her back in February because I thought that was the most healthy and nutricious that I could bring her while she lies confined in that hospital bed for those days.
“Have the doctors come yet?” I asked. Because they usually come check up on the patients a little after eight. Not yet, but they will come, mum reassured me. And today she will find out whether after all these treatments the cancer index has diminished. In other words, whether all those grueling and tiredsome days spent at the hospital, whether all those spasms of nausea and all that exhaustion has all been worth it.
“Take care,” I said, and I thought of her face, her eyes, and that dazzling, natural smile of hers that I had captured in a shot just after the doctor told her she could go home again. How I wish I could see her so happy, see her be so healthy. How I wish I could see her.
It snowed on Easter Sunday, and it snowed today. In fact, I think outside it is still drizzling with snow. No white Christmas, as it should be, but a white Easter, as it unexpectedly is.
Over the long Easter weekend I finally had the time to rest and catch up on my sleep. Ever since I got back to the Netherlands, I have been working almost non-stop every single day. I did not even have the time to unpack my suitcase, and I was off to work again. So what a relief that I could have a few days to sleep in and slowly get accustomed to the time difference.
People ask me how I am feeling, and to be honest I am not sure. I am... content. I am just moving from moment to moment and still carrying on with life doing the best that I can with what I have. Nothing less. Nothing more. Work really is taking a lot of my time. Today, for example, I went in at around nine in the morning, sat down, and worked and worked till eight in the evening. No time to eat, no time to go out for a breath of fresh air... just work, work, work... answering emails, making phone calls, writing letters, stuffing envelops, planning events... Thank goodness my colleagues and assistants were there, or else I would have lost it.
So I come home every day, feeling already very tired that the only thing I want to do is lie down and sleep. And the next day again, work, work, work, as surely as the sun rises at dawn, and falls at dusk. Though, in the weekend, when I was unpacking my suitcase and cleaning my room, there were a few moments I felt sadness creep up...
Perhaps it was the snow drifting outside... The beauty of it, the serenity that made me think to myself what a shame it is that my dad can no longer enjoy it... A slight, fleeting moment of sadness and remorse... until I blink away the thought and go back to whatever I was doing then.
The other day I went for a walk in the slight snow, and eventually my footsteps took me to the forest nearby. As I approached the pond, there was a whole crowd of daffodils "tossing their heads in sprightly dance" as the light snowflakes, drifted, danced and fell so softly on the grass and vanished as suddenly as it appeared... Nobody would have known the snowflake was there, or ever existed. A father took his young son by the hand, son who was perhaps just learning to walk. He wobbled, and the father looked on smilingly, tugging at his arm in those moments just as the son looked like he was about to fall. The son giggled, and splashed in the puddles. The daffodils danced a bit more. I looked away, but the effects of that scene lingered, just as the memories of my dad still lingers on within.
Work is good. It keeps people occupied, it keeps people full and fills them with a purpose. But when does work become merely a distraction... or even an escape?
So when people ask me how I am feeling, to be honest I am still not sure.
Another reality is that eight years ago, a regime that could never have been too proud of its human rights record and democratic credentials was to the surprise of many awarded with the honour of hosting the 2008 Olympics. How Beijing has rejoiced since, and how Beijing is doing all it can to ensure that this will be the Olympics to overshadow all others in history, as a homage to China’s “peaceful rise” to becoming a world power. Continuously the International Olympic Committee shrugged off critics of Beijing Games by reiterating that sports has nothing to do with politics. In the words of IOC President Jacque Rogge, the “IOC is a catalyst for change in China but it is not a panacea, […] It is a sporting, non-political organization and we cannot solve the problems of the world."
Wei Jingsheng, a Chinese winner of several human rights and democracy awards who spent over 15 years in prison for his pro-democracy activities, wrote in the International Herald Tribune:
The IOC's unwillingness to pressure Beijing at this moment is tragic because these Olympics are a turning point in modern Chinese history.
By acting as host to the Olympics, the Communist Party's rulers have turned their palace into a global glass house. They can no longer show the smiling face of the "peaceful rise" of China to the world and the stern face of brutal suppression at home.
The Olympics will force China to show its true face. Only international pressure, by the IOC and others, will make sure it is the face we all want to see.
Due to China’s continual inaction over the continuing bloodshed in Darfur, Oscar-winning director Steven Spielberg (rightfully) resigned back in February, after mounting pressures calling for his disengagement from what has been deemed the “Genocide Olympics”. With the deteriorating situation in Tibet, the Dalai Lama has repeatedly warned of a China’s active engagement in a “cultural genocide”, that has in the past half a century threatened to wipe out all remnants of Tibetan language, religion and culture. What pride the Olympics dream is, to be hosted by a country now coupled closely with two of the most severe atrocities in modern history! So much for the ideals of “peace and progress, harmonious development, living in amity, cooperation and mutual benefit” that the official organisers of the Games trump on their website.
“…the monk in a crimson cassock has many tools for disguise to survive the international criticism against violence and terror: his preaching of peace, tolerance and benevolence to the Nobel honor and U.S. medal which added to his undeserved aura.
Make no mistake people, we have all been fooled by this conniving two-faced monk, who is the equivalent of the Catholic Pope in Tibetan Buddhism! The Chinese government went as far as to insinuate that the Dalai Lama’s eye for terrorism comes from having been educated by an old-Nazi. The slur against the latest winner of the US Congressional Gold Medal continues:
“this impudent politician did not show any sign of shame when he disassociated himself from the conspiracy as an innocent monk, leaving his followers standing as cat's paws by persuading them, in a canting manner, "not to resort to violence" reportedly in a statement after the serene abode of the gods was disturbed.
There is ample evidence that this incident was premeditated, masterminded, incited and organized by the Dalai clique. This once again shows that the claims made by the Dalai clique over the years that they seek peaceful dialogue and not independence are nothing but lies. Their hypocritical lies cannot cover the indisputable facts.
Indisputable acts of what? That the Dalai Lama, who has lived in self-imposed exile for half a century, is in fact a terrorist mastermind on par with Osama Bin Laden? That this inspiring spiritual leader with millions of followers, whose consistently promotion of “peace, understanding and harmony” is the reason he won the Noble Peace Prize, should be unmasked as a fake?
In yet another commentary, the Chinese government has vowed to “resolutely [crack] down on and severely [punish] a handful of lawless criminals”, and clarifies in what is widely seen as the strongest language by China on its handling of the Tibetan uprising that:
we must see through the secessionist forces' evil intentions, uphold the banners of maintaining social stability, safeguard the socialist legal system and protect people's fundamental interests, and resolutely crush the "Tibet independence" forces' conspiracy and sabotaging activities so as to foster a favorable social environment for reform and development and for people's happiness and welfare. [...]
After decades of construction and development, Tibet is enjoying its best-ever time of progress and stability, the paper says. Accelerating development, improving livelihood, maintaining stability and opposing separation are the road the region has to walk on if it is to prosper. Secession is against the people's will and sabotage is doomed to fail […]
To be clear, Tibet has never been an integral part of China. If it were, why did China need to invade in 1950 and forcibly oppress uprisings that have to date caused over 1 million deaths? Under international law, Tibet can even be said to have enjoined sovereign independence before the Chinese invasion. Admittedly, Tibet’s relations with China has historically been that of a vassal under the suzerainty of the Chinese Emperors. However, Tibet has always enjoyed much freedom to govern its internal affairs according to its own distinct culture and religion under the reign of the Dalai Lamas. This peaceful coexistence ended with the so-called “liberation” of Tibet. Atrocities and a reign of terror ensued that has repeatedly been classified as a genocide outright. The so-called “Seventeen Point Agreement for the Peaceful Liberation of Tibet”, under which Tibet recognises its “return to the big family of the motherland - the People's Republic of China” was not more than a diktat signed by the then Tibetan government as Chinese troops were already brimming on the borders. Immediately after the Dalai Lama and Tibetan government fled into exile, the Agreement was repudiated, and since then the Dalai Lama has called for “a meaningful autonomy” for Tibet, whereby Tibetans have freedom in cultural, political, religious and economic affairs. He is willing to meet and negotiate with the Chinese leadership, and has repeated extended the olive branch. It is Beijing, with its warped vision of the Dalai Lama as a “splittist” and “terrorist”, that is refusing to acknowledge His Holiness’ goodwill.
The cause of the recent unrest, like those back in 1989 and even before, is the Chinese government’s strategy of turning Tibet into any other Chinese province. By actively attracting Chinese people to emigrate to Tibet, the economic and political powers are now unfairly biased against the Tibetans in favour of those with loyalties to Beijing. Monasteries are under surveillance, Tibetan language and culture is increasingly marginalised, while even the Panchen Lama, who will be he Dalai Lama and according to tradition can only be reincarnated, is handpicked by the Chinese Communist Party, and resides in Beijing. A then unknown Communist Party cadre by the name of Hu Jintao was the Party Chief of the “Tibet Autonomous Region”. It was he who ordered the violent suppression of similar uprisings in early 1989. Today, he has been “elected” (twice, no less!) to the position of President of the People’s Republic of China. So who is responsible for the brutal suppression of the uprisings in Tibet now? Hu.
What a message Nancy Pelosi sent to the international community, when yesterday she stood side by side with the Dalai Lama in a show of her solidarity with the Tibetan people. Dubbed the third most influential political figure in the US, the Congressional Speaker attacked China’s violent handling of the Tibetan uprisings. In an emotive speech, Pelosi could not have put it in better words:
“Today, this delegation from the United States Congress is here to shed the bright light of truth on what is happening in Tibet. In sanskrit the word non-violence means ‘truth insistence.’ Insistence on the truth is what this is all about. We insist that the world know the truth about what is happening in Tibet.
“If freedom loving people throughout the world do not speak out against China's oppression in China and in Tibet we have lost all moral authority to speak on human rights anywhere in the world. The cause of Tibet is a challenge to the conscience of the world.
The Olympic Games are a great opportunity for China to show off its huge strides in development and economic progress indeed. But it is also an opportunity for the world to pay attention to many of the abuses and failings that continue to plague this self-proclaiming super power.
A tyrant that puts on a lavish suit that many are envious of is still a tyrant. And a China that can put on a stunning Olympic Games is still the oppressive and brutal regime that it has always been. The Olympic dream has not improved the lot of ordinary people in China, nor has it lived up to the promises of greater media freedom and transparency as previously trumpeted. Instead, the outburst of violence in Tibet reveal all too well the continual suffering and fears of the oppressed Tibetan people, of the democracy activists and political dissidents, that China would rather the world forget under the limelight of the glitz and glamour it tries so hard to showcase.
But China has invited the world to its doors when it accepted the honour of hosting the Games. And besides the glory and gradeur that it boasts, it should not be afraid show the dark and shameful sides which will forever present an obstacle to achieving that superpower status it so aspires to reach.
And we, the citizens of this world, the very citizens who love freedom and abhor the suffering of those who have none, should not be afraid to look and to see.
Not just to look what is fundamentally hypocritical about the Olympic Games which are supposed to celebrate unity and humanity, but also to see the silence of our leaders who claim to love and support freedom, yet fall suddenly despicably silent when it comes to dealing with a China where there is none.
A leopard, golden and spotted black, slick and slim, oozing with beauty and a deadly silence. Not just any leopard, but a Formosan Cloud Leopard, indigenous to the high mountain forests of Taiwan, nowadays extremely rare, and rarely seen.
It approached me, and I was stricken with fear. He silently stepped toward me, I wanted to run, but could not. Something somehow made me stay, even though I was trembling. The leopard squinted, lazily like a cat, and circled me. His breath felt warm. Out of nowhere came this urge, and my hand raised itself to touch the leopard's patterned fur. He felt soft, tender and gentle, and the leopard stopped in its path for me to pet, like a tame cat, were it not for the sharp fangs that glistened whenever the leopard opened its mouth.
I stroked the leopard me, and it started to purr, loudly. In the following scene, I was on the leopard's back, riding it, as he sprinted on and on and on through the dense forest floor. I felt such joy, elation and liberation as I grabbed onto the leopard's fur and moved with the leopard's movements, swiftly and silently.
We came to a stop, and the leopard set me down. As if the leopard was tired from the running, he rolled on its back and lay there with his head softly rubbing the earth. I knelt down next to him, and started to stroke him, stroke him, stroke him ever so softly, as he purred and purred with pleasure. His eyes closed as his paws hung loosely from the relaxed and lazy posture the leopard was in. Reassured, I patted him on the chest, and felt his heartbeat, while my other hand stroked the leopard's soft coat on his head. I felt such warmth, such connection with him, even though they say the Cloud Leopard is normally a shy but vicious creature of the jungle. I knelt beside him, but could only see and feel the tenderness and beauty of the leopard in every stroke of my hand.
Slowly, slowly, the leopard's purr grew softer. His heartbeat also slowed, and his paws gradually no longer moved as it did before from side to side expressing comfort. I stroked it even more, admiring the beauty and tranquility of this gift of nature before me, and felt grateful that I could be so close to it in such a peaceful moment. What a precious moment!
I woke up... my heart ached and wrenched as a deep, deep pain throbbed through my chest. I felt myself cry out, but there was no sound, but an emptiness and a silent echo that made the deep void inside me even more empty-feeling than the moment before...
It was pitch-dark. Then it began. The emptiness turned to tears, and I sobbed in bed. Images of dad flashed before my closed eyes, images of his kind face, echoes of his soft voice. Another image flooded into my memories... the image of those tender moments when I stroked his face and hands as he slowly, slowly, slowly went to sleep... the long long sleep he would no longer wake up from. More tears flowed, and I felt the pillow case dampen as I buried my face in it to dampen the sounds of my howls... My howls from the pain, loss, and realisation that my dad is finally gone, and that I will never see him again.
Rarely have I felt pain of such intensity, and never in the past month since my dad's passing away have I shed so many tears. I did not know where those tears came from. Perhaps from the stored tears that were kept dammed inside in those times when I felt I could not break for the sake of others around me. Wherever they came from, the tears uncontrollably flooded through my eyes. I tugged at the thick douvet and the blanket I was under, and remembering that dad had bought the blanket for me to keep me warm during the cold winter months, I cried even more... even, even more.
I cried myself asleep, and before long, I drifted back into the world of dreams where I was again reunited with my dad.
The plane tore through the dense clouds, into a world of gray and rain. The cabin shook, and the passengers shrilled slightly as the turbulent air made the plane drop suddenly. Moments later, we landed, welcomed to The Netherlands by pouring rain and a cold, cold gust of wind.
Welcome home, David. And the first welcome sign was a big fine by the revenue bureau. I simply cannot lie, and when the customs officer asked me whether I bought anything from abroad, I said a laptop. He looked at it, estimated the cost, and I was later to pay 19% value added tax (VAT). 150 Euros, merciless and no discussions. Enough to pay a month's worth of food. So much for buying the laptop I have always wanted in Taiwan, thinking I would save a lot on costs.
Luckily, brother was at the airport to pick me up, and his company made the trip home in the rain almost bearable. The roads were empty, soaking in rain, and the wind was strong. Coming from the bustle of Asia, you could easily mistaken a lazy Sunday morning in Europe as the land of the dull and the dead. Only when my cat greeted me with her miauw and tail at the door did it seem like there was any life or warmth.
A 16 hour flight, over 9000kilometers across the world, and I have arrived in another world. Perhaps it is the weather, perhaps it is the tiredness and grogginess from attempting to sleep sitting almost straight up because I was afraid to wake up the person behind me hadI lowered my seat, but this place is such a contrast from the home I left back in Taiwan. And yet, less than two months ago, this place seemed like the comfortable and quiet home I could return to for shelter and warmth. It will take some time before I get used to here again...
Last night, I said goodbye to my mum, turned the corner of the staircase as the image of her standing in the doorframe disappeared from sight. Moments before, we hugged deeply, twice. More moments earlier, I handed her a notebook, the cover of which, in small print, said: "Somethings if not done now will never be done". Flip open the first page, and I wrote the words: " Smiling is the best self-cure". When mum received news that she could be discharged from the hospital a few days ago, I had taken a picture of her which captured that intense and heart-felt joy of relief. I had enlarged that, and developed some other pictures of flowers, sunsets and of me, for my mum to keep her company as she faces the next few sessions of chemo therapy in the coming months.
To be honest, I got frustrated as the time ticked by to the moment of departure. Why did I have to leave? Why did I have to leave my mum behind? There seemed so little time to do all the things I wanted to do... like tidy my dad's room more, so that mum would not have to face it all alone... like clean up the house, so that mum would not have to strain herself wiping and washing... But the last few days of my stay in Taiwan seemed to go by so quickly, without me realising it. Tuesday last, my mum came out of the hospital. The next day, we stayed home to recuperate, and Thursday I quickly went out to meet a friend and to do a quick shop of the things I need... Friday I went to see my dad at the temple... and Saturday was the day of departure itself. Naively I would think to myself, as I often did as a child, how wonderful it would be to be able to stop and turn back time.
But time passes with every tick of the second hand. And the past six weeks have gone by so quickly. Thinking back, what have I really done? Mum thinks a lot, and as we hugged one another goodbye last night, she thanked me again and again for all that I have done... but somehow I think I did only what I could, and only what a son ought to do. Nothing much more, nothing less.
At the airport, just before I headed for the departure gate, I made a last-minute call to relatives and friends to bid them all farewell, and to wish them well for the coming time till we meet again. I spoke to a cousin of mine I have always been very close to, and naturally tears began to fell as I recounted that moment when dad passed away... I saw those moments I held dad's hands in my own, I remembered those words I whispered to dad in the hope that he would let go and move on peacefully. And I could not control myself but started to cry in the airport hall. It seemed like all the spotlight was on me, all at once all these people started to appear and pass me by out of nowhere. I turned against the wall, and wiped my tears. "I think I have no regrets. I hope I have not disappointed them. I hope..." I said silently to my cousin as I chocked on my own tears, "I hope that dad and mum will be proud of me..." My cousin reassured me that they are indeed proud of me, and that they have every reason to be.
The plane roared upwards, and the wheels made a thudding sound as they left the ground. My physical 'connection' with my home-land was severed in that very moment, as the plane flew higher, and higher skward. The plane turned around and started to head south, along the western coast of Taiwan, flying over the lit and bustling towns and cities below. I was unfortunately sitting on the side of the Taiwan Strait, which was pitch dark, save for the very occasional faint flicker of fishingboats below.
"Goodbye, my home! Goodbye, my loved ones! May you all forever remain as beautiful and peaceful as I remember you."
I have made this trip many times before. I have bid farewell to my parents many, many times before in my life. Each time, leaving them is such a painful and sad process, and I can easily remember each departure clearly. I can still remember the tears, taste the sourness I felt in my heart as I tried to grasp onto those moments when they were still standing before me just before they are separated by the glass wall of the departure hall.
But this time, as the plane soared on higher and further away, I was somehow at ease with myself... I was not crying, as I had expected, but my mind moved on from moment to moment, resting in that very moment, without lingering in the past or wandering around in the possibilities and dramatic scenarios of the could-bes.
Sixteen hours later, the plane touched down in the rain and the wind. And I was home again.
This time tomorrow, I should be on the plane, flying over the ocean, further and further away from land. This time tomorrow, I should be leaving home, to go home.
How I will miss this country, and the people! The friends who have been there to support me, the relatives and family who have been there to welcome me into their arms, and even the strangers who out of nowhere appeared to guide me when I am lost. On this eve of my departure, I think back at the many days that have gone by since I landed on this little island more than a month ago, and I remember all those people with gratitude and with a smile.
What a trip it has been! Of tears, smiles, sadness, and reconciliation. So sudden, and so full of surprises, and now it is coming to an end. Death and illness I have experienced up close, and I have been able to deal with both with an equanimous mind, and come out somewhat stronger and more at peace than ever before.
Once more, much of the food was untouched. We sat down to a quiet dinner, and seeing mum eat so little, how could I eat?
In the background, the stereo played one of mum's favourite music pieces. "The sound of bell emitted in the evening from an ancient temple" (古剎晚鐘) it is called. A beautiful recording of the chiming of bells and percussion instruments that evoke a feeling of serenity as well as awe. Mum said the music used to make her cry whenever she heard it. Sitting opposite me at the dinner table tonight, her eyes seemed to water.
She recounted the days in the past while dad was still around. Though they did not speak much to one another, it was still somewhat 'comforting' to know someone is at home with you. After I am gone coming Saturday, there will just be an empty house.
I really cannot say much, except console her by telling her that it will not be that bad. There are plenty of things she can do to fulfill her time... like do caligraphy writing and drawing, do TaiChi, and meet up with her good friends for a day of fun and food. She seemed to be less sad after I said that.
The soup became cold as we chatted. Mum recalled a CD which I had not had the opportunity to open yet. Perhaps I unconsciously dread seeing the contents... I first got ahold of it on the eve of dad's death. The doctors had burned a CD containing dad's medical records and X-Rays, which they wanted to show us. But dad passed away even before there was a chance to do so. Mum said she cannot bear to see those pictures, at least not yet. Her eyes watered as she told me that it was in January when they first discovered that the cancer had started to spread from dad's liver to his lungs. Then, there were only a few gray areas on his lungs... within a month those gray areas had become large patches of fresh infection. "How quick it happened... too quick..."
Speaking to mum in the past few weeks, I think dad's passing has had a great impact on her in many ways. Not just losing someone she's been married to almost three decades, but also a subtle realisation of the seriousness of her own illness. Before she would be unable to let go of her work and worry about all sorts of things, but now she is slowly realising nothing is more precious than dear life. Or at least, that is what she says.
I looked at her, and told her like I have repeatedly said many times before. Be happy... be happy and enjoy every moment that life has to offer. Everything else is but an extra.
Immediately after returning from my trip south, I headed to the hospital. Mum's scheduled chemo therapy began Saturday, and lasted until today.
It was a grueling process, and she was restless in that room. Tubes were connected to an artificially installed vessel around her right shoulder, and the cancer-killing medicine was slowly infused into her body. The first day, she could eat like she normally would, but on the second day she lost her appetite. Just the smell of really pungent food made her nauseous. I looked on, watching her worried and tired expressions with worry and helplessness.
The minutes passed by slowly, and even slower for my mum. I would bring her fresh food and cut fruits, but she would only eat a little. We passed the time reading, watching senseless TV shows and sensationalist news that is repeated over and over again. We meditated together too, and that seemed to give us moments of peace, if only for a little while. Occasionally I would take her for a walk... merely up and down the corridor, eight, nine or even ten times the same route, because the nurses said it is best not to go out, because her immune system would be vulnerable. And, well, it would not look very good in her pink hospital wear.
I slept next to my mum, on this narrow green sofa which was too short for my legs. It was uncomfortable, and I would wake up everyday feeling more tired and somewhat feeling really unwell ... but being able to watch my mum as she lay there peacefully asleep made all the sores and discomfort go away.
The nurses were so kind and so helpful it was touching to see. There was one nurse who worked the early evening shift until midnight everyday. Her voice was so soft and soothing, and whenever she came to check up on my mum she would stay and chit-chat, and reassure my mum that it is all going well, and that there is nothing to worry about. Now and then, she would take my mum by the hand and hold her to give her support. When I left this morning, I went to this special nurse and thanked her, thanked her wholehearted for all that she has done. All she did was smile and nod at me, as if to tell me that this is all part of her work.
Mum's face lit up instantly as the doctor came to say that she can go home again. To her, staying there seemed like a prison, and she would, if she could, rush home that very moment. We packed our bags and made our way home. But soon, tiredness began to show on her face, even though we were barely home yet.
The first thing she did was lie down, and mum immediately fell asleep. Her hair wild on her pillows, her arms limp at her side, her eyes closed under saggy lids...
While she rested I went to the market to pick up lots of fresh and nutritious foods. After chemo, the most important thing is to make up for the lost cells and energy by eating well and eating a high-protein diet, so as to prepare for the next chemo session. Tonight, I made her fresh miso-soup with salmon bits and tofu, made a little stir-fried greens, and warmed up some turnip cakes that she loves to eat.
She only had a little to eat, and took only one sip of the soup before putting it down again. "I'm sorry... I know you meant well, but I really don't feel like eating." She went back to rest soon after, leaving the soup still full, the fish and tofu bits untouched.
The train sped through the across the land, rice paddies and banana trees fuzzily flew past outside my window. Cities that previously took hours to reach are now merely tens of minutes apart. As a train fan, this huge transportation revolution was much anticipated, and I remember a few years ago I went to a special exhibition to gather as much information about the Shinkansen 700-T as I could. Though I was exhausted from the accumulation of lack of sleep and running around, riding the new 300km/hr Taiwan High Speed Rail (台灣高鐵) made me extremely giddy and excited.
Just hours before, Dad's urn was placed into the 'deposit box' in a temple in Jinshan. It would be his final resting place, and it seemed that the whole procedure went on smoothly. As we rode up the mountain to the temple, it was drizzling, and gray. But after dad's bones and ashes were set in place, the sun began to shine. A good omen, tradition says. The door of the deposit box was sealed, and we stood there momentarily, each silently speaking to dad.
Almost exactly one month after dad passed away, entering the urn temple was (for the time being) the last ritual that has to be observed. We had carefully chosen an urn cut from amber-coloured marble. The piece most likely came from Taroko (太魯閣), a naturally formed gorge cut throughout the millennia by a stream that runs down from the towering mountains of central Taiwan down towards the Pacific Ocean. One of the last family outings with dad two years ago was to that very area.
Rituals and rites command observance and respect, flowing from practice that has passed down from generations ago. They offer comfort to people, for the performance of certain rituals is believed to ward of bad luck and bring prosperity and good fortunes, for the living and the dead. Yet at the same time, some rituals are at times constraining, if not incompatible with modern life. What use is all the chanting and prayers, all the paper money burning and offerings? Why must the relatives of the dead stay home and mourn for exactly 49 days? Is it not enough that each person remembers the deceased in his own way? Death is such a natural and simple matter which everyone will experience sooner or later... why make it so complicated and difficult?
So it was sort of a relief after everything was over and done with. With only around two weeks left of my stay here Taiwan, we decided to travel a bit to pay relatives and friends a visit, and also to thank them for their support throughout these difficult times.
First stop was Chiayi (嘉義), where my dad was born and where most of my relatives are. A little provincial city, most famous for its “chicken rice” (actually made from turkey meat) and for the nearby Alishan mountain resort, it is a must-go place for me. The relatives greeted us warmly and made us feel right at home. We thanked them for being there for dad, and taking care of dad all these years, and over sumptuous feasts, we talked about dad and the things that made him special. The food was exquisite, and there was more than enough for everyone who sat around the big round table which is supposed to symbolise the unity of the family. But I was not hungry, and only eating as much as I could, smiling as much as I must. Some told of the last time they saw dad, of how happy and energetic-looking he still was not more than two months ago. And now the empty extra chair looks especially empty.
It was a whirlwind trip, and I saw everyone that I wanted to see, and even visited the ancestral shrine to pay respects to my grandparents. They were the ones who raised my dad, and his five other siblings, through simply repairing bicycles and washing clothes for other people. I remember the little workshop still, which was not much bigger than perhaps 10m squared. I used to play there, and flip through the cupboards and drawers to find all sorts of rusty repair tools and nails and cogs and bike chains. And there were huge rats too, gray and swift that would run from one side of the room to the other while nobody paid attention. And then there were the stray dogs that nobody wanted, but which wandered past daily, because my grandma would kindly leave leftovers for them to eat. I spent many summers in that little house, keeping my grandma company. And only now and then would any of the children come home to visit.
That little workshops is now a brand-new four storey apartment. There is nothing left of the workshop, or of the dark, narrow corridors of the house where my dad grew up in. instead outside is the main thoroughfare, and the first floor is rented out to a lottery shop, which attracts hundreds of fortune-seekers everyday. How times have changed! All that remains are two portraits of my grandma, and my grandpa, who I have no memory of because he passed away when I was just two years old. Yet, the more I look at grandpa’s black and white portrait, the more I am reminded of my dad… the same thin, high cheeks and high forehead, the powerful eyes and bushy eyebrows, and the same faint smile.
I left Chiayi, left the hustling cars and motorcycles and the neat rice paddies that stretch on for as far as the eyes can see, and headed toward central Taiwan. Our destination was Puli, a sleepy town surrounded by mountains and famed for its scenery and unspoiled environment. Back in 1999, when one of the fiercest earthquakes in recent years struck, the region was the most devastated. Over two thousand people died, most instantly from fallen buildings, others from mountains that literally imploded or solid ground that shifted for kilometers. Today, the barren mountain tops entering Puli carry a memorial to the devastating force of nature, but slowly green is returning to land that were for many years just soil.
I first came to Puli (埔里)in the cool of early Autumn around two years ago. There lived a Theravada bhikkhu (Buddhist monk) in the mountains, they said. Many go to him seeking counseling and the Dharma, and many return home happy and temporarily enlightened by his wisdom, I heard. I went there not knowing what I would find, and only had clothes for two days. In the end I stayed for three weeks, and went back again two more times to stay there more.
It may be the magnificent scenery, overlooking a valley surrounded by mountains that change their moods as the weather transforms from moment to moment that attract me. Perhaps it is the amazing sunset, or the call of insects and croaking of frogs, or perhaps the swift, free motions of little swallows and watchful eagles circling in the skies. The loving dogs that live there make great company too. But I think, most of all, it is the tranquility that makes me so grateful for being able to discover such a wonderful place, and it is the warmth and love of those there that make the place a home I could return to whenever I wish.
This time around, I was able to take my mum and my brother along with me. Throughout all the things that have happened in the past month, and that are still happening now, I wanted nothing more than show my family this wondrous place, and let them come into contact with the bhikkhu who has been there, either in prayers or in mails, to support and cousel me whenever I am in need. Indeed, upon arrival my mum and brother became relaxed, and took in deep breaths of fresh air and the surrounding scenery, as their thoughts seemed to let go of the troubles and noises in the city.
I found some of the answers I had been searching for. Ever since dad passed away, to be honest, I have not felt much sadness or shed many tears. I feared it was simple indifference, that I was losing my 'human-ness', especially in the light of an event which would normally make any one distraught. But no, my silence and calm is not indifference, I learned, but a natural reaction which comes when you know you have done the right thing while the person was alive. Because you have nothing to regret and nothing to be remorseful about, you are able to face the death of someone with a tranquil mind and heart, like I did. Instead of sadness and tears, I smiled and at the thought of dad's kindness and felt warm just thinking of the many sacrifices dad had made. Indifference is when you feel nothing, but truth be told, I did, and still do feel dad's passing.
The bhikkhu counseled me, and I felt refreshed and touched from the fact that he could see into my mind and speak my thoughts like very few could. Once again, as with so many times in the past few weeks, I felt this surge of gratitude I cannot express... the kind of gratitude that arises from such simple acts or words of kindness from a complete stranger... from the care of nurses who were with my parents while they were in hospital... from the support family members who were there to stand by me as we struggled through difficult times. And in Puli, I felt deep gratitude toward the bhikkhu, and others, who offered my family and I shelter and comfort in times of distress and confusion; who offered us the time and the compassion and understanding so that we are able to heal gradually from having the fortune to come into contact with so much beauty and kindness.
How does one 'repay' such kindness, such compassion and support? By doing the best we can, by being kind to others, by seflessly helping and being (for)giving to others in need, or even when they are not in need. It is like that movie Pay it Forward, which stresses what goodness the kindness of an individual can bring to the world and make it a better place.
I waved and hugged my friends and relatives goodbye. I would turn back occassionally to wave again and again as I slowly went further and further away. One thing that is certain is that life is uncertain, and who knows when I will return , or whether I will see these people again... but as I waved goodbye, my mind was once again awash with the pleasant thoughts of the warmth and gratitude I feel towards these people.
Dad would have loved the Formosan Lilies. How beautiful they were, how fragile, yet at the same time so fancy and fragrant. Pure white, with a blush of pink and red. The flower, being the unofficial national flower associated with qualities of purity, grace, vitality and courage that embody the Aboriginal Peoples of Taiwan, is often used to adorn funeral halls. Perhaps these are the very qualities that the family members need to carry on life after death.
The lilies surrounded dad’s portrait. Serene, and magnificent. My mind was against awash with a strange sense of calmness, the same kind of calmness I experienced as dad’s life slipped away in my hands. Dad’s smile felt so warming, and so close to heart. I stood there silently for a moment, and admired the flowers. Some lilies were already open, radiating a pleasant scent throughout the room, while others have yet to blossom. Whatever state the bud is in, one thing is certain: all will one day bloom, take on its natural beauty, but will also eventually wilt and perish. That is the nature of all life.
Aptly named bai3he2 (百合), the literal translation of the Mandarin term for lily is “perpetual union”. For perhaps it is true that death does strangely bring people together. Relatives and friends gathered in the hall well before the official ceremony began at 11 in the morning. Relatives and friends slowly drifted into the small hall. I nodded to them with a faint smile and bowed gently with my hands together before my chest as a gesture of respect and gratitude for their coming.
Many had ventured from hundreds of kilometres away to bid dad farewell. An aunt, the youngest sister of my dad, flew all the way from the States just to attend the final ceremony. Solemn were their faces, moist their eyes and noses from personal memories and mourning of a quiet beloved man who gave much but asked little in return.
Much bowing, prostrating, kowtowing followed, all in accordance with age-old traditions. Not only
my brother and I must show to pay respects to dad and show him filial piety, also the attending relatives and friends must bow before dad and offer him food and flowers. As dad’s sons, our role in the whole ceremony is more elaborate, for we must show deep reverence towards him, and bow before him various times at various intervals. Personally, it seemed more like an overtly and carefully choreographed public display of how filial and virtuous as sons we were, when actually real respect and real gratitude comes from deep inside.
In a private reception with dad, I saw him lying in the coffin. Most of his body were covered with a yellow cloth bearing the markings of Buddhist prayers written in Sanskrit. But I could see the black suit, red tie, and white shirt with pale thin vertical stripes that we had carefully chosen out for him to wear on this final leg of his journey in this world. By his feet, lay four sets of clothing, which as tradition dictates, is meant for each season of the year.
Dad’s eyes were closed, but his mouth was still half open from the moment when he passed away in the hospital, when he was wearing a respirator mask. His eyebrows were thick, as I remember them, yet there were little hairlets that were clinging onto his cheeks, which were perhaps left there in the haste to make dad still cosmetically viewable after almost an entire month in the freezer.
Before seeing him, I thought seeing dad again would trigger me to burst into tears and howl at his side. But seeing dad again I did not feel frightened, neither did at all I feel pain from sadness. Instead, I knelt down next to him, and spoke to him in silence…
I wished him happiness, good health, and most of all, peace forever after. Silently I told him to take good care of himself, and thanked him again, as I have done many times before, for all he has given me, and more. I pressed my fingers against my lips, and placed my fingers on dad’s forehead to ‘kiss’ him goodbye. My fingers felt ice, ice cold, and my touch smudged the thick make up a little. The heavy breathing in that hospital ward, the beeping of dad’s heart as monitored by a machine were distant memories.
In the background, a small orchestra played traditional Taiwanese flutes to the tunes of one of my favourite songs. The lyrics carry the ageless written wisdom of a poet in the Sung Dynast, over a thousand years ago. The words that most suits dad’s final farewell are beautifully captured in the verse:
People have their griefs and joys, their togetherness and separation, The moon has its dark and clear times, its waxings and wanings. Situations are never ideal since long ago. I only hope we two may have long long lives, So that we may share the moon's beauty even though we are a thousand miles apart.
Though we are now more than merely a thousand miles apart, deep down inside, I know that many parts of dad and me are still intricately intertwined and bound together. In the final letter that I wrote dad, and in the dozens of old pictures that accompanied dad’s coffin into the cremation furnace are countless memories of words and places, emotions and hugs that dad and I shared together. Priceless memories can never be burnt, nor turned into ash.
Into the furnace dad went. Then it dawned upon me… I would never be able to gaze upon dad’s face ever again, at least not in real life… this was the final and ultimate moment of farewell, as the steel forks lifted dad’s coffin into the furnace and the doors slowly shut.
Out of the furnace dad came. An hour later. Ash and bones. Bones, broken and evenly smashed by machines. Bones, some slightly dyed green and orange, remnants of the medicine that were injected into dad’s body during his first and last chemo-therapy. Brother and I picked at the bones, and placed them into the marble urn we had chosen.
Dad's clothes carried his smell. I sat on his bed, as mum and brother gathered around and cleared out his closet. For the past month or so, we dare not disturb his room too much. I only went in in the evenings to turn on the light, the one he used to use to spend hours reading with. For the rest, his belongings, mug, papers, and glasses lie resting peacefully as they were the day he was brought into the hospital.
Brother wiped his tears. Mum sobbed. I remained still, and continued folding the clothes dad would need to take with him, when he finally crosses over to the Other World tomorrow.
"Up till this age, I have never folded dad's clothes before," brother said, sadly. More tears flowed. I remained still, memories of dad's smile and kindness in my heart, the scent of dad's odour drifting up my nose, and the feel of the fabric soft on my fingers.
"Think of the good things about dad," mum said.
Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye. The musical steps of the library you used to climb up and down daily... the green nature clouded in mist and wafting with the smell of fresh sulphur in the mountains you so loved to loose yourself in... the restaurants we shared many meals and many precious moments in... the living room where we sat in, sometimes in silence, other times, chatting, catching up and sharing life stories, the hospital ward where you so peacefully passed away in my arms, in the company my prayers and butterfly kisses,
Dad... the past few weeks, I have tried to go to the places you went before. I have tried to go see the sights and hear the sounds that were once so familiar to you, and to me. But nowhere, not in the bedroom where you told me bedtime stories and held me in your arms to sleep, not in the offices where you toiled night and day to provide us a decent and carefree living, nowhere holds the memory of your being and life more freshly than in my heart and soul...
I know I may not have been the perfect son, dad, as I did not go to Cambridge, as you would have liked, and I never had a girlfriend you had hoped for. I know sometimes I made you angry because of my stubbornness and live-and-let-live attitude to life and all that it brings. I know I may not have attached the same importance to pride and material enrichment as you did, and perhaps I have been blunt and rude in saying certain things that a child should never have said. But even so, even despite all my flaws, throughout my life you have stood by my decisions and choices, and supported me wherever I went.
You gave me the freedom to excel in the subjects I loved most, you gave me the means to travel the world and see peoples and cultures that make me richer than many others. You gave the the freedom to discover the world, and learn from my own mistakes, and you gave me the means to spread my wings and fly, when others were still save and sheltered. Most of all, in your silence and in your tender sternness, you held high hopes for my future, even though I at times had none.
Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye. I hope you can be proud of me, proud of me for what I have done, and for what I have still yet to achieve. As ever, I do not know where the future will take me, and this may be a source of worry for you, as always. But believe me, dad, I will try and I know I will succeed, as always. For I know, behind me, even though you are no longer there, you will be there to support me.
How you have sacrificed yourself, how you have worked so hard to provide for me, I will never realise. And sadly, I will never ever be able to return the favour. I can only hope that with my quiet determination, hard-work and humble virtues, I will one day be able to contribute some good to the world, as you have always hoped for.
Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye. Your passing left behind scores of memories, beautiful and vivid. Of course, as with everything in life, there were dark periods and solemn memories... but your presence and life in my life, and in the lives of others, is too precious to be clouded by obscure thoughts.When I think back, I cannot but smile and feel my insides warm up in comfort. And I hope your memory will forever continue to live on within me, and be captured by these little words.
As I flipped through the photo albums in your room, I am touched and brought back in time by the countless pictures of you... of you in your vibrant youth, of you in those days when we were living abroard... of you holding my hand, hand in hand, passing through the years of innocence. How young we were then, how happy and free. I hope tomorrow you will take these pictures with you, and forever treasure the people who loved and cared for you dearest of all. Know that, though in your final years we slowly grew apart due to time and distance, in my heart, dreams and memories, your face and your words still stay with me.
Time to say goodbye, dearest dad. Time to bid farewell, however difficult and painful it may be. Time to wish you a peaceful onward journey, as you go further and further away, and gradually vanish away like dust in the wind. I have been able to keep my eyes dry till now, I have spoken to you everyday when I offer your food and cigarettes, but I am not sure whether I can hold myself tomorrow. But know, dearest dad, know that should tears flow down my cheeks, should I turn away and sob, I am forever grateful to have known you, to have been cared for by you... and to have been loved so dearly by you, even though you never said it out loud.
Memories of you may fade, as the pain and the love may fade with time, but the fact that I owe my life and successes to you and your sacrifices, hopes and dreams will remain, forever, and ever.
Dearest dad... May you be peaceful, May you be free, May you be happy, And may you be free from all sorts of suffering, Forever and ever...
your son, yours forever, WeiWei 偉偉
"Time to say goodbye"
When I'm alone I dream on the horizon And words fail; Yes, I know there is no light In a room Where the sun is not there If you are not with me. At the windows Show everyone my heart Which you set alight; Enclose within me The light you Encountered on the street.
Time to say goodbye, To countries I never Saw and shared with you, Now, yes, I shall experience them, I'll go with you On ships across seas Which, I know, No, no, exist no longer; With you I shall experience them.
When you are far away I dream on the horizon And words fail, And yes, I know That you are with me; You, my moon, are here with me, My sun, you are here with me. With me, with me, with me,
Time to say goodbye, To countries I never Saw and shared with you, Now, yes, I shall experience them, I'll go with you On ships across seas Which, I know, No, no, exist no longer; With you I shall re-experience them. I'll go with you On ships across seas Which, I know, No, no, exist no longer; With you I shall re-experience them. I'll go with you, I with you.
