When Time allowed

Fished a story I wrote in my first year of uni. Thought it quite funny...

When time allowed, I was brought back to remember a child who had a favourite Tree. Tugged away in the corner of a little garden, it was by far the largest, singular living object, a five year old had ever seen. Having been sent to Kindergarten (what otherwise could possibly be termed the most civilized place on the face of this planet), the little child realized that that dignified Tree looked somewhat lonely. A sense of pity engulfed the boy, for there in that noble institution, packed with three hundred of the finest ladies and gentlemen (the teachers never did not stop reminding us of how we should conduct ourselves maturely in this great institution), not a single decent soul was moved with compassion for this old fellow. Left to face the cruel weather without an umbrella, left to the mercy of childish kids, who mutilated its body by engraving their names on its trunk, it had chosen to remain silent amidst the grueling trials. Indignation swept the boys’ soul as he contemplated confronting the teachers about this grave injustice. “Teacher, they make the Tree cry,” should do the trick, he thought. But telling on friends wasn’t exactly popular in school. Thus staring at the sky with a heavy and forlorn heart, one so characteristic of kids his age (they feel this way when forced to eat peas too), he resigned himself to the injustice of this harsh world. Still pondering however, he knew that something could be done for the Tree. Walking up to the Tree in a rather careless and unassuming manner, he looked at the Tree straight in the eye, saw that there were ten centimeter long ants (they always seem to grow smaller as the years progressed) crawling all over the Tree and smiled.

“Do you want to friend me?” he asked before taking a deep breath.
Silence, just absolute silence was the reply. But the little boy recalled somewhere in Care Bears (aired every Wednesday at 6pm on SBC), a tiny care bear had said “silence means consent”. Knowing that the tree probably watched Care bears too (which decent young kid or tree doesn’t?), he patted his new found friend to acknowledge its consent. A legendary relationship had begun.

Since then, the little boy found time everyday to talk to the Tree and forced it to join the games that the chaps played every recess. The Tree was a good companion because everything seemed so simple when they spent time together. It quietly listened to all his gripes and dainty stories about school and home. Sometimes it seemed as if the tree was laughing when it ruffled its branches. When the kids played make-believe, the theme of the games was always “ninja turtles” and the little boy was always designated the role of being either Shredder or Bee-pork(some odd name that reminds me of Ba Kwa). The Tree was always Krang(that huge blot of pinkish brain that sat in a robotic body) and during these tense sessions, the boy would be seen talking to the tree as they devised plans on how to beat the turtles and kidnap April O’Neil. When the game began, four chubby, turtle looking boys along with a feisty tall lady would approach the lair to attack the dynamic duo, boy and Tree that is. Fascinating, how the lady was always the best fighter and if and when she was ever done with the boy (which was rare for he was a credible fighter mind you) she might just turn on the turtles. Anyhow, they often tried to pelt the Tree with stones after which they would quickly get into formation, some seven jumping star with drunken prawn stance or whatever crap (oriental turtles you see) and lurch forward aggressively thereafter. It was always the great battle of the Kindergarten. After a few bouts the kids usually settled down beneath the Tree and chuckle away about some odd subject as if the fight never was. To them the Tree was a friend and to the aged Tree, though it never really said anything, one could guess, must have really enjoyed their company. Yet the battle would take place again the next day and so would the chuckling and the forgetting.

Yet time being as unkind as it always had been to young and old alike, decided that that little boy had to leave the school and go on to primary school. On the day of graduation, that little boy walked up to the tree and gave it a good hug, stretching his hands to circumvent its huge frame, much to the anguish of his mother who looked most perturbed. For one last time he patted the tree, stared with teary eyes at his annoyed mother (he wanted to bring the tree home), only to be replied with an impatient and embarrassed look. Knowing only too well the idiosyncrasies of the adult world he followed his mother to the school bus, ready for a new environment, ready for “growing up” as they often say.

But as quickly as time sped along, it had the tendency to retrace its steps once in a while. For there one day, a young man returned to the Kindergarten, with his usual careless swagger, now wrapped in a long sleeve shirt and jeans, now with a tinge of facial hair, now feeling a tad younger than he should be. Purposefully He walks up to a piece of wood that he once had a chummy past with. Once there was a wonder that he possessed a fascination with the little ants that scaled the vegetation, the little raindrops that pattered against his face. Now with the onslaught of work, he was left with a wonder at that wonder. There was a time, when he felt a zest for life whenever he sat next to this block of wood, an indomitable desire, that was beyond the conjuring powers of the will, now with deadlines to meet he was left with a desire for that desire. In the adult world, where fights could not be settled with the chuckle of a child, where men forget to forget, where the grown up could be far more childish and the kid far more mature, he decided that he should learn like a child to be a child. And so he sat there again, chuckling at the memory of old times, there, time had stopped for that child.

Hope you like it.... realized how little i was writing to you all over the term. The story was penned when I suddenly remembered how in the midst of all my going ons in life I could so often miss out on the really important and splendid things of life

Romance of the Three Kingdoms

It all began on a school bus when the Boy was 10 years old. Seetoh Peiyuan loaned his classmate the "Romance of the Three Kingdoms" which came in pictorial form with English and Chinese translations. While kids were reading Pets, maps of various battles were purchased and rolled out for personal study. The Romance of the three Kingdoms games were played so often that the map of China was memorised. Battle after battle was memorised for troop movements and generals were studied to a fault. The Chinese TV drama of the Three kingdoms was taped and watched time and time again and choreographed in dreams of schoolboy proportions.

The history of Wei, Shu, Wu and the large array of romanticised warriors and thinkers that rose in the chaos to pull the wind in the direction of their various masters was an epic unto itself. In the battle of Chibi alone, Cao Cao amassed 830,000 soldiers and a host of generals to suppress the frontiers of Jiangdong and unite China. At the same time, the other great civilisation of Rome had only an army totalling no more than 300,000, from which she guarded her borders against the Parthians and Germanic tribes. The scale of grandiose melodrama intertwined with the vast sums of men and equalling ambitions of Kings, made for stories that would entranced later generations of readers.

And so the stories told of singular agents in the form of advisers like Zhuge Liang who could beat outnumbering armies with superior strategies and crafty levers of ingenuity and psycho-analysis. Yet the tragedy of greatness was that circumstances appeared embellished with moral neutrality and battles won did not win wars. Like Frederick the Great who said he would burn his cloak if it knew what he was thinking, often the minds of great thinkers were saddled with the uneasy task of communicating ambition and forced introversion as to the methods how. For if the times would not relent, no amount of intellect or ability could turn its unwavering drive to conclusion. So the tragedy of greatness laid in its limitations and the protagonists wavered their dreams to silence.

The irony that neither Cao Cao, Liu Bei or Sun Quan conquered China could not have been more stark, for the day came when Sima Jin swept the board and assumed monopoly of the territories. For then the age of heroes had long passed, fading into the painful obscurity of having lesser men fulfill their dreams. By then it did not matter who won, but that once in the history of Chinese lore, battle was waged by thinkers and warriors unparalleled and that gave the world stories to tell.

It was deep in this spectre of bringing order to chaos, of crafting dreams and visions, of delusional belief in defying the times that the school boy grew up. So bad was the obsession that when J.J recorded Cao Cao, a quasi historical modern pop song, it was listened to many many times, even while this was being typed. The power of fiction to transcend the boundaries of non fiction, are enabled through the mysterious workings of the mind.

That, in a sense, is the power of history to replay itself, over and over again. By captivating the mind with the past, history draws power to dialogue with the present and transforms the future.

Normal and certain

Once, Pastor Kenneth asked if I would like to take a youth group in church of which i promptly replied that I was already doing BB. Pastor Kenneth was quick to add that in that case it would be better for me to have a normal small group during Sundays.. A good laugh notwithstanding, if a 40 year old were asked if he were keen on taking a group of youthful 20ish adults, he probably would need some semblance of normality around him on Sundays.

As in all cases, normality is relative to what society can term as insane. It was Foucault's observation that insanity is as much a social construct as normality and Plato who thought that the wise amongst the foolish would be considered foolish if not mad. As when mad Lear's rants produced theatres most insightful moments, the absence of normality in the past 2 years have allowed for life to teach its better lessons.

And even more recently, an old friend asked what I saw in my BB Boys. Quite ready to rattle off the usual PC answer of God's creation and the great potential of life, I thought very very carefully before answering. Army and University does something to a person. Oxford has taught me to be consider the nuances more prudently and the conglomeration of experiences and perspectives do not necessarily shape into a clear direction or produce an ordered answer of any sort. Instead its a great fog with a light shining from a certain direction, whose rays are scattered within the great white translucent air. In this planet, only Jesus and His Word is certain.

Youth are all too often filled with the rightness of their views and choices, because they have had only the time to have them and not yet the time to face the consequences. Old men, too quickly resort to the cynicism of time battered experience, for they only have the time to bare the consequences of choices past and too little courage to make new ones. All the choices of the Boys will be tested in the military and in life thereafter. Only that which honours God will last.

So what do I see in my Boys... There are no short pithy saying to summarise it all. There were many thoughts. Just that a future uncertain, whose waters will be choppy and more difficult as the years progress. But only one thing will last, only one thing makes BB count, that which pleases and honours God.

To which the world now deems insane is normal to me.

Ship

The seamen thrust the ores into the same choppy ocean, with the same heaving motion of the past 20 days. Their views are kept within the limitations of sight and as far as they could see, it was salty water for miles around. Up on deck, the captain views the stars at night and ponders the sunrise and sunsets and points to the same vast sea and and cries to the mate at the wheel to pursue that direction with equal fervour. The ship sails on...

As one grows from seaman to first mate to captain of a ship, the experience must defer tremendously. The concerns of the captain are for direction, the first mate must then steer correctly and the seamen to drive the engines of the ship.

I've learnt that the captain sees matters that all the others do not yet anticipate or understand and the seamen must trust in their knowing captain. Where they are headed they yet do not see, for so far all that surrounds is the same blue water of before. Yet in that same abiding direction, clarity and persistence must prevail for the last a ship desires is to circulate within the greater ocean.

Where the ship so sails, may we all have the faith to follow.

Hatikva

For two thousand years, the people of Abraham wandered the vast expanse of the world, persecuted and ridiculed. Every night, many would offer their prayers facing Jerusalem (yes, this custom began with the Jews after A.D. 70) and beseech the Lord of their fathers to bring them back to their homeland. How ironic that though the whole temple had been overturned, only the western wall (wailing wall) remained and for 1500 years thereafter, Jerusalem remained wasted until Suleiman the Magnificent empathised with the plight of the Jewish People and rebuilt the old wall around city

In 1878, the poem, Hatikva (Hope) was composed by Naftali Herz Imber, and put to song. Rather than the usual rousing melodies of most national anthems, Hatikva emphasizes the sadness of displacement and undying hope. That the present predicament no matter how arduous is nothing compared to the vast hope to which God hath promised. Its lyrics include:

Our Hope is not yet lost
Our ancient hope
To return to the land of our fathers
The City where David encamped

So long as our precious Wall
Appears before our eyes
And over the Destruction of our temple
Our eyes still well up with tears

The people from which Jesus and the apostles were born has a sad song for an anthem! a reminder that in their trials, God had not forgotten them. Rather than the propaganda-ish lyrics of most anthems about everlasting greatness or whatnot, the Jewish people remembered their exile and persecution. For how would Imber had known, that in a matter of 70 years, 6 million of his countrymen would be killed for no reason other than all of them were of Jewish ancestory by a egoistic Austrian madman. Out of the 6 million, 1.5 million were innocent Children. A Year ago, I read Viktor Frankl's book, Man's Search for Meaning, one of the very very best I've laid hands on and his account of the sufferings he witnessed and underwent in the concentration camps reminded one of the abject wickedness that man's hearts were prone toward. It brought back memories of the time i was in Auschwitz where a clear, sense of death patrolled the old camp.

I remembered going to Israel about a year and a half ago and I was told a real story by my Israeli Tour guide. She told us about her father in law who had been a survivor of the Holocaust. During the Gulf War of 1991, Saddam Hussein had fired Scud Missiles into Israeli Territory. The family rushed into a room (Bomb Shelter, Manman as they call it I believe), with wet towels placed between the crevices of the doors and the windows just in case the scuds carried chemical gas. For her Father in Law who had survived hitler, this was too much to bare. He had seen his most of his family members die by poison gas and now another mad dictator was trying to kill as many of them as possible. That day, amidst the frenzy, he was strickened with a heart attack and passed away.

So I've been asked often, why do I stand by the Jewish people so much ... I've often answered, How can I not? I feel their agonising march to nationhood and the continued threat of destruction. Their yearning for a homeland is the same yearning that we Christians have for ours. When I hear their Anthem Hope, I wish I could tell them that if they believed in Jesus, the Messiah, that they've been waiting for so long, they would be granted a place in His everlasting Kingdom.

Japan Part 2

Assiduously scouring the map for my bearing, I was lost in the city of Nagano. The grids and the roads were clearly marked out in English in my handy lonely planet guide but the signsboards were purely in Japanese. A wide gaze into the snow covered roadways, lay a number of little alleyways and roads that were not marked out in the guide. Doubtless that as I began to travel longer, it was very much a struggle i had come to associate with this island nation. Nagano, though frustrating, was surrounded by mountains, ski lovers and Zenkoji-dai, an ancient temple planted in the north of the city. For me Nagano (then Shinano) was the site of battles between Takeda Shingen and Uesurgi Kenshin in the 16th century, where romantics have choreographed the epic conflict into books and movies. One could almost hear the cavalry of Kai in mortal combat with spearmen of Echigo, rummaging beneath the modern cacophany of noises.

It was sheer grace that led me to a trio of Ski professionals from switzerland that rescued me from the maze-like city into the old corners of Zenkoji-dai where I booked into an old Japanese Inn called a Ryokan. For moments, I felt like a travelling ronin, entering an old well kept inn with bamboo layered flooring and wooden doors that guarded the entrance to each room. A wondrous serving of dinner later, I finally got down to resting and reading.

The old wooden architecture in perfect ease with the skyscrapers towering around the ancient complex and the sprawling roadworks harmonising with the old beaten pathways of Zenkoji-Dai. The snow was beating down from outside my bamboo hut and the quaint room, heated and spartan, spoke of the tranquility that Nagano had experienced despite the roaring growth periods of the previous 30 years. I had brought along Gordons History of Japan since the Meiji Revolution and walked the final days of the tokugawa period to its finish.

The lights were dimming from the outside and I began to finish up my readings on Job. In my youth and immaturity I had struggled with the book of Job because it seemed insrutable to the problem of suffering, even appearing distant and treacherous to my notions of God. That day, I thank God that there were no simplistic approaches to the problem of suffering. That God did not aim to resolve the intellectual inquiries into the problems of suffering, but rather was walking Job through the crushing period of his life. That God should reveal the depth, complexity and full majesty of Himself through this book reveals the philosophical, existential and ethical depth to the issue. That God is supreme, that mankind is logically limited, that in recognising this limitation, we are made aware that despite our blundering arrogance in pretending to know beyond what we speak about, He will walk us through all matters and garner the full weight of praise.

Its great to be on holiday. It really, really is. I've finally gotten the Word, its time to go.

Nippon part 1

There is a mesmerizing quality to Japanese culture, an entrancing attractiveness to its elegant spaces. Its something I have come to notice from much of my solitary travel throughout the North of Honshu this Holiday and avoiding sheer crowds for nature. From the airport, I picked up my rail pass and made to the North from modern Narita Airport, passing from cosmopolitan Tokyo into the rural heartlands of Morioka. Snow covered and frosty, the vast expanse of old Tokugawa territory welcomed the home trodding crowds packed into the trains. Until the doors of the train flung wide open, with the rush of cold air breezing across my face did i realise, I was in territories I had forgotten for so long.

I've always studied the Japanese quite closely, from their politics, history, economics, government, culture and philosophy. In so many ways, Singapore had spent much of the 60s to 80s emulating their form of government. I remembered having two friends visiting the family of a Taiwanese friend back in University. One was from China, the other Japanese and both were adamant about buying gifts. And that was as far as similarities went in their anthropological connections. My Chinese friend went into Marks and Spencer's and roundly cornered a basketful of fruits, crackers and festive goods. Tugging three plastic bags into the London bound bus, there was a smile of satisfaction at being the bearer of huge gifts. I'm quite certain she would have fed Godzilla quite heartily with that bonanza of crackers. My Japanese friend wandered around M&S, scouting the racks for diamonds hidden amidst the British produce. He stumbled upon a nicely packaged box of biscuits and promptly purchased it. It was minimalist with a touch of elegance. Probably more for Stuart little than Godzilla but such was how they both went to visit my Taiwanese pal.

Its always left an impression on me, quite so because cultural idiosyncrasies are fascinating and much more because its struck me how the Chinese like large, gaudy, perhaps ostentatious wares whereas the Japanese have a penchant for packaging, with an emphasis on elegance. I've noticed that in the architecture, in the customs, dressings and the historical prose. There are grave social undertones, i should add, much of it gleaned in the past week but what a society aspires to determines its cultural and intellectual disposition.

The idiosyncrasies are not lost as the bright lights of cosmopolitan Shinjuku mingle with Japanese styled xenophobia, a nation of great economic prowess against abject social insularity. The nation of Bushido, zen like warriors living for the battle, but as historians would know, by 1867 the samurai were mostly administrators rather than the ravaging hordes in Tom Cruise's last Samurai (don't trust Hollywood for anything historical). The men define their lives by their work and leave the family to their wives. I could hardly believe a man sleeping in a comfy seat whilst his wife stood by the side with a crying baby in a pram in one hand, a baby conveniently positioned in a sling behind her and a little 5-6 year old girl in the other hand.

This nation of extremes confounded and irritated me, but as i entered a hot springs (Onsen) for the first time in my life, i glimpsed a little bit more of the Japanese. Having chosen an outdoor Onsen, with the mountains and a rushing river in the distance, with snow lightly falling by the Bath, I stepped into a gargling pool of 40ish degrees. Having shyly waddled into the Hot Spring, deeply self conscious, the first plunge into the bath kept me in a daze for a minute or two. The cold wind blowing against the face whilst the body was safely heated gently reminded me of the extremity with which i had associated with the Japanese. Yet far aloft were the ice capped mountains, quietly gazing back as the sun began to set. The trees adorned with snowy apparel glowed in the sunset as the snow flakes drifted into the open Spring. A minimalist, picturesque scene, distinctly Japanese with its elegant aspirations so wholly unreachable formed. Yet, at the very least, from here, one could at least appreciate its quiet beauty.