Intruder

A noise. Ruffling, scrapping. Then nothing.

Another noise. This time louder, closer, as if just outside the door. I peeled open my sleepy eyes. 3am, an unearthly hour, on a frigid and dark, dark wintry night. As if this thing, whatever it was, read my thoughts, it stopped moving, and went away. So did the noise.

Barely into my sleep, another shuffle. This time, it sounded like something was scrapping against the wall. Scrapping and scratching. I opened my eyes wide, and lay there listening. Trees danced outside the window, and through the sliver of the window blinds, I could see a shadow dart quickly to one side. Beneath its steps, leaves, rustling, crunching.

Silently I crept out of bed, my heart still, my breathing edgy. I shivered, unsure whether from the cold or from the unknown I was about to face. Carefully, I leaned close to the window and peered out into an unforgiving darkness.

A dark forbodding figure, black from top to toe, with just a wave of white on its back. Thank goodness it had not noticed me yet. I sniffed the air, and it was simply cold and dry. I watched it, its back hunched, as it sneakily tiptoed toward the outer wall of my apartment, and there it started to scratch.

I tapped the window, and leisurely it just hunched its back and walked away, without even turning its head to look at me. Perhaps it was ashamed of having been caught in the act. Bravely, knowing that the window would protect me, I tapped loudly again. But there was no reaction For who knows how long it continued to loiter around as if it were the most normal thing to be doing outisde of someone's bedroom window at 3am.

I went back to bed. The scratching and rustling sounds continued. I actually started to feel sorry for it, freezing outside with no roof over its head, and having to resort to scavenging and stealings from sleeping strangers.

But however cold it may be outside, bringing a smelly skunk home is probably not the smartest thing to do.

Speed date

I've never been speeddating before. Until tonight.

Hesistant, I was, before entering the bar. I felt self conscious, and wondered what I would say to people. It was a nervous moment. Thankfully I had dragged a friend along, so I was at least not alone.

Eight o'clock came, and the bar crowded. All these strangers I did not know, except for a few I've met before from our weekly discussion group. Sat down, and were handed a piece of paper and a number. An empty table, which but the end of the evening, if you're lucky, you should have filled with people you've spoken to, and marked whether you want to date them or just be friends with.

Then the musical chairs game began. Every two minutes or so, you move around the bar, looking for someone interesting to sit down with and strike up a conversation.

I moved around, self-consciously, unsure if I could sit down. In total I met around four or five. They were so vague I don't even remember their names or who they were. Most were not interesting... simply just not my type. Too femme, too much of the stereotypical fashion-craving, shallow types that I just have little to say to. I felt like a geek, and old too, since most were undergrad first years who had just gotten out of the countryside, and were ready to party.

I left early, together with two friends, who found it too hot in the bar. But I suspect they found it as stiffling and stuffy as I did, so were bored, and wanted to leave. It was good, to leave, not alone, but with the same people I had originally come with. Then you know who true friends are.... even after having met these strangers for just a minute or two.

I guess that's why they call it speed dating. But where's the depth?

Creep

He reached over and touched me. A few strokes on my fingers, but it was enough to give me the shivers. I do not like to be touched. Especially by someone who looked like he has not bathed for a long, long time.

I would never think that just sitting there, just quietly reading as I waited for the metro on a Sunday morning would be an invitation to be touched by a complete stranger. It was as if the character in my novel, about ‘deformed’ people with ‘deformed’ lives, ‘deformed’ thoughts and acts, had somehow miraculously taken shape in front of me.

“Change?”

I shook my head, even though I did have some in my pocket. I refuse to give money to anyone who just begs, and does nothing else but beg. “Change? Cigarette?” he asked again, this time revealing his rotten and twisted teeth. His face, unshaven, and hair wild with dirt.

I said no firmly, and that I do not smoke. He looked at me, and grinned. A queer grin, and it was at that moment that his hand first reached out to touch my fingers. I pulled away, and just as he retracted his hand, he leaned over to stroke my cheek too.

Horror. Shock. Speechlessness.

“Please go away”, I eventually managed to say, perhaps too politely given what had just happened. What did just happen? It was too strange to comprehend… was there any meaning in it? The vagrant grinned away, and I returned with a grin too, but the kind of grin that quickly morphed into a look of disgust. A grin that taunted.

He left, and disappeared somewhere along the platform. But I was left sitting on the bench, feeling dirt, soiled, violated. Perhaps I should have done something to the man, like strike back, or push him. But how do you hit a man who is already so broken, who is already lost, delirious?

I smelt my hand, and it reeked of cigarettes. A few seconds of physical contact, and somehow all the foulness of smoke had crept onto my fingers. I longed to wash and scrape my fingers thoroughly with soap.

Creep.

Lost and down

I'm really not sure what it is... for the last month or so I've been feeling so restless, so devoid of motivation. I sit at home, surf the net, fidget with things here and there, and the hours, days, weeks go by. I try to study or do the research work I'm supposed to be doing... but I cannot concentrate. I simply cannot sit down for long enough without being distracted.

And I feel terrible.... terrible because I'm so restless and so lacking in motivation. What happened to me? What's wrong with me now? I have it all... a nice comfortable home of my own, no worries of money, not much worries about family, yet I'm so agitated and so down for some reason.

There is one thing I can point to, but I'm not sure it's the reason.... if it can be one. I often feel so alone here at home... often feel so lonely, being here in this what could be a really warm and romantic home, all alone by myself with noone to talk to, noone to share with.

Could that be the reason behind my agitation, my restlessness, my lack of motivation and just simple lethargy? I feel down.... like I'm not even sure what I am doing here, what I am doing in this study of mine.... like there is nothing I'm working towards...

Really lost, and down...

Club all night long

Blood rushing to my cheeks, mixed with much rose, vodka and orange. I feel hot, and sweat drips down my neck. My feet move to the beat, my hands and hips swing.

It's been a long time since I last went clubbing. I like the dancing, the exercise, the opportunity to do something different on a Friday evening other than stay home and watch videos alone.

I looked around, my eyes dazzled by the globe light, my ears echoing in the vibes. All these bodies around me, moving in rhythm. I moved too, free like I am, swinging and swaying at liberty. My eyes caught people kissing.... I turned around, but curiousity turned my head, and I gawked from the corners of my eyes. The intense kissing, the warm embracing and cuddle... I turned away, blinked the memory out of sight. I tried to catch the rhythm and tried to again move my body to the beat.

But next to me are people kissing away and bodies warmly latched together, in heat, on fire.

State of (in)security

All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always—do not forget this [...]—always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler [...]
1984, George Orwell

I was born into a world of 1984.
A special year.
And a special read.

It was, and is to some exten world where "Big Brother" constantly watches, where fun and sexuality is suppressed, where suspicion is the new religion, and where the Party controls all thoughts and all movements. There is one truth, and that is a manufactured truth packaged and sold through the media. There is one lie, and that lies in the power of resistance, of individuality, which cannot be tolerated in the utopian society of sham freedoms and suppression.

But people are told, and reminded again and again, through propoganda, through torture, through confinement, or worse, that "Slavery is Freedom", that "War is Peace", that "Ignorance is Strength". In the name of security and unity, we are subject to fear, to distrust one another, and the 'Other', and to place our utmost faith and commitment to the State. Only then can we are one. Only then there is peace. Only then there is freedom. Only then there is strength.

You would think what I just described is a distant world, far away from the comforts of our consumerism and civil liberties we take for granted. Perhaps, you would think the state of 1984 exists in certain 'undesirable' country belonging in the Axis of Evil. But the United States, and many Western countries are getting close to such a State of (in)security. In an age of terror, and the all-out 'War on Terror', nothing seems unjustified. Nothing seems illegal. Basic rights, held so high for so long, defended and affirmed repeatedly in triumphs for individual freedoms, are slowly being eroded. Encroaching our liberties, a goliath of a State, with as its overreaching and overarching security measures, agents and bureaus as its limbs.

And the situation is no more different in Canada. Draconian measures are slowly being put in place, and a secret service that few within and with-out Canada know of is at work. The victims? Foreign-born minorities generally, and Arabs or Muslims more specifically.

The story of Adil Charkaoui is telling, and disturbing. An ordinary Permanent Resident originally from Morrocco, who has been living in Canada with his family since 1995. One day in 2003, he was surrounded by police, and handed a "Security Certificate" signed by the Ministry of Public Safety and Minister of Immigration. On the basis of an investigation by the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS-- the Canadian secret service), Charkaoui is said to be "a member of the terrorist organization of Osama Bin Laden and that he has engaged, is engaging or will engage in terrorist activities."

Charkaoui was thrown in jail, without charge or trial for almost two years. When the case came to trial the "evidence" against him is so secretive that it cannot be revealed for him to defend against. Charkaoui was later released on bail, but under strict conditions. He is forced to wear a GPS device, cannot leave area of Ile de Montreal, cannot use the internet, cannot leave his home without being accompanied by a family member (who must submit a 'monthly report' on Charkaoui). And the police can search his house without a warrant at any time. In effect, despite being out of prison, Charkaoui is a prisoner at home, at home, his every move and word in everyday life constantly surveilled and watched.

Below is an exchange between Charkaoui and his four year old son:

- Daddy, daddy …
- Yes, little one.
- What are you wearing around your neck?
- Around my neck! Nothing.
- No - there!
- Ah! You mean around my ankle.
- That's the neck of the foot, the ank... ?
- Ankle.
- But you haven't said what it is.

- Well, that, it's a bracelet.
- How long have you worn it?
- Three years.
- Why do you always wear it?
- Because i've got to, it's a present.
- Who gave it to you?
- It was tonton.
- Which tonton?
- Okay…it was uncle Sam…
- Who is uncle Sam?-
- Really, you ask too many questions. It was somebody who gave it to me ...uncle
Sam, uncle Stephen, uncle Security. It doesn't really matter, you don't know him.
- Ok, but why is your bracelet black?
- Because those who gave it to me have white faces but black hearts.
- Why isn't it gold like Mommy's?
- Because the people who gave it to me don't have golden hearts, little one.
- But why are you the only one to wear it in Quebec, Daddy?
- Not for long, you should get used to it. Pretty soon it will become a fashion, like tatoos: everyone will have one. Already in cell phones, in cars, for workers, for daddys, for babies, for dogs ... Uncle Sam doesn't have a heart of gold, but he forgets no one.

For a number of years since his arrest, Charkaoui and his family has been threatened with 'deportation' to Morocco, even despite very high risk of torture or being killed if deported--a fact that the Canadian authorities admit is the case.

The United Nations Human Rights Committee has cautioned the Canadian government about the potential breaches of Canada's international obligations to protect fundamental human rights and the arrest, detention and expulsion of non-citizens and refugees on (so-called) "national security grounds". When Charkaoui challenged the legality of the Security Certificate, the Supreme Court of Canada held that such a document and the entire process of trial and detention without charge or justification was "unconstitutional". Indeed, the highest court in Canada even held the Security Certificate violated key provisions of Canada's much championed Charter of Rights and Freedoms. These include the "right to life, liberty and security of the person" (S. 7), and rights not to be arbitrarily detained or arrested (S.9), and the rights to be informed of the reason of arrest (S. 10).

Despite this court victory, the Conservative government of Canada is seeking to bypass the judgement, and spearheading legislation that is basically a carbon copy of the old law, albeit with even more draconian measures. This so-called new legislation, Bill C-3 in effect:

"...re-introduces this perverse security certificate process virtually untouched beyond the inclusion into the hearings of a "special advocate" who would have access to the so-called evidence but who would still not be allowed to share it with the suspect.

Although the "special advocates" would be able to challenge the intelligence report, they would not be able to cross-examine the source of this intelligence, for instance a detainee in a foreign jail or an agent from another government.

In other words, Bill C-3 sustains a two-tier justice system in Canada – with one set of rights for citizens and another, reduced set of rights for non-citizens. It also, strangely enough, sets up two different standards of proof with the weaker standard applied to what many people believe to be the more serious suspicion of terrorism.

Security certificate cases rely on a much lower standard of proof than do criminal prosecutions. A judge ruling on the case of a non-citizen subject of a security certificate only needs "reasonable grounds to believe" that they represent a risk as opposed to "proof beyond a reasonable doubt" in a criminal case.

Bill C-3 would maintain a process whereby, on intelligence conclusions from CSIS, individuals who are considered a risk to national security are deported to their countries of origin."

In fact, the Canadian bill would simply be introducing a system which has been condemned even in the UK House of Comons and House of Lords' Joint Committee on Human Rights, which wrote that the introduction of a so-called 'special advocate' system to a person detained without charge:

"has absolutely nothing to do with the traditions of adversarial justice as we have come to understand them in the British legal system." Indeed, we were left with the very strong feeling that this is a process which is not just offensive to the basic principles of adversarial justice in which lawyers are steeped, but it is very much against basic notions of fair play as the lay public would understand them."

Both Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch have also identified this as an area of grave concern.

What has been just outlined above is not the case of Mr. Charkaoui. Other Muslims, all accepted refugees living in Canada, are facing similar ordeals and threats of deportation based on shoddy evidence and travesties of justice. Hassan Almrei, Mahmoud Jaballah, Mohammad Mahjoub, Mohamed Harkat, and the famous Guantanamo detainee Abdullah Ahmed Khadr face similar fates of being singled out, detained, harrased, and accused of crimes the evidence of which are so secret it cannot even be produced in court, let alone defended against.

"The worse enemy of secrcy is publicity", a determined Charkaoui said in today's public lecture.
What I have outlined are prime examples of what the worse excesses of racial profiling reveals the institutioalised two-tiered justice a prime Western democracy is underpinned by. Why else would a judge of the Supreme Court of Canada blurt out that "Al Qaeda members are not from Sweden" and that they are "not Buddhists, but Muslims".

But there are other victims too. The democratic society, with our freedoms guaranteed under the rule of law, the very freedoms of thought, movement, and privacy can one day be threatened too. Simply by the arbitrary evidence of hearsay or some obscene evidence extracted from torture, anyone of us could be the target of a smear campaign against your good name and character, whereby the burden is reversed on you to prove yourself innocent, and until then, you are guilty before the State, before the media, and before an increasingly unfair and biased judicial system.

Today it is the Muslims.... but can it not just as easily be labour unions, or students with 'subversive' thoughts and actions? And could it not just as easily be you, or me, or you and me?

[...] Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face … for ever.
1984, George Orwell

I see a future, a future with a human face. It need not necessarily be beneath a boot. But for the sake of our liberties, it must speak and shout. Back at the boot, back at power, and show that the human face is anything but an enemy. Most of all, it must speak and shout back, and show that a human face is anything but helpless.

Immense

This is not just a river. But a vast lake, with a shore far, far, far away in the distant. Its waters strong, its current stubborn, as it flows downwards into the city.

Seagulls flew, silent and almost without effort high above reddening maple trees. One in full bloom, another right next it, naked and exposed, its branches surrendering to the indigo sky. The sun set, radiant rays of gold shimmering on the surface of the water. The grass danced in the breeze.

Loonies braved the currents, stood steadfast in the fast whirlpooling river. I cycled on, into the sunset, with every pedal slowly discovering a miniscure bit of this immense land before me.

The Netherlands....?

I gave the answer I always give. The answer that, in a dozen words, summed up my life and origins. "I was born in Taiwan, but have lived most of my life in the Netherlands".

"The Netherlands...?," she echoed, and as if the name triggered an automated response, continued "Isn't it very racist?"

I paused. Perhaps because I was stunned about the reaction, or perhaps I was stunned about how to respond to such an unexpected reaction-- a reaction that does not include the cliche of the land of tulips, windmills and terribly tall people. I was almost hesistant to answer. Hesistant, as if confirming that remark was an injury against my own country, against my own people.

But I thought again, and the words came out almost naturally."Yes..." Perhaps the girl saw and realised the hesitance and discomfort that I felt. But it was the truth. It was my experience, and I cannot deny it. "It is a somewhat racist country". As if the word "somewhat" qualified the statement. Somehow made it all the more better, made the country all the less racist. But racist, nonetheless.

I went on to explain why I thought so... and across my mind, the string of incidents flooded out. A country that wants to deport coloured Dutch citizens born-and-bred in the Netherlands to their 'home' country whenever they commit a serious crime... A country that forces only coloured immigrants to take humiliating "integration" exams about what a democracy is and why it is wrong to hit women... A country that cries of the terrible phenomenon of "Islamisation" when a Muslim is handpicked to be the mayor of Rotterdam... A country which stereotypises coloured people as being backward, uneducated and unsophisticated that they do not know how to operate a debit card machine... A country in which the media explicitly must report the (coloured) origin of the person in a criminal investigation... If being "racist" does not describe it, I am not sure what other word would.

"So I guess in a way, coming to Canada I wanted to 'escape' The Netherlands", I added. Escape, like Ayaan Hirsi Ali did, like so many (dare I say myself...) talented individuals have already done or planning to do. Because somehow their identification with the Netherlands goes no more than the passport they wield. And even then the passports are scrutinised, as if the passport was forged or bought on the criminal black market.

Harsh words. Disturbing critiques. And a guilty conscience I somewhat am left with having them, especially all the services and great privileges the country has provided me with. But am I to say that life in the Netherlands is all rosy, and that the country is as tolerant and accepting as it prides itself to be?

A Jihad for Love

When Ahmadinejad said there were no gays in Iran, I scoffed. Others joked because they were either all executed, or too scared to come out. Gays are everywhere. Next door, downstairs, upstairs. And yes, even in Muslim countries too.

And it is in (certain) Islamic* countries that gays (lesbians, bi's, and trangendereds) must struggle especially hard... in search of recognition, or in most cases, in denial. A Jihad for Love is a well produced documentary about such a struggle, for, contrary to common misconception that jihad means only 'holy war' (and even more misconceived, against the 'West'), the true meaning of the word simply means 'struggle'. Struggle against society, struggle for individuality, struggle for the basic human right to be treated as an equal, struggle for acceptance, and not just recognition.

Following the lives of a number of brave individuals in a number of (predominantly) Islamic countries, the film explores the sensitive discussion on the relationship between being Muslim* and being homosexual. A taboo topic, which explains why many of the faces are blurred. But the blurring of faces does not take away the truth and courage behind the stories being told.

"Stone him to death!"
"Throw him off a cliff!"
"100 lashes of the whip!"

What is it about homosexuality that is so abhorrent in the eyes of Muslims? Most people would point to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah (which is also what many Christians and Jews would point to too). Interesting though, as an imam in the documentary explains, God's destruction of these towns was not because people were homosexuals per se, but the fact that the deacadent men of Sodom and Gomorrah engaged in homosexual rape against the visitors-- i.e. the forced engagement of homosexual acts. It is because of the wickedness that the people of Sodom and Gomorrah are punished, but this is often (mis)interpreted to be a blanket condemnation of homosexuality, and a justification for the punishment (or worse) of homosexuals.


*I know, there is no such thing as 'the Muslim' people in the world, just as there is no such thing as 'the Islam' or 'the West', so this is just a vert poor generalisation.

Rail away

I stirred, and the world awoke.

Slowly at first, the first sliver of dawn crossed the land. Then, gradually and certainly, the sun came out, its rays caressing the tops of bare and broken trees like a gentle touch, while the frigid night slowly sank away. Frost, and flakes of ice that glimmered like tinsel in the morning light, flew past the window. The train rocked steadily on.

Just the day before, a crazy thought crossed my mind. A leap of faith, a sudden determination that removed (almost) all doubt, and a few hours later, I am journeying into the northern prairies and forests, into a land I have never been before, but somehow seemed so familiar from pictures in brochures. Soaring pine trees with upturned arms embracing the heavens, enchanted woods of green, yellow and red, rolling creeks reflecting the world in its watery surface, jagged rockfaces covered with a layer of ice, broad estuaries, the distances spanned by lonely railroad bridges. And now, I was finally here.

What lay at the end of the line I did not know. Did it matter? Sometimes, breaking away from the routine of school and work, even if it meant a 'temporary absence' (read: skipping class) does good to the soul. A still world flashed past, barely enough time for me to see and admire all the beauty in the lifelessness that is just beginning to see the life of day. A vast land stretched, till an endless horizon. I imagine those pioneers who first scouted these lands so very long ago. Did they too feel such a similar sense of awe and inspiration as I did with the nature all around? Mountains stretched like the crooked backs of sleeping black bears. Suddenly, the lonesome whistle of the engine was embarrasingly loud.

Sometimes the rail tracks run parallel to one another, across this stunning yet desolate landscape. There are moments when a single track must run its own course alone, encounter bends and winds and steep obstacles uphill. At other times, the tracks splits, and trails along the smooth calm sea, white picket fences of quiet little towns, and empty stations with but a wind-roughened sign and bare bench. Like people, tracks cross, come together, and part again, only to meet and merge into one further down the journey.

Rail away, rail away...


  
  (On a 17hr journey to surprise and support a friend who is going through a very rough low point in life...)

Candian Autumn Summer

A view. Waters silent, reflecting the sky and clouds on high. A mirror image wavers, almost a perfect parallel world in the water. A broad lake, cuddled by mountains. Mountains, the faces of which teem with trees. Trees, glowing in shades of yellow, orange, brown and the blends of these colours that can hardly begin to describe. A rare sight, one I have only till now heard talked about, but it lay before me, surreal like a tranquil dream, yet instilling an inner calm that was and felt so very real.

Riding across the vast Canadian landscape, I still cannot believe that I am in a new undiscovered country.

• La Mauricie National Park IX
• La Mauricie National Park VIII
• La Mauricie National Park VII
• La Mauricie National Park VI
• La Mauricie National Park V
• La Mauricie National Park IV
• La Mauricie National Park III
• La Mauricie National Park II
• La Mauricie National Park II
• La Mauricie National Park I
• St Anne de Bellevue
• JuMing in Montreal II
• JuMing in Montreal
• Indian Summer on Mont Royal
• Montreal from Mont Royal

Dad?

I awoke, my eyes were still closed. In the background, the radio was still on. It must not have been more than a few dozens minutes after I lay down. In my mind, images floated and haunted.
"Dad?"

I saw dad. What he looked like or what he was doing, I cannot remember anymore. All I can remember was that yesterday night, I felt this intense pain and sorrow suddenly. The pain and sorrow woke me, and I could not contain my tears. They spilled out of my eyes so suddenly. And it has been a long time since I last cried.

I closed my eyes, and I remember calling out "Dad... Dad.... Dad...." desperately.

Then I was lost in that mysterious world of sleep once more.

Welcome home

The Saint-Laurent flowed alongside the plane, like a gilded path reflecting in the afternoon sun. The land lay lazily outstretched, having a week later put on the Autumn attire of what I now understand is colourful coat of an Indian Summer. There was not a cloud in the sky, and dusk light reflected off of the land , adding a golden tint to the beauty below. Montreal lay before us, as the plane silently and smoothly decended.

My second time going to Canada, and like the first, I was filled with excitement. It was well-deserved, because after 4 months of waiting, I finally have a letter from the Canadian authorities saying that I am permitted to study here, even though I have been attending classes for the past four weeks already!

So I proceeded to the passport control, and a friendly face welcomed me and referred me to the Immigration Office. There, I was led into an office while they processed my papers. The officers too were friendly, and asked me only a few questions about my status in a not at all intimidating way, and even started to joke that with a study permit I am free to enter and leave Canada as I wish, provided I do not kill anyone or do anything criminal abroad. "Good luck with your studies, and have fun here," the officers wished me, and showed me the way to collect my lugguage. Within a matter of only 5 minutes I was transformed from being a mere visitor to a legal status to stay. Finally, and hopefully, the final act of settling down in Canada is complete.

I exited the terminal building, and thought back at what I had just experienced on the way home. Here I was, in a totally foreign country where I have only lived for a short four weeks, but somehow leaving the plane and entering Canada felt like homecoming. I was welcome, genuinely welcomed by kind people and words, and made to feel like I am already a part of a society renowned for its multiculturalism and acceptance of people of all origins.

I thought back, ten hours ago, back in Europe, where my passport was scrutinised not once, but twice at the airport. The man in front of me flashed his passport as if he were doing a magic trick, and he passed through the passport control without any problems. Of course. He was white.

I hate to play the race and selfpity card, but when it was my turn, the passport officer interrogated me like I was a criminal (or worse), asking me how I obtained my citizenship, where I live, what I was going to do in Canada. She held my passport against the light, flipped through it again and again as if looking for some incriminating evidence of my visit to some impoverished primitive country. She examined the passport again through the light, scanned it again and typed in a number of words in a scene that reminded me of the worst excesses of the Israeli border police. And believe me, it is not pleasant. I replied the questions bluntly and coldly, showing how I did not appreciate this tone of voice. She handed back my passport, and dryly said "Just asking".

Inside, I was reminded once again the reason why I do not belong in the Netherlands, and never will. And this after having lived almost 15 years of my life there as an honest (I even have a certificate from the Minister of Justice to prove this!), tax-paying citizen, who wishes nothing more than to get educated and perhaps someday contribute to society at large. These wishes are now no more than distant memories from a time I told myself I could belong.

A country (or perhaps even the continent of Europe) that does not fully accept part of its citizenry and has reason to doubt and suspect people because of their skin colour or race is at war with itself. A self-destructive war, a war of contradictions, with severe consequences for a large minority of people born and bred in the Netherlands, but yet are made to feel foreign and alienatede at every moment of their lives.

One day, the ghost of hypocrisy and ignorance will haunt the Netherlands and the very principles of tolerance and equality that the Dutch love to preach about. Or perhaps that day has already come. The blacklisting of the Netherlands by Human Rights Watch recently as an anti-immigration and intolerant country is very well deserved.

But I have left the Netherlands, like the Netherlands has left me long ago.

Back in Canada, I opened the door to my apartment, and for a rare moment in my life, I felt I was home. And welcome.

The end of history

Source: http://flickr.com/photos/86685493@N00/2083986682

The bubble burst.
The tide has broken.
The hands point to the eleventh hour.
History is coming to an end. Time is turning.
And capitalism is dying with it.

The proclamations of self-deluding (neo)liberals the likes of Fukuyama may have spoken too triumphantly and too soon, for the markets are crashing like a sudden unexpected freak weather in the stormy Netherlands. Or perhaps not so unexpected, for all the warning signs were there. Uncontrolled consumption cannot last. Rampant desires and wants cannot be quenched with borrowed moneys and mortgages. Phantom hot money and speculation cannot be face up to the reality of creditors knocking at the doors. Capitalism's white-picket fence paradise has consumed one apple too many, and is slowly turning into a hell of indebtedness and bank collapses.

Once sacred temples of monetarism are reduced to humble pawn shops desparately hoping for that now very Visible Hand from the government. Even die-hard neo-cons are scrapping the halls of Congress for billions and billons of cash injection to kill an already malignant and deepseated turmour. The coins of privatisation have been flipped toward 'statisation', as public money is about to be channeled to save the ailing economy. Unheard of in the (Adam) Smithonian utopia. Laughable states (of affairs) in the heydays of the early 1990s when the catch-all and cure-all Capitalist phrases of globalisation, liberalism and laissez-fairism that hemmed the developing world into a perpetual state of indebtedness is now biting back. And who is laughing now?

Perhaps Marx, and the left-leaning liberals who were once scoffed at and marginalised can smile in the dark. But then again, smiles only for a little bit, for we are all in this media-hyped crisis together. So much for interconnectedness that we must share the juicy fruits as well as rotten berries together. The que at the cash machine was exceptional long. And this in a bank with 6 machines next to one another. Unexpectedly there was a meltdown of the electronic payment system. Shops seem to sudden have caught on the 'sales flu'. And every other street are signs of houses for sale, sending prices plummenting even further. Even here in Europe, newspapers are warning of a pending homeless crisis and mass unemployment. 1929 echoes. "It's the economy, stupid!"

But why scramble to the banks when the safes are already emptying? Why cut back on spending when the economy needs a consumption boost the most? If anything, panicking and calling 'crisis' at every shop closure and stockmarket drop is only going to exaserbate the situation even more, sticking the whole modern (read: Western) world deeper and longer in the gutters. Then we will really see who "looking at the stars". Spend like you always have, buy what you need, and brace for the storm, hoping that the politicians we have put in power will finally wake to the ills of a system that sucks on the have nots, and fat-feeds the haves.

The bull has been blinded by the red-clad torerro, and limps on on its final breaths.
The end of history is nigh.
And Captalism is (almost...) dead and buried.
But life goes on.
Nothing really changes but our perception and reaction to a system that has always fed on our desires and fears of want anyways.

Homecoming

Mum arrived two days ago, ending her 10 day trip to cities and places in Canada and the US here in Montreal. I picked her up at the airport, and together we rode home.

It was the first time for her to see my new place, and I had cleaned the apartment up the night before, making sure that it would leave a good impression. One thing about mothers is that they worry a lot about their children, and I knew this well. So everything had to be perfect.

And... mum did like my apartment, and she was happy that finally I have 'founded' a home of my own, and that I have a place to come back to at the end of a long day at school, and not feel confined to stay in my own room. She like the spacing and the brightness of the room, and despite having a few things to say about how my table and bed has been arranged (according to 'feng shui'), I am sure she likes it. So I passed the test.

But mum, I guess like all caring and loving mothers, still insisted in moving some furniture around, rearranging the cupboards, and giving the floor a good wipe. "So that when I leave here I know that you will have a safe and clean environment, and a good home to come back to", she said as she mopped the floor with her own hands.

I had saved a number of things till mum got here, such as use my new rice cooker, and my new set of plates and bowls. And just evening, we had a sumptuos home cooked meal together. It felt so homely, and for the first time since moving in here, I was not eating together with my laptop... though, the laptop was there too, playing smooth classical music.

Earlier, we walked around town a bit, and I showed her my university, even managing to climb up that steep street all the way to my institute. And I showed her how convenient my place is, located within walking distance to a huge forest, and also a huge shopping complex. All the while, slowly the trees donned on their yellow and red coats, and the leaves fell with the slight wind.

Tomorrow, I'm heading back to Europe for a few days with mum.

Lonely Island in Montreal

In the background is music, a voice, singing about a loved one. The voice, though different at different times, is almost always there when I am home. Because it is supposed to remind me that I am not alone in my apartment.

Now that the 'dust' has settled, and as I look around my new apartment, I begin to feel it. The loneliness that grows realising that you are all alone in a foreign country, with no body to talk to, and no body to share your feelings with when you are alone. At night before bed, I lie in bed and imagine someone is there next to me. In the background, the radio will play on until I am asleep.

Perhaps it is this loneliness and not being able to speak to anyone about my feelings here that makes me reflect and think back... think back at my dad... perhaps sad thoughts, perhaps thoughts of longing and missing. I wonder often, in those waking moments just before I drown in sleep, what he is doing, how he is doing, and wonder whether he is watching over me...

I wonder how dad is now, and whether he would be proud of me coming all the way to Canada to study.

A shame that he cannot enjoy this and cannot watch me grow and grow...

home again

Caught in the confusion of time and space, I arrived in the Netherlands at noon. Or was it six in the morning? I felt sleepy, like I could faint any moment. Throughout the 10 hour flight across the Atlantic, I barely had a wink.
The plane descended into the clouds, and into a world of gray and raindrops on my plane window. Vapour splashed on the wings and blew off of the runway as the strong jets of engine exhaust shaved through. Outside, it was gray and raining, and wet and cold. Much colder than in Canada, surprisingly, but the weather was typically Dutch. Home again.
I rode on the train, watching the fields and low-lying landscape go by. A torn newspaper on the floor reported on the latest victim of the global financial crisis, and a graph showed stocks taking record plunges worldwide. Depressing. Raindrops slashed across the window screen as the train sped home. Dense twirling clouds loomed overhead.
I entered my door, slowly, and stepped into the hallway. The same one I had left an early morning a month or so ago. Letters and advertising strewn over the doormat… the patch of cat urine still visible to the eyes and nostrils. And on top of the stairwell, a little bell tinkled. My cat sat there, and miauwed, again and again, and butted her head against the stairs. Was she as happy to see me as I was to see her?
For some reason, it feels so strange to be home again. I feel so foreign being here, as if I had been gone a long time, and am just visiting. Perhaps because a long time ago I had detached myself from this place, but though everything looks and seems so familiar, it is as if I do not really feel any attachment to this place at all. And this is the same house I have lived in for almost over 5 years of my life…which given all the moving and travelling around that marks my life, is quite something.
One day and a half later, barely able to feel homely and settle down, I am off to another city, another country.

Mum's arrival

Three little girls each holding a bouquet of colourful flowers swarmed around the lady as she exited the baggage claim area. Her face was dazzling with smiles, her eyes narrowed in joy. The girls gathered around her, and hugged her, again, and again. And again.

The oldest of the girls rested her head on the lady's shoulder. Unexpectedly, her hand swept across her eyes, her cheeks were reddened and damp. The mother stroked the girl's hair softly, and whispered ever so slightly. How very touching, how pure those feelings of joy mixed with longing and missing, finally overwhelmed with speechless emotions that express themselves through tears. Mother and daughters reunited at last, after how long only they will know.

I stood by and waited for my own mum to walk through those glass doors. The anticipation was exciting, and the expectation has in the past few days so unexpectedly brought smiles to my face. It has been almost two months since I last saw mum, soon I will see her again.

"David!" I heard, and turned to see her as she came out the doors. In front of her, two large suitcases. I quickly walked up and greeted her with a big hug, and laughter. "Why so much stuff?" I asked.

"All yours!"

Later in my apartment, as I slowly unpacked the suitcases did I know what she meant. A rice cooker, teapots, porcelain, cookies, towels, woolly jumpers, chopsticks, dried shrimps and mushrooms... all for me. It must have weighed some 30kg altogether. I imagined how mum hauled the two suitcases down those five flights of stairs in Taipei , flew some 20 hours changing three times to bring me all this. And I had expressly told her many times that she should travel light, and not carry too much, because it's too heavy for her alone!

It's not the things that she brought that made they especially valuable... but what they represent. All the effort and thought behind preparing and carrying all these things across the ocean. Just for me, just so that I can live a little better, eat a little healthier, just so that I can take care of myself when there is noone else to take care of me.

Mother and son reunited again, after how long only I will know.

First sightseeing

A lazy, hazy, and wet Sunday morning. I left my apartment and grabbed my bike. The roads here are pretty pock-holed, so cycling takes extra care. On the map a cyclepath was marked, but it was nothing more than cycling alongside huge humvees and 18 wheelers. Past a vacant lot I rode, past warehouses and an industrial zone, where the stench of factory smoke hung in the air. I turned, and before me was the water, flowing towards downtown Montréal.

Finally, after almost two weeks in the city, I could take the time and freedom to go out and see a bit of it... the bits other than my university or the streets and alleys when I was desparately looking for a place to live. I rode along the Canal Lachine, which apparently used to be the industrial vein of the city, connecting it with the Old Harbour and inland. Today, derilict looking factories and warehouses have been revamped into modern apartments, while the rusty skeleton of towering silos reminded the present of a bustling time in the past. The banks of the canal have been converted into the so-called Green Belt, a stretch of cyclepaths and greenlands that go on for kilometres. And on this I rode, enjoying once more that feeling of freedom and joy I get from hutling at high speeds.

Cyclepaths here are very different from the Netherlands. They are not terribly well marked, and you could tell that often they have just been demarcated wherever there was space. So often the path winds and snakes, sometimes on the main road along with gas-guzzlers, and sometimes onto the pavement, where you have to be careful not to run over the mum with the toddler and the dog on a leash.

Down the canal I pedaled, until eventually I arrived at the Old Port. At first glance, it was only a host of abandoned warehouses and defunct quays, and it is perhaps difficult to imagine the prospertiy and activity that the port once enjoyed. But like some many old ports that have outlived their usefulness, the area has been converted into a recreational and artists' zone, with boutiques, museums, an IMAX theatre, fountains next to abstract Ju-Ming's Tai-Chi sculptures.

Close by, lay the sprawling streets and hunger-evoking scents of Peking Duck in Chinatown. I parked my bike, and for the first time ever in my life, I paid for the parking fees at a slot machine, like you would when you park your car. The ticket I place on the handle, and I wondered whether a traffic warden would actually come by and check. I guess paying a $2 for 30 minutes (bike) parking is better than risking having your bike 'towed' away.

Food for thought

I rushed in the rain to my appointment, worried that I might be late and keep the bank clerk waiting. The thought of moving into my new apartment in a few hours kept me excited and awake until the early hours. Not even the time to eat breakfast, though my stomach growled as I ran.

Luckily I made it on time, and did what I had to do in the bureaucratic process of obtaining a credit card. A few days before, for a class dealing with philosophical dicussions on law, I had just re-read Kafka's "Before the Law". Suddenly, and ironically, I felt as foolish, or perhaps as wise, as the man from the country struggling to affect the invisible yet overbearing goliath of regulations and rules. Sadly for me, I am defeated, and must obey and wait, and wait, and wait until my door opens, and until I am beckoned in.

I walked towards the metro station, and in the distance the neon-lights of Tim Hortons beckoned me in. The smell of fresh coffee and bagels baking in the oven was welcoming, and I ordered something to go. With my breakfast and cup of cocoa, I stepped into the rain again, and quickly dove towards the nearby metro station.

I ran down the escalaotor, but just in that moment, in the corner of my eye something caught my attention. On the stairs next to the escalator was a vagrant, lying there like a heap of discarded clothes, the steps as his bed. The escalator took me further downward, but my curiosity wanted to go up. I looked at my bagel, and felt the warmth of my hot cocao, and felt the sweet smell entice my nostrils. The image of the man's unkempt hair, soiled garments, and unshaven face lingered. A gust blew, as tires gradually screetched unbearably to a halt.

I lept off of the escalator and clambered up the stairs. I leaned in close to the man, and whispered, "Bonjour... Bonjour...", while tapping him lightly on his shoulder. There was no response, save for the light heaving of his chest with each soft breath. Without thinking, I put the cocao next to the man, and placed the still warm bagel on it. And I ran down the stairs, as quickly as I came, and never looked back.

I could go hungry for a meal, and not eat. But how many meals has the man not eaten, and how hungry must he be? A free gift, the kind that makes hairs on your neck stand straight because for a little moment in this often destitute world there is a gift that warms humanity.

The gift of charity.

Cycle

Students have a way with money. Every cent and dollar counts, and every bargain is an opportunity, every saving an investment. At least to some, and I happen to be one of these people.

So since I arrived in Canada last week, I have been scouting the web for bargains. First, it was for cheap accommodation in a desirable neighbourhood not too far from university. And now it is for cheap second hand furniture, items, goods, and whatever people want to pass on. There are tonnes of used items for sell… from the totally useless Yoga DVDs to full living room settees and kitchen cutlery. And there is a dedicated website for McGill students to exchange their goods (and services!) for great value. Since a lot of students are moving and leaving, often the furniture or daily items are relatively new, and all people want is to get rid of them at a low price.

So imagine my joy when I bought a fan-and-heater–in-one for just CAD$5! The girl is about to move back to the United States, and she even threw in the backpack that she carried the fan/heater for free! I skipped away with my latest acquisition, and with the knowledge that I was now somewhat be prepared for the notorious winter months to come. And I have been told, they will come.

Maybe to others it is strange, but one of the most essential thing that I wanted to buy here is… a bike. Before arriving, I have been told that—though not great—Montreal is a city that has cycle paths for green and health-conscious people like me who are quick on the pedal. The past dozen years in the Netherlands, I have almost daily never gone without hopping on a bike, so of course I have been scouting the section of the website selling bicycles.

And then I saw it. Almost brand-new, 18 gears, front suspensions, dark red, and well maintained. And only for CAD$50! So I called the person, and made an appointment to go pick it up. I may not have a bed yet, but at least I have a bike!

Little did I realise that he lived by the other campus of McGill, which is some 40 minutes out of downtown by bus. I found my way onto the shuttle service running between the city and the other campus, and for the first time, boarded an ‘American’ schoolbus—the only difference being that it was not yellow like those you see in movies. It was white.

Maybe it was the intense three hours of international air carrier liability earlier, or the cool breeze and lazy Autumn sun, but almost immediately I fell asleep…

“Time to get up!” the busdriver shouted, as the bus rode past trees, grassy lawns, and in the distance, the wide water glistening in the sunset. Everything was so green, so vast, so open, so natural. So very different from the noise and busy-ness of the city I had somehow been transported away from in the wink of an eye (literally). The bus turned, into a tree-lined street, on either side huge and beautifully built free-standing houses—almost villas by European standard— with neatly trimmed hedges and well mowed lawns. The only things missing were the white picket fence, dog, and happy smiling family of mum, dad, and two kids playing, otherwise it would have been the iconic semblance of Fairview (from Desperate Housewives). It then dawned on me, perhaps in one of those awing moments in life when you realise that this something you have seen so often but never experienced: this is the much talked about, and much envied and sought after new world of ‘American’ (actually, Canadian) suburbia .

I got off the bus, still dazed from what I have just seen, for it all seemed a dream. The campus was massive, like nothing I have ever encountered before, and dwarfed even the campus downtown, which I was already impressed with because of its spread and size. Later I learned that the second campus in the western edge of Ile de Montreal (Island of Montreal) houses the a number of faculties, including that of agriculture, and animal and plant sciences. Next to the campus, the mighty Fleure Saint-Laurent River flows into the grand Lac Saint-Louis.

A couple, in the setting sunlight, sat on a far away bench as water flowed silently past. A squirrel, an acorn clenched between its teeth, mischievously skips across the lawn and onto a tall tree. A maple leaf fell in the gentle breeze.

And I had a bike with me to explore this vast and beautiful land before me.

“Stop fondling me, or else the airline will be liable!”

Once in a while I encounter cases in my studies that are so bizarre that they must be mentioned. If not to educate, then at least it will entertain.

Imagine the following situation. You are onboard a long trans-Pacific flight, and the cabin lights are dimmed, as most passengers are lying asleep. You are next to the window, which on most long-haul economy class planes effectively means you are ‘hemmed in’ by two other strangers. You doze off. Then, suddenly, you feel something wriggling in your pants. You open your eyes, and see that the passenger next to you has extended his (or her) naughty hand down to fondle you. You turn your body away, causing the unwelcome hand to withdraw, and continue to sleep, only to wake up moments later to see that the naughty passenger simply has not lost interest in your underpants. You leap across the two passengers to freedom, and inform the flight attendant. The dirty perv is apprehended upon arrival. You sue the airline for personal injury.

And you win. Big time.

As twisted as this may be, there is no need to imagine, because this is exactly what happened in Wallace v Korean Air (US Appeals 2^nd Circuit, 2000). The poor Ms. Wallace woke to find that dirty Mr Park had “unbuckled her belt, unzipped and unbuttoned her jean shorts, and placed his hands into her underpants to fondle her”. The most bizarre fact was perhaps not the sexual predation—however undesirable it is and may have been—but that Ms. Wallace brought the case not against the sex offender, but against the airline.

She did so under the Warsaw Convention—that long-winded text printed on the back of airline tickets—which limits liability for personal injury or death to US$75,000 in the event of an “accident”. But Ms. Wallace actually managed to make the Appeal Court in the US find that the airline is liable for the unsavoury actions of dirty Mr. Park, because “the lights were turned down and the sexual predator was left unsupervised in the dark”. The court called what happened “an unexpected or unusual event”, and therefore the law which normally deals with a serious air crash or aerial accident on an international flight would apply.

It is of course not wrong that Ms. Wallace should get her right, and that she is indeed entitled to compensation for the emotional discomfort she may have endured. But do use the Warsaw Convention, which was drafted to deal with more ‘serious’ aviation accidents undermines the law and opens it up to abuse. Luckily, it seems like this peculiar case and peculiar facts are one off, and probably will not be repeated.

But the consequences of Ms. Wallace’s victory are mind boggling. Basically the case implied that airlines has a duty to know who is a sexual predator, and that the inflight steward(ess) should regularly patrol the aisles with a flashlight to see if there are any unwanted hands extended down unwanted pants.

Besides the regular security questions on whether anyone has tampered with your luggage, perhaps the next time you board the plane,the checkin people will ask you if you are a sexual predator, or whether you would mind sitting next to one.

I will be looking forward to my next flight…

In between

Despite the noise of the morning traffic, the racket of passing monster trucks, and the sirens of emergency services, it was a long and welcome chat on the phone. Thanks to my friend who called to check up on how I was doing, for an hour or so I felt less alone and more comfortable being here. We exchanged laughs, as I excitedly told her about my new apartment and how eager I was to move into my very first home of my own. She shared my happiness, and felt my anxieties about being here and having to start life all over again. It felt good to know that someone cares so much. Though she was far away, she was in fact so very close.

I guess in all the excitement about coming to Canada, I completely forgot how much I dislike the dirt and din of big cities. Or perhaps it just takes some getting used to, especially coming from a quiet little village like The Hague, where two pedals away I could always easily escape into the recluse of the forest. Like in my undergrad days in London, my new university is right in the heart of Montreal, situated in the shadow of skyscrapers and the city’s highest hill. In fact, there is even an metro station named after my university, which I guess is something to be proud of. Then again, it feels strange that once you step outside of the classroom, you are again in the bustle and hustle of city life.

I checked out of the hostel I have been staying in for the last five days. Originally I was supposed to move into the new apartment in the morning, but the old tenant was still there, so my landlord told me to wait till the evening. Since I could not do anything, I headed to the law library for the first time. A pretty building, right opposite my institute, five floors, and actually not all that big, especially considering it is the library that supports probably (one of ) the best law school in Canada. I was one of the very few people in the library, especially given that it was a Saturday, and that school had just begun. I sat down, and for the next hours till dusk fell, I worked on a paper that I am working on together with friends I met during the summer school in Barcelona.

Outside, for the first time since I arrived in Canada, it began to rain. The sky had been heavy and dense the whole day, and finally it started to pour. The city took on a whole new coat in the dampness, and even the skyscrapers in the background seemed to have their usual proud towering postures dampened.

I moved the remaining of my luggage to a temporary apartment that my landlord had given to me before I moved into my own one. I called him, just to ask what the situation is, and then came the bad news.

The apartment I had liked since I stepped into it is not going to be available. Apparently, the girl who is staying there changed her mind and does not want to move anymore. What is more, she is actually someone who special needs, which means it will take a lot of effort for her to move house, especially since special appliances that cater for her will have to be fitted, and this cannot just happen within a day or so. According to the landlord, she threw a fit, and was very difficult to deal with. And the landlord sounded really apologetic, and offered to give me another apartment that is in better condition.

What was I to say? To be honest, I was not sure what to believe, but then again, I did not have it in me to say that my needs for the apartment that I liked so much would come before a girl with special needs. I mean, I can only imagine how tough it must be for her to be living on her own, let alone have to be forced to move in a sudden notice. Of course, I was extremely disappointed, and have been feeling pretty upset since I heard the news.

But then again… it is just an apartment, right?

Settling down

(My first steps on Canadian soil...in my beloved Birkenstocks!!)

My fourth night in Canada, and slowly I think I am getting used to it. The street signs and language people speak are French, but then the kind of run-down alleyways next to towering skyscrapers are so typically North American. It still seems odd that I am here now, whereas a few days ago I was still cycling on my bike towards the beach. Big difference here though, it is 30C every day. At least for now, because it is “false advertising” for the real weather, as a lecturer put it.

Yesterday I had a chat with the director of Institute I’m studying in, and he again said that they were delighted to have me, saying that someone with my kind of “caliber” comes “highly recommended”. I modestly thanked him (again) for giving me this wonderful opportunity and the position as a fellow with a generous scholarship. Of course, part of my duties as a fellow of the Institute would be to “give back to the community”, so I will be involved in some extra curricular work. The weather in winter will keep me indoors most of the time anyways, I was assured.

I was actually feeling pretty deflated the first few days… I mean, I know no one, I am a complete stranger in a foreign country, and going from place to place looking for an apartment. Everything I saw was old or really expensive, especially in the so-called McGill Ghetto next to campus. Luckily, the lady bank clerk I met a few days ago managed to track down an apartment for me, and I went to see it this morning.

I was already impressed as soon as I opened the door. There are actually two apartments, one on the second floor, and one in the basement. The former one looks a bit older, and some places were peeling, whereas the one in the basement was restored brand new, and had a better separation of space. Though it is in the basement, and though I have this impression that it would be damp and dark down there, it was nothing like that. Very bright and airy, and the flooring, kitchen, as well as bathtub are all brand new. I did not have to think twice, especially after all the really rubbish and expensive places I had seen in the past few days! And best of all, just around the corner is a metro station, and it takes only around 15minutes for me to get to university. Lots of grocery stores and restaurants nearby, making it very convenient. And another bonus of the apartment is: it is in an area called Monk. So I will hopefully be more spiritual and at ease living in my new home.

The landlord is such a great and trusting person—none of that guarantor hassle or need to pay the first and previous month’s rent as a guarantee as some people have asked me to do. He did not even ask for a deposit, but just said I could move my things in right away. To him, he would rather have a trustworthy and honest tenant (like me!) than leave the apartment empty or let it be taken by drug-addicts or people with very low incomes. And he really is a reasonable person, who seems to have the tenants’ interests in mind. I signed the lease, and after that, he even offered to drive me to Ikea to look at furniture.

When I go to the big furniture store, I realised I did not have much money on me because especially since I am still waiting for my scholarship to appear… so, my bed and table and chairs for my humble abode will have to wait for a while…

But at least, finally after all this time longing for freedom and independence, as of tomorrow, I have a lovely place I can call my own. And this will really be a first.