"David!"

It is unimaginable how difficult it is to take care of a baby. Just being with one alone for a couple of hours is exhausting. My godson's sleeping next to me now, tired from an entire morning of 'sword fighting' with a badminton racket and vacuum machine tube, overly excited from watching disc after disc from his huge Disney DVD collection.

How quiet he is, silently snoring, his little stomach falling and rising with the rythmic breathing and with the beating of his little heart. What a precious little being, and almost two.

I have been here three days, and we seem to be getting closer. No longer does he start to scream when I try to hold him. When he hurt his little finger playing earlier, he walked up to me, and stretched his arms out, wanting me to hug him, to hold him, to comfort him. I held him on my shoulder, and whispered in his ears. "It's alright... It's alright... Aslan is a big boy." He seemed to understood, and stopped crying. A tear, streaking half way down his soft cheek, stopped in its track. And he smiled. He looked deeply into my eyes, as I stroked the sore part of his finger, and he smiled ever so sweetly.

There are those moments, such as those, which are so precious that it moves you. Looking into a baby's eyes, it seems as if you are looking into your own... deep down inside, an innocent and curious creature is playing around and exploring the world still. And when he graps onto your fingers, and clings close to your body, you would you wish the moment would last.

But a baby is a curious little being, and every moment something new attracts its attention, and off he goes to touch, feel, play, and be up to something that will make you have to clean up long after he has moved on to fumble with another thing that he really should not be touching. Especially my godson could be such a handful. Even his nanny has commented that he is "one naughty after another naughty"... one moment he could be playing with his mother's makeup kit, drawing his own legs and knees with black eyeliner, and the next minute he could have his fingers on the bucket, and just before you try to stop him, the mop will have fallen, and dirty water will have spilled all over the place. As you try to mop the floor clean, he is playing with the kitchen cupboard, and taking out all sorts of noodle bits and trying to build something on the floor. You tell him "No!" and he goes into his room, and starts to bang the door loudly, again, and again and again, till your ears are sore and mind starting to irritate. You raise your voice, but he looks back at you, appealing for sympathy, for after all, he is but a baby. But a clever and mischievous one at that.

In those moments when he has done something incredibly dangerous, like licking on a knife for left over bits of chocolate paste, or playing with the electric socket, I wonder how my mum used to be. Was I ever so naughty? Did I also make her feel like there is only so much more she could take? And yet, all these years, she has remained with me, given me love, warmth and care like no other in the world would. She did that, while having a long and tiring job, while having to take care of my brother and my dad. And there was me to take care, me, being the youngest and smallest of them all. How could I ever repay that, in any way?

I sit next to Aslan, sleeping still, and still sleeping. His breathing light and gentle. How peaceful he looks, how angelic and loving. Let no one take that peace and love from him.

Istanbul: mini Europe and Asia

Istanbul first caught my sight as my plane ascended slowly and soared toward Israel. Gradually, the city's bright light captured my attention outside the little plane window. The higher the plane flew, the more of the city I was able to see. A bustling expanse of yellow lights, shining and straddling the tips of two world continents. I liked it as soon as I saw it.

Four days later, I would have another opportunity to see the city from close up. Transiting in Ataturk International Airport, I had around six hours before my onward flight. A friend of mine told me I would be risking it if I rushed to the city centre and did some sightseeing and then rushed back to catch my flight. But then again, he did not know how good I am with directions, and he certainly did not know how acute my 'rat' senses are in finding my way around foreign places.

Within half an hour of landing, I was riding the light railway toward the Sultanahmet. The elevated train passed commercial parks, highways, and apartment blocks, between which huge Turkish flags draped and flew majestically in the wind. Like Israel, this was another country where patriotism is a national hobby, and where insulting the country or Turkish identity is (in)famously liable for a hefty prison sentence. Thankfully there was no for me mention the Armenian Genocide.

Transferring to the city tram that would snake further toward my destination was a easy, as I seem to have a natural affinity with public transport systems in whichever city. I stood there, amid rush hour traffic, blending into the crowd of commuters of veiled women, business men in suits, and trendy youngsters on their way to school. Outside, the scenery reminded me of any other large European city, the only difference being the language, and this indescribably sense of vibrancy and energy that hung in the air. Of course, this was only Istanbul, and not at all representative of the whole of Turkey. But I did not feel a stranger here more than anywhere else I have been in Europe. And is this diversity and acceptance of difference what many Europeans fear? Yellow taxis vied with buses, automobiles and motorcycles for limited spaces on the congested narrow streets. The modern public tram seemed to leave this all behind, as it swiftly moved forward.

I searched for a good place to get off... should I go take the ferry first, or go see the renowned Blue Mosque? Or perhaps the Great Bazaar, or take the old funicular railway up the hill? In the end, it was my hungry stomach, and the sight of a long queue outside a bakery that made the decision for me. Within minutes, I was munching on croissant-like buns, and washing it down with freshly squeezed carrot juice. Believe me, four days of eating nothing but matza crackers, matza buns, matza everything, any bread, especially freshly baked and still warm in your mouth, was a heavenly delight.

Spilling my carrot juice all over myself I wandered the streets of Istanbul. The wind was freezing, and I had only a light hoody and sweater on, which meant I was shivering on the outside, but excited on the inside. The mighty Bosphorus called with its winds and waves, and I was attracted to it immediately. Close to the embankment, I could see the city with its split personality, sprawlingly divided on three shores. Ferries rode the waves to and fro, as trams and buses rushed on the roads and pedestrians swarmed the pavements, hurrying on their way to unknown destinations. I stood and watched all this buzzing energy around me, as the city and its life started to grow on me and entice me even more.

I boarded a random ferry, and set sail with the seagulls that flew next to me, escorting me out into the open waters. On the map, it seemed like no more than a broad river that separates the city into two, but out there on the mighty waves and in the fierce winds, you could not but be awed by the immensity of this channel that not only marks the physical divide between Asia and Europe, but also links the Black Sea with the Marmara and Mediterranean. Behind us, the ferry trailed a white confusion of bubbles and foam. Around us, in the distance not so far away, lay a fascinating mixture of ancient fortresses matching descriptions in 1001 Arabian Nights. Here and there, dotted the soaring minarets of majestic mosques next to swarms of colourful buildings of all shapes and sizes, of origins Oriental and Occidental, with in the background a host of towering modern skyscrapers. Normally, before visiting a place I would have all the history and background of famous buildings mapped out in my head, but this ignorance from not knowing what I was looking at was a strange form of bliss. I could just sit back, relax, pull on my clothes to keep warm, and enjoy the scenery.

I wandered through the cobbled streets, unsure where I was going. But my feet somehow took me to a mosque (which I later learned was the New Mosque, built in 1663). Never have I been so close to a mosque before, and I carefully tread into the hallowed grounds. I looked up, admiring the beautifully carved domes, the sharp spires of the minarets, and the gilded crescent moon, visible behind a flock of lowflying pigeons... Suddenly, I felt something brush against my feet, which immediately gave me the creeps. I looked down, and saw a pair of green eyes look back at me, softly and seeking attention. A sweet brown and white cat had parked herself on my feet, and was butting against my knees with her head, miouwing softly. My first and only friend in Istanbul, who seemed to want to follow me wherever I went. Except, she somehow knew not to enter the mosque when I did.

The high domed roof and glass-stained windows, colourfully decorated tiles on ceilings and walls, exotically carpeted floors, gilded railings and attractive calligraphy inscriptions together were beyond words. In the serenity of the mosque, I felt I was intruding, but then again my lonely presence was rivalled by the commotion of a group of tourists that entered as I turned to leave.

I ventured in an unknown direction, letting my feet and instincts lead the way. In a grass field were dazzling blooming tulips, right before me in the land where they originated from (thus not the Netherlands, despite common misconception). Going further, I was led into narrow alleyways that fed into other sidestreets, which flowed into yet other lanes that were full of shoppers. All sorts of merchandise, from fresh food to cloth to daily appliances to delicatessens to souvenirs were on display, and lead the way towards the famous Grand Bazaar. If going to the local market in The Hague was exciting, the experience in the Bazaar was bewildering. All those smells, sights and sounds was dizzying to experience at once, and I was torn between slowly admiring it all and the urge to soon find a way to the tram that will shuttle me to catch my flight. After haggling for some cheap souvenirs, and increasing my luggage load, I sped toward the exit, into the lazy midday sun, pushing past crowds of shoppers and vendors, and eventually found the stop where I needed to be.

On I went to the airport, on my way home. But I made it a promise to myself that one day soon I would come back here again.

Israel: Borderlands

In front of us were the white cliffs of Rosh Ha Nikra. Between us and the blue, blue Mediterranean, a stretch of white sand that stretch for 10 kilometres up to the Israeli-Lebanese border. Beneath us, bicycles we had stumbled and hopped on just moments before, and had ridden to get away from the unbearable traffic and din of the city.

We cruised down the beach, smiles on our faces. There is something about a bike, and the freedom that comes with it, that makes me so happy. It makes me so happy, that my friend noticed it, and how it made me smile like I have not done for a long, long time. It makes me happy to feel the breeze in my hair, to know that, for a few precious moments in life, I can be in total control of the way, and speed, to get to a place I want to go. For a person whose life is basically rudderless and going with the flow of things, that is a precious experience... just as precious as the beauty of the calm waves, the clarity and freedom of the mind and soul mixing with the humming sound of tires echoing on the path below.

All that water before me, silent, vast, and endless... Somehow it all connected with the all waters of the Pacific that wave so peacefully below the mountains where my late dad now rests. Like many moments in the past few days, moments in which I experience profound beauty and awe, I again could not but prevent myself thinking of him. Once more, I was reminded of how dad was missing all this, how he could never have a chance to experience and enjoy what I could, and still can... A gull called, and brought me back to the silent waves, to the whispering winds. My friend too seemed deep in thought.

On an empty stretch of beach we sat. If you just stared out to sea, if you just listened to the slight whisper of the warm wind next to your ears, you could not begin to imagine how surreal it is that less than two years ago, rockets were raining down on the very towns of Haifa and Nahariya (among others) that we had just passed by on the train journey northward. We were close to the borderlands, the area which three successive wars, and countless little scuffles, had left behind carcasses of rusty tanks and a deep entrenched scar made of barbed wire and outposts that ran on the top of the hills separating Lebanon and Israel. All it would take is a bullet, or some mad soldier, from either side and the would once again become the firing range triggered by deep-seated animosity and distrust. A sail boat, a fishing boat... and look closer, and you would see an Reshef-class rocketship waltzing around and keeping the peace in Israeli waters.


But further we did go. After doing the must-see Rosh HaNikra grottoes, pushing our way through the underground caves and past loud families with obnoxious children, we ventured toward the border. For us international lawyers, it seemed like the 'right' thing to do, even though I deep down I knew it was really risking a lot. Signs along the border constantly remind the wandering and daring tourist not to go any further. But we went further, as if they were not there. An Israeli army jeep stopped at a gate, where we stood and pretended to admire the sea that lay beneath our feet. The soldiers seemed to be aware of us, and did not leave the area until we made our way down the slopes again.

We did not return to the beach like 'normal' tourist would. Instead, we took a dirt path that lead to an area that was overgrown with wild shrubs, and that had picknick tables that seemed to have been out of use for a long, long time. Again, another sign warned us (with three exclamation marks) that the border was ahead, and told us to stop. But stop we did not, and instead seemed to taunt the warnings by going further. The lost boot of an unfortunate soldier randomly lay in the middle of the track, the skin dusty, torn and eroded in the blazing sun. Memorials rested on either side, dedicated to the pioneers who had laid the founding blocks of the towns and kibbutz in the area. A crème-coloured tank slept camouflaged in the bushes, its belly webbed over with cobwebs, the metal peeling with rust, the turret pointing out to the rocketship still leisurely sailing on the Mediterranean.

"Let's go up the hill," my friend said. I hesitated, because it looked steep, and to be honest I was a little afraid. Standing there in my bright blue swimming trunks was not exactly the best form of camouflage in an area notorious for kidnappings by Hezbollah fighters who would not flinch to snipe you from afar. And I knew, beyond that ridge, up there, we would be able to see Lebanon... and Lebanon would be able to see us.

I was still unsure, but this is when my own sense of insecurity contrasted greatly with my friend's feel for adventure. She was someone who relied on her natural instincts, who loved her freedom, and who acted on the whim of her feelings. She was one who would never let anyone tie her down or restrict her dreams or wishes. And for that I admired her... but to be honest sometimes was a little afraid of, for compared to her, I was a tame city-boy, afraid of a slight cut or a bruise.

She leapt ahead, and starting to climb. Rocks rolled under her feet, and triggered a little avalanche as loose pebbles slightly crumbled and tumbled down the hill. I followed, carefully, trailing the path that she had created before me. A sudden pain I felt through my shorts, and I turned to see that sharp needle-like thorns had poked themselves into my skin and made a number of scratches. I moved on up, regreting that perhaps my Birkenstocks may not have been the most clever climbing gear on this hill that was getting steeper. Looking up at the ridge above, at what lay beyond that corner, and at what may lie before us if we could make it up there, I silently wished we would make it up there without being noticed.

Then I slipped and fell, smashing to the ground on my side, and as I would later discover, smashing the camera I had stupidly put in my pocket. The pain was instant, as I had scraped my palm as I tried to stabilise and prevent myself from falling further. The camera struck my upper thigh, and I was sure I would bruise later. I did not want to continue any more, and momentarily started to shake from the fall, but I told my friend to go ahead, as I sat in the blazing heat and waited for her return.

Sitting there, halfway up the hill, surrounded by thorny bushes and shrubs, I felt like vulnerable. I tried to cover myself by pulling my shirt over my head, but it felt ridiculous. I looked around, and explored the land below... the town with well-maintained groves and green lawns, the stretch of white sands that shimmered in the hot afternoon sun, the gorgeous blue, blue hue of the sea that spread into the horizon. And here I was, alone in no-man's land, while my friend had gone on an adventure without me. Perhaps I was even being watched... by some bearded and hidden Hezbollah soldier... or by some wild creature hiding in the bushes nearby, that had earlier given us quite a scare. The melodramatic mind of mine wondered whether I would have to wait here until nightfall...

My pocket trembled. A text message from my friend. I turned around, to see her waving at me from the top of a large boulder on the hilltop. I waved back, relieved to see her, and mostly, to see her still alive and well. I made my way downhill, as agreed, and loitered around the bushes next to the defunct tank, and waited for her to appear. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then another ten... but still there was no sign of her. I started to wander, and wonder where she had gone, and in my mind I recalled the terrible things I had read in the news what they do to kidnapped tourists or foreigners... terrible things. Ahead was the barbed high fence that cordoned off the abandoned picknick area, and which reminded me again that we should not have been there. A white fertiliser bag floated like a fallen balloon down the hill, and landed not far away. I picked it up, and started to wave it around, hoping it would get some attention, especially that of my friend, who seemed to have simply vanished. I dared not call or sms her, for fear that might trigger unwanted attention on her part. The rocketship still circled the bay, keeping a close watch, and in the distance I could hear the gentle rumble of jeep engines as they climbed the military road up toward the hill.

"Davvvvid...! Daviiiid!"

I walked up to her, and gave her a big hug, , excited to hear the sound of my friends voice, and relieved to see her image appear from behind the bushes. "You're alive!"

Of course she was. She has gone through so much adventure, so much more in her life, and come out strong and unscathed, if not stronger and more thick-skinned. And this little venture into one of the most potentially volatile places on Earth seemed no exception. Her smile, bravery and sense of personal accomplishment brushed away whatever fear or hesitation that was there, if ever they were there. Behind us, the border stretched, unmarked, still, and still deadly as ever.


We sat in the pool, our own private pool, and felt the sea weed tickle our feet. The water was colder than expected, the current strong, and I had difficulties standing on my feet. Waves washed again and again in my direction, trying to push me down, and make me stumble and fall. More than once I stubbed my toe, and felt the salt seep into the wounds and cuts from the jagged, potholed rocks. Below me was a world of fish and serene green, waiting to be explored, waiting to be visited, but choking on the sea water I could not but go up to the surface again, and feel the waves push me back ashore. I sat there, for a while, watched the waves brush by, watched the setting sun dance and sparkle on the surface of the sea. The same sea that connected with everything else half way around the world.

Behind us, the border stretched, the dangers, the warning signs, and the potential for an outbreak of war and raining rockets, far, far away.

Israel: Sands from Different Lands

I clean my feet, and there are grains of sand between my toes.

Where did they come from? Are they Israeli or Palestinian?

Insignificant, only annoying little grains that get everywhere, in your shoes, on your clothes, in your bags, and sometimes if you are not careful, in your eyes. Brush them away, and they fall to the ground to rejoin countless others. They disappear, and blow away in the wind.

It does not really matter where they are from, at least not to a wandering tourist, who has the freedom of travel between lands, and who can bring sands to and from different lands. But to the Israeli or the Palestinian it is another story altogether. The reason being, they are divided. Not just by an "Apartheid Wall", or "separation fence" (even the same object has a different name for Palestinians and Israelis), but by the different mentalities, visions, histories and religions. One thing they do share is the land, and perhaps even the shared fate of having to co-exist and worship with one another. No where is this more visible than in the Holy City of Jerusalem.

To a non-believer of any of the world religions of Judaism, Islam or Christianity, the Old City's narrow alleyways, churches, synagogues and mosques perhaps hold little spiritual significance. But navigating the maze of criss-crossing cobble-stone paths and the tight spaces between tourists and hawkers, it is hard to imagine that this little piece of Earth brings together people from the world over. Whether for the women in hijabs, or kipa-wearing children, or for those with rosemary beads around their necks, the devotion and longing for refuge in their respective faiths and gods is pure. I can only admire from afar how men bow before the Wailing Wall, murmuring unintelligible words from the Tora, while white pieces of paper stuffed in every crack in the wall contain the prayers and dreams of individuals. Hopes of good health, wishes of success, desires for religious salvation, prayers for family and friends. Despite all our differences, we are united in our common humanity, and in our common desire for peace. I gently lay my palm on the Wall, and closed my eyes temporarily.

A few meters above, the gilded Dome of the Rock stands above Wailing Wall. Built on the site of Jews' Holy Temple, the Dome is believed to be where Mohammed ascended to heaven. In the confusion below, Via Dolorosa (Way of Sorrows) is said to be the very path that Jesus took with the cros on his shoulder, with along the way various stations (statio) where Jesus was condemned to death, where he encountered his mother Maria, and the points where he fell. Beyond the tall walls of the Old City, is a valley and green hill that is the sacred Mount of Olives, which appears at various points in the Bible. But my friend and I were not so much interested in the happenings and legends of a book written eons ago, but more in writing adventures that would remain in our minds.


Our feet took us beyond the walls of the Old City, and to the other side of Jerusalem. The billboards became scribbles in Arabic, and the faces and clothing of the people around us also changed. At Damascus Gate, we asked around for a sherut (shared taxi) which would take us to the ancient city of Jericho. Problem was, Jericho was situated in the Palestinian Territories. An Israeli soldier had earlier tried to discourage us going there, but of course any Israeli would say that about places where being an Israeli could potentially mean risking one's life by entering. We defied the warning, and boarded a minibus, crowded in between Palestinian Arabs. There is no better way to travel than with the locals.

The minibus escaped the crowd and heat of the city, and was soon cruising down the slopes beyond Jerusalem. The beautiful greenery of the Mount of Olives faded as we navigated toward the Palestinian Territories. Perched idyllically on top of hills, and enjoying a vantage point over the land below, were sturdily built mansions within Israeli settlements. Surrounding them, big fences and gates and barriers to keep out burglars, and Palestinians. The minibus chugged onward, made a turn, and the scenery began to change.

No more well-maintained and well paved roads, no more neatly decorated houses. Instead, the ride became bumpier with each pot-hole the tires jumped beneath us. The houses looked run-down, the streets were filled with uncollected garbage and the white-pollution of lost plastic bags, and randomly a camel or donkey was parked at a roundabout waiting to pick up passengers. Children ran in the streets, defunct tires, coke cans and wild shrubs their playground. Outside the window, a concrete slabs of gray rose in the distance, covered with graffiti and plastered with words of "Free Palestine", in scenes reminiscent of Berlin. What stark contrast.

For the first time, I realised that I was entering a place where I cannot read the language, as the script was in Arabic, and unlike the Romanised alphabets used in all the countries I have been before. Perhaps this, and especially the fact that we were unmistakably two naive tourists who are easy pray to unscrupulous profiteers, heightened my sense of alert, or even distrust of others. But these feelings subsided as we met kind people ready to help, and as the desert opened before us into a vast land and glistening sea before us, that outstretched like a magnificent painting.


Out of nowhere, a town appeared in the middle of the desert, sheltering at the foot of the Judean Mountains, some 250m below the sea level on the ridge of the Jordan Valley. Often said to be the oldest inhabited place of mankind, the history of the settlement dates back to over 11000 years. Indeed, the Old City of Jericho contains the ruined walls and skeletons of structures from thousands of years Before Christ. Despite the archaeological value of the site, it was poorly maintained, and even the fence that was supposed to keep people out of certain excavations were derelict and rusting in the desert sun. The Hisham Palace close by contained beautiful architecture dating from the Umayyad Dynasty (660-770), which chose the site as a hunting lodge. Beautifully carved columns, walls and moziac frescos adorn the floors and ceilings of the palace, but was completely destroyed by a series of severe earthquakes. Today the treasure that lay beneath our feet were covered in a deep layer of sand and neglect, and we had brush away the sand to discover what treasures lay around us.

The groundsman, a friendly Palestinian, spoke of the times before the Second Intifida, when busloads of tourists would visit Jericho and the nearby sacred Monastery of Temptation, where Jesus is said to have fasted for 40 days and nights and withstood the temptation of the Devil. We had to resist the constant nagging and pity-evoking begging of two young children who trailed behind us half way up the mountain. Today, few tourists come, and even the monastery was empty when we arrived.

"All the fault of the Israelis", the man said, bitterness and anger in his voice. I looked around his office and admired the posters with "Welcome to Palestine" written all over them. There was even one glorifying the late Yasser Arafat. "A hero. A good man," was the comment. Outside, the flag of Palestine flew in the wind, the same wind that would blow and blow and make an Israeli flag waver and flutter somewhere in the distance, far, far away. Close by, a bus full of children sang and clapped cheerily, and mischievous me was reminded of the scenes from a Palestinian children's programme which which he had seen earlier on Youtube .



I thought of the almost empty roads we had passed on the way into Jericho, and I thought of the Israeli checkpoint and the Palestinian checkpoint that we had to pass to get this far into Palestine. A hotel and casino on the outskirts of town is today providing space for mosquitos to reside in, as the Israeli tourists who before used to come here to relax now stay away due to the heightened state of security. Shacks dotted the main road, and signs identifying construction and developments projects funded by USAID and the EU could be seen here and there. The driver pointed to a refugee camp, where expelled Palestinians have been living in for 16 years, refugees who had been ousted of their homes and now live on the charity of a complacent international community. Beyond the wall of their camp is another wall, and barriers after barriers, which together prevent millions of Palestinians from a life of normalcy and of prospects of a better future. This is just the West Bank, and Jericho is still a relatively affluent town. The no-go area of Gaza, and surroundings is place where the livelihoods and lives of Israelis and foreigners cannot be fully guaranteed. Contrast this with the white-washed Presidential Compound, belonging to Arafat, which was only one of many he used to retreat to, or the well-to-do Israeli settlements behind high walls in the (occupied) fertile lands.

The sun was beginning to set, and we had to be on our way out of the Palestinian Territories. Curfew would begin in a couple of hours, and the safety of foreigners (trapped) behind the checkpoints of Israeli soldiers becomes ever more risky. We could show our passports, and the young Israeli soldier would friendlily smile at us (or even flirt), before we were on our way, back to Jerusalem, back to the relative peace and security of Israeli territory. But many more are not so lucky, if not privileged.

On my feet and sandals were the sands of Jericho, sands of the Palestinian Territories. Soon they would mingle with the sands of the Land of Israel.

And even sooner, noone would be able to tell which grain of sand is from which different land.

Israel: The Background

ERETZ-ISRAELwas the birthplace of the Jewish people. Here their spiritual, religious and political identity was shaped. Here they first attained to statehood, created cultural values of national and universal significance and gave to the world the eternal Book of Books.
(From Israeli Declaration of Independence)

To Jews all over the world, 15 May 1948 is the Israeli Day of Independence. To the Palestinians, it is the Day of Catastrophe (Nakba). The State of Israeli was born, realising the Zionist dream of a national home for the Jewish people in Land of Palestine, the Promised Land, the "Land flowing with milk and honey" (Exodus 33:3), the land that God had assigned for the Israelites. Though sporadic immigration of Jews to Palestine had begun in the late 19th Century, the Balfour Declaration of 1917 signalled the that the British:

" favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country".

Diaspora Jewish communities sent large amounts of money and resources in preparation of the establishment of a Jewish State, as more and more immigrants returned to the Promised Land of their forefathers (and foremothers). On the same small stretch of land claimed by the Jewish people, Arabs made their home there for already centuries. At the first the influx of Jewish settlers caused sporadic tensions between the new immigrants and resident Arabs, and this cumulated in serious incidents of violence between the two communities, who contended for the land and valuable water and other resources. The situation was further exacerbated with influx of refugees as a result of the "Calamity" (Shoah, or Holocaust) in Europe.

As with so many other post-colonial tragedies, the ailing British Empire crumbled and simply departed, leaving the the aftermaths for the nascent UN to deal with. The solution, or to some the cause of the problems today, was the Partition Plan for Palestine (UNGA resolution 181), which effectively allocated merely 43% of the Mandated Palestine to the creation of an Arab State, though Arab Palestinians comprised some two-thirds of the population at the time, while the one-third of Jews would be allocated some 56% of the territory for the creation of a Jewish State. The area of Greater Jerusalem would become an international zone (see Report of UN Special Commission on Palestine (UNSCOP 1947)).

This was the plan strongly opposed by Arab states, which were wary of some 33% of Arabs inside the Jewish state. But on the very day that the Partition Plan would go into effect, the State of Israel proclaimed its independence. As recognition trickled in, the Arab States of Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon and Iraq invaded the new state and started the War of Independence. The Israeli Defence Forces fought back the invading armies, and actually expanded its territory to beyond the Partition Plan. The Armistice Agreements of 1949 gave the new Israel a disproportionate portion of Mandatory Palestine, some 78%. Arabs living in now Israeli controlled territory left, while others were expelled, fuelling what would now be called the Palestinian refugee situation, which would worsen with each successive conflict between Israel and its Arab neighbourg.

The Six Day War in 1967 was when Israel struck to pre-emptively disable Egyptian preparations for another plan to destroy Israel. Again, Israel's territory expanded greatly, reaching the Sinai Desert, the whole of the West Bank and Gaza. The Yom Kippur War in 1973 provided the impetus for Israel to agree to a ceasefire with Egypt and Jordan, and eventually paved the way for peace, with the pre-1967 borders as the prerequisite for peace.

Throughout all this, the Arab Palestinians found themselves increasingly isolated within their homes, and abandoned by some of their Arab neighbours. With a large refugee population in neighbouring Jordan, Syria and Lebanon, pan-Arabism rallied under the (supposed) united flag of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation in the 1960s. Through what some would term as terror tactics, the PLO championed the cause and plight of the Palestinians, and eventually gained international recognition as the Palestinian Authorities responsible for administering the West Bank and Gaza. Even so, there are political elements within and without Palestine which advocate a extremist approach to dealing with Israel in the face of what is commonly viewed as the oppression and occupation of the Palestinian people. The First Intifada (Uprising, 1987-1993), gave expression to the frustration and anger of Palestinians in the light of continuing demolition of homes to make way for Jewish settlements within Palestinian territories, as well as continuing deportations, extra-judicial killings and restrictions on basic daily needs. The proclamation of Palestinian Independence in 1988 achieved little to quell this popular “War of Stones”, as the Palestinian Authorities did not have any effective control over the territories it claimed to govern.

A Second Intifada, starting in 2000, began with protests and strikes, and cumulated in increasing suicide bombings and launching of Qassam rockets into Israeli areas by the likes of extremist organisations as Hamas, and Hezbollah in Lebanon. To stifle the waves of violence, Israel in return erected checkpoints and barriers to hem in and hinder the free movement and activities of Palestinians in their own territories. The construction of a 'Security Barrier' around the West Bank, which is now approximately 60% complete and is supposed to prevent terrorist attacks, and cordons off Palestinians in their own lands. This Wall (for lack of a better term) effectively cut the West Bank into sniplets of Palestinian-controlled enclaves, which are like artificial islands surrounded by Israeli territory and controls.

Who would have thought that of all people, we would be 'privileged' enough to see former US-President Jimmy Carter deliver a press conference on his recent visits and talks with Syrian officials and Hamas. It was his labouring efforts that gave birth to the Camp David Accords in 1973. He recently aroused controversy with his new book "Palestine: Peace not Apartheid", which premises the root of the inability to reach a breakthrough in the current conflict on two origins:

- Some Israelis believe they have the right to confiscate and colonize Palestinian land and try to justify the sustained subjugation and persecution of increasingly hopeless and aggravated Palestinians; and

- Some Palestinians react by honoring suicide bombers as martyrs to be rewarded in heaven and consider the killing of Israelis as victories.

Though not officially endorsed by the Bush administration or by Israel, Carter's 'mission' to meet with players in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict has aroused suspicion. Though claiming not to shoulder the responsibility (or burden) of the "mediator", his city-hopping in the Middle East aimed to bridge dialogue and communication on different sides of the divide has brought criticism, especially as he is probably the first high-profile American to speak with the leader of Hamas, which the US and EU have branded as a terrorist organisation. Carter spoke so hopefully of "peace in our time", and spoke of Hamas' aspirations to "live as a neighbour next door in peace" with Israel. Yet, in typically politician-speak, Carter seemed to forget the continuing use of terrorist tactics by Hamas and continuing intimidation of the Israeli as well as dissenting Palestinian public. Listening to him speak of his tour of the Middle East, talk about plans for prisoner exchange, about how difficult the situation is, and how much need there is for dialogue, you cannot but feel like such words as "peace" and "dialogue" have been too often repeated and regurgitated, but to the detriment of any real progress in true peace and dialogue. The applause seemed luke-warm, and within minutes of the press conference ending, the horde of reporters and swarm of cameras that had gathered in the back of the hall at King David Hotel had disappeared. And so had Carter.

But the conflict, non-recognition and tensions rage on and on, as they have for decades, and as they will continue to do so for the foreseeable future to come.

Israel: Desert and Dead Sea

We drove across in a narrow, winding valley toward the West Bank. Having only arrived merely six hours earlier at 2am, I was surprisingly awake. The excitement of being in a completely new country, and the adrenaline rushing from the sights and things never before seen, and waiting to be seen, drained away the sleepiness.

The skyline of modern Tel Aviv faded behind us, and vast fields gradually opened up around us.
Not the usual kind of green grass fields familiar to the Netherlands, as the ground was more arid, and the vegetation sparse. And the more we drove eastward, the drier, and therefore less green and grown the land would become. Along the roads were tall big billboards, but they were covered with black cloth, shielding whatever sign of capitalism lurked beneath. The locals had protested the erection of advertising billboards along Israel's highways, as they complained that valuable open spaces and beauty were being taken away from these signs, which formed an eyesore. A court ruling found in favour of an environmentalist group, and hence the Knesset (parliament) will be waiting to see what law can be passed regarding these now covered billboards.



For the first time, I saw date trees tower over the land, grown in neatly cultivated rows and columns, looking like palm trees, only with much bushier treetops. Somehow, this tropical looking tree reminded me of Asia, but then again the strange combination of pines, olive groves, and eucalyptuses and tall needle-like cypresses crowded in the same land. Of the latter, Israeli children are brought up with stories of these dark, thin and versatile trees that stand so tall and so strong, and that bend and swagger with the wind, yet do not fall. It is a symbolic metaphor for the spirit and strong will of a people that has throughout history endured much persecution and resistance to their existence, yet have continued to stand tall and not falter or fall.

The road soon wound up and around hills of the Judean Mountains, and as we neared Jerusalem, more and more the tops of those hills were covered with neatly zoned houses overlooking the land below. We skirted around Jerusalem, in search of the road that would bring us deeper into the desert beyond the mountains. Instead, the mistaken road led us deeper and deeper into the Orthodox territory of the Holy City.

Soon, men with huge hats and clad in dark, long clothes walked on the roads around us. They were Hasidic Jews, originating from Eastern Europe, and believed to be the sect that most clings onto the traditions of the Tora and most conservative of all, with regards to values of family, work and the status of women. They had long payots ('sides') hanging around their ears below their fur hats, and even in the 25C+ heat, they wore thick, long jackets that covered till beneath their knees. Driving carefully, we avoided the groups of men, with the women and girls trailing behind, who wandered the roads as if there were no traffic lights. To them, that day was the start of Pesach, which commemorates the exodus of Jews from Egypt, and the freeing of the Jewish people from slavery, and is commonly considered one of the, if not most, sacred holiday in the Jewish calendar. One "Pinguins Jew", as some refer to them because of the way they dress, closed in on us and started to shout. Apparently he was offended that we were driving through their part of town, and perhaps even by the fact that my friend was uncovered and scantily dressed in a very revealing top. Thank goodness they did not start to spit or throw rocks at us, as some have been reported to do at trespassers.



The position of these Orthodox Jews is contradictory. On the one hand, they view themselves as the most representative and embodying of the State which is the Jewish Homeland. Yet, their religious devotion prohibits, and acts as an excuse, for them to be exempted from military service, which all Israeli men and women must complete upon reaching the age of majority, and which lasts around 3 years. The devotion, and at times, extremism, of the Orthodox Jews can be said to be on par with Muslim extremists, as some would not even flinch to kill to defend their faith (witness the assasination of Yitzhak Rabin in 1995).

Moments later, we found our way out of "the hood", and breathed a sigh of relief as the landscape around us gradually became desert. Beyond the Judean Mountains lay the Judean Desert, parts of which form the lowest point on Earth, falling to a depth of some 400m below sea level. This unique landscape consists of a series of steppes and hills that is layer upon layer of rock and limestone that has accumulated over the millennia due to tectonic shifts and subsiding water levels. Most well-known is the remnant of a great big lake that is now commonly referred to as the Dead Sea, which would later surprise me with its hidden secrets.

Land spread before us, like a suddenly spread open sheet of light brown, sweltering and swooning in the heat and in the distance. The car raced downhill, past signs carved into the limestone rocks that indicated we were moving rapidly further and further below the sea level. Never in my whole life have I seen a desert, and there and then, I was surrounded by the aridness and barreness of it all. The stuff of documentaries, of awe-inspiring still photographs, and now it was all before my eyes. Deep ravines, barren hills like columns next to one another stretching for as far as the eye could see, toward the Dead Sea in the distance. Cactuses, dry shrubs and metal shacks of nomad Bedouines dotted the landscape, together with wandering goats, and the occasional camel and its master that waited on the roadside like a taxi waiting to be hailed.

Eventually, we reached the shoreline of the legendary Dead Sea. The salt content of the Dead Sea is concentrated, so dense, that rocks of pure salt form at the bottom of what in actual fact is a lake. But the water is dwindling, and fast, due to overuse of the water that flows into the Dead Sea from the River Jordan. This means, some hundred years ago, when the British were there, the water levels have been dropping by 1m per year. The difference is clearly visible, as all along the road that winds along the coast of the Dead Sea are signs that warn visitors of the danger of swimming and of falling into fragile salty flats that treacherously hide deadly ravines that fall tens of metres into the earth are today far, far away from where the shoreline is. By the way the water is evaporating, and leaving behind large tracts of land and salt layers, the entire Dead Sea phenomenon may disappear within the next decade or so. Which is why the World Bank is very supportive of an initiative to link the Dead Sea and Red Sea together, so that water levels in the latter can be replenished, slowly, and also maintain the natural salt contents which it has.

First, we stopped at the Ein Gedi oasis, which was literally an oasis in the middle of the desert. Amid the barren, dry and dusty landscape, was a sudden and unexpected patch of green, of date plantations and of green grass. The reason for this was a water source that sprang from the earth, and gave life to an (aptly) named "Wadi David" (Arabic for a riverbed that is usually a place of human settlement). There, a small creek flowed, giving life to the plantations below, and also to life to a Kibbutz nearby.

At first, hiking upstream toward the source of the creek was a disappointment, not just because of how small the creek was, but also by the frail streak of water that was David's Fall. Then, we ventured higher and higher up the mountain, trekking in the blaring heat of the desert sun, at times with me wondering whether I would just faint with the little water I had taken with me, and finished even before we were half way up the mountain. The landscape was again the same arid and barrenness defining of a desert, with the exception that close by the streak of flowing, shallow water, a few shrubs and trees grew. Ibexes (mountain wild goats) and a rock hyrax (cony) accompanied us along the way.

But then, as we neared the source of the river, and as we got further from the hordes of tourists and children, we found peace, and coolness, in inviting ponds of clear water. There were pools here and there, some the size of a jacuzzi out in the open sun, others tucked away behind giant boulders, with its beauty and serenity well hidden from sight. We climbed down a rock face, and splashed around a pool of still water with a constant stream of water falling from the cliff above. The water was cool, and I was refreshed, not just by the water I was submerged in, but also by the sweet tasting and uncontaminated water that I could just drink from all around me. Uncontaminated, that is, if no wild animal had urinated in it further up stream. I swam in the pool, glad I made the trip and extra effort up the mountain, and rewarded with such a heavenly experience, shared in my memories and with two great friends.

We travelled onward, in search of a place with few people to park ourselves in the waters of the Dead Sea before the sun set. But before that we swung by a mystical fortress called Masada, which to Jewish people is the site of a ritual suicide in the face of an invading Roman legionthat embodies the spirit of defiance and courage of the Jewish nation. Today, the ruins of this ancient fort is where recruits of the Israeli Defence Forces complete their basic training with the words "Masada shall never fall again". Unfortunately, the gates of the ruins fell that day when we arrived, and I could only admire the row of Israeli flags flying in the wind of dying light, and admire the fortress perched atop the impressive mountain above. I could only imagine, and that enough was awe-striking, the events and the histories that took place in this sanctified fortress.



I carefully walked into the water, wary of the sharp salt rocks beneath my feet that seemed to cut. My friends had eased themselves into the 'sofa' of sea water, and were leisurely floating on the surface. But I was a little hesitant, and a lot curious. I walked deeper into the water, crouched, and leaned back. I burst out laughing, as I floated up on the surface, salty water splashing around me. I tasted some water, and it was the most salty substance I had ever put into my mouth. I quickly spat it out, and burst out laughing again, at this strange and unexplainable sensation of floating on water, of defying science as I had known it. Until this moment, floating like an inflated dingy on the calm, calm surface of the Dead Sea. I peddled my feet, and stroked my arms, but it was hard to move around. Water seeped into my eyes, and it burned them like acid, and I had to quickly wash them clean with showers on the beach. Other tourists floated around me, and even big ones did not sink, but just floated away on the surface. I tried to "jump" in the water, but whatever I did, I just bopped up and down like a buoy at sea. An excited boy out at sea.



Then I stated to feel... feel the cuts, bruises, wounds and scratches all over my body, even in places I did not know I had injured myself before. The salt clenched to my body, cleansing it with the magical healing powers that it is famed for, but at the same time, also teasing my skin in slight, tingling pain. The scratch from my cat, the scrape on my knee from hours earlier, and the little wound from stubbing my toe on the hike up the mountain. I felt it all, but at the same time, felt the water disinfect every crack and wound. I collected some salt rocks, wishing to bring them home to my mum to share with her this miraculous healing water. In the distance, a small stretch of land protruded out of the water, the surface of which glistened white in the setting dusk sun. The temperature dropped rapidly, but with my body half submerged in the water, I could still feel the warm of day stored in the molecules of water and salt that surrounded me.

Night fell, and the full moon rose. The moonlight cast a long ray of light across the surface of the Dead Sea, as gradually towns and villages on the other side of shore lit up, revealing how close Jordan lay beyond these waters.

Israel: between security and beauty

"What are you doing here? What flight are you taking, and where are you going?"

"I was told to come here at least three hours before my flight. I will be flying Turkish Airlines, first to Istanbul, then to Amsterdam."

"Why were you in Israel?"

" To travel. As a tourist."

"Where have you been?"

"Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, Tel Aviv, and Nahariya," I recounted, but deliberately leaving aside a single detail so as to avoid another barrage of questions. Jericho, I was in Jericho. But the security officer did not have to know I was in the Palestinian Territories. It was not lying. Just withholding information. For my sake.



"How long did you stay?"

"Four, five days in total."

"Where did you stay?"

"With a friend, who is Israeli. He lives in Tel Aviv."

"How do you know him, and how long have you known him."

" I met him in the Netherlands, and we know each other a few months."

"Did you pack your bags yourself? Did anyone give you anything to take with you," the lady asked, this time with a smile, " We ask this because before a tourist was given something to carry, and it turned out to be a bomb."

"I packed my bags myself, and I did not take anything from anyone. I only have clothes, and some souvenirs," I said, and as if to make sure she understood and believed me, I shook my head. My luggage was stickered as the lady scribbled a number of things on the security tag, before it was hauled onto the biggest X-Ray machine I have ever seen at any airport. I smiled politely, and went my way, but unaware that this was one of only five security checks before I could board my flight out of Israel.

It was half past two in the morning when I arrived at Ben Gurion Airport. Even before entering the new and modern Terminal 3 building, a plain clothed security guard stopped me and asked me a series of questions about my reason for being at the airport. My luggage was opened, and two ladies took around 10 minutes to sweep my bag with a piece of cloth, which they then put through a scanner used to detect ion particles and explosives. I was cleared, but my smelly clothes, socks and underwear, Birkenstocks, Lonely Planet, and camera recharger had been exposed to the public. Embarrassed, I quickly packed my luggage again, and proceeded to the check-in.

The lady at the passport control sipped her warm drink before browsing through my passport and stamping hard in the pages. Another security check fondled through my carry-on luggage, and again took me aside to check every single item for potential explosives. Perhaps I was lucky, as the man before me had be taken aside and told to take off his shoes and shirt. I could see the tempers rise, but security takes priority over the privacy of passengers, and rightly so, especially flying out of a country under an almost constant state of alertness.


This was the country that I had visited for the past number of days. A country of contrasts, of overlapping cultures, histories, religions, and overlapping peoples that in places share the same crowded spaces, but in other places are segregated in scenes and ways that to some appear to be the equivalent of despicable and unjustifiable Apartheid.

But this was a country that had left a deep impression on me, even before my visit. So imagine what impression it has had on me during and thereafter.

One hears much about Israel in the news... about the suicide bomb explosions, the unrests in Gaza, the bulldozing of (illegal) settlements, about the scuffles between feisty journalists with Israeli soldiers, and about the difficulties experienced by Palestinians in gaining access to the most basic medical care and food sources. But one does not much see or hear about the reasons and causes behind all this negative press... nor does one often realise the wild, raw beauty and legends and history that is shrouded in the dust of the desert.



Without being an apologist or tacitly endorsing the policies and actions of the Israeli government within the country and in the Occupied Palestinian Territories, without downplaying the sufferings and man-made and man-maintained humanitarian disaster in the enclaves carved by the internationally condemned Wall, which the International Court of Justice has pronounced as illegal, the following will be a recount of my experiences and memories of Israel.

It is my hope that my account will bring a little (personal) insight to a place often disputed, and perhaps more often misunderstood. The politics, religions and policies of this, perhaps most, volatile piece of land on Earth, has been recounted again and again and occupies the fascination, disgust or reverence of whoever receives it.

And here is my own.

Go Israel

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.

Legalisation Politics

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".

Trip

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.

Kicking the bucket

Imagine if you only had a few months to live. How would you live? Most importantly, "Have you found joy in your life and have you given joy to other people?" These are wonderful questions that are asked in the movie The Bucket List.

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.

Renewed freedom

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.

Competition day II

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....

Too tired... too tired...

Competition day I

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

Exhausted

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.