Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Last Lebaran
On Lebaran Day last year I accompanied a lawyer to visit 4 Indonesian fishermen in jail. (Yes, Lebaran is not a public holiday in Sydney, folks.) They had been arrested for people smuggling and were waiting for their trials. We were sitting in a conference room and the lawyer had to go out for a minute. As a (very insensitive) icebreaker I said, “Hari ini Lebaran kan, Pak?” They all said yes in various tones, laughed and started to cry. What an excellent icebreaker that was.
I just found out that one of them received a Not Guilty verdict today after weeks and weeks and weeks of trial. Even though I wasn’t there in the courtroom, I could imagine how happy he was. I am very happy for him too. If I could say this to him I would say, “Happy Lebaran Pak Txxxn!!! Have a safe trip home!” (And tell your friends at home to be careful if a stranger offer them big money to take “tourists” to Christmas island! The biggest holiday resort there is a detention centre!)
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Friday, March 02, 2012
A few months ago one of the neighbours started renovating their house. We don’t live next to them. We don’t share fences. Let’s just say that their backyard is almost adjacent to ours. Almost.
Some time after they started the work, I began to hear a dog whimpering from time to time. Usually at dusk or at night. I thought it was just a puppy at a neighbour’s house and was whimpering and crying because it was left to sleep outside the house. I thought the puppy would soon get used to it and would stop crying. Unfortunately it didn’t.
When I got back from Indo the weather here was not too good. It often rained and the workers could not come to continue the renovation at the neighbour’s house. The dog’s whimpering got worse. One day it went on from morning to night to the next day. I began to worry about the dog. I tried to peep through the high wooden fence behind our house. I couldn’t see anything. The crying and whimpering got more desperate. I listened from our backyard, trying to locate it from the sound. I heard chains being tugged against something. It felt really horrible. I suspected that it was in trouble, but I couldn’t do anything because I didn’t know where it was.
In the afternoon a good friend came. She works with dogs so I thought she probably knew whether the crying dog was really in trouble or just looking for attention. Straight away she said it was probably in real trouble. I asked if she would accompany me to investigate. She agreed. We went to my next door neighbour and knocked on the door. The neighbour came out. She knew before we spoke that we were looking for the dog. She told us the noise came from the house next to hers, the one that was being renovated. Her own side fence had been removed by the other neighbour so she could see everything next door. She took us to her back yard. We could see the half-done building. Nobody was working there that day. She asked us to follow her as she went into the construction site. Right at the back near the fence, chained to a post, was the dirtiest, smelliest, ugliest dog I had ever seen. It’s coat was caked with dried mud. There were flies circling over its head and back. It went quiet when we approached. The neighbour said probably the owner did not feed it properly. That was why it cried from time to time. The last day the workers came was Friday, and it was already Monday. So it had not been fed for a couple of days. (In Indonesia the workers usually spend the night at the site, not is Sydney.) She didn’t dare feed the dog because she was afraid of the owner of the house. My friend and I left feeling horrible. I called RSPCA immediately to report the condition of the dog. Then we left to have lunch, but it was difficult to eat when you know a creature was starving to death right next to your doorstep. I bought some bread to give to the dog. We knocked on the neighbour’s door again, but this time she wouldn’t open the door. We came back to my home and I called RSPCA again to ask when they were coming. Definitely not today. So I asked them what I could do to help the dog, without doing something illegal. I was told I could throw food for the dog. And that was when the mini saga began. My friend called our area Council. I talked to other neighbours and planned to submit a petition to our Council if RSPCA could not help. I did everything except talk to the ‘preman’owner. I threw in bread, boiled sausages, and at one point I even made meatballs for the dog. I didn’t feed it everyday, of course. Only when the crying was really bad, usually during the holidays. This went on for a few weeks, until even my next door neighbour stopped opening the door when I knocked. I got a bit desperate and tried to find another way. I put a chair next to our backyard fence to see if I could throw food over our fence, past the neighbour’s back yard, over the neighbour’s fence, and on a spot reachable by the dog. I cut the branches of a couple of trees to clear the way. I threw a meatball. Not far enough. I asked my niece’s help. We cleared a few more branches and she threw a meatball. It landed on the other side, at a place near the dog! She threw a few more and we could hear the dog moving around trying to reach them. The rest of the family came out to look, and somehow decided it was time to prune the trees some more. I went inside and let them do it. I went to the bathroom and when I got out of the bathroom one of my nieces was sitting back on the sofa, holding a bandage to her eyes. There were drops of blood on the bandage. A branch had swung back and hit her in the eye, shattering the glass of her spectacles and showering the glass bits into her eye. We took her to the emergency ward at a hospital. It was boxing day but thank God an eye specialist agreed to come to the hospital and the injury wasn’t too serious, just a small tear on the white of the eye. But needless to say, it totally ruined our holiday period and holiday mood.
From that moment on I stopped feeding the dog. I was angry. My niece got hurt partly because I was too chicken to confront the owners. No dog is worth the safety and well-being of my family. Feeding it is the responsiblity of the owners, no matter how busy they say they are. My niece wrote an email to RSPCA, they called me and I tried one last time to ask them to do something about it (an ispector did come to the site a couple of weeks before but the owner gave her all kinds of excuses and she let them be). After that the dog still cried a little, but not as pathetically as before. I gritted my teeth and mentally closed my ears everytime I heard the cry.
One day when I went out to get the mail, I saw the dog. It was with one of its owners. My neighbour was right, the owner really looked burly and ‘preman’. The dog did a poo poo in front of my next door neighbour’s house (the one that refused to open her door), and the owner didn’t bother to clean it up. These people deserve each other, I thought. I made brief eye contact with the dog (hahahahahaha) but kept a poker face just in case it came to me. It was as dirty and muddy and ugly and surrounded by flies as the last time I saw it. It looked very thin, but other than that, it was okay. I threw a few expletives toward the owner (in my head, of course) and went inside.
A few days later it was all quiet. No howling or whimpering anymore. No sound of chains being pulled and dragged. I waited a few more days. Still quiet. I saw my next door neighbour one day and she said the dog was no longer there. I hope the owners have put it in a safer and cleaner place. And I hope it’s no longer left hungry so often.
Update
All those things happened during the Christmas and New Year holidays. It’s early in March now. Still no sign of Dog. Yesterday I passed by the construction site and stole a look through the plastic covered fence. The basement was filled up with water, like an indoor swimming pool. Well, it has been raining almost everyday for a week, and the weather forecast says that out of the 28 days in February, 21 will be rainy. I am sure that that is very bad news for the owners. Then another thought crossed my mind – maybe this is God’s punishment for those cruel people who tortured a helpless animal for months and months. And later I remembered who used to think like that all the time. My mother. She always always always connected good deeds with good rewards, bad deeds with punishments (no matter how remote and how illogical). And I used to giggle inside (if anyone can really giggle inside) when I listened to her stories while keeping a very straight face. I can’t help but smile. Now that’s one thing I inherited from you, Mom.
Some time after they started the work, I began to hear a dog whimpering from time to time. Usually at dusk or at night. I thought it was just a puppy at a neighbour’s house and was whimpering and crying because it was left to sleep outside the house. I thought the puppy would soon get used to it and would stop crying. Unfortunately it didn’t.
When I got back from Indo the weather here was not too good. It often rained and the workers could not come to continue the renovation at the neighbour’s house. The dog’s whimpering got worse. One day it went on from morning to night to the next day. I began to worry about the dog. I tried to peep through the high wooden fence behind our house. I couldn’t see anything. The crying and whimpering got more desperate. I listened from our backyard, trying to locate it from the sound. I heard chains being tugged against something. It felt really horrible. I suspected that it was in trouble, but I couldn’t do anything because I didn’t know where it was.
In the afternoon a good friend came. She works with dogs so I thought she probably knew whether the crying dog was really in trouble or just looking for attention. Straight away she said it was probably in real trouble. I asked if she would accompany me to investigate. She agreed. We went to my next door neighbour and knocked on the door. The neighbour came out. She knew before we spoke that we were looking for the dog. She told us the noise came from the house next to hers, the one that was being renovated. Her own side fence had been removed by the other neighbour so she could see everything next door. She took us to her back yard. We could see the half-done building. Nobody was working there that day. She asked us to follow her as she went into the construction site. Right at the back near the fence, chained to a post, was the dirtiest, smelliest, ugliest dog I had ever seen. It’s coat was caked with dried mud. There were flies circling over its head and back. It went quiet when we approached. The neighbour said probably the owner did not feed it properly. That was why it cried from time to time. The last day the workers came was Friday, and it was already Monday. So it had not been fed for a couple of days. (In Indonesia the workers usually spend the night at the site, not is Sydney.) She didn’t dare feed the dog because she was afraid of the owner of the house. My friend and I left feeling horrible. I called RSPCA immediately to report the condition of the dog. Then we left to have lunch, but it was difficult to eat when you know a creature was starving to death right next to your doorstep. I bought some bread to give to the dog. We knocked on the neighbour’s door again, but this time she wouldn’t open the door. We came back to my home and I called RSPCA again to ask when they were coming. Definitely not today. So I asked them what I could do to help the dog, without doing something illegal. I was told I could throw food for the dog. And that was when the mini saga began. My friend called our area Council. I talked to other neighbours and planned to submit a petition to our Council if RSPCA could not help. I did everything except talk to the ‘preman’owner. I threw in bread, boiled sausages, and at one point I even made meatballs for the dog. I didn’t feed it everyday, of course. Only when the crying was really bad, usually during the holidays. This went on for a few weeks, until even my next door neighbour stopped opening the door when I knocked. I got a bit desperate and tried to find another way. I put a chair next to our backyard fence to see if I could throw food over our fence, past the neighbour’s back yard, over the neighbour’s fence, and on a spot reachable by the dog. I cut the branches of a couple of trees to clear the way. I threw a meatball. Not far enough. I asked my niece’s help. We cleared a few more branches and she threw a meatball. It landed on the other side, at a place near the dog! She threw a few more and we could hear the dog moving around trying to reach them. The rest of the family came out to look, and somehow decided it was time to prune the trees some more. I went inside and let them do it. I went to the bathroom and when I got out of the bathroom one of my nieces was sitting back on the sofa, holding a bandage to her eyes. There were drops of blood on the bandage. A branch had swung back and hit her in the eye, shattering the glass of her spectacles and showering the glass bits into her eye. We took her to the emergency ward at a hospital. It was boxing day but thank God an eye specialist agreed to come to the hospital and the injury wasn’t too serious, just a small tear on the white of the eye. But needless to say, it totally ruined our holiday period and holiday mood.
From that moment on I stopped feeding the dog. I was angry. My niece got hurt partly because I was too chicken to confront the owners. No dog is worth the safety and well-being of my family. Feeding it is the responsiblity of the owners, no matter how busy they say they are. My niece wrote an email to RSPCA, they called me and I tried one last time to ask them to do something about it (an ispector did come to the site a couple of weeks before but the owner gave her all kinds of excuses and she let them be). After that the dog still cried a little, but not as pathetically as before. I gritted my teeth and mentally closed my ears everytime I heard the cry.
One day when I went out to get the mail, I saw the dog. It was with one of its owners. My neighbour was right, the owner really looked burly and ‘preman’. The dog did a poo poo in front of my next door neighbour’s house (the one that refused to open her door), and the owner didn’t bother to clean it up. These people deserve each other, I thought. I made brief eye contact with the dog (hahahahahaha) but kept a poker face just in case it came to me. It was as dirty and muddy and ugly and surrounded by flies as the last time I saw it. It looked very thin, but other than that, it was okay. I threw a few expletives toward the owner (in my head, of course) and went inside.
A few days later it was all quiet. No howling or whimpering anymore. No sound of chains being pulled and dragged. I waited a few more days. Still quiet. I saw my next door neighbour one day and she said the dog was no longer there. I hope the owners have put it in a safer and cleaner place. And I hope it’s no longer left hungry so often.
Update
All those things happened during the Christmas and New Year holidays. It’s early in March now. Still no sign of Dog. Yesterday I passed by the construction site and stole a look through the plastic covered fence. The basement was filled up with water, like an indoor swimming pool. Well, it has been raining almost everyday for a week, and the weather forecast says that out of the 28 days in February, 21 will be rainy. I am sure that that is very bad news for the owners. Then another thought crossed my mind – maybe this is God’s punishment for those cruel people who tortured a helpless animal for months and months. And later I remembered who used to think like that all the time. My mother. She always always always connected good deeds with good rewards, bad deeds with punishments (no matter how remote and how illogical). And I used to giggle inside (if anyone can really giggle inside) when I listened to her stories while keeping a very straight face. I can’t help but smile. Now that’s one thing I inherited from you, Mom.
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The long awaited event finally arrived. The bride looked radiant, the groom looked dashing, the ceremony went smoothly with small obstacles here and there, but nothing major. But that's for the bride and groom to tell, in their own blogs. This is my blog, so of course I would talk about me.
A few months ago, a very good friend asked me to be her maid of honour. I was very happy for her, but I was also terrified. I had never ever done it before and I don't want to stuff things up for her. All I knew I knew from TV, as usual. I accompanied my friend to choose her wedding gown and veil. Then I received a call from Mom, asking me to come home. She didn't sound like her usual self and her speech was muffled, like somebody with stroke, so I left everything and flew home. Mom's condition was awful. She had a seizure a few days before I came and scared the heck of everybody. When I arrived she was a bit better, but as I mentioned in a previous blog, she hurt her back and ended up bed-bound. It was hard leaving her, but I knew she was in very capable hands.
Back in Sydney, it was very hard to switch from sad mode to happy mode. I didn't think of my mother all the time, of course, but somehow I kept thinking of her when we went out to look for accessories, shoes, and other things. Maybe because of the contrast. There I was preparing for a party while my mother was lying in bed staring at the wall. I tried to tell my friend and the bride's maid about my mother's condition, but I guess they didn't want to spoil the happy mood or had a lot already on their plates so they quickly changed the subject.
While I was Jakarta, Mischa's other good friend, Fifi helped Mischa with the preparation. I was actually very glad because I didn't have to feel very guilty about not helping Mischa. And if indeed I had to go home before the wedding, Mischa would be in good hands. Maybe God heard my mental conflict and it turned out I had a lot of assignments on Monday, so I had good reasons not to come along for other shopping trips.
After we found all that the bride needed for the big day, it was our turn. We started looking for bridesmaid gowns. Those who knew me well probably knew that apart from wearing swimsuits at the swimming pool I never wore anything above my knee since my last PE session in high school. I never wore sleeveless shirts since I turned 10. And I never ever wore tank tops. If you ever shopped for bridesmaid outfits in Sydney you would know that they always have either plunging necklines or bustiers. And I don't have boobs for those dresses to hang on to. I was really hoping we could find something with a short jacket or a shawl. The first day of the hunt was a disaster. I didn't even have to complain. My friends could see for themselves how bad those dresses looked on me, while the other bridesmaid always looked stunning. Somehow we managed to find something not too revealing in the mother-of-the-bride section. That was a relief. I began to feel a bit better.
The following week we continued making the bonbonnier and planned for the hen's party. At this stage I received news that my mom was undergoing radiation therapy and seemed to improve. I had made up my mind to go home after the wedding. I was very depressed. Maybe that was why many of my childhood illnesses returned. It was strange. The palm of my hands were full of small pockets of clear liquid. I used to have this regularly when I was at school. I had a very bad case on ingrown toenail. This was also a problem I had when I was in secondary school. I told my family about my decision, and they immediately went into emergency mode. My brother took all of us out for dinner and lectured me for half an hour. He hardly ever said two words to me these days so it was surprising. Even my niece took me out for a drive to talk to me, because she was worried. But the deciding talk came from my sister. She texted me and asked me to call her. She told me not to worry about Mom; that everybody there was looking after her. My sister said she was okay about driving to and from her home outside the city to take Mom to the hospital and that I should think of myself too. I felt a heavy weight lifted. The bubbles on my hands dried up and faded away.
We had a wonderful time at the hen's night pottery class. I was only a bit worried because my toe was still swollen and I wouldn't be able to wear heels, so my dress, which is a bit too long in heels, would be really very long. I worry about the compulsory dance. But anyway, the morning came. We arrived and started with the make up and hair. I hadn't had make up on my face since 2004. I bit my tongue so I wouldn't complain too much. It started raining. We were a bit concerned, but rain was still better than scorching heat because of our dresses. I googled maid of honour the day before and found out some of the duties that I didn't know before. And with the rainy weather, the bridesmaids were really useful, protecting the bride's gown from mud. We made it to the church. The flower girls marched in. The live music by my nieces was beautiful. Fifi glided down the aisle. I went next. I stumbled a few times because of the darn dress, but at least I didn't fall. The bride and her father went in next. Perfect. The atmosphere solemn, happy and relaxed at the same time.
Time passed quickly and before we know it it was time for the reception. After meal me and Fifi made our way to the cottage to freshen up. On the way back we found the best man, half drunk, rehearsing his speech. Somebody is more worried than I am, I thought, and unembarrassedly I immediately felt better. When it was time to dance, I looked at the bride and the groom's faces. They looked like they were about to jump off a plane without parachutes, but they did well. A big finale where the groom lifted the bride and turned round and round. Big applause. Then our turn. It's just left right left right step. Very easy. I didn't trip. Thank God. I danced with the groom's best friend. He twirled me around a few times. It was fun. I also danced with the bride's father, which was awkward. And he was even more uncomfortable than I was. Hehehe.. Then it was over. Phew..
My toe, which had been bombarded with three sets of antibiotic without success, suddenly started to heal. I thought of writing about the whole experience, but kept putting it off. Most of it would be about me complaining anyway. I hate parties, I hate to socialise among strangers, I hate wearing a dress, I hate make-up, I hate party tantrums, but anyway it's over, I survived. I'm glad I did it. I hope I never have to do it again for other friends or relatives, but of course I will if they ask.
A few months ago, a very good friend asked me to be her maid of honour. I was very happy for her, but I was also terrified. I had never ever done it before and I don't want to stuff things up for her. All I knew I knew from TV, as usual. I accompanied my friend to choose her wedding gown and veil. Then I received a call from Mom, asking me to come home. She didn't sound like her usual self and her speech was muffled, like somebody with stroke, so I left everything and flew home. Mom's condition was awful. She had a seizure a few days before I came and scared the heck of everybody. When I arrived she was a bit better, but as I mentioned in a previous blog, she hurt her back and ended up bed-bound. It was hard leaving her, but I knew she was in very capable hands.
Back in Sydney, it was very hard to switch from sad mode to happy mode. I didn't think of my mother all the time, of course, but somehow I kept thinking of her when we went out to look for accessories, shoes, and other things. Maybe because of the contrast. There I was preparing for a party while my mother was lying in bed staring at the wall. I tried to tell my friend and the bride's maid about my mother's condition, but I guess they didn't want to spoil the happy mood or had a lot already on their plates so they quickly changed the subject.
While I was Jakarta, Mischa's other good friend, Fifi helped Mischa with the preparation. I was actually very glad because I didn't have to feel very guilty about not helping Mischa. And if indeed I had to go home before the wedding, Mischa would be in good hands. Maybe God heard my mental conflict and it turned out I had a lot of assignments on Monday, so I had good reasons not to come along for other shopping trips.
After we found all that the bride needed for the big day, it was our turn. We started looking for bridesmaid gowns. Those who knew me well probably knew that apart from wearing swimsuits at the swimming pool I never wore anything above my knee since my last PE session in high school. I never wore sleeveless shirts since I turned 10. And I never ever wore tank tops. If you ever shopped for bridesmaid outfits in Sydney you would know that they always have either plunging necklines or bustiers. And I don't have boobs for those dresses to hang on to. I was really hoping we could find something with a short jacket or a shawl. The first day of the hunt was a disaster. I didn't even have to complain. My friends could see for themselves how bad those dresses looked on me, while the other bridesmaid always looked stunning. Somehow we managed to find something not too revealing in the mother-of-the-bride section. That was a relief. I began to feel a bit better.
The following week we continued making the bonbonnier and planned for the hen's party. At this stage I received news that my mom was undergoing radiation therapy and seemed to improve. I had made up my mind to go home after the wedding. I was very depressed. Maybe that was why many of my childhood illnesses returned. It was strange. The palm of my hands were full of small pockets of clear liquid. I used to have this regularly when I was at school. I had a very bad case on ingrown toenail. This was also a problem I had when I was in secondary school. I told my family about my decision, and they immediately went into emergency mode. My brother took all of us out for dinner and lectured me for half an hour. He hardly ever said two words to me these days so it was surprising. Even my niece took me out for a drive to talk to me, because she was worried. But the deciding talk came from my sister. She texted me and asked me to call her. She told me not to worry about Mom; that everybody there was looking after her. My sister said she was okay about driving to and from her home outside the city to take Mom to the hospital and that I should think of myself too. I felt a heavy weight lifted. The bubbles on my hands dried up and faded away.
We had a wonderful time at the hen's night pottery class. I was only a bit worried because my toe was still swollen and I wouldn't be able to wear heels, so my dress, which is a bit too long in heels, would be really very long. I worry about the compulsory dance. But anyway, the morning came. We arrived and started with the make up and hair. I hadn't had make up on my face since 2004. I bit my tongue so I wouldn't complain too much. It started raining. We were a bit concerned, but rain was still better than scorching heat because of our dresses. I googled maid of honour the day before and found out some of the duties that I didn't know before. And with the rainy weather, the bridesmaids were really useful, protecting the bride's gown from mud. We made it to the church. The flower girls marched in. The live music by my nieces was beautiful. Fifi glided down the aisle. I went next. I stumbled a few times because of the darn dress, but at least I didn't fall. The bride and her father went in next. Perfect. The atmosphere solemn, happy and relaxed at the same time.
Time passed quickly and before we know it it was time for the reception. After meal me and Fifi made our way to the cottage to freshen up. On the way back we found the best man, half drunk, rehearsing his speech. Somebody is more worried than I am, I thought, and unembarrassedly I immediately felt better. When it was time to dance, I looked at the bride and the groom's faces. They looked like they were about to jump off a plane without parachutes, but they did well. A big finale where the groom lifted the bride and turned round and round. Big applause. Then our turn. It's just left right left right step. Very easy. I didn't trip. Thank God. I danced with the groom's best friend. He twirled me around a few times. It was fun. I also danced with the bride's father, which was awkward. And he was even more uncomfortable than I was. Hehehe.. Then it was over. Phew..
My toe, which had been bombarded with three sets of antibiotic without success, suddenly started to heal. I thought of writing about the whole experience, but kept putting it off. Most of it would be about me complaining anyway. I hate parties, I hate to socialise among strangers, I hate wearing a dress, I hate make-up, I hate party tantrums, but anyway it's over, I survived. I'm glad I did it. I hope I never have to do it again for other friends or relatives, but of course I will if they ask.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Some things you see just follow you around in your head. For example a 16 year old ex-prostitute, who ran away from an abusive mother and started selling her body just so she could buy a motorbike. When she returned to her village with the money, the mother was nice to her, and told her, “It's too late now. You’re already in the mud so just continue doing it.” This mother is the same person who beat her up in public because she went out with a classmate. It’s hard to forget this young girl, and even harder to understand her situation.
It’s very hard to look at a middle-aged fisherman in a bright orange prisoner outfit. T-shirt, shorts, a pair of red shoes. He was caught for people smuggling and is looking at 5 to 7 years jail sentence. It was hard looking at him walk out the room, stop to pull up the hem of his shirt to wipe his tears and cover his face. He understands why he is in prison, but he clearly doesn’t understand why he will have to serve 5 to 7 years away from his family, friends and home. And neither do I.
It’s very hard to look at a middle-aged fisherman in a bright orange prisoner outfit. T-shirt, shorts, a pair of red shoes. He was caught for people smuggling and is looking at 5 to 7 years jail sentence. It was hard looking at him walk out the room, stop to pull up the hem of his shirt to wipe his tears and cover his face. He understands why he is in prison, but he clearly doesn’t understand why he will have to serve 5 to 7 years away from his family, friends and home. And neither do I.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
The Promise
The last time I visited Mom, her condition tore my heart. After an incident, which happened because she was being “creative” or was trying to be “independent”, she couldn’t even walk to the bathroom because it was too painful. Usually my sister and her husband took Mom to the healer’s place during the weekend. Maybe Mom didn’t want to trouble my sister’s hubby, so she hired two men to take her to her usual healer. The men were not trained to help frail old ladies. They were a bit rough during a particularly difficult part of the path towards the healer’s home, and my mother hurt her back. A few days later she couldn’t even get out of bed. She called a masseuse, who rubbed her back for a few minutes. A couple of days later she called another masseuse, who rubbed her back for about an hour. The pain got worse. She called her usual healer to come. His assistant said he was busy, he usually don’t do home visits, etc. etc. She sent the helper to the healer’s place, more than once. She sent my sister-in-law to talk to fetch the healer, several times. In the end the healer gave in an come. Mom was as happy as a little girl, which was scary to watch. But even her favourite healer couldn’t help. We took her to a Chinese herbalist, who stuck some medicine on her back. The pain became so bad that Mom even agreed to wear diapers, something that she fought so hard against in the past. She agreed to have an X-ray, another thing that she also fought against in the past. And this was after the doctor came to our home and told us about her life’s story. The doctor cried, and I cried, and Kak N (a relative who is like an older sister to us) cried. A few days later Mom agreed to have an X-ray. It turned out that she had fractures at a couple of places. She had to stay in bed.
Before I went home, Mom borrowed money from several people. She borrowed money from the helper’s aunt, of all people, even though every month she receives more money than most of my friends in Jakarta who are working full time. She receives more money that the combined money of a friend and her husband. And what did she do with the money? She asked me to count it, and asked me to take a big wad. She got very angry when I refused. I asked her how she was going to pay her debts, she told me my brother was going to give her some money. I took some of the money and left some in her cupboard. When I got back to Sydney, I called her and said that I just got a big order and I would send her some money. She refused. A couple of weeks later she texted me and asked me to call. I called and she asked me to send the money that I offered. So I sent back the money that she gave to me. Crazy..
It is very clear to me that my Mom cannot be trusted to make logical judgements anymore. She has always had her own set of logics, but clearly at present it is very close to a judgement of an 11-year-old school girl. And yet she is still running the show. She is still making the decisions and giving the orders. It's just mad..
I was planning to come home to take care of her. But when she asked me to do the very same thing, I felt very disappointed. Who is this very selfish lady who is asking me to leave my own life behind for her sake? Who is this lady who has such low regards on my efforts and achievements that she thinks I am better off staying home, not working, and play nanny for the rest of her life? Who is this lady who is not concerned at all about my future after she is gone? As I said Mom has always had her own set of logics and with her very good intentions had very often hurt people left right and center and sometimes caused more harm than good. Afterwards she bitterly complained about how ungrateful people were to her. She attributed all the bad things that happened to people she knew to what they had done to hurt her. The things she did to me, either to educate, or to get extra money for the family, or to make me more presentable, scarred me for life. But she’s my mother. She was often an awful mom but I know she did her best.
I promised I would come home. And time is ticking. Days go by in a flash and very soon I have leave my home in Sydney. I have set my advertisements to stop in a couple of month's time. Soon I will have to write and submit a letter of resignation to all the agencies who have been employing me as a panelist. Then I will have to sort out my garbage. I will throw out or give away what I cannot take. I will ask if I could leave some boxes here. Maybe I have to send some. And then it’s time for travel arrangements. And then it’s time to say goodbye to all the things that I love. Another chapter of my life will end, and a new one will start. I am determined to enjoy my time with Mom. I will enjoy the idleness. I will travel, learn to drive, learn new skills, have new adventures. I will paint and draw again. Maybe I could even work and earn some money, hopefully legally. The only shadow that darkens the picture are questions: What will I do when this is over? Can I ever come back? I would be a few years older, but not more experienced, not more skilled. My body would be weaker and my brain would be slower. But who am I to predict what the future holds? Who could say whether I would even be around tomorrow and in what shape? All I could do is hope that I am doing the right thing, and that everything else will take care of itself.
Before I went home, Mom borrowed money from several people. She borrowed money from the helper’s aunt, of all people, even though every month she receives more money than most of my friends in Jakarta who are working full time. She receives more money that the combined money of a friend and her husband. And what did she do with the money? She asked me to count it, and asked me to take a big wad. She got very angry when I refused. I asked her how she was going to pay her debts, she told me my brother was going to give her some money. I took some of the money and left some in her cupboard. When I got back to Sydney, I called her and said that I just got a big order and I would send her some money. She refused. A couple of weeks later she texted me and asked me to call. I called and she asked me to send the money that I offered. So I sent back the money that she gave to me. Crazy..
It is very clear to me that my Mom cannot be trusted to make logical judgements anymore. She has always had her own set of logics, but clearly at present it is very close to a judgement of an 11-year-old school girl. And yet she is still running the show. She is still making the decisions and giving the orders. It's just mad..
I was planning to come home to take care of her. But when she asked me to do the very same thing, I felt very disappointed. Who is this very selfish lady who is asking me to leave my own life behind for her sake? Who is this lady who has such low regards on my efforts and achievements that she thinks I am better off staying home, not working, and play nanny for the rest of her life? Who is this lady who is not concerned at all about my future after she is gone? As I said Mom has always had her own set of logics and with her very good intentions had very often hurt people left right and center and sometimes caused more harm than good. Afterwards she bitterly complained about how ungrateful people were to her. She attributed all the bad things that happened to people she knew to what they had done to hurt her. The things she did to me, either to educate, or to get extra money for the family, or to make me more presentable, scarred me for life. But she’s my mother. She was often an awful mom but I know she did her best.
I promised I would come home. And time is ticking. Days go by in a flash and very soon I have leave my home in Sydney. I have set my advertisements to stop in a couple of month's time. Soon I will have to write and submit a letter of resignation to all the agencies who have been employing me as a panelist. Then I will have to sort out my garbage. I will throw out or give away what I cannot take. I will ask if I could leave some boxes here. Maybe I have to send some. And then it’s time for travel arrangements. And then it’s time to say goodbye to all the things that I love. Another chapter of my life will end, and a new one will start. I am determined to enjoy my time with Mom. I will enjoy the idleness. I will travel, learn to drive, learn new skills, have new adventures. I will paint and draw again. Maybe I could even work and earn some money, hopefully legally. The only shadow that darkens the picture are questions: What will I do when this is over? Can I ever come back? I would be a few years older, but not more experienced, not more skilled. My body would be weaker and my brain would be slower. But who am I to predict what the future holds? Who could say whether I would even be around tomorrow and in what shape? All I could do is hope that I am doing the right thing, and that everything else will take care of itself.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A Wedding
Registration documents – check, microphone – check, table and table cloth – check, decorations –check. The groom is here. Great. The interpreter is here, too. Wonderful. And the bride and the rest of the family will arrive in fifteen minutes or so.
We are at Blues Point Reserve in Sydney. The weather forecast said that it would be cloudy. As they often do, they got it wrong. Blue sky, sparkling cobalt sea, emerald green grass – a perfect setting for a perfect wedding.
I’m the wedding celebrant today. My job is to solemnise the wedding between Tim and Karin. Karin is a lovely Indonesian girl. Her parents and brothers came all the way from Java for this special day. That’s why we have an interpreter with us today. I’ve never used an interpreter in a wedding before, but it should be okay. I have just briefed her and she seems to have prepared adequately. And look, there comes the bride. It’s show time.
I greeted the family and we are ready to roll. A few words from me, followed by lighting the candle for those who cannot attend (a bit of drama there, cos it’s so windy it takes five minutes to light the candle, a few pesky tourists pass by and stare, a boat passes very close by, we wave at them), followed by exchange of vows, the groom kisses the bride, photos, photos, done. Overall a simple yet beautiful wedding.
More photos. First the bride and the groom. Then with the bride’s family, then with the groom’s family, then both, then with me and the interpreter. The photographer says to me, “Would you like to take off your sunnies for the photo?”
Sunnies?? Sunglasess??? What?? Have I been wearing them throughout the ceremony??
“You’ve been wearing them throughout the ceremony,” the photographer confirms.
My face turns lobster red. I apologise to everybody. They must think that I am very eccentric or very rude. Or maybe they think this is common in Sydney. Anyway, there is nothing I can do now. Tim and Karen will have a celebrant with her sunnies on in their photo album.
We are at Blues Point Reserve in Sydney. The weather forecast said that it would be cloudy. As they often do, they got it wrong. Blue sky, sparkling cobalt sea, emerald green grass – a perfect setting for a perfect wedding.
I’m the wedding celebrant today. My job is to solemnise the wedding between Tim and Karin. Karin is a lovely Indonesian girl. Her parents and brothers came all the way from Java for this special day. That’s why we have an interpreter with us today. I’ve never used an interpreter in a wedding before, but it should be okay. I have just briefed her and she seems to have prepared adequately. And look, there comes the bride. It’s show time.
I greeted the family and we are ready to roll. A few words from me, followed by lighting the candle for those who cannot attend (a bit of drama there, cos it’s so windy it takes five minutes to light the candle, a few pesky tourists pass by and stare, a boat passes very close by, we wave at them), followed by exchange of vows, the groom kisses the bride, photos, photos, done. Overall a simple yet beautiful wedding.
More photos. First the bride and the groom. Then with the bride’s family, then with the groom’s family, then both, then with me and the interpreter. The photographer says to me, “Would you like to take off your sunnies for the photo?”
Sunnies?? Sunglasess??? What?? Have I been wearing them throughout the ceremony??
“You’ve been wearing them throughout the ceremony,” the photographer confirms.
My face turns lobster red. I apologise to everybody. They must think that I am very eccentric or very rude. Or maybe they think this is common in Sydney. Anyway, there is nothing I can do now. Tim and Karen will have a celebrant with her sunnies on in their photo album.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Realisation
If it's your fault and you don't like it, that's your problem, not mine.
If it's my fault and you don't like it, that's your problem, not mine.
If you don't like it, that's your problem, not mine.
Hmm... is this a sign of ... aging?
I am turning into a grumpy old woman, and I LIKE it!!!
If it's my fault and you don't like it, that's your problem, not mine.
If you don't like it, that's your problem, not mine.
Hmm... is this a sign of ... aging?
I am turning into a grumpy old woman, and I LIKE it!!!
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Grandma
The last time I saw her she was wearing a traditional Chinese shirt and trousers, olive coloured and impeccably pressed. Her hair was grayish, and wavy like mine and my mother’s hair. Hers was neatly combed and slightly oiled. Not a strand out of place. She wore a jade bracelet on her wrist. In short, she could have come straight out of a documentary on China.
When she spoke, it was with a very heavy accent, I could hardly understand what she said. We were in the living room one day, on a rare occasion that she visited, and I asked her about her life in China. She said the people in her area were mainly farmers and fishermen. I asked her if there were dragons back then. She said yes. They were huge and scary, with green scales as big as tampahs.
That was over twenty years ago, our last conversation. I had probably seen her around half a dozen times before then. And since then, my family had moved to Jakarta, and then to Sydney. The distance grew and grew. I had managed to visit various parts of Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, Europe, and even the Middle East, but that tiny village in Air Joman had somehow been overlooked. Mom and I were planning to visit her next year, if Mom was healthy enough to travel again. But a few days ago I received news that Grandma had passed away. Logically there was no reason to feel sorrow and regret, since she never played a big role in my life. But her blood runs through my veins, and for a few days I felt a dull throb inside me, as if my blood was mourning the loss. And so I let myself feel the sorrow and regret, knowing I would never see Grandma again.
When she spoke, it was with a very heavy accent, I could hardly understand what she said. We were in the living room one day, on a rare occasion that she visited, and I asked her about her life in China. She said the people in her area were mainly farmers and fishermen. I asked her if there were dragons back then. She said yes. They were huge and scary, with green scales as big as tampahs.
That was over twenty years ago, our last conversation. I had probably seen her around half a dozen times before then. And since then, my family had moved to Jakarta, and then to Sydney. The distance grew and grew. I had managed to visit various parts of Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, Europe, and even the Middle East, but that tiny village in Air Joman had somehow been overlooked. Mom and I were planning to visit her next year, if Mom was healthy enough to travel again. But a few days ago I received news that Grandma had passed away. Logically there was no reason to feel sorrow and regret, since she never played a big role in my life. But her blood runs through my veins, and for a few days I felt a dull throb inside me, as if my blood was mourning the loss. And so I let myself feel the sorrow and regret, knowing I would never see Grandma again.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Privilege
We were on a shuttle bus at King Abdul Aziz airport, heading towards the plane. A lady sat next to me. We exchanged small questions, like where are you from, etc. When I told her I came with my mom and my sister she said, “My heart hurts so much whenever I saw an old man being led by his son or daughter. Or when an old lady is being wheeled around by her daughter. My mother died when I was three weeks old, my father followed when I was ten. I never had a chance to take care of my parents.” Then she started to cry. I didn’t know what to say so I just patted her shoulder and let her cry a bit. I tried to change the subject by talking about her children. She seemed to cheer up a bit when she talked about them. Then she went back to the subject of her mother.
She said, “I’m so sad. I don’t even know what my mother looked like.”
So I asked, “There’s no photo of her at all?”
She said, “No, I am seventy now so it was a very long time ago. In the thirties. We didn’t have cameras then.”
That I can help her with. I told her, “Sometimes when I look into the mirror, I see my mother’s face. Maybe you can do that too, Ma’am.”
She was quiet for a while. Maybe she was considering the possibility. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Maybe she didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. I just hoped she would remember what I said the next time she looked at herself in the mirror. I hope she could see the image of her mother.
In her own little way, the old lady had reminded me that it is a privilege to take care of our parents. It may be hard, inconvenient, exhausting sometimes, but it’s not a burden, it’s an honour.
She said, “I’m so sad. I don’t even know what my mother looked like.”
So I asked, “There’s no photo of her at all?”
She said, “No, I am seventy now so it was a very long time ago. In the thirties. We didn’t have cameras then.”
That I can help her with. I told her, “Sometimes when I look into the mirror, I see my mother’s face. Maybe you can do that too, Ma’am.”
She was quiet for a while. Maybe she was considering the possibility. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Maybe she didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. I just hoped she would remember what I said the next time she looked at herself in the mirror. I hope she could see the image of her mother.
In her own little way, the old lady had reminded me that it is a privilege to take care of our parents. It may be hard, inconvenient, exhausting sometimes, but it’s not a burden, it’s an honour.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
My Own Little Miracle
Before we left we were barraged with pointers and warnings; do this, don’t do this, do that, don’t do that. Don’t you dare do bla, bla, bla. Remember, you must bla, bla, bla. And there were lots of personal experiences: when I was at so and so, I was such and such. When my friend did bla, bla, bla, and so as she was punished with bla, bla, bla. Lots of magical experiences and small miracles. And tears, lots and lots of tears.
There were so many warnings I began to wonder if people don't just made them all up. It began to annoy me. I didn’t really want to hear those kinds of stories so close to the time we were leaving. Those are your experiences, not mine. So you cried here and here and here and here. That’s you. Now if I don’t cry there I will wonder if something is wrong with me.
And that’s what happened. We arrived at King Abdul Aziz airport at night. An old man next to me on the bus expressed his admiration and wonder at the sight of lights in the distance, or maybe something else that I didn’t see. I smelled the smell of desert and felt the cold night air. I was glad and happy and just a bit excited, but not as moved as the old man.
At the sight of Nabawi Mosque, again I felt glad, happy and just a bit excited, but not moved. We prayed there, and I wondered why my heart is still cold to all these. Where is my miracle?
Every time we went to this or that historical places, my heart was still cold. I saw commercialism everywhere. I saw sacred places turning into a big religious Disneyland. There were voices in my head talking and talking and talking, questioning and questioning and questioning. It got to a point where I thought oh, maybe this whole thing was fabricated, no spiritual value whatsoever in it. The first time I saw the Ka’bah, it looked tiny. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Outside the mosque, back to back were tall hotels and shopping arcades, and they are still building. There will be monorails in a few years. So that, plus the luxurious hotels and shopping arcades, plus the cute tents, plus the multistory Jum’rah place, plus the stone thing near the Sai place, plus the air conditioner near the Ka’bah. Modern technology. Very convenient, very comfortable. Disneyland. What’s all these praying all about? I’ll do them, just because I’m here. I think I will return as an atheist. At that point another voice began to speak, a tiny one, saying, you are in Holy Land, the devils are stronger here than any other places in the world. Maybe I heard or read that somewhere before, maybe it was a mysterious reminder. I don’t know. I gasped and I started to pray, asking for God’s forgiveness and protection. A few days later, a taxi driver said the exact same thing. The devils are very strong here, and some people here are more evil than beasts. I didn’t say anything, but in my head I said, very true, bro.
So I stopped looking for miracles. One time inside the mosque in Mekkah, I prayed a few people away from my family. I found a tiny spot near the Qur’an shelf. I felt that I had found my own little place and I felt very happy. The ladies behind me smiled kindly and I felt even happier. This is how it should feel like, I thought. It didn’t last very long, of course, because afterwards we quarreled again as before. But for a brief moment I was as happy as I could be.
We were told that around 9 am was the best time to come near the Ka’bah, because it wasn’t very crowded at that time. So my sister and I decided to be adventurous and went together, just the two of us. It was true, there were many people as usual but it looked like it would be possible to get near. We decided a meeting place in case we got separated and in two seconds we did got separated. I found a quiet side where there were only an elderly couple praying near the wall. I touched the black cloth, I felt the texture of the weave. It was textured and thick and strong and shiny. And it touched me back. I was finally moved. The ice inside me melted and I let myself being swept away by the crowd. They pushed me into Hijir Ismail, I went in without trying, and I had a brief peaceful moment to pray. Then I pushed myself out so that other people could have their moment too. I left the crowd and took a drink of Zamzam water. It tasted wonderful to me. Then I sat under the shade on the steps. All I asked for before I left was to feel something, to have my own special moment, and it was finally granted. It felt great. A few minutes later my sister found me. She was a bit breathless but her face was beaming. She managed to touch Hajar Aswad, and she managed to pray in Hijir Ismail, properly, not just standing like I did. I think she found what she was searching for too. We both went back to the hotel feeling very happy, probably for very different reasons. Again I remembered what my friend said. It was a personal journey. And we didn’t quarrel again after that.
There were so many warnings I began to wonder if people don't just made them all up. It began to annoy me. I didn’t really want to hear those kinds of stories so close to the time we were leaving. Those are your experiences, not mine. So you cried here and here and here and here. That’s you. Now if I don’t cry there I will wonder if something is wrong with me.
And that’s what happened. We arrived at King Abdul Aziz airport at night. An old man next to me on the bus expressed his admiration and wonder at the sight of lights in the distance, or maybe something else that I didn’t see. I smelled the smell of desert and felt the cold night air. I was glad and happy and just a bit excited, but not as moved as the old man.
At the sight of Nabawi Mosque, again I felt glad, happy and just a bit excited, but not moved. We prayed there, and I wondered why my heart is still cold to all these. Where is my miracle?
Every time we went to this or that historical places, my heart was still cold. I saw commercialism everywhere. I saw sacred places turning into a big religious Disneyland. There were voices in my head talking and talking and talking, questioning and questioning and questioning. It got to a point where I thought oh, maybe this whole thing was fabricated, no spiritual value whatsoever in it. The first time I saw the Ka’bah, it looked tiny. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Outside the mosque, back to back were tall hotels and shopping arcades, and they are still building. There will be monorails in a few years. So that, plus the luxurious hotels and shopping arcades, plus the cute tents, plus the multistory Jum’rah place, plus the stone thing near the Sai place, plus the air conditioner near the Ka’bah. Modern technology. Very convenient, very comfortable. Disneyland. What’s all these praying all about? I’ll do them, just because I’m here. I think I will return as an atheist. At that point another voice began to speak, a tiny one, saying, you are in Holy Land, the devils are stronger here than any other places in the world. Maybe I heard or read that somewhere before, maybe it was a mysterious reminder. I don’t know. I gasped and I started to pray, asking for God’s forgiveness and protection. A few days later, a taxi driver said the exact same thing. The devils are very strong here, and some people here are more evil than beasts. I didn’t say anything, but in my head I said, very true, bro.
So I stopped looking for miracles. One time inside the mosque in Mekkah, I prayed a few people away from my family. I found a tiny spot near the Qur’an shelf. I felt that I had found my own little place and I felt very happy. The ladies behind me smiled kindly and I felt even happier. This is how it should feel like, I thought. It didn’t last very long, of course, because afterwards we quarreled again as before. But for a brief moment I was as happy as I could be.
We were told that around 9 am was the best time to come near the Ka’bah, because it wasn’t very crowded at that time. So my sister and I decided to be adventurous and went together, just the two of us. It was true, there were many people as usual but it looked like it would be possible to get near. We decided a meeting place in case we got separated and in two seconds we did got separated. I found a quiet side where there were only an elderly couple praying near the wall. I touched the black cloth, I felt the texture of the weave. It was textured and thick and strong and shiny. And it touched me back. I was finally moved. The ice inside me melted and I let myself being swept away by the crowd. They pushed me into Hijir Ismail, I went in without trying, and I had a brief peaceful moment to pray. Then I pushed myself out so that other people could have their moment too. I left the crowd and took a drink of Zamzam water. It tasted wonderful to me. Then I sat under the shade on the steps. All I asked for before I left was to feel something, to have my own special moment, and it was finally granted. It felt great. A few minutes later my sister found me. She was a bit breathless but her face was beaming. She managed to touch Hajar Aswad, and she managed to pray in Hijir Ismail, properly, not just standing like I did. I think she found what she was searching for too. We both went back to the hotel feeling very happy, probably for very different reasons. Again I remembered what my friend said. It was a personal journey. And we didn’t quarrel again after that.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
Thursday, April 01, 2010
A Personal Experience
When my mother invited me to do the Umroh with her last year, I immediately said yes. But actually in my heart, I said, I would go if I had enough money to pay the rent while I’m away. There weren’t enough male participant that year, so our plans were cancelled. Come this year and to my surprise, yes, I did have enough money. But I was still unsure. I didn’t think I was ready to go. I didn’t think I was supposed to go, or deserved to go. For goodness sake, there were many people around who are more devout than I am. In fact they would be very easy to find. That weighted heavily on my mind. I searched and searched for an explanation, or a justification, or just an excuse. In the end I said to myself, I’ll go so that somebody can take care of my mother.
There were other dramas before we left, like my mother’s refusal to have the meningitis vaccination. And she was so frail and so stubborn at the same time it was so frustrating. We tried to make up stories at the clinic but I broke down and cried and just told the truth. Actually I cried because I accidentally saw her breast the day before, and there was an open wound there. I cried because she was so much weaker than the last time I saw her. She didn’t even recognise me at the airport. The doctors were very patient but firm. In the end mom agreed to have the vaccination. She hugged one of our relatives like a tree and closed her eyes very tightly and I stood next to her to hold her sleeve up. The doctor took the tiny needle out and injected the vaccine. It took about two seconds. And all my mother said was, “Udah? Ngga sakit ya... Saya kira sakit. Untung engga. Kalo iya saya udah menjerit-jerit tadi.” (That’s it? Oh, it doesn’t hurt. I thought it would. Lucky it didn’t otherwise I would have screamed on top of my voice.”)
Then another drama about my date of birth, but fortunately it didn’t cause any problem.
So that was it. In a few more days, we would go, and I still walked around with this doubt on my mind. Then I had a small reunion with some friends from my old work place. We exchanged stories and just before I left them I told K about my doubts. And she told me, “Religion is a very personal experience. Each person has his own appreciation of the journey.” Something like that. It wasn’t until we were near the end of our Umroh that I realised how right she was. I looked at my self, my sister, my mom, and the other fellow pilgrims. It’s like a banquet where on person said I love the salmon, another person said the desert is superb, another said the cutlery is beautiful, another person said it’s a disappointment, and so on and so forth. I’m glad to say that although the three of us went through different experiences, I think we achieved what we were looking for. What was I looking for? Coming up in the next blog.
There were other dramas before we left, like my mother’s refusal to have the meningitis vaccination. And she was so frail and so stubborn at the same time it was so frustrating. We tried to make up stories at the clinic but I broke down and cried and just told the truth. Actually I cried because I accidentally saw her breast the day before, and there was an open wound there. I cried because she was so much weaker than the last time I saw her. She didn’t even recognise me at the airport. The doctors were very patient but firm. In the end mom agreed to have the vaccination. She hugged one of our relatives like a tree and closed her eyes very tightly and I stood next to her to hold her sleeve up. The doctor took the tiny needle out and injected the vaccine. It took about two seconds. And all my mother said was, “Udah? Ngga sakit ya... Saya kira sakit. Untung engga. Kalo iya saya udah menjerit-jerit tadi.” (That’s it? Oh, it doesn’t hurt. I thought it would. Lucky it didn’t otherwise I would have screamed on top of my voice.”)
Then another drama about my date of birth, but fortunately it didn’t cause any problem.
So that was it. In a few more days, we would go, and I still walked around with this doubt on my mind. Then I had a small reunion with some friends from my old work place. We exchanged stories and just before I left them I told K about my doubts. And she told me, “Religion is a very personal experience. Each person has his own appreciation of the journey.” Something like that. It wasn’t until we were near the end of our Umroh that I realised how right she was. I looked at my self, my sister, my mom, and the other fellow pilgrims. It’s like a banquet where on person said I love the salmon, another person said the desert is superb, another said the cutlery is beautiful, another person said it’s a disappointment, and so on and so forth. I’m glad to say that although the three of us went through different experiences, I think we achieved what we were looking for. What was I looking for? Coming up in the next blog.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Three Monkeys
One of my favorite characters, the see no evil, hear no evil, say no evil monkeys, all dressed up for Christmas.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)