It's alright 1am, and I'm sitting in my apartment at 2560 Allard. This has been my first home since I settled down in September. Many good memories, but some also bad experiences. If it weren't for the noisy neighbour upstairs and kid who's always running around next day, or for the strange bugs and flies that appear out of nowhere, I'd have stayed longer.
Fortunately I found a new place literally around the corner from here. It's a nice apartment with big windows, three rooms. Needs a little painting, and some work here and there, but otherwise it's really cosy. Well, at least as far as I know, since I've not slept there yet. But if all is well, and goes well, I have a feeling it might be a place I'll try to make a warm, cosy home at, even if it's for the short term. And I think my cat will like the place too. Seeing the large window sills and the balcony made me smile and imagine the kind of fun and lazying about she could have there.
Yes, it was Canada Day yesterday, and true to Quebecois tradition I also started to move some of my things. Now just the big heavy pieces of furniture, and I'm all set.
It's a day I guess I could pauze and reflect on. Not so much because I'm Canadian, but because I have been made to feel welcome and wanted in this country. A far cry from the subtle and inert racism and xenophobia I experience and sense in the Netherlands or Europe generally, I feel so strangely at home. All these people, black, yellow, white, from all these different heritages, cultural backgrounds and with so many religious faiths all coming together to celebrate, to waive that red and white banner. They're all proud, proud to be Canadian, to be born, to be living, to have come to this wonderful country, this blend of mutual acceptance, blending and cosmopolitanism that is a model of for the future of this world.
Happy Birthday, Canada.
And while it is a joyous day here, I also cannot but not remember that it is/was also my dad's birthday. Were he here to see this world, to experience with me what I experience now, this joy and achievement here in Canada, I think, or at least I'd hope, he'd be very proud...
It's been a long while since I wrote. I'm not sure why, but recently I've just not had the motivation, nor the inspiration to write. Write like I used to before at least.
I guess to write I need some trigger, some kind of strong emotional or sensual experience that will push the words out of me and onto the screen. But to be honest, recently there's not been much, at least not since I got back from my (now almost) two month break.
Been busy searching for an apartment, and I seem to have found a place. Can move in by this week, and I'll be really glad to get that over and done with. For the last two weeks I've just been living in limbo, expecting, or at least anticipating the big move so I can finally be settled down and get myself working again. When you've got things packed away in boxes, it's difficult to do that... the mind and heart is disturbed and unsettled.
Other than that, I've been becoming listless, lazy to put it bluntly. The other day I spoke to mum and she got her test results back. From what she told me, things are alright. There are still lumps around her waist, but nothing else. The dotcor gave her a clear to continue working, and she seems somewhat happy with that. What's bothering her now is really her knee, and she says she really needs to move house soon.
I wrote down my feelings to a dear friend about how I feel about all this, and how it's affecting me:
I went to sleep after that conversation... I don't know why, but the conversation drained me, and I slept for a long, long time, even though it was morning already. And since I've been sort of avoiding phone calls (sorry, hope you can understand) and social events. I guess I just needed some time alone.
I'm glad things are alright, and that my mum does not need to (actually, more accurately, does not want to) undergo chemo again. But it feels like a battle every few months, waiting anxiously for the results, hoping things will turn out well, and if things are alright, another few months of waiting for the clear. If that's what it feels like for me, imagine what it must feel like for her?... Of course sometimes when I'm with her somewhere, the thought does cross my mind that it might be the last time that I'm with her... whether it's in Switzerland, Leidschendam, or just at AH around my house. Anytime could be the last....
But really, it could be my last time too. We're all dying, Bat-Sheva, and nobody knows for sure who will go first, or how. The question is then what we do, or say, to one another while we're still around. All I, or anyone, can is try to do the best, to be kind, compassionate and loving, even if we get irritated and annoyed sometimes.
Maybe it's simple self-consolation to think or believe this way. But in the face of death, this is the most optimistic way of looking at things. For everyone, and for everyone's sake.
That's how I feel at the moment. Still in limbo, still half-searching for something I'm not sure what and not even sure I will find. Companionship perhaps... someone to share my feelings and thoughts with... all these pent up emotions are eating me slowly, and I sleep them away, only to feel worse afterwards for wasting my precious life and youth away...
But I do remember his CD, on the cover of which were his piercing dark eyes. And I do remember watching video clips filled with different coloured people, moon walks and scary monsters with fangs. And of course, how could I forget the beautiful background music of that iconic moment when the orca finally leapt to freedom?
Hold me Love me and feed me Kiss me and free me I will feel blessed (Will you be there?)
Later, his voice would often send shivers down my spine, sometimes moisten my eyes, and always makes me feel rejuvenated with hope and passion for living. His words brought people together. His songs broke language and cultural barriers. They were about sorrow, human compassion, common understandings, and were constant reminders to the people of this world of the great potentials if we could only forget petty differences and prejudices.
Beat me, hate me You can never break me Will me, thrill me You can never kill me Jew me, Sue me Everybody do me Kick me, Kike me Don't you black or white me (They Don't Care About Us)
Despite the fame and riches he enjoyed, he continued to sing, and do so with soul and a very human touch. Sometimes even uniting with other talented musicians and artists to champion peace, spread love, and promote respect for this home we call Earth.
What about all the things That you said was yours and mine... Did you ever stop to notice All the blood we've shed before Did you ever stop to notice The crying Earth the weeping shores? (Earth Song)
His actions and songs advocated noble causes, or maybe even impossible dreams in the state of decay and war we find ourselves in today. But he reminded us, with his moves, his trademark shrieks, and that cheeky smile and those eaglespread arms about the little steps that can affect change.
I'm starting with the man in the mirror I'm asking him to change his ways And no message could have been any clearer If you wanna make the world a better place Take a look at yourself and then make a change (Man in the mirror)
It is no wonder that millions have been swept away by the King of Pop, and that millions will now mourn and weep at his loss. He cautioned people against the blindness of hatred, reminded us about the sorrow that unites us all as much as happiness and hope, about the forgotten and the downtrodden. He spoke to people’s hearts with such personal and emotional depth. Because “It Don't Matter If You're/Black Or White”, ask yourself
How does it feel When you're alone And you're cold inside? (Stranger in Moscow)
Michael Jackson may be gone, may have lived the last years of his life in obscurity and media induced negative publicity, but no doubt his songs, his music, and that soft, soft voice will continue to move the world.
And… perhaps one day even heal it.
Heal The World Make It A Better Place For You And For Me And The Entire Human Race There Are People Dying If You Care Enough For The Living Make A Better Place For You And For Me (Heal the world)
I stood in the middle of the sea. Or so it seemed. The wind swept my face, as droplets of rain and the salty sea danced around me. The sprays felt cool and calming, and with each breath I felt rejuvenated with the refreshing smell of the great outdoors. In the distance, behind a veil of mist and dew lay a sleepy little town, hidden from sight.
Early Sunday, and together with a friend I ventured onto the rocky causeway that stretched across the bay. The night before, I sat on the same causeway under the cover darkness. Save for the softness of my own breathing, the sucking rhythm of the sea sounded like a low gratifying sigh in the darkness. The stars hid, and but the sky was broad and impressive.
By morning, the sea had gathered strength and splashed all around us. In the morning drizzling rain, braving the breeze that seemed to gather more and more courage, the attempts to balance ourselves on the damp gigantic boulders was a challenge. Each step was carefully calculated, each stride determined and firm. Even lashing waves and sudden showers of the sea that tried to turn us back could not dampen our spirits, and we went on.
At the eastern edge of Massachusetts is an arm-shaped stretch of land that surrounds Cape Cod Bay. Provincetown lies at the tip of this (…very) unique geographic phenomenon. The quaint little town is very different from when Pilgrims first founded it in the 1600s. Today, it has a known reputation as a seaside resort for the LGBT community. Despite the gray spell of weather, the vibrant lively, colours of the town could not be hidden.
The main street is filled with bohemian galleries, cafes, clubs and boutiques that sell everything from tacky fridge magnets and T-shirts to arts and crafts created by locals. The streets and alleys are narrow, and with the tourists that flock there in the weekends and holidays are crowded with character. There are charming cottages and houses with white picket fences and beautiful gardens. Owners in their rocking chairs friendlily smile and wave to passerbys, and the occasional transvestite strutting down the street. Small-town America in its warm and most welcoming form.
Besides the scenic coastline, and numerous trails that traverse the dune-scape, there is a reason why people come all the way out to Provincetown. There, the Star - Spangled Banner seems to flutter proudly alongside rainbow flags and flags of Peace. Symbolically, this is truly a place in the ‘Land of the Free’ where people of all sexualities and orientations live in harmony in a community that thrives on and celebrates diversity, inclusiveness, and hope.
It took a generation, setbacks and continuing struggles to build such a community. A place where it is not frowned upon to see couple of the same-sex walk hand-in-hand down the street. A place where how you choose to dress or behave is not met with the angry retorts of hell-fire and damnation. A place where families and children play on the same sandy beaches where couples openly display their affection for one another. For what does it really matter whom you love and choose to spend precious moments of life together with?
I looked at the sleepy town in the distance, tried to picture that dreamy, yet beautiful community hidden behind the veil of mist and dew. And in the lashing rain, and growing furore of the wind and waves, wondered when the world will be like the little town of Provincetown.
I saw the Dalai Lama today, (somewhat) up close and personal. Perhaps in my worldly ignorance and spiritual backwardness, I could not see the “wolf wrapped in a habit, a monster with human face and the heart of an animal” that the Chinese government has described him as once. The Dalai Lama was but a simple Buddhist monk, in simple robes, with simple words.
Yet, this simple monk with simple words, has an almost infectious, child-like chuckle. One often triggered by anecdotes from his many encounters with world leaders and commoners alike, and by the self-recognition of his broken command of the English language. Though his sentences and grammar may be broken, his sense and profundity is whole and genuine. His simple words carry wisdom, reach the core of common sense, is at times grounded by science and worldly facts, and all cemented by the fundamental and universal message of compassion and kindness. These are virtues to be recognised and nurtured. To be passed on to future generations through education, training, and daily practice. Not only for personal growth and spiritual development, but also for greater social peace and unity in the family, community, country and world at large.
To develop the potentials of affection and compassion within us, it is important to master over the opposite emotions of hatred and aggression. Patience and tolerance can offer the mind— the judge and jury of all our interactions and perceptions of the world—a sense of calm and peace essential to develop wisdom. Wisdom to remain undisturbed, focused and determined. Even in turbulent times. The Dalai Lama lectured, his arm occasionally gesturing at the audience of some ten thousand. I received his intense gaze, voice and wisdom as if he was speaking to me personally. Even through a big screen, it was as if his presence could be felt. Not in the way that healers, self-proclaimed gurus and voodoo-doers claim to have the power to reach within your soul and magically cure you of all ailments and worry. The Dalai Lama’s method was, as he had forewarned, perhaps less elaborate and more disappointing. He appealed, merely but no less importantly, to the humanity and commonalities that we share as breathing and bleeding human beings.
People from all over the Netherlands, and even beyond, flocked to catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama. He was like a celebrity, but without the glitz and glamour, and not needing the pompous red carpet. Though, for a few moments, in an attempt to humour the locals, he played the hip gangster by putting on a tacky souvenir black and white cap with Amsterdam scribbled all over it and black sunglasses. The hall reverberated with laughter and lightheartedness, contrasting with the almost holy silence when the Dalai Lama spoke in all earnestness and seriousness about living with compassion and wisdom.
Yet, where is the political agenda in the Dalai Lama’s reminder to people, whether religious or secular, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim or Jewish, whether black, yellow or white, of the inherent potential of compassion and human affection that lie within each and every one of us? What is the great threat of urging people to cultivate tolerance, compassion, and understanding, of standing up for transparency, truth and sincerity, especially in as turbulent times as today? Where is the source of subversion and ‘splittism’ in talking about humanity’s yearning for and progress towards greater transparency and universal truth, as received and perceived from all angles and opinions?
Not that titles and awards, recognitions and words of praise and flattery matter much to this simple Buddhist monk with an air of humility and lowers himself to the level of the common folk. His calls of compassion and tolerance is his only weapon, his patience and constant search for the middle way is his only defence against the torrent of negative propaganda against him and his government-in-exile. And throughout the past fifty years, despite longing for returning to the homeland, the Dalai Lama has called for dialogue, engagement, and compromised to only seek autonomy within China. Throughout the ordeal and forced exile, the courage and hope and optimism the Dalai Lama still speaks of the difficult, but ultimate wisdom in extending compassion and affection to the enemy.
Angry words, full of hatred, full of delusion and greed, only perpetuate misunderstanding and confrontation, only serve to prolong the causes of wars and conflicts, which were rife in the 20th Century. Has the world progressed since then? Have people around the world matured? Yes. Witness the popular peaceful revolutions that toppled authoritarianism and tyranny. Recall how at the dawn of the last century nations rallied in pride to go to war, and yet in the context of Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan millions took to the streets. Listen to the language of human rights, self-determination and democracy echoing with peoples and leaders.
Those are all great changes, perhaps all too grand and far away for little people like you and me to affect. Yet, we as human beings, in our everyday lives, in our every day speech and actions, can make a difference to ourselves, and to those around us.
Fate should have it that I would spend an hour sitting by Lac Leland silently meditating. Some erroneous booking meant that mum and I could spend one more day away, and Evian we decided to go and stay for the extra night. While mum did her message, I wandered down the bay, and found a quite crop of rocks by the shore and sat.
For perhaps the first time ever, I striped to only my jeans, and was naked on top. I wanted to capture some of the sun, and receive the healthy vitamins that people often speak of. At first I was alert, constantly aware of the waves, the sounds, the dampness from the sprinkles of water that splashed against the rocks, bothered by the humming of planes overhead or boats speeding past. It took a while before I could sit there, close my eyes and observe my breath, my feelings, my emotions and thoughts. It was not for long, but it was the first time in a long time that I could sit down and calm myself, collect myself and try to be at ease and rest.
In the distance, a few guys lay sunbathing. I could not but look and wonder, at times even fantasise about their bonds and that sense of friendship, just guys at the beach, half-naked in the sun in a romantic setting. Swans swam by, sometimes really close by that I was awakened by the sound of their feet splashes against the water. They looked at me, and made me wonder whether the temporarily calm and solitude I had managed to recover was the source of their attraction. Or perhaps they were just looking for food…
Such tranquillity, if only temporarily, of me and the waves, the sound of the waves, and the warmth of the early Summer sun. If only I could bring those moments with me wherever I go, and be with such tranquillity and calm wherever I am.
Kitty fled, hid and eyed out of the window at the flashing lightning. A violent and thunderous storm invaded the land, unleashing torrents of rain, deafening echoes through dense, dark clouds the whole night long. I remember waking up at various instances, only to fall asleep in a dreamlike state of mind amid the din and the terrible flashes of light. I thought to myself how others in the house must have slept…
In the morning, mum told me that she dreamt of dad. A strange dream, of him coming to her, and resting his head on her shoulder. She felt her shoulder heavy and sore in the morning, but this feeling of having someone rest his head on her shoulder is nostalgic, refreshing and brought back memories. Dad used to do that, she said, but it’s been a long, long time. She said she felt comforted seeing dad the same way, in his old self, as if nothing had changed. Moreover, it was comforting to have someone rest his head on her shoulder… it’s the comfort and protection that you seek when you come home at night… now that’s all gone. I tried to recreate that feeling, but I knew I could not…
Outside, it was thundering. A pre-summer storm, brewing, grumbling and flashing. Kitty was scared, or perhaps intrigued, by the curious suddenness, loudness and bright flashes. I lay in bed next to mum, as she recounted stories and memories of times gone by…
…how when I was so little and took the train to school everyday on my own… how mum took up driving lessons because she wanted to be able to bring us to school before… how I was left here to fend and feed myself when I was just 14… how cruel it must have been to leave me, to leave us behind… how easily I, we, could have turned out badly, but how luckily we did not…
Feelings of nostalgia washed over us, as we recounted old days. Then I was so small, and those days now seem so far away now. How big I have grown, and how also very distant I have become from this place, this home.
I feel it especially this time, as I come home to the Netherlands, and see that so many things are still the same… the way brother is, the way things are placed and organised (or not…)… the way the houses and people appear to be the same. To someone like me, who has flown across the world, lived a new life and lived new experiences, it feels constraining, somewhat frustrating too to be back in my ‘old’ life, in my old surroundings.
What can I say when brother is still the same moody self? What can I do when all he does after coming home from work is sit down and watch movies or play games online? I see mum, disappointed and bitter, despite repeated attempts to get him out of the chair, to get him to move, or to get him to be engaged in conversation… yet, almost nightly I see him, back faced to us, hunched over his computer in the living room, lost in his own little world.
Perhaps brother is suffering, brooding, and escaping this world, this loneliness and frustration he feels deep inside… perhaps he cannot express what he feels, cannot put into words the touchy-feely emotions that trouble him, because he has been socialised to be strong, to be a man, to be devoid of weaknesses like emotions, and indeed, the very fact of having weaknesses as such… I see him, unhappy, somewhat lost, and lonely, unhealthily getting bigger due to his diet and the incessant smoking… I wish to help him, but I do not wish to ruin him by continuing an old and unhealthy pattern of allowing him to be dependant on others… he must stand up on his own, learn to live life alone and learn to take care of himself, love himself and be content with himself…
Otherwise, like today, like so many times and days in the past, mum goes to bed, full of worry, full of stress and pain and frustrations at the fact that his son, in whom she and dad have invested so much time and effort, is losing himself in old habits, in depression and unexpressed and unspoken anxieties…
Perhaps, it is I that need help… for I am forever being critical and being unaccepting of the circumstances here. But when I come back here, and see that life continues as if I have never left, I am left with a sense of responsibility, of guilt that I left, that I will leave again soon to pursue my own life, to declare my independence. Yet back here, in the minds and lives of my family and loved ones, things still remain the same.
The unspoken silence, the untouchable distance, the reality of calling and talking merely based on whenever needs and wants arise… are we family still?
The catamaran skirted through the islands, hopping from one port to another along the way from Bergen to Flam. The view was numbing and quickly changing from almost open seas to narrow waterways surrounded by high peaks and rock faces. Thin trickles of waters sometimes fell like white strings down the cliff faces, cascading into the water down below. Rare green pasture at the foot of the mountains offered sanctuary to small farms and grazing animals.
Colourfully painted cottages sprinkled along the shore, and lonely boats that rocked on the surface of the water seemed to stir as we passed. At some places, the water was so undisturbed and clear that an alternate image of the mountains and blue, blue sky reflected on the surface of the water. In this tranquil setting, the roar of our engine and white foam and turbulence in the water as we sped through was at times embarrassingly load and disturbing.
Close to arriving at my final destination, the town of Flåm , I was somewhat disappointed. After so many hours being surrounded by the raw nature of the fjordscape, what lay before me was a gigantic white oddity moored in the harbor that coughed black smoke into the air. Out of the belly of this shiny white monster, thousands of holiday-makers seemed to poured and slowly flooded the little town of what normally is merely 500 hundred souls. Speaking to a local, I was informed that throughout the summer more than two thousand similar types of cruise-ships would arrive here, each time swamping the town almost fivefold its population.
Once on shore, almost instantly I went off the beaten track, took a bike and pedaled into the countryside, deep into the valley. A windswept sign pointed up the hill, so I ventured onto a barely recognizable path upwards. It was a steep climb, and there was barely any on the path. Except for the muffled sounds of a running creak and echoes of falling water, I was surrounded by only the sing-song of the birds and humming of the bees.
With every climb up, I got hotter and hotter in the afternoon sun, but was soon rewarded with impressive views of the valley below. In the distance lay the town I had just left behind, hemmed in from both sides by towering snow-peaked mountains. The fjord ends at the town, with the water resembling a gentle hand that silently embraced cupped the still, sleepy land. Sudden ruffling movements in the bushes more than once made me think about legends of ugly trolls that live in such Norwegian wilderness.
But I was away, up on the hill, looking down, and away from all that hustle and noise. And glad that I was alone, surrounded not by tacky souvenirs and overpriced vendors, but by the beauty and wonders that nature had to offer.
I took the long way, through Copenhagen and Stavanger in order to get into Bergen. It was some effort waking up at 4 in the morning to catch the flight, but the long way was also the cheap(er) way, and I was rewarded with flying on three different types of planes, and rare breathtaking scenery.
My first glimpse of Norway was from the air. We approached from the South, crossed countless expanses of waters before finally encountering land. Beautiful land, bits of which lush green and some were yellow with blossoming flowers. Little lambs ran freely around, as brown cows grazed in an almost surreally idyllic setting. Little islets, solitary crops of land and patches of grass rose from the vast open sea, while boats skimmed through the surface of the water like darting white arrows. There was even a drilling platform, a massive metallic eyesore in the middle of nowhere, but also the source of natural wealth beneath waters around Norway and the reason why sparse 4.5 million Norwegians are among the most affluent in the world.
As plane flew closer inland, I could see snow capped peaks in the distance. Beneath us, the shadow of the plane skirted over rough, sparsely populated land of jagged rocks, hills and mountain ranges that arched over into the horizon. Then suddenly, cut into the mountains were stretches of deep, blue water, flowing like veins arteries into the land. This was the world-renowned fjord formation, a remnant of the last Ice Age, when retreating and melting ice shields carved deep ravines, impressive towering cliffs and inlets of deep estuaries that meander from the mountains into the North Sea almost along the entire length of Western Norway. Fjord country is a unique landscape, some of which have been drafted onto the UNESCO’s list of World Heritage Sites.
The plane descended slowly, and closer and closer I was to this miraculous land.
There is a lonely sense of romanticism standing alone on the empty pier jutting into the sea. Lonely, because of the piercing wind and sad-sounding call of seagulls, but romantic because of memories that seem to lurk beneath the gray depth of the sea at my feet. Were it not for my McGill hoodie, it might have been like any evening in my youth. Evenings when I'd just grab the bike and brave the North Sea winds to catch a glimpse of the setting sun.
Despite the familiar salty smell, that tingling grains of sands against my skin, and the ever-changing display of colours in the dusking sky, circumstances have changed a lot. It was around this time last year that the foundations of the big move across the Atlantic to Canada were being laid. A year later, who would have thought the beach that lay behind the dunes would now be so far away and difficult to reach.
But wherever I live, I guess there will always be the wind, the sand and the sea in my memory.
Everything seems to be so surprisingly green and refreshing. Or perhaps it’s the effect of being cooped up in a small space for much too long and being unable to sleep.
As I rode the train home, I noticed how Spring is so beautiful… how this country is so beautiful. The country and home I have lived in for so many years, and now is merely a place I frequent when the opportunity arises. There’s a fresh scent, of grass, of new budding leaves, of new life. Beautiful with the sun beaming down on the Earth.
I thought about it for a long, long time already. If I remember correctly, since late last year. But I postponed it every time, again and again because I wasn't sure if I was 'ready'. Even though, I think, deep down inside, I have always been ready. So I decided today, and I made the move. I've adopted a new cat!
Her name is Panda, from her beautifully black and white tuxedo coat. She's around one and a half years old (they think), and so unfortunately put outside when she got pregnant by her previous owner. And in many ways, she reminds me of Kleine Kat... the nose that's half white and half coloured, the shiny V-neck white coat on the front of her chest, and those big, bright eyes. Innocent, yet playful, curious, and yet radiating with intelligence.
She was shy at first, perhaps a little annoyed that she had been taken to attend an Adopthathon. This is where a dozen or so cats are brought from the shelter to a specific location in the hope of getting adopted. The shelter currently has two hundred or so cats, even more now that it's Spring and that little kittens are being born... and the economic crisis isn't helping either, since a lot of pets are being abandoned because people can't take care of them anymore.
To be honest, I've been browsing the website of the shelter for a long while already, and I narrowed the cats to a select few. I wanted a quiet cat, calm, and affectionate cat that likes to be petted and held, but is also not afraid to be alone during the day. And Panda, at least as far as I can see, seems to fit that description well.
As soon she entered the apartment, she carefully stepped out of the cage. She sought for a good hiding place, darting from corner to corner in search of a good hideout. But eventually, she found the toys, the scratch box, the green grass and litter box that I had carefully prepared for her. And she became more curious than afraid. I held out my hand, and within moments she was coming over and butting me, purring and with her tail straight up. At one point, she even lay on her back and played 'paw' with me.
Now, she lies asleep in front of me. She's quiet, and yelps a little sometimes. I wonder if she is missing the last of her kitten... but I hope soon that will all change, and that soon she will get used to the home that I can provide her. I really hope, like Kleine Kat, whom I have not forgotten or no longer miss, I be able to provide Panda a loving place, a place of belonging and security that she has been missing for far too long.
Last week, Jackie Chan found himself in a different kind of spotlight, one that is a far cry from the Hollywood glitz and glamour he is used to. The star of such (in my opinion poorly acted and low class) movies as Rush Hour and Who am I, perhaps Chan was a little lost when he uttered that "Chinese need to be controlled", and "if [Chinese] are not being controlled, [Chinese] will just do what we want". To make matters worse, he called freedom-aspring Hong Kong and freedom-practising Taiwan "chaotic".
In fact, Chan has recetly not simply jibed at Chinese people in general, or insulted the democratic societies of Hong Kong or Taiwan. In the same week or so, on a visit to the single-party city-State of Singapore, he claimed that because Singaporeans lack "self-respect", the Singaporeans too need a government to control them.
Chan's statement is at best a poor generalisation, and at worst outright an outright patronising (and verging on racist) remark that Chinese people cannot govern by themselves, "as if they were potential and deserving outcasts in a Chinese version of Brave New World — somehow deficient and hence to be purged". The kung-fu legend seems to believe that people in Hong Kong and Taiwan are like the Chinese in China; that they think alike, act alike, and therefore must be governed and controlled alike. This, depsite the fact that both the peoples of Hong Kong and Taiwan (and lest we forget, Singapore) have experienced completely different versions of history and democratic processes compared to China:
Chan has not only insulted Taiwanese, who spilled blood building their democracy, and people in Hong Kong, who have worked hard to retain freedom in the territory since the handover to China, but has also come very close to expressing racist sentiment in genetic terms.
If, as he claims, Chinese need to be “controlled,” then this implies that they are genetically predisposed to chaos and incapable of functioning without a system that imposes order — an authoritarian system.
At issue is the age-old argument between Confucianist and Legalist tradition. By attempting to argue that democracy would not work in China, Chan championed the Legalist tradition that justifies and supports strong control from a paternalistic, unaccountable central power — like Beijing and the Chinese Communist Party’s politburo.
The implication that Beijing would rather not reveal is that despite 5,000 years of culture, and nearly 3,000 years of Confucianism, Chinese need to be controlled because — though few will say it — they are too dumb, too stupid and too selfish to rule themselves democratically.
I guess Chan can afford to make these thoughtless (and yet provocative) comments, because he is now living the American dream in his big mansion in Los Angeles, far, far away from the the "chaotic" societies which he so-proudly claims need to be "controlled". This is, after all the same guy who sang at Beijing much touted (though at times mimed and carefully orchestrated) coming-out event last year at the 2008 Olympics. The same guy who will soon be singing at the "Believe in China" concert. However well the star-cum-sing can sing, his "Chinese need to be controlled" statement must have been:
Music to the ears of the government of Beijing, which has long been peddling the “we're the only thing holding this place together line,” and laughable nonsense to democrats in Hong Kong and Taipei, who seem to like their chaos just fine thank you. And all in time to mark 60 years since the Communists seized power in China and the Kuomintang in Taiwan went their own way.
It's worth noting that Chan, who was born in colonial-era Hong Kong and has made millions of dollars as a Hollywood film star, has never lived in the sort of repressive regime that he's advocating for his countrymen. As he proved by his comments this weekend, he obviously feels quite free to say whatever he wants.
Ironically, Chan often plays the part of kung-fu heroes "who have grabbed initiative and refused to accept fate", who kicked and punched for justice, for the poor and disenfranchised against the mean and oppressive. With his remarks, Chan seems to be playing the role of an anti-hero:
As the economies of the democracies have tumbled, the world’s autocracies have been on the march. Chan’s words, however, have put China’s authoritarians on the defensive for the moment. And they’ll remain there as long as thousands of Chinese continue to act like Jackie Chan characters, heroes seizing initiative and refusing to accept fate.
The star's agent was of course quick to defend that Chan's statement has been grossly misinterpreted and taken out of context, because his comment was in response to a question about censorship in the entertainment industry. If that is the case, then Chan would be happy to note that his latest movie Shinjuku Incident has been banned by the Chinese government because of its "unflattering portrayal of illegal Chinese immigrants and for its violence". Of course, Chan should have no problem with the ban, because in his own skewed world-view, the ban must be justified order to curtail freedom of information and knowledge, or otherwise people would start unleashing "chaos" and fighting and killing on the streets.
Unfortunately, whether purposely or not , the "kung-fu clown's":
... argument echoes precisely the same line that colonialists everywhere invoked as justification of their continued occupation of their colonies. It's also the same argument that the power elite in China, including Communist Party members and the business barons who cut deals with them, invoke to justify the perpetuation of one-party authoritarian rule in China and the abridgement of a range of freedoms for its people.
Chan made his comments shortly after Chinese Prime Minister Wen Jia-boa delivered the keynote speech at the Boao Forum For Asia. Indeed, the Chinese government/Chinese Communist Party's (remember, in China the Party=Government and Government=Party ) propoganda mouthpiece, the People's Daily was quick to manipulate Chan's remarks to justifiy its authoritarian control and (of course) deride Taiwan's democratic credentials:
"...if a society has yet to form a common sense of social morality, individuals will always need someone to look over their shoulders and to keep them in line. People in such a situation seem not to be able to afford the absence of a functioning government, or they will be thrown into the state of anarchy and feel confused. The Chinese mainland is generally a society in which government still plays an instructive or even enlightening role in standardizing the public conduct. The reason may lie in both history and reality: the whole decade of the so-called 'cultural revolution' wrought untold havoc to the time-honored Chinese civilizations, suffocating almost all the human ethics and courtesies."
The People's Daily's commentary said the backlash against Chan and the angry response of netizens were uncalled for. All an illogical result from "feeling of confused and petrified" about what "freedom" really means. So the Party has, to the benefit of all freedom-loving people around the world, kindlyelaborated what freedom really means in practice:
The linchpin of [...]logic is but a simple balance between freedom and discipline. In this light, if freedom outweighs discipline, there will be chaos; and vice versa, if too much discipline or 'control' is exerted upon the public, there will be less freedom guaranteed to them. Following the above logic, people will easily form the common knowledge that one cannot have both freedom and discipline at the same time. Extendedly speaking, this logic also means that the Chinese have yet to keep a good equilibrium between the two. Once the discipline imposed on them is relaxed, the Chinese will be 'too free' to be tamed, and disorderly conduct will thereby arise. So was born Chan's conclusion: We Chinese need to be controlled.
It's as if people were pets that need to be taught and "tamed", or otherwise they'd run wild and (yes) free. No doubt as to who will be in charge of the "taming" process.
Hollywood stars are prominent celebrities, whose words and actions speak loudly and leave indeligible impressions on millions of fans around the world. Some take up the noble cause of championing greater attention for the ongoing genocide in Darfur, some the speak out against the continuous oppression and "cultural genoicide" in Tibet, while others remind us of the realities of global warming, animal rights, refugee crises, and the plight of AIDS orphans.
And then you have a star like Jackie Chan, who seems content to be repeating the Orwellian newspeak of the Chinese government and defend why it is that millions of Chinese people should have to live under a state of control with the "government [playing] an instructive or even enlightening role in standardizing the public conduct". Even Steven Spielberg was quick to distance himself from the Chinese regime when he realised working for the Opening Ceremony of the Bejing Olympics was asking for trouble.
I end with a memorable quote by Chief Inspector Lee, whom Jackie Chan played in Rush Hour 2. Perhaps when Chan was memorising the line, he did not fully grasp its meaning. Or its significance:
Not being able to speak is not the same as not speaking. You seem as if you like to talk. I like to let people talk who like to talk. It makes it easier to find out how full of shit they are.
The music brought me to tears. Beethoven's despair, anger and self-resentment, yet also expression of heroism and admiration of greatness and magnomity.. The Eroica Symphony has for a long time been a favourite... it accompanied me through those uncertain days of the first months of university in London... and this mornng, it accompanied me through the first fragile moments of my waking.
The worst parts of the exam period is over. For the past few weeks I've been dreading these three days of intense exam-after-another. French written test, then space law, the latter of which I've not really studied much for. But I think I did well in both.
But the underlying despair is not really the fear of not being able to do... but the hopes and expectations that I sense others have in me, and the great fear that I am disappointing them. Ever since the 'loss' in the moot court, this feeling seems to have multiplied, and I am left with a sense of loss and disappointment in my own abilities, similar emotions that had lingered for months since I arrived in Canada. Feelings, and now for the last few days, also dreams of my dad...
In the dream I am questioned by two people I know from school. What my motivation was for getting the fellowship and money I had received to study for (almost) free. At first I was admenant, defending myself, saying and listing all these things that I 've done as a part of my "service to the community"... but one person kept on insinuating, kept on implying how useless, how unmotivated, how worthless I was, and that I was not deserving at all of the fellowship....
Then I broke down under pressure, and cried. Through tears, in a wavering, sobbing voice, my torments poured out. Do you know what it feels like to loose someone? To loose someone and then to have dreams of him? To loose someone and then having to start a complete new life again? I know I have been underperforming, I know I have not really been my best lately, and how I want to be back to my 'normal' old self again, back to that boy who could, who excelled, who was not afraid to just work, just write and who seemed to impress people without even wanting to.... But I feel like I'm losing it, losing that magical touch, that inspiration, that charm and wonder that resisded in me before. And left behind, the empty shell of someone emotionally distraught, fatigued, lacking in depth, in meaning, perhaps even angered, but definitely going from day to day only through the grace of life's own momentum..
Dreams of my dad.... who had already passed for over a year now. Where is it all coming from? Why am I having them still? I don't want to revert to my emotional weaknesses and traumatised psyche all the time to explain my personal failings and inability to perform up to speed... But I feel sometimes so exhausted, overwhelmed already from the feelings and thoughts running through me, through my conscious, and undoubtedly the myriad of stormy emotions that run through my subconscious...
A few days before the start of the exam period. It's late at night. I know I should be going to bed soon, especially if I want to break from that routine of waking up late and sleeping late, especially if I want to avoid feeling drowsy and down during the day.
It's been a somewhat rough few days. Probably doesn't help that I'm locking myself indoors and only going out when necessary. I just feel somewhat demotivated, lost... alsof ik ontbreek aan inspiratie, kleur en daadkracht in mijn leven (for some reason, when I stumbled into the bathroom this morning, that sentence just came to my mind). And I feel daunted by the exam ahead, especially since I've not read much of the required readings, and to be honest, a lot of the issues covered don't interest me much. Worse is, it's my field of study: space, and I'm supposed to be the all-so-brilliant fellow...
Then I hear mum's voice, mum's enouragements and kindness on the phone, and I feel rejuvenated. If only for a little while, I feel like I could go on again, I could face all this and strive forward. Try your best, she said, it's not like we expect a lot from you... you know when you've tried your best, and that is enough... don't put too much pressure on yourself, don't feel too stressed and upset.... don't be too hard on yourself... Very touching words. And deep down inside, I feel soothed. If only for a little while...
They fall like snowflakes, spiral slowly down, down into the river that devour them below. But they only fly and fall once the snow has come and gone. Flighty and bright, blossom petals bloom and shed like sprinklings of snow from the sakuras in the slightest breeze.
I walked around the Tidal Basin, kicking at the rain as it drenched my clothes and hair. I gazed at distorted silhouettes and the wavering reflection of my own image barely recognisable in the pools of dirty rainwater. Ripples radiated and died. Birds twittered above, and squirrels scurried as I approached.
The museum crowds huddled around, patiently queuing to get indoors. The normally inquisitive and culturally-minded me was lost, and my mood was dampened. Perhaps by the incessant rain, perhaps by fatigue, and perhaps by the events of the past few days.
It has been intense to say the least, and I have still to recover from the accumulated lack of sleep over the course of several weeks. And Saturday was the height of it all. There we were, together with 8 other teams, all vying for the prestigious place of representing North America in the Finals of the space moot. But we all knew only one team would go through.
I was extremely proud of my team mates, and as was my professor, and even some of the judges who came to speak to and congratulate us. My co-counsels were articulate, well-versed in the law and the facts, quick on their feet. While some teams erred on the law, seriously misquoted ICJ cases and facts, we were confident and consistent in all we argued and defended. We seemed invincible, and we knew it. But mediocricy seemed to have an unfair advantage.
To be fair, we scored badly in our written briefs. It was kind of expected, especially since we rushed to complete it in a relatively short period of time. Had we had more time, for research, for brushing up our written arguments, for moulding every sentence, every word into one coherent and forceful voice, we would have fared so much better and further ahead. But that’s too late now. It is, as always, frustrating to see and know that some team with only mediocre knowledge of the law deserved a place in the Finals.
Cliché as it may sound, and perhaps sour to admit and remind yourself as a sort of self-consolation, it is not all about winning that matters most. The experience, the time spent together as a team, the efforts combined to go through ups and downs. I guess all those elements, the hard work through late nights and early mornings, those efforts sneaking food and drinks into the library, those illuminating moments when we managed to develop a offensive strategy of attack, the closer ties we have built along the way… they matter more than winning.
As I sped home, blue skies revealed themselves behind the dense gray clouds, and the sun came out of hiding. The brief spring shower has come and gone.
He caught my eye almost as soon as I stepped in. I glanced in his direction a number of times, and there was something about him that seemed to capture me.
He fidgeted nervously with his wallet, fingering with cards, pieces of paper and faded pictures. Now and then he'd look up, and I'd turn away to hide my look. The carriage violently lurged from one stop to another. The rest of the world seemed oblivious.
Then he unrolled his sleeve, and there were cuts. Fresh ones, some still bleeding. Scabbed ones from wounds before. Scars of hidden, untold miseries. All along the inside of his arm, red and hideous against his pale, smooth skin. He looked around, his head twitched. And out came a key that began to carve.
"Why are you doing this?" I wanted to grab him, to make him stop.
"It's too painful..."
"What's too painful? "
"The pain... at home..." He continued rubbing the sharp edges of the key against his arm. Did anyone else notice? Did anyone else care?
"Whatever it is, you don't have to do this to yourself..." I wanted to hold him close, tell him it'll all be alright. Tell him that it'll be over soon, even if it's a lie to deceive and comfort.
"I can't take it any more..." He looked at me, if only fleetingly. But it was enough for me to see the fear, anxiety and hurt deep down those blue empty eyes. Guilt-ridden, timid, yet crying out for help.
The tires screeched, and the train came to a bumpy halt. The doors loudly slammed opened, and the crowd began to pour out.
In one swift movement, he stood up, threw his hood over his head, and strode out of the carriage, disappearing to become one of the unknown, unseen, unheard and faceless bodies on the crowded platform.
I stood in an almost empty carriage. With all those words unsaid left alone in my head.
The little slip inside the fortune cookie wasn’t exactly correct. At least not about this trip. At least not so far.
It was only when I got to the hotel that it hit me, crept up my spine, and froze my thoughts. Temporarily I was short of breath, my heart skipped, and my eyes felt like watering. The realisation, then the despair, followed by a sense of guilt, to be replaced soon thereafter with the insight that it was pointless to worry, pointless to get upset. However upsetting it may be to lose a brand new suit that I had worn only once two days earlier.
I tried to retrace my steps, tried to picture the places I have been since this morning. Taxi to the airport, check-in desk, security check, the restaurant where I had pancakes (explicitly without the sausages or bacon), the lounge where we sat and waited for the gates to open. Up till then I had it with me. After that it all became a blur. My co-counsel assured me that she had seen it on-board the flight. But the excitement of turbulence in those final moments of descent, and of looking out the window to watch the Pentagon fly by overwhelmed my normally careful self.
I tried to imagine the times, locations, moments wherever it may be possible that my suit may have lost itself (or that it has lost me). Air Canada promised to look for it, and if found deliver it to my hotel if I’m still in Washington. If not, the lady on the phone assured me, they will keep on searching for the next two months. A black suit with matching pants, a white long-sleeve shirt, two ties (purple and shiny blue), and an orange astronaut pin that is only available at the souvenir shop of ESA’s ESTEC (which is only open a few hours on Wednesday afternoons). My mind wandered to the curious image of baggage handlers with sniffer dogs, scouring every inch of the two airports and of that little fragile Embraer I was on to live up to their promise.
I felt bad needing to buy a brand new suit, and the shirt and tie to go with it. Even worse as I walked down M Street carrying my bright, big colourful bags. A Vietnam veteran, with unkempt hair, wielding a sign scribbled with “God help me!”, together with half a dozen with empty, sunken (or drunken?) eyes ogled at me as I walked on by.
After much struggles, we finally made it. Here, right in the heart of Washington DC, preparing and mooting still into the earlier hours of the morning, compromising our sanity and sleep. At this time tomorrow, we will know if it was all worth it.
Two, almost three months of work, the last couple of weeks of which have been going constantly at the facts, law, trying to nit-pick and to refine arguments and rebutals to the most convincing, assertive and coherent way possible. It will be test and tried tomorrow.
I have faith in my team mates, and to be honest, much more than once I felt or had at a time when things were sometimes getting too much. Now I look at them as they plead, confidence in their voices, assertiveness in their posture, and regurgitating facts and legal positions like the highly esteemed legal experts they have suddenly become in the past few weeks. Winning is not necessary everything.
I think I did and tried all I could. Speaking of 'sacrifices' will be thinking too much of myself. But I did try to be there, to respond to comments, to reflect back arguments, to fill in the gaps whenever possible. Perhaps at times I can be difficult to work with, and maybe too picky and wordy when things can be explained in a line or two. But I think they really have a grasp of the law, and I can (hopefully) just sit back and feel somewhat proud.
Your coffee: Brazilian… Your democracy: Greek… Your pizza: Italian… Your writing: Latin… Your vacation: Turkish… Your numbers: Arabic… Your car: a Japanese… Your tea: African… And only your neighbours: 'FOREIGNERS'
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