Deliberate love.

My dad holds 2 jobs. He's a humble carpenter by day and helps out at a fishball factory on some nights. He is no workaholic, but insists on almost never taking an MC even when he is sick. According to my dad, he does not want to take an MC because this disqualifies him from getting a 'hardworking worker' bonus every month. According to me, my dad deliberately loves my family.

A few months ago my dad was really quite sick, but insisted on going to work and holding out till he finished the workday. Then he went to the company-appointed medical practice nearby so that it is almost cost-free. Yesterday he was down with flu again, yet he rushed home from his day job to shower and rush off to his night job, with no time for dinner. All i could do was ask whether he had enough to eat when he came back, and do the dishes. Sometimes I am awed by his love, even the humble love from my natural father.

My father is the 'traditional' strong and silent type, never very expressive. But he shows his love through asking important questions like "do you have enough to spend/eat?". I love my dad but sometimes i too do not know how to show it. Even though i have been to the US and to the South, hugged strangers whose names i don;t even remember. I guess the context is really different.

My dad makes breakfast for me whenever i have to wake up early, whether i like it or not. I'm not really a breakfast person but my dad seems to choose to remember my younger times when i did not mind bread with milo. It had been a long time since I had breakfast made by my dad, until I worked as a teaching intern recently. And it was just like my schooling/JC days; bread with jam, washed down with over-sweet milo. I still did not entirely like it but i started appreciating and loving my dad more. He is such a simple man of deliberate love despite not expressing it much to me. This is enough.

My dad washes the dishes even after working two jobs while I sometimes just get obsessed with 'working' on the laptop, TV, homework or start warped thinking like "I'm an undergrad, my time is better spent doing stuff like readings" How warped my thinking can be at times, how elitist indeed. Sometimes as i get down to household chores like dish-washing, sweeping, vacuuming, tidying the house i go at it with a stinky attitude, sulking and just going through the motion. My dad just washes the dishes nonchalantly, like its the most natural thing to do after working 2 jobs.

My dad loves my mum. That's why he helps to wash the dishes. When he's too tired at night, he gets up early to wash the dishes, like 5 plus in the morning, when I have yet to enter Rapid Eye Movement phase of my sleep i guess. My mum is bushed after sewing clothes almost every day for long stretches at home, and having to do household duties on top of that. My dad helps with the dishes just to ease off that load from my mum.

My dad does more than that. He sweeps and mops the floor whether it's clean or not. Sometimes we suspect he is either a clean freak or has a bad memory. But we know he has neither. My dad just deliberately loves my mum and this family, all this perhaps without a single hug or "I love you". He will probably make good friends with feminists also, though i doubt he is familiar with the movement and its ideals. He just lives it out. My dad never took a single class of sociology, man he never even finished primary school, but he sure knows a little about sharing the domestic workload. And i'm learning from him.

I'm learning to volunteer for household duties with the right attitude, of loving my family. Salvation cannot simply take place in my life outside my home. Salvation bubbles to life wherever i go, and importantly it must come to fruition at home. I'm learning how to be a loving dad and husband from my dad, never knew that was possible. I'm learning about deliberate love after being impacted at Calvary, and seeing it in daily action at home.

When I was young i tried to get paid for household chores and good grades, but my family could never afford such luxuries or nonsense. I think in my parents' eyes it was more of the latter, they never approved of using money as an incentive for me to perform. I thank them for that.

Now i simply walk in the humble footsteps of a carpenter and learn how to love my family deliberately. Whether it's washing the dishes, preparing a meal, sweeping the floor or teaching me mum IT skills, Lord help me.

Connecting with NYC

Strangely enough, I was never really romanced by the city of New York. Perhaps it is because I do not like cities in general, or I have been to used to the serenity of suburban North Carolina.

The subways were the worst part of the city, endlessly sucking people in and spitting us out like goods. We were on our way to devour the city as fast as we could, endlessly bombarded by the city’s siren calls for us to consume not just goods but an entire culture, not just services but an entire lifestyle.

I’m not sure whether I was just too lazy to check the maps or that I was seriously lost, or that I was negligently lost while traversing the city. When left alone to prowl the streets, I felt the immense sense of loss and disorientation. As much as I tried to appreciate the city, I could not connect with it or the people who stand on it. I was glad to be able to find a quiet café opposite Radio City and to get lost reading my new-bought book, “People’s History of the United States”.

The human connection improved greatly for me on this last real day of ‘touring’ New York City. Through gracious human connections and the grace of God, I was finally able to receive proper treatment for my injured shoulder. By the grace of God, the Singaporean family I was staying with recommended me to a reliable Chinese practice, which was helmed by none other than another Singaporean immigrant. I felt the Singaporean touch immensely, in both senses of the word.

On our last purchase trip of NYC, we finally laid our hands on the all-so-famous “I love NYC” t-shirts. The seller noticed my funny accent-less English and asked me where I was from. When I announced Singapore like a train-master, he surprised me with an “Assalamu alaikum”. I was doubly shocked as I tried to understand why he said that to me upon revelation of my Singapore identity, while another hungry side of me immediately awoke to figure out the best Arabic response. Yes, finally I had found an Arabic speaker in NYC. I had been looking round for some Arab brother to converse with, NYC being as diverse as it is. I had noticed the halal food being sold by street hawkers but somehow never thought about just trying out a polite “Assalamu alaikum”. How silly of me!

Eventually, a choppy conversation struck up as most of my elementary Arabic streamed back into my consciousness and out of my lips, impressing this man of Egyptian descent greatly. Thanks to my professors and to God for the grace and help given to me to help me grasp this wonderful and beautiful language. He also revealed to me that most shish kebab sellers on the street corners were Arabs too. It was just too bad that by that time I was leaving Manhattan and NYC already. But in that brief moment when we conversed in Arabic and made a new friend, my human connection with the city and its dwellers were immense. I felt a great sense of relief and joy, mixed with the regret that I was leaving it so soon, unable to try out more Arabic and amuse some of these street corner hawkers.

Journey into the heart of darkness, Lower 9th Ward, New Orleans

8^th March 2008. Saturday. 11.30pm.

As we finally reached the city of New Orleans and pulled into the Lower 9^th Ward, it was a very welcome break from our almost 14-hour long drive from Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Most of us could not wait to disembark and take in the fresh air of the Mississippi, to stretch our limbs and internalize our first subjective experiences of our home for the next 7 days.

The time was almost 10.30pm, about an hour later than the estimated timing. However, our slight and unexpected lateness did not seem to change things in this rather timeless space of the Lower 9^th Ward, where we were told 2 years may not mean much change. The Common Ground Relief (CGR) personnel were ready as ever to meet us though. He kindly welcomed us into a half-renovated abode that was to be introduced to us as the general quarters for all CGR-affiliated volunteers, and our future home.

This azure blue building was easily recognizable as it was one of the only few left standing in the area. Intuitively we seemed to assume it was a CGR building and had pulled up our vehicles next to it. Despite the general darkness, I could make out signal and hazard lights high up in the sky and in the distance. With their guidance, my untrained and naked eye could make out the skeletons of port cranes, communications towers and such. These mechanicals made less sense to me as the days went by. They were lifeless and ugly metallic monsters that aided America in forgetting about places like the Lower 9^th Ward. They jutted out in the landscape and were a jarring reminder of why the scenes of the Lower 9^th Ward were truly horrible.

My imagination had already started to torture me even before I had been able to ravage the area with the help of sunlight and perhaps the silent agreement of my contemporaries. Perhaps it was just a combination of an imagination too rich, lack of sleep and certain nervousness about the whole endeavor. I decided against sharing such thoughts with the others at this point of time, for perhaps we will all reach similar conclusions by daybreak, or God willing, I could be proven wrong.

9^th March 2008. Sunday. Sabbath.

Waking up in the morning, it was a queer feeling to realize that one was in the Lower 9^th Ward, New Orleans instead of anywhere else. The comfortable beds still gave an illusion that you were somewhere else, perhaps in the Bahamas or Caribbean enjoying one’s Spring Break and soaking up some well-needed sunshine.

As I got up, I witnessed one of the most painful bedside window sights I would ever see. With an artful touch, the white window frame allowed me to peer straight into the barren landscape, where one could easily see concrete squares of foundations where 150-year-old houses once stood precariously. On the left-hand side was the Mississippi river, now slightly shielded by an unwieldy cement wall, which I was later to learn was the levee after all. Standing out in the background were the tall port cranes and the hulking bridge that was capable of raising itself to allow huge ships to pass through. I was not wrong after all, those mechanicals were indeed there and very much alive like robotic sentinels watching over this eerily calm landscape.

I guess I reacted very strongly to these symbols of industry for two main reasons, both dealing with the issue of indifference. Hurricane Katrina had devastated both the coast and the Lower 9^th Ward, both the industries and the residential area. However, almost 2 years on, almost none of the residences in the area have been rebuilt while the shipping and affiliated industries almost seemed to have experienced a full recovery. It was almost as if Katrina never really went through the ports and cranes and oil platforms, skipping them and dumping destruction straight onto the levees and the neighborhoods.

The reality was that the local government seemed almost indifferent to the massive loss of lives and families and communities and homes, in comparison to the attention paid to industry. Some have argued that industry needs to be revived first to help the ailing local economy and people to rebuild. It has been 2 years now, with the shipping industry and casinos booming, but where has it taken the almost 7000 Americans that used to call the Lower 9^th Ward home?

If you were to look closely at the above photo, it will reveal not just one home but actually three distinct homes (if you trace the outline of the rooftops). None of the houses actually belonged to where it were currently standing. They belonged all over the place within a 10 metre radius, with the force of Katrina smashing them like a cruel pa pier mac hie.

The second reason why those ugly mechanicals aided in fostering indifference is due to the fact that almost 25% of America’s imports and exports are handled by these Gulf coast ports and barge shipping. These are the tools which facilitate an endless stream of consumables to consumerist America. As long as consumers in America are kept content with the ability to buy almost anything they desire, few would be bothered enough to ask even simple questions like where did these goods come from, how they came into America and how these goods are purchased at such low prices based on supporting multi-layered systems of oppressing peoples. As long as middle-class America is kept content in its somewhat parochial and comfortable world, there seems to be little space and tolerance to negotiate tough introspections on parts of America that did not succeed in the ‘American way’. Ironically, the purported anchor of the local economy of the Gulf coast also has a hand in keeping it mired in its social-economic troubles.

10^th March 2008. Monday. First day.

By today, the message has already hit home that there are definitely many Americas in the whole of the USA, all purportedly united by one banner and common desire for freedom. Upper middle class Chapel Hill, where even the landscape seems manicured and ideal was 900 miles away and felt further in my fragile grasp on reality.

There was quite a great disparity between my initial expectations of the area and the current horrors that my eyes failed to ignore. This was like the journey into the heart of darkness, where conditions in the Lower 9^th Ward were much worse than I could ever imagine. Just the faint imagination of once lively neighborhoods that once thrived here and were now washed away into the annals of history (a poor people’s history, though) seemed to unsettle one.

Plots of land where there once was a lively community.

The long concrete wall was introduced to us as the infamous levee system of New Orleans. It seemed to me to be barely two floors tall, and we were told this levee had already been extended by 12 feet vertically after Katrina. This revelation really seemed to shock most of us as we tried to imagine the previous low wall that some of us probably could scale with a little shove. I found this revelation difficult to register within my system as I wrestled with any other comparisons in the world I could make.

I remembered watching the elaborate damming, flood control and barrier island systems of Holland on the Discovery Channel and expected American engineering to trounce European elegance at any count; clearly either I was wrong or this was not America as I knew it. I then recalled from watching CNN how the security walls Israel had built in Jerusalem and elsewhere in the Occupied Territories were probably much higher and tougher than this levee and shuddered at the thought.

Forgive me for my lack of knowledge about hydro engineering or construction, but visually the levee definitely did not seem to provide any sense of security; neither did the levee actually hold up the storm surge when Katrina struck. I tried to imagine myself as an original resident of the Lower 9^th Ward who lived 30 feet from the levee and found it hard to internalize how anyone could have been able to go to sleep with that levee holding back the waves in the backyard.

Our main activity for the day was to help in the physical remediation of the wetlands of New Orleans. These wetlands were initially filled with sturdy Cypress trees and acted collectively as barrier islands that helped to substantially weaken storm surges as they charged inland. However, Hurricane Katrina had destroyed most of the remaining Cypress forests that were untouched by logging and deforestation. In their place, an invasive species of trees called the Chinese tallow had burgeoned due to their seeds’ ability to stay afloat and not rotting Katrina flooded the area.

We were educated about the issue and advised that we would never be able to fully eradicate this invasive species. However, our laborious and menial efforts in slashing and uprooting those that lay upon the path would slowly pave the way for the wetland park to be re-opened as an educational resource. We were told that it would not be until at least 10 years later when the cypress forests returned and replaced the canopy before the invasive Chinese tallow would start to die.

We witnessed how hurricanes could change the dynamics of a whole ecosystem and not just the humans and animals living inside it. It also made us conscious of how usually ignored and undervalued ecosystems like barrier islands could indeed be quite a lifesaver in times of disaster. I was also starting to see now how rampant and irresponsible industry and exploitation of the Earth’s resources did not just contribute to oft-debated global warming but also in a very direct way to worsening the effects of natural disasters.

At the end of the day, we witnessed for ourselves how little we did in actuality towards ameliorating the nexus of problems here. It was indeed powerful in modifying our perception of what we can do here for a week; that whatever we were to do here, no matter how minuscule they may seem to be, goes to help in its own way towards encouraging and enabling former residents to return. It reminded me of a quote from the book To Kill a Mockingbird; “It’s a baby step, but it’s a step”.

11^th March 2008. Tuesday. Second day of work.

It was queer indeed, how quickly humans can adapt to their environs. The eeriness of the Lower 9^th Ward stopped hitting me as strongly as the first day. It seemed possible for me to call it home, at least home for this whole week. This allowed me an interesting look into the lives of war-torn peoples who live from day to day on destroyed landscapes, everyday reminders of the horror inflicted on their attempts at living.

I was sent out to work on restoring the flooring of a lady’s house. Fortunately, CGR had been able to contact the owner of this house in the Lower 9^th Ward and a contract had been negotiated whereby she would provide materials for CGR personnel to help her restore her 150-year-old property at almost 1/7^th of the price offered by the average general contractor. I saw the benign logic behind insisting on the property owner to provide materials so that a proactive approach is encouraged among former residents. In this way, ‘foreign’ help like CGR would not be so alienating and progress could be made towards sincerely reaching out to the community to help them rebuild, not to rebuild for them.

I also witnessed the great need of skilled workers like carpenters, painters and sub-contractors of all kinds to contribute to specific tasks needed to restore these historic houses. I was given on-the-job training on how to build wooden sub-flooring and also to lay down vinyl flooring tiles. It surprised me that I picked up two skills within a matter of an hour and I was glad I could actually help in the restoration of one of these great historic houses. It is also counter-point to the notion that unskilled college students like us are not very useful to the restoration of the houses. Although it cannot be denied that college students were much more useful for menial chores like degutting of rotten and flooded houses in the initial stages of disaster recovery (where there were up to 5000 college students working at one time), there are still ways for unskilled volunteers to learn how to help.

There was a popular question amongst stranger volunteers, asking “Why are you here?” I had been thinking about this question for a long time, and when I was actually asked, I replied that it was a mixed sense of shame and the desire to be able to explain to posterity that I was concerned enough to come here and help. More importantly, it was certain solidarity with humanity that prompted me to come down here to help. This nexus of problems was not restricted to the Gulf coast, or the South or even America. Indeed, it seemed to me to be a general human problem.

One of the major causes of the problem was indifference and one of the major reason it continues it also because of indifference. Indifference is a universally human problem, when people act or react in less than human terms, or treats other peoples as sub-human. This is why Hurricane Katrina was not exactly a natural disaster. It was a human disaster and still seems to be, for every minute the Lower 9^th ward is not restored and the humanity of its residents not returned to them with apologies.

12^th March 2008. Wednesday. 3^rd Day of work.

It was a rainy day. The light rain the early morning had drenched the land. Strikingly, small puddles had formed at the sides of the roads despite the light rain. It was indeed easy to see how the Lower 9^th ward was so prone to flooding. It was not just because it was shaped like a bowl and was surrounded on two sides by two massive bodies of water. There seemed to be a great lack of general drainage in the area to carry off excess water. Even the light rain found it hard to be drained off and was collecting in small pools all around the Lower 9^th ward. Since it was below sea level, I could imagine the water table being so high that the soil did not provide much drainage either. The lack of drainage seemed to me to be yet another reflection of governmental neglect.

The military-industrial complex of America really struck me when we realized that there were hardly any uniformed New Orleans police around. In its place, we had a lot of military police zooming around in military police patrol cars. It was quite an unnerving experience to see soldiers and the army stomping around the site of carnage instead of policemen to help maintain the peace. We were told that the city had failed to attract and recruit enough police officers, thus military police were only a temporary fill-in for police duties. However, 2 years seemed to be a long enough time for such an excuse to be abolished. What I truly saw was the military-industrial complex at work.

The industrial component has already been witnessed in the rapid restoration of the shipping, port and gambling industries soon after Hurricane Katrina, as compared to the dearth of residential rebuilding. Instead of rebuilding community centers, libraries, schools, clinics, hospitals, bus stops and parks, the government chose to rebuild Jackson barracks. Instead of deploying ordinary New Orleans police like the sizeable numbers we saw in the city on Bourbon and Frenchman street, we saw military police deployed in numbers in the Lower 9^th ward. It really does not take much for any average onlooker to be able to make the comparison and the disturbing conclusions.

It was a fact that there were not that many residents left or who had returned to live at the Lower 9^th ward. Thus so, one depended mainly on other opportunities for working outside the Lower 9^th ward in order to have substantial contact with locals. We yearned to have contact with the locals and to simply hear their stories. I guess it was not exactly the fault of the residents not being there for us to interact with, but rather it was not always easy to find opportunity to go out and be able to meet some residents.

We met a tipsy man on Frenchman street, who was very thankful for us coming down as volunteers to help people like him rebuild their homes and lives. In the short space of 10 minutes, I felt honored to have met such an angel in him. He shared with us how he escaped Katrina by escaping to Georgia, and only returned recently with the help of a close friend and volunteers like us. I was most impressed by his faith, when he advised us not to place so much trust in the things of the world, including the government, but instead to trust in the only constant one, God. He reminded me of the character Job in the bible, challenging me to trust in God even if I lose all that I have and being proud enough of God to share the good news so publicly. Indeed, most residents seem to have looked towards all other non-governmental sources and institutions for trust and hope; the government had failed in all its duties to the people before, during and after the disaster.

I remember painting some random furniture right outside our azure blue abode. I was tasked to coat these fresh timbers with multiple coats of whitish paint. As I slapped on general servings of paint to cover the timber grains, there was this particular tabletop that refused to hide its timber grain. As much as I brushed hard and slapped on paint, it just kept revealing its grain. This seemed to symbolize for me, the impact that Katrina will have on humanity. No matter the attempts at white-washing or ignoring the issue, Katrina will forever be a scar on all humanity. Even as this generation grows old, out grandchildren and posterity shall point back to this jagged piece of history and confront us with this inconvenient scar.

As I was painting under the scrutinizing sun, there was an elderly lady, who pulled up in a taxicab right next to me. She asked me the usual ‘touristy’ questions like where I was from and why I was here. I simply told her that this was a problem shared by all humanity and that I was here just to do my little part. We engaged in simple conversation for about 5 minutes, in fact she was mainly asking and I was mainly answering her conscience. What amazes me is that for the full 5 minutes, this elegant old lady just chose to stay in the taxicab and did not even exit the taxicab to get a feel of the ground. It looked like she just popped in from the city part of New Orleans for a pre-afternoon tea tour of the Lower 9^th ward.

It was as if the doors of the taxicab were a kind of psychological barrier between the elegant old lady and the horrifying reality of the Lower 9^th Ward. Inside the taxicab and behind those doors, she clutched her elegant handbag and was shielded from the actual reality she presumably wanted to witness. She seemed to symbolize a large part of the reason why this nexus of problem continues to exist in America; Middle-class America just stays in the comfort zone of the taxicab and refuses to step out into the lower class reality. It is almost as if the middle-class is afraid of associating with the lower class reality, perhaps for fear of compromising or losing their current class status. As much as we buy into the illusion of a classless society, as much as we deride the overt natures of Marxist classism, we need to be aware of how class works in ever subtler forms in today’s complex society. Of course, it seems pointless to advocate class warfare and I am nowhere near supporting that, but the recognition of subtle rules and social signifiers that guide our everyday behavior can help us to rectify the exclusive implications of the current system.

13^th March 2008. Thursday. 4^th day of work.

Today I was sent out to work on a project further away from the Lower 9^th ward. This was in Algiers, Mississippi, where we were put to work on restoring a riverfront community park. This park was special because it also doubled up as a kind of walk-in heritage site where monuments and murals educated about the initial slaves brought to America and about their heritage. The park was not just affected by the flooding but had also been vandalized recently. The whole group of about 15 was put to hard work ripping most of the destroyed stuff down and replacing them with new ones.

After mowing the lawns, I assisted the local shop-owner in revamping her voodoo shop. She had a voodoo shop right beside the park and needed help in shifting furniture and articles around, which occupied most of my work day. We were informed about how voodoo culture was very distinct in New Orleans since it was a port of entry for African slaves brought into America. Voodoo became a syncretism of Catholic and African tribal religions for African slaves and was strongly identified with the early African-American community in the US. Although such a culture was alienating for me, I could see how the practice of voodoo and asking idols and gods for direct help was relevant to the harsh realities for slaves of that time.

The park was located on the riverfront, with commercial and passenger ferries passing right by the park. We were told that this place was called Algiers because it resembled the actual Algiers at the African-European continental border, where one could look at the glamour and riches of Europe from a rather shabby Africa. The resemblance was due to the fact that in the early days of slavery, the land the park now stands on was coded as a black and inferior area of town that European colonists would not set foot on, while on the other side of the river would be the bustling and developed town. Presently, the park area still seemed to be undeveloped and associated with the lower classes whereas on the other side glittering hotels and skyscrapers soared into the sky. After so many years, this place has retained the symbolism of Algiers, whether intentionally or not.

14^th March 2008. Friday. Last day.

Today I was part of a team that worked on degutting the underneath of a historic house, in cooperation with a nearby non-profit named Historic Green. This was really tough work as we had to be suited up in protective gear and had to use generator-powered lamps and simple tools like pliers to crank our all wires we saw underneath the house. It felt almost like working in a mine shaft and added a touch of claustrophobia at time. After about 4 hours of rotated hard work, we had made good progress on de-wiring most parts of the house’s underbelly and reclaimed some scrap metal for recycling. This made us realize how immense the endeavor was to preserve these historic houses and to make them livable once again.

There was good cheer to ending the week on a high, in celebration of our hard work and also in anticipation of the weekend ceremony where Brad Pitt and Bill Clinton were expected to arrive for groundbreaking ceremonies. More importantly, we were glad to know that the mass media would shine its spotlight once again at the Lower 9^th ward and enable more Americans to take a good look at it. The Lower 9^th ward was difficult to look at for it was a gross physical manifestation of almost everything wrong about American society, whether it was inner-city poverty, classism, racism, corruption, governmental neglect, violent crime or a military-industrial complex.

Our presence here, along with non-profits like CGR, was a celebration of life and desire to work the changes that demonstrate the livability of the place, perhaps indirectly helping to encourage residents to retake their homes. Organizations like CGR were not just another non-profit but were also a priceless educational resource tool and should be evaluated as such. This has been a most unforgettable learning experience for me and I hope all humanity does not forget the scar and shame of Hurricane Katrina.

Love-In-Separation

As I tried to pick up the pieces of my life

I was a traveler who looked for exotic and beautiful sights

That I hoped could fill up that deep dark emptiness and unhappiness inside of me

I wandered and searched, just as I thought everyone was

Nobody ever seemed to be content

Even those who had a glimpse or beheld gorgeous sights did not seem content

I thought the best way to depart from the site of my brokenness and sadness

Was to travel to a new site of hope, beauty, happiness, union and companion

I felt I had lost myself in that ordeal

That this journey in search of the exotic and the beautiful

This attempt at obtaining the desires of the heart

Or the desires of many men

Shall prove to be a milestone for me

Perhaps I would be able to recover bits of myself in that endeavour

I thought if I found the perfect and ideal one in my eyes

I would be able to find a reflection of myself in her

Thus perhaps I would be able to gradually recover myself

Yet my journey was futile as I embarked on an endless search

There was seldom a perfect and ideal one in my eyes

And even the few that came close, never came close to my heart

At times I became even self-righteous

Thinking that it was only their loss

Yet how could I even be self-righteous if I claimed not to have found myself yet

This crazed journey left me feverish and steeped in thought

Perhaps a proactive approach was not always the best way to travel

Perhaps in my rushed endeavour I had failed to breathe in the sights

Perhaps there was no such thing as the perfect ideal one

I looked to providence, or by whatever name men call it

Perhaps a passive approach is not entirely compromising

Perhaps if it is yours to have, one does not even have to try very hard

This journey with myopic objectives came almost to an end

Desirable women of the time were few and far between

Women desirous of principles were even fewer

Ancient values and virtues seemed to be the exhaust of the

Modern strive and desire for pleasure and entertainment

The moth that wanders to the lamp flame

At the height of my solitude

A woman of grace were to come along

She did not seem to know the rules of the game or

Desire to play by it

Perhaps it was not a game after all

She gave me the desire to unshackle myself from what

Men have called a game or sport

Her grace and beauty prompted the inner movements of my heart

Moved by desire and curiosity I decided on earnesty

An earnesty that seemed to surprise and delight both of us

The blooming of an unlikely friendship in the unlikeliest of settings

Where my heart did not search, this graceful flower bloomed in front of me

When my heart did not search, this ideal woman stood at the crossroad of my life

Touched by the reciprocity, action and reaction seemed to fade in their distinctions

Here was a woman who made it easy to love her

Action and reaction at times faded into a certain instinct

T’was indeed hard to fathom or explain

This most unlikely meeting of two hearts and their blossoming on this earnest soil

T’was indeed hard to fathom or explain

This unlikeliest timing when a primordial love was re-awakened

Almost as if we had met each other before in some previous life

Or in a life conjured in our childhood dreams

It seemed to me that when one stopped searching high and low

God provides the desires of the heart

Even before one is aware of it

For His wisdom is beyond comprehension or human approach

Only when one stops to listen and to accept

Does one realize only His plan is ideal and perfect

Indeed my journey to look for the ideal and perfect woman was futile

Since none of creation is perfect

Perhaps the unions blessed by Him would come close

They are like a mirror held up to His glorious face

That none have seen and is beyond comparison

As I consumed myself in the flames of love and desire

I saw in myself the moth drawn to the flame

Cautioned, I knew there must be more to life

There must be more to the eternal truth of life

A truth that ends hunger and thirst

For even as I was consumed in love’s fire, I remained trapped in the desires of the world

Guided beyond my love for this graceful woman

I was brought into another type of love

One that assumed heavenly proportions that seemed too great and deep to express

I suddenly understood that the primordial love

I first felt when I laid my eyes on her

Was not on her body or soul but through them

She was almost like an angel of God’s

Sent to tell me that there was so much more to life

That there was an eternal type of love I could pursue

My disappointments with the world and how it works

My sadness with regards to the rules of the world’s games

My sympathy with the victims of the world

Those we visually see and those we do not

Those we pray for and those we forget nightly

Seem to have an eternal and lasting answer and hope to them

This inexplicable love that has been with men from the beginning of time

Resisting the laws of equality and evolution

Showered upon mankind without cost, without expectations, without questions

Plumbing the depths of hearts which cry out in the deepest darkness of the world

For if it had been equal, all of us would have received our due payment for our faults

And be cast into eternal gnashing and grinding of teeth

For if it had submitted to the laws of evolution, almost no humans would remain

On the face of the Earth, since we have only progressed

In learning how better to kill each other more effectively

Yet this was a simple love of forgiveness and self-sacrifice

That many try to complicate or even forget

This was an act of love showered to even those who did not appreciate

An act of love given to us even while we hated Him

This was the greatest type of love, that of self-sacrifice

That which we hear of in the greatest times of crises such as war

This love on a tree made me see how minuscule my love for her was

Yet they are not mutually exclusive

For my love for her is of a different type and dimension

And it does not take much to see how our love may never measure up

To the tale of love on a tree

I have struggled long to come so far in appreciation of these love comparisons

My love for her is at best a poor reflection of our Father’s love for us

The rippled reflection of the moon on a clear full moon night

If He has provided this talent into my life

I should make the best of what He has given me

For if I prove to be able to love what little He has given me now

How much more riches and glory would he put me in charge to manage in the future

For even though we love in a broken and sinful love

Only by suffering can we taste love

Only in Him and in His blessings do we derive hope

I will make the best use of this love-in-separation

The initial pain of separation after love was re-awakened was hard to bear

The world seemed tethered by a silken string, yet nothing was too hard for Him

This love-in-separation shall prove to be our ship of love, my Love

And if we shall be able to endure its rocky journey to the end

I believe we shall be able to reach illumination together

In passionate restraint we shall hold each other dear and accountable to His law

To eventually obtain a collective illumination of the goodness of His law

And His plan for us, a plan that we ourselves may not know or be able to comprehend

And if our union be in His will, even the angels shall delight

In this paltry mirror of His love

"Foreigners should not be encouraged to organise and lead Singaporeans in making complaints about the nation.

Information, Communications and The Arts Minister, Dr Lee Boon Yang, made this point in Parliament on Friday when he reiterated the government's position that only Singaporeans can be involved in domestic politics.

Dr Lee said letting foreigners lead Singaporeans to make complaints in public, run contrary to established principles that comments for domestic affairs should be reserved for Singaporeans.

To Mr Siew's (Nominated MP Siew Kum Hong ) point that Singapore had commented on the domestic politics of other countries, notably Myanmar, Dr Lee noted that the situation was different.

He said reactions to what was happening in Myanmar were in line with international sentiments. " Above-mentioned quoted from -CNA 15 February 2008 1842 hrs

Hmm, if Dr Lee says that only Singaporeans can be involved in domestic politics, does this policy presume that Singaporeans can freely be involved in domestic politics without being a victim of the politics of fear?

It seems to me that this policy presumes the presence of a certain vibrant and safe public sphere where Singaporeans can express their emotions and reactions to local politics. But how true is this? How many Singaporeans would gladly attest that we are free to express our political views about Singapore, in Singapore. How many of us would tend to hide behind the excuse of being 'politically apathetic' instead of embracing the opportunities given to us to spread political awareness and recognise that a political life is an everyday reality, whether one admits it or not.

Befitting the context, if some Singaporeans felt like forming a choir or an improvised drama group or even just a book sharing session to express and share political views, would they ever be granted a license from the MDA to perform in public? Would it ever be legal to bring out our political opinions into the public sphere? Is a civil society viable in Singapore in the near future?

These are important questions that we should at least stop in our busy upper middle class lives to think about. These are critical questions that should somehow touch a nerve within you. How long more will we be able to hide behind materialism and economic development and repress our natural desires to be engaged in a political life, whether it is simply hoping to see some real competitive politics on TV or being able to decide what to do with your lifelong savings.

I would like to commend CNA for mentioning Nominated MP Siew Kum Hong's counter-point to Dr. Lee, pointing out the inconsistency of the government's professed policy towards non-interference in other nations' domestic politics. Even if we accept Dr. Lee's caveat that it is in line with international sentiment, the same caveat can be used to support my point that there is alot of unhappiness with Singapore's domestic politics (or lack of), whether emanating from inside Singapore or outside. I believe there is a certain undercurrent of international sentiment that does not exactly agree with the oppressive and authoritarian type of democracy that exists in Singapore. This underlying sentiment may be much diluted and dwarfed by international perception of Singapore as a successful business hub and post-colonial developing country in Asia, and also perhaps the active use of libel laws here.

I will sing in protest, not at the state of domestic politics in Singapore, but to spread awareness among my friends and fellow Singaporeans. Wake up from your dreamy cushy upper middle class life and stand up for your rights, act in the full capacity of a political citizen, for the strengthening and renewal of this beautiful country and state. 'Political apathy' seems like an oxymoron for me, I cannot understand how it can truly exist unless you are truly that easily satisfied with things in life. I will sing, whether in hokkien or teochew or singlish or english or mandarin or arabic or malay if you teach me. If you are willing to hear, I will sing, for I believe certain fundamental things in life like music and liberty are a universal language that transcends many barriers.

Tuesdays and Thursdays can be very confusing mornings for me.

For a start, i have 8am lectures on these days, i usually make it to class right on time, but without coffee. SO the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. It is one of my favourite classes this semester actually, an undergraduate seminar on terrorism, and one of my really relevant undergrad classes since i do intend to specialize in counter-terrorism down the road.

In a weird twist, this is actually my only Political Science class out of 5 classes this semester, hardly believable for a self-proclaimed PS major. But the way this class is designed, it is very similar to NUS small lecture groups, where its is very powerpoint-heavy and requires little to zero student participation, exacerbating the 8am drowsy mood, so it is a tough battle for me to stay awake and fully alert from slide to slide, almost having to resort to secondary school tactics of pinching myself.

This class being a political science class, attempts to deconstruct thephenomenon of terrorism in a very objective, scientific and at times game-theoretical way. Thus i almost always leave the class feeling the need to repress all emotions and think of issues only in a very rational-objective manner.

15mins later, my legs drag me to my next class which is 5 minutes' of cool morning breeze walk away. This is a dramatic arts class focusing on play analysis, where I am submerged into a while of appreciating and being able to identify dramaturgical tools used by playwrights to enunciate and dramatize 'inner subjectivities' of the human psyche, expressionistic presentations of the human condition.

Wow what a dramatic shift that goes through my drowsy tuesday and thursday mornings. One moment it's demanded of me to be almost a-emotional in order to become a good social scientist and critically analyse terrorism. In an instant, I'm floating in a world of subjectivism, which is enjoyable in a way that i like to just kick back and observe my arty-farty lecturer drift across the board and fill it diagrams and mindmaps and doodling wit just traditional chalk. All these done without coffee and in a matter of 3 hours.

It's been 5 weeks into the term but i have yet to figure an optimal way of figuring out how to meaningfully synthesize my contradicting yet dreamy tuesday and thursday mornings, but i better figure it out soon, maybe this cup of coffee will help.

Some claim an argument that you dunt have to break from the (Catholic) fold in order to have a close and personal walk with God.

While that may be true, and is exactly the same argument my mum makes, i see no real point in remaining in a hierarchical religion that is prone to distractions from serving Christ and pays too much attention to man, ceremony and symbolic figures like the priesthood, pope, physical church, mother mary and to acts of 'merit' rather than accepting our undeserved redemption. Amen.

while there is indeed no merit in being called a staunch protestant, it only shows my mediocre and amateur ways of expressing my belief to make it seem as if I support this polemical stance, as if i attach more significance to the category 'protestant' than to being a servant of Christ. Indeed if i wanted to protest about anything, almost anything about our current way of life and outlook on life deserves hours of protests from me. Every day and almost every little trivial thing can become a struggle for me, almost like a daily jihad (an arabic term commonly misinterpreted by the media and careless consumers of the media, which basically means 'struggle'), against sin and the ways of the world.

I only want to everyday learn how to be a humble servant, that others would know and see a glimpse of Christ through me instead of pigeon-holing me by my rhetoric i am prone to slip into at times, whether due to a desire of five-minutes of dinner-time fame or religious zealotry

I guess long-time friends of mine can be qte puzzled at this pivotal change in my life...esp those who have known me as a 'staunch' catholic since young. It is intriguing that this adjective 'staunch' has been used on me with regards to two seemingly similar but quantitatively contrasting states of existence. Perhaps I'm just a person who tends towards extremities..with everything middle-of-the-road just too bland for me.

I just want to implore my friends (whether long-time or not) to remain patient with me and slowly observe, even scrutinise me. Those who are in amazement or puzzlement, maybe dunt even see that there's a difference in my 'subtle' change of self-identification..stay with me and see for yourself. The truth will set you free.

Some argue there is no absolute truth in life, that it is forever a highly subjective concept that defies objectiveness. I would agree with the idea that some powers-that-be constantly attempt to make it seem as if truth defies objectiveness. If there is really no ultimate, universal truth in life...what is the point of our existence? Wouldn't life then seem quite meaningless with regards to all the things we have done, are doing, want to do and those we fail to do? Is life worth living if our actions are guided/directed by a hodgepodge understanding of notions like luck, karma, fortune, destiny, fate, terms which we now use almost totally out of context with their original contexts?