The Passing of a Good Man

Vaclav Havel, the dissident playwright who was Czechoslovakia’s first democratically elected President, died on 18 Dec 2011. I have to admit that I do not know much about Havel, but I was about to find out through news reporting while travelling in Europe, for there were no lack of updates on TV.

A gigantic portrait of a smiling Havel hung at the Parliament House.

Prayer candles were lighted at Wenceslas Square in tribute to late Havel. If the insane number of prayer candles isn’t an indication of how well-loved and well-respected this man is, I don’t know what is. We walked around the square hoping to find a vendor who was selling the prayer candles so that we could also lit one out of respect for the good man who liberalised Czech. But alas, we could find none.

The night wintery winds blew assiduously and the chill was especially felt at the open square. We gave up searching for prayer candles. Instead we decided to pay attention to our own needs (i.e. our growling stomachs) and concentrated on finding a eating place.

On a related note, would you prefer that no one attends your funeral, or is attended by many who hated your guts? This was a question posed to me when I was much younger, and it perturbed me for a while because I was told then I could only choose one of the two options. No in-betweens allowed. Everyone knows this is a hypothetical question which illustrated two very extreme conditions that is unlikely to ever happen to anyone. Despite that, I felt compelled to make a choice, and my choice is… the former. If there is any kind of person in the world that I hate, it’s the hypocrites. As I look upon this world the one last time before I get buried six foot under (or get incinerated), I think the last persons I want to see are the ones I hate the most.

48/250

Missing You

Hey guys,

It’s 1 Jan again.  How many years has it been?  2, or 3 years?  How time flies…

Everyone has picked up the broken pieces and moved on since the unfortunate mishap.  The hubby even took time to visit the site of the fire when he was in Bangkok for a meeting last May.  I think that’s very brave of him; if it were my good friends that I lost in the fire, I doubt I will ever be able to visit the site.

I can’t speak for everyone, but as far as the hubby and I are concerned, we are doing fine.  Still have our frequent arguments – only difference is, the both of you are no longer around to listen to him ventilating.  No little ones yet, but I have been thinking of naming them after the both of you if we eventually do have.  If it fits in the theme, that is.  Paul is easy, that’s essentially a Christian name, but Leslie… I admit I will need to find a variation in the Bible.

You both are sorely missed.  Really.  I’ve never been very close to the both of you, and almost everything I learnt about the both of you, I heard it from him.  Yet, it felt as if I know you both very well.  I can only say that I have a husband who had also been a good friend. And your departures, apart from affecting your closest confidantes, had also deeply impacted me – he stays at home far too often now, and it gets on my nerves.  But we’ve learnt to cope with it.

Wherever you guys are, let’s share a toast to another good year ahead for atc, for the hubby and for all our dear friends, will ya?

1/250

911

Where were you, and what were you doing on this day 10 years ago?

It was a Tuesday, and I could still vividly recall what I was doing when I first heard the news.  Ya, remember my elephant memory?

It was our day of rest (I was still a controller together with the hubby) and we were on our way to my home when the hubby received a text message from a fellow colleague.  ’A plane flew into a building in New York!’ was vaguely what was typed.

Nah… we thought it was another of those freak accidents – one tends to come across or hear many of such stories working as an air traffic controller, and one does somehow become desensitized by such news.

So we really thought it was not a big deal.  Small incident, minimal casualty count and damage.  But curious, we switched on the television to watch the news the moment we reached my home.  It was early at night and my mum was already home from work.

What greeted us was a horrifying sight.  I wasn’t expecting to see a fully loaded passenger flight, no make it two, purposefully flying toward and into the Twin Towers.  For a while, my mind couldn’t register the scene that was constantly replayed on the tv as updated news kept coming in.

That fateful day, many people all over the world lost a loved one.  And my heart went out to them.  There is no way to understand this madness and this belittling of human lives.

911 changed my life, as it would have changed many others’.  Amongst other things, the heat was definitely felt at the airport, where I worked at.  Security was tightened and it became a lot more inconvenient – from where we could park our cars to how we gained access to the control tower.  Military personnel armed with rifles patrolling the airport compound became a common sight.  And delays to aircraft were readily accepted by pilots so long as we quoted ‘for security reasons’.

On a personal level, I came to appreciate peace, security and respect for human lives a lot more than I used to.  Although I didn’t lose someone, I wept together with the world for the needless deaths.  It would take a stone-hearted person to feel nothing.

Cliché as it sounds, I pray for world peace.

The Strangest Dream

I don’t always blog twice in a day, especially since I am committed to blogging daily, I try not to waste my inspiration in this manner.  But I already have something planned for tomorrow, and this cannot wait.  Hence the decision.

Late last night, I woke the hubby up and asked him, ‘Darling, can I choose not to live?’

That woke him up completely.  Instantly.

I’m not feeling particularly melancholic or blue.  Not depressed either.  Just can’t figure out the meaning of life in the middle of the night.  Some people have very good lives – good brains, rich parents, good genes, great jobs.  He retorted that this is what it appears to others, but we don’t know the struggles they have.  And maybe they worked very hard to get this far.

I beg to differ.  I really do know friends who lead very charmed lives.  And I cannot understand why some people have to struggle so hard in life, and some much less so.  This is so ironic, because just 2 days ago, I just proclaimed that I will not sweat the small stuff, and that I will count my blessings.

In the midst of my extremely interrupted sleep last night, I dreamt that I spoke with someone very powerful.  So powerful I couldn’t believe it.  Yea, the Pope was having a conversation with me.  I recall asking him if I were dreaming, or was I really talking to him.  He asked me if it mattered.  I knew it didn’t.

He then asked me why I am always looking for the easiest way out by stopping to live.  I rattled on and on about something inconsequential to justify myself, and he said, ‘Let it go’.

I stopped in my tracks, my thoughts interrupted, wondering what he meant.  It was a very, very real dream.  So real it was rather scary.

The bane of my existence is my elephant memory.  I remember many things in minute details, especially of occasions when I’ve been hurt.  Or disappointed.  Not the best of things to remember, I tell you, for someone who tends to falter.  Yet I do.

Just the other day when lunching with my family, we talked of a little incident when we were little.  My little sis fell on the tarmac in the park and her lower lip started bleeding.  She was immediately rushed to the hospital but didn’t require any sewing up.

My parents, little sis and I remembered different versions of that incident, but deep down inside, I knew I remembered everything as accurately as it could go.  I was irritated with little sis for walking too slowly, and I pushed her.  Albeit a little too hard.  My parents didn’t remember that, or maybe they chose not to.  Dad said she fell into a little drain while mum said she tripped and fell.  No, I told them.  I pushed her.  They were shocked by my admission.  As if sensing that I have been carrying the guilt all these years, mum said that if it were true, it definitely wasn’t intentional.  The hell it was.  I intentionally pushed her.  I just didn’t expect her to fall and cut her lip.

Memories like this… are so vivid like it just happened yesterday.  If I think hard enough, I may just even be able to describe what we were wearing that evening.  I was just 6 or 7 then, by the way.

Having a good memory is huge, huge burden.  Makes letting go a lot harder when you just cannot forget.  And God knows I cannot forget many things.  Too many things.

Whose Right?

A thought-provoking and controversy topic suggested by Daily Post…

Do you think people should have the right to commit suicide?

Having almost chosen the path twice, I am possibly in the best position to write on this.

First of all, no one in the right frame of mind chooses death over life.  It is a human instinct, or perhaps extending it to a larger picture, an animalistic instinct to survive.  What happens if one is drowning?  Or suffocating?  Instincts take over and you would struggle to gasp for air, even if it meant that you have to dunk a person attempting to save you just to get to the surface for air.  This is how strong this survival instinct is.  Morals and values are tentatively thrown out of the window – who cares if someone has to be sacrificed in order to secure one’s survival.

Unless you seek death.  And when one seeks death, his or her actions cannot be analysed based on normal behaviour.  However, the fact that one is desperate enough to discard and go against the grain of the human instinct to seek death ought to give people some pause instead of criticising him for being weak-minded.  Yet, societal norms dictate that committing suicide is a devious deed that ought to be condemned.  And people who have fallen victim to ‘the devil’ are often viewed with some degree of scorn, and suspicion.

All kinds of people make up the world, and in the most basic forms of division – the rich & powerful versus the poor & destitute, and the intelligent and the intellectually challenged.  Who doesn’t wish to be born into a rich and powerful family with good genes, thus ensuring an easy life in the upper echelons of the society and a sure pass into one of the Ivy Leagues.  Sure, you would have your fair share of problems like which dress to wear to that ball, or which house to buy at Beverly Hills.  Compare these problems to the problems encountered by an orphaned and hungry child living in the ghettos of say, India.

I’m not trying to trivialise the efforts of the rich in trying to become richer, but in comparison, the need for subsistence prevails.  Any time.  But is it true to conclude that the problems faced by the hungry child are bigger than that faced by a tycoon?  Not necessarily so, and in any case, there is no basis for comparison.  To me, my problems are always the biggest.

It’s a matter of perspective.

And anyone seeking to end his life has just enlarged his problems so much so that he cannot see anything else beyond his problems, and his actions are in response to extreme emotional pain.  That’s really all that it is; it’s not rocket science.  And what he really needs, is not a comparison of how other people with seemingly bigger problems had overcome their ordeals.  His needs are simple – care and concern, and time.  It of course is a different case if the person is chronic depression sufferer – that would require medical attention.

In spite of my upbringing (that I owe my life to my parents and that I should not harm myself – this argument is flawed because does it mean then, that my parents have the right to end my life?) and my religious belief, I believe it is fundamentally a human right for a person to choose what to do with his life, including living a life in dignity.  Nobody can take this right away, and I don’t think anyone should do any judging either.  That said, I wish every person who feels the need to walk down this path talks to someone about it – someone who doesn’t make matters worse.  Sometimes a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on is all that is needed.  I never believed in emotional blackmail because it never worked for me.  If I perceive myself to be in so much pain that I must end it all, would I care about the pain I will inflict on others?  Likely not.  A person seeking to end his life does not think rationally.

Instead of putting so much emphasis on the act itself, I think it more apt to think for the person and what can be done for him.

Being ‘Pantang’

Recently I learnt about the passing of a friend’s mum when I was away in Tokyo.  And she went on to inform me that she is not likely to attend a gathering at my humble abode over the Lunar New Year period.  Because she’s not supposed to since it hasn’t been 100 days since her mum’s passing.  In case I or my visitors are ‘pantang‘ about such things.

I took exception to her self-imposed exile.  Especially when she had been based overseas for the past 2 to 3 years and we had been seeing little of her.

‘Pantang‘ is really in Hokkien (one of the numerous Chinese dialects), and is a foreign concept to most people, except maybe the Chinese.  The Chinese categorises events into two kinds – the ‘red’ auspicious kind, and the ‘white’ inauspicious kind.  The ‘red’ kind, everyone welcomes, including marriages, births , festivals and moving house, to name a few.  The ‘white’ kind everyone would prefer to shun, mainly deaths and funerals.  And the ‘red’ and ‘white’ cannot mix, because they will ‘clash’ and cause ill luck.  Oh, ‘red’ and ‘red’ cannot mix too for example one should refrain from attending another’s wedding if it is within 3 or 6 months of her own’s.

Just in case.

What do you mean ‘just in case’?  I don’t get it.  The dead is now 6 feet under, so let’s get the grieving done and healing started.  But why must we torture the living by ‘ostracising’ them, not letting them into our houses when we know they will need the most support in these darkest moments.  Make me understand.

I went through the same hell some 6 years ago when my late father-in-law passed on 1.5 months before our wedding.  And instructions given to me were, ‘Don’t tell your friends because your wedding is in a month’s time.  And don’t come home, continue staying in your matrimonial home because ‘red’ and ‘white’ shouldn’t mix.  I want you to have a good marriage.’

Hello.  I need release for my grief too.  Especially when, at the time, I felt that I was a jinx who indirectly caused his death.  Don’t ask me how I arrived at this conclusion – I was irrational then.

And so the whole funeral was almost like a clandestine operation for me.  I spoke to no one about it and I grieved alone.  Not at all surprising that I snapped.  Looking back, repressing all the grief must have somewhat contributed to my depression.

So for Christ’s sake, have a heart and access the situation before you decide to be superstitious.

You Only Have an Hour to Live

Another interesting topic from Daily Post:

If you only had an hour to live, what would you do with those 60 minutes?

This question is thought-provoking.  Which is why I decided to attempt it.  Just in case I find myself in this situation.  Yea, hardly plausible.  Not that I won’t die one day, but highly unlikely that I’ll ever know that I’m left with exactly 60 minutes of mortality.

I told myself I should live each day as if it were my last but sadly, I don’t.  I take to procrastination and vacillation like breathing i.e. effortlessly.  There are aplenty to do but obviously I won’t be able to complete all of them in 60 minutes so I’ll just stick to the more important stuff… like writing letters to my loved ones to tell them how much I love them and how sorry I am to be the root cause of their heartaches.  I was somewhat a rather rebellious kid and now a problematic adult.

Then I would blog one long letter addressed to all my friends while seated in front of the TV, watching できちゃった結婚 (or Shotgun Marriage) or Love Letter starring Miho Nakayama while sipping on my ice-cold Ribena and seated on the couch with my 3 dogs lying close to me.

Likely I would fall asleep while doing all these activities.  This, to me, is the best way to go.  The thing with me is, I never like to be around people much, and most definitely not during my last hour.  I contemplated spending my last hour with the hubby, but decided against it.  He deserves better.

And oh, I really ought to pray for my soul.  And the souls of my loved ones.

But death, to me, is not the end.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

- John Donne

Life Flashes By

You know how it is said that when one is dying she would see her life flashing by?  It is true.  Twice, during that split second, my entire life flashed before my eyes.

For the life of me, I cannot recall when the most recent event occurred; it’s probably my brain’s self-defence mechanism shutting out the unpleasant memories.  The first occurrence, I do remember quite clearly.

It was a Saturday evening by a classmate’s condominium poolside.  I was in Secondary 1 and we were throwing our English Language teacher Miss Fong (see, I could even remember her name!) a farewell party.  Things got rowdy and water bombs emerged from nowhere.  One of our classmates suddenly decided that everybody should get wet, and the quickest way to ensure that was to push every single one of us into the pool.  I was standing near the deep-end pool.  Too near.

The next thing I knew, I was in the waters.  No biggie, except that I didn’t swim.  Can’t swim, to be exact.

I was drowning.  Dying.  It scared the hell out of me.  And I saw my whole life flash by.  Didn’t take very long, considering that I was all but 13 years old back then.  But it felt like eternity.

Finally, someone noticed that I was in a teeny-weeny bit of trouble.  Another classmate who is a rather strong swimmer, fortunately.  I thanked her profusely after she helped me to the ledge but she mildly acknowledged me before swimming away, not willing to draw attention to herself.  Another introvert there.

I related the story to my mum when I reached home and her reaction was mild, if not nonchalant.  It must have scared the wits out of her more than she was willing to show, because by the same time one week later, we – myself, my sister and 3 cousins – were all forced to pick up swimming (again, for some of us).  You see, my dear uncle did attempt to teach me swimming when I was much younger before schooling age, but I was too shy to step into the pool after changing into my little bathing suit and all.  So that idea was dropped permanently, until my little incident.

We were at the swimming pool every Sunday and my dad took a very serious stance on making sure that we all learnt how to swim, or at least tread water.  This half-baked but well-meaning coach of ours (read: dad) wouldn’t let up till he was quite sure we were ready to fend for ourselves should we find ourselves unwittingly in waters again.

See, I told you I freaked them out.

I have a little theory on why this flashing occurs.  And for now, I’ll leave religion out of it.  I believe the brain, realising that you are in danger, is desperately searching through past experiences, hoping to draw something from similar situations to get you out of danger.  Is that believable?  Why not?  After all, it is believed that we human beings are utilising less than 10% of what our brains are capable of.