The Past

The Past is Behind
Mel Kadel

There are those that walk amongst us who yearn for the past. But they do not experience nostalgia like most of us do. Theirs is fused with a passion laid upon the anvil of the fear of the future and hammered ceaselessly by loathing of the present in the hope of reaching into the past and transporting it to the present. They think the past like a fire long burnt out that can be rekindled and revived by returning to that former way of life, of dressing, of diet, of thinking, of societal relations, of economy. By practising this they think that they can return to that glorious wonderful past when everything was simpler, sweeter and superior. These people are past fetishists and represent a species of extremism.

They are obsessed with the past because firstly, the past is obvious. Everything has happened already. So you know what happens. Consequentially, and secondly, there is nothing to be afraid of. So the past is also safe. But because the past is made up of many different views and experiences, despite its ocean of certainty, there remain vast continents of ambiguity. The film, Rushomon, by Akira Kurosawa exploits this truth. Thirdly, the past can be in conflict and is therefore still fluid. And because of that, and fourthly, the past is malleable. It can be shaped, sculpted, pruned, emphasized, softened or interpreted to support or suit a particular purpose. This was seen just recently in the University Putra Malaysia’s Ethnic Relations Textbook that was defended by our Ministry of Higher Education. Finally, the past usually appears benign with a bias towards sentimentalism as compared to the present and future. In sum, these fetishists long for the past because it is known, safe, and malleable with a strong tendency to sentimentalize or glorify the past.

Past fetishists think that by perpetuating the past in the present they can use the past like a lantern, sword and shield all at once to conquer the unknown future. This thinking is as misguided as it is impossible. Mere mimicry never resulted in time travel. Once something is said and done, it remains said and done. Nothing in the universe can undo it. It recedes into the past, distant and remote. The past can never be brought to the present or into the future simply because its time has passed. To truly return to a past it is not enough for you to merely observe its externalities or way of thinking, the entire fabric of existence has to return to that time with you. And that will never happen.

The inherent danger with this attitude should be obvious. Past fetishists are so concerned with reconstructing the past that their every effort is directed towards mimicking that they tend to ignore or are unable to meet the present demands of reality. They are like the person who walks forward with his head turned back the whole time. Naturally, they would not be able to see where they are going or avoid the danger approaching them.

Further, the concept of progress is an anathema to past fetishists. There is no need for development or discovery since the past was perfect, complete and known. All that is required for a better future is a return to the past. Regression and stagnation is the order of the day. Progression is irrelevant.

The irony with past fetishists though lies in the tools they use. They inevitably use modern equipment and knowledge to achieve their aims – for example: bombs, computers, chat rooms, modern vehicles, the internet and modern banking facilities. This is because they have no choice. The other irony is that the tools that they rely on to accomplish their goal are created by or created in a (possibly) different intellectual and moral cultural environment based on the notion of progress that would be subjugated if not annihilated if these fetishists had their way.

Once these ironies and the sheer impossibility of their goals permeate into their subconscious their passion putrefies into frustration. They turn to the present day scapegoats to vent their rage, believing that the eradication of their perceived object of hatred would bring them closer to their goal. The more their scapegoats resist, the angrier the fetishists become, the more severe and uncompromising their methodology becomes. This is ultimately manifested in violence and increase of it. Asimov once wrote that violence is the first refuge of the incompetent. It would not be out of place to include the frustrated as well.

We can only ever experience the past (in the sense of living it again after the moment has happened) through our own memories, nobody else’s. Anything other than ours is at best a simulation, an approximation. Discussion of times gone by, recorded material and artefacts may link us to the past but it is only through a looking glass because we were never there. Only our personal past can be truly experienced. Memories therefore are the only means of ‘time travel’ that we have. And it’s cheap. All one needs is the triggering of the relevant senses – the faint smell of roses, or a shimmering arpeggio on a guitar, or the smooth feel of velvet beneath the fingers – and the feelings, the mood rushes in pervading us.

One of the most important (and clichéd) aspect of the past is that there are lessons to be learnt from it. But the lessons are not obvious and the issues subtle and sophisticated because of the multitude of variables involved. And the past is neutral which means one doesn’t necessarily draws the right lesson simply by staring into the past. There is therefore merit in spending time to meaningfully contemplate not just our personal past but our shared heritage and our history as it was, and not as we would like it to be. Only when we clearly see what came before us can truly better it now for the future. The past is a mere guide, not the law. It is a mere record of what happened before not of what will happen. History does not dispense justice, it only tells of lives lived and lost.

Better Than This

We’re waiting for the next plane
We’re soaked through from the hellfire rain
So here we are baggage packed on the terminal bench
And she’s crying and I’m sighing and we’re dying inside

No one cares for our absence
No one shares our reluctant reluctance
So there we are eyes wide shut on a wing and a prayer
And I run so she runs but it’s not to the sun

‘Where will we go?’ she says to me
‘Will we be the same?’ tearfully
I say, ‘Baby, I don’t know
But it’ll be better than this
Much more forgiving than this
So much sweeter, better than this.’

She’s clutching her small crucifix
I’m grasping some half forgotten verses
So here we go in the air no turning back
And she’s sad and I’m sad but we need it that bad

‘Where will we live?’ she asks of me
‘What shall we tell those who ask?’
I say, ‘Sweetheart, I don’t know
But it’ll be better than this
Tell them more honest than this
So much sweeter, better than this.’

Little Canyons

May 2006
Hua Hin, Thailand

The Indecent Online Proposal

There are times when even the most vigorous and extreme exercise of one's imagination cannot better those moments fashioned unplanned in real life. The best fiction therefore sometimes comes from history. Despite my rather intense hetrosexuality and frequent declarations of it, ever since I was in secondary school, I have been chatted up by homosexual men.

My first chat up happened in my teens when I was at Tower Records at Picadilly Circus in London one summer wearing one of those short short pants that I liked to wear with my big ass geeky glasses that almost took up half my head. Anyway, I was flipping through some compact discs in a rack somewhere when a tall thin smiling mat salleh approached me with a look of fascination about him. After pretending a while to browse the CDs near me, he turned to me and told me that I wore a beautiful set of glasses. Perhaps things may have been different if I shared his opinion but I was convinced my glasses were ugly and geeky. Naturally when confronted with this completely opposite apprisal of my glasses, I knew he was bullshitting me although at that time I did not quite understand why. We talked for a while about my glasses and he asked me where I was from, where I studied until I felt he seemed a little too interested in me. It wasn't in anything he said but more form the way he felt. The almost imperceptible forward lean, the smile that strained at the edges and eyes that seemd a little too bright. I made my excuse and left him to wander the store until I later met my parents and told them all about that man rounding of my account with my impressions of him. My mother, always one to give her opinion straight up, smiled and explained to me that he was gay and was probably trying to chat me up. And that was my first direct encounter.

My later ones were not terribly interesting or notable until the latest one. This for me has got to be one of the ultimate chat ups as far as I'm concerned. It happened one evening when I was finishing up some work in the office when I was added as a contact by someone named 'GAY' on Skype. So it was completely unexpected and though one can expect to get chatted up in a chatroom, in my experience it is quite rare for me to be called upon to chat with someone out of the blue. And one thing I have to admire about him is his persistence. Normally when I tell a guy that I'm a guy online, that pretty much ends the conversation. And let me also state that I am not in favour of publishing chat histories, but the sheer novelty and hilarity value of this conversation far outweighs the prejudice to the guy who chat me up who anyway remains gay. No part of the conversation has been edited for maximum reading pleasure. I have also taken the liberty of translating those portions where I feel translation is needed literally to better understand the converastion for anybody who doesn't understand Malay.

[17:39:20] GAY says: i

[17:39:37] Daef says: i

[17:39:46] GAY says: aku ini gay (i am gay)

[17:39:53] GAY says: pandai isap (clever suck)

[17:40:01] Daef says: oh... you bukan awek lah (oh... you not a chicklah)

[17:40:07] GAY says: bukan (no)

[17:40:13] GAY says: saya pandai isap (I good at sucking)

[17:40:15] Daef says: oh, not interested

[17:40:35] GAY says: oktakkan x nak try (okay, cannot be don't want to try)

[17:40:36] GAY says: sedap (taste good/tasty)

[17:40:52] Daef says: tahu sedap tapi dari laki not my thang dude (I know its good but from a guy, not my thang dude)

[18:05:50] GAY says: try ler sekali (try ler once)

[18:06:09] Daef says: tak naklah (don't want lah)

[18:06:14] Daef says: just not into guy and guy action

[18:06:21] Daef says: I'm a pussy lover

[18:06:25] GAY says: kesianler sama aku (take pity on me ler)

[18:06:32] GAY says: betul aku pandai isap (really, i suck good)

[18:06:42] Daef says: kalau you pandai sangat takde hal cari orang lain kan? (if you are so good at sucking then you should not have any problems finding someone else)

[18:07:02] GAY says: susah nak cari orang (it's hard to find people)

[18:07:21] Daef says: lah... betul ke ni (lah... true or not)

[18:07:31] Daef says: nampak engkau tu ada 1199 contact (looks like you have 1199 contacts)

[18:07:39] Daef says: mesti ada sorang tu nak u hisap kan dia (sure got someone there who will want to suck you)

[18:08:24] GAY says: betul (true)

[18:08:29] GAY says: takada seorang pun (not one person)

[18:08:58] Daef says: sorry lah dude... kalau u awek, i dah memang sudi terima tawaran hebat tu (sorry lah dude ... if you are a chick, I will definitely accept your great offer)

[18:09:09] Daef says: tapi… (but)

[18:09:48] GAY says: kesianler kat aku (take pity on me)

[18:09:56] GAY says: saya lama juga tak isap (I have not sucked in a long time)

[18:10:06] GAY says: takkan x ada hati (cannot have no heart)

[18:10:17] GAY says: tolong ler (help ler)

[18:10:29] GAY says: sekaliler (once only)

[18:13:09] GAY says: apa dia (what is it?)

[18:13:20] GAY says: saya mau offline (i want offline)

[18:13:24] Daef says: aku kesian memang... dan ada hati tapi i memang tak suka lah (I pity you really... and I have a heart but I don't like it)

[18:13:25] Daef says: sorilah

[18:13:31] Daef says: guys just not my thing

[18:13:43] Daef says: kalau i tahu, i bagi tau (If i know [find somone], I let you know)

[18:14:48] GAY says: u jangan tengok aku ini guy (you don't look at me as a guy)

[18:15:02] GAY says: u ingat rasa orang isapler (you think of who want to suck you)

[18:15:04] Daef says: takleh lah... porno laki ngan laki pun i tak tahan (cannot lah... guy on guy porn also I cannot take)

[18:15:12] GAY says: kesian ler kat aku (take pity on me ler)

[18:15:23] Daef says: bukan tak kesian dude, memang kesian tapi takleh tolonglah (not that I don't pity you dude, I really do but I cannot help)

[18:15:29] GAY says: u bagi i isap je, cukup (you let me suck only, enough)

[18:15:37] Daef says: sorry man

[18:15:46] GAY says: kalau kau ada hati memang u , tolong aku (if you had a heart, you would help me)

[18:15:48] Daef says: kalau nak sangat, guna lah pisang besar ke (if you need it so much, use a big banana lah)

[18:15:57] Daef says: aku ada konek dan hati beb but not for you (I got a cock and heart babe but not for you)

[18:16:02] GAY says: aku cakap serius (I speak seriously)

[18:16:06] GAY says: ok bye (Asshole! Give you free blow also don't want!)

The Way We Were #3 - the nights of my life

Every morning, at about 5.40, I would hop on my grandpa’s old Raleigh bicycle holding my school bag and a torch light. Grandpa would then cycle me the half mile of the dirt road to the main road to catch the only bus which would bring me to school 16 miles away. Come rain or shine, for 6 years of my primary school days, grandpa never missed this routine. When it rained, the dirt road would be soiled with mud and it would be impossible or difficult to cycle. He would then pushed the bicycle with me on it, trying to hold my school bag, a torch light and also an umbrella. He would be drenched sometime but he would just push the bicycle anyway. My grandma, in all her earnest intention of not wanting me to dirty my white school shoes, would even cover my shoes with plastic bags. She would tie the plastic bags around my ankle with rubber bands. I was brought up surrounded by that kind of unselfish, undivided, and pure love. Which made me wonder now, why is this world so full of hatred. Which made me ill-equipped, to cope with and understand all the hatred, envy and malice surrounding us these days. It was not until I left home for a boarding school that I learned, to a certain degree, to deal with hatred and malice. To say that I was shocked would be an understatement.

I remember those mornings vividly, like I remember those beautiful nights in the kampung. But nothing can beat the feeling I, and I think every other kampung folk, felt during “musim timur” (the eastern season). “Musim Timur” is the harvesting season. It is so called because the eastern wind would blow strongly during that time. This eastern wind would bring a fresh air of happiness and an aura of merriment throughout the kampung. After all, it is the harvesting season. For at least 4 months after this season, there would be no sufficient rain, or at all, for the kampung folks to plant padi. This state of affairs would continue until the Kedah government came up with a life changing irrigation plan in the early 70s. Upon implementation, padi could be planted twice a year, and now 5 times in 2 years. This undoubtedly economically improved the lives of thousands of padi planters in Kedah. It is proof that the government don’t need to embark on multi billion ringgit mega projects to improve the lives of its citizen.

The eastern wind is a cold wind blowing from the east marking the start of some kind of a drought season. The days would begin, and end, that much earlier than usual during this season. In the morning, when I was on that old Raleigh bicycle, the wind would just be a soft breeze, which would envelope my body with a degree of coldness, the like of which I would not be able to describe in words. It was cold, but not in a skin biting way a winter wind would inflict. It is soft in its coldness, softly caressing my body with coldness rather than biting its way into my skin and underneath.

During this season, I would be on the bicycle, looking at the clear sky. Thousands of stars scattered across the horizon. And sometimes, some shooting stars would move across like fireworks in the sky, leaving a trail of beautiful sparks in its path until the head vanished to destruction. How could something be so beautiful when it is leading to its death? And in the middle of the month, sitting among the thousands of stars, majestically, would be the moon, like a mother watching over all her children, sometimes smiling, sometimes grinning, but all the time with love and unbridle affection. Yes, from the time I was a small child, I had always been enthralled by the moon.

When the kampung folks were busy harvesting, kids like me would be enjoying the longer days by swimming in the river and flying kites. My brother was quite an accomplished kite maker. He would cut some bamboo, take some old newspaper, concocted glue out of tapioca flour, buy some coloured papers for the kites’ tail, buy some strong string and make a huge wau bulan or wau merak (“wau” is “kite” in the Malay language while “bulan” is “moon” and “merak” is a type of bird the name of which, in English, I do not know).

While my brother was making the kite, I would take a piece of bamboo and bent it like a bow. I would than take some coconut leaves and dried them under the sun. When the leave was dried, the two end of the bow would be strung by the dried coconut leave. This was known as a “dengung” (loosely translated, “dengung” is “vibration”). This contraption would be placed on the kite, at the upper body. When the kite was flown, the strong upper atmosphere wind would cause the dried coconut leave to vibrate and this would generate a humming sound which could be heard form afar, especially at night.

When the kites were ready, we would start our attempt to fly them in the late afternoon. They wouldn’t fly just like that. A lot of adjustments had to be made to make the kites fully balanced. It would just be trials and error. But time was with us. Time was in fact not a factor for kids like me in the kampung. We always have the time for everything. Where have all the time gone to now? I really don’t know.

By the evening, the kites would be flown in the padi field. We would normally fly at least 2 kites. When the kites were stably flying up above, we would stick a big piece of wood to the ground and tie the kites there. We would stay there for a while to look at them and then we would leave for home for a bath and dinner. Then we would be in bed by about 9.30pm.

If the next day were not a school day, my brother and I would wake up at about 2 am. After washing our face, we would go to the veranda and sat there, watching the beautiful nights in all its glory. Thousand of stars among the clear sky. And from afar, I would hear the distinctive hum of the “dengung” attached to the kites. We would then make our way to the dirt road in front of my house and walked towards the padi filed.

There I would stand up, looking into the nights with awe. I just loved nights like this. The clear sky. The stars. The shooting stars. The kites dancing back and forth, up and down, left and right to the tune of the eastern wind. The wind blowing on my cheek, caressing my whole body with coldness and messing up my hair. The hum of the dried coconut leaves attached to the kites. And right behind the kites, amidst the stars, would sit the…moon! A clear, bright, gleaming, pristine white moon. The biggest moon I had ever seen. The most beautiful moon in my whole life! I mean, I had seen the moon near the Eiffel Tower, on the banks of the Thames, at the lake district, from a hill at Aberystwyth, but the kampung moon that I had come to know, and love, is by far, the most amazing moon I had ever seen in my whole life.

And those were the nights I would cherish till now…the nights of the kites, the stars and the moon in my kampung.

In the presence of stoopeeds! - an update

I heard it over the news yesterday. The PM has said that bloggers DO NOT need to register. He was reported as saying that there are enough laws to regulate malicious statements and to give remedies to agrieved parties resulting from such statements. Bravo, Mr PM. At last, you made a good decision and that was without even asking for a report or setting up a 27 member committee. Ur da man...now, get back to work please!

Road Mosquitoes

Ordinarily, if I were in a civilized society where law, order and efficient and sensible enforcement of it prevailed, I would approve of motorcycles. In fact, I would postiveily encourage them. But not in Malaysia. Not here. I love motorcycles, but I generally hate the motorcyclists here. To me they are road mosquitoes - singularly or in small groups an annoyance but a complete menace in droves.

Like mosquitoes they roam here and there without a care for those lines so carefully painted on the road nor those strange looking words and symbols posted on metal boards or poles by the side of the road. They playfully weave in and out of traffic, ride closely together sometimes one foot on the other's motorcyle, take corners like they were in a close neck and neck finish of a 500cc Superbike race, hog whole lanes if not two lanes (yes they are small but they are able to do it), in tight jams, smack one's side mirrors with their metal bar handles (sorry you goddamned asshole!!), ride indiscriminately on lanes, flutter about without having to pay for tolls despite using the main part of the road. There is plenty of room at the side, especially just after the tarmac ends.

Unlike cars they can go the wrong way on a road, slip on to a pavement and travel about at night without lights. There is nowhere they cannot park and whenever they do it is highly important that they do so in a way that would take up as much space as possible. No red light can restrain them nor a small road divider detain them. They can ride up steps and through walk over bridges as easily as they can the grass and the smallest of alleys. Just like mosquitoes, Malaysian motorcyclists roam everywhere easily.

But unlike mosquitoes, you cannot smack them. You cannot even bump them a little with the tip of your car to nudge them off their bikes and if they were really nasty, run them over. In fact, don't you even dare honk at them. Even if they were in the wrong they would give you a nasty stare the look which spoke of a threat to your car, like a scratch. A long, deep and painful scratch. It's amazing how much a two second look can speak. Volumes.

And when they get themselves killed in spectacular fashion as a result of one of their stunts or negligence, we feel sorry for them. We feel sorry for them even though they practically laid out the red carpet for death to welcome his arrival. And how can we not when we see them lying by the side of the road often in a pool of shattered glass and blood, sometimes little chunks of their brains lying on the warm tarmac right next to them.

Then the government has all these social sort of advertisements regarding road saftey and making it like it is usually the four wheeled motorists fault. I mean, does everybody in the Ministry of Transport use a motorbike or do they travel by helicopters? I just don't get that. If at all, the police should be making extra sure all these road mosquitoes are caught and dealt with according to the law. Then four wheeled motorists (like me for instance) wouldn't be so thoroughly frustrated everyday and there wouldn't be as many accidents on the road. Because the qualifications and set up cost needed to get a bike is so ridiculously low. Because financing is so readily available. But also because sometimes these fellas sure know how to tempt you to run them over.