The Evil that Men do.

It occurred to me that some grudges just don't disappear with time. Some remain like a bad smell across centuries. Take the Arab-Israeli conflict. The Israelites seem to think it their birth right to kick Arabs around senseless. Or at least stories in the old testament reflect this attitude. Someone should tell them plainly that it's not decent.

Everybody knows about the holoucast. It's written all over history books. And we all teared when Roberto Benigni's character in It's a Beautiful Life got excecuted at machine gun point. Other holoucast movies to recieve widespread acclaim include The Pianist and Schindler's List. I'm not saying that the holoucast was justified. Neither am I under the impression that the Arabs are totally without blame. But are we equally well-informed of Israelite massacare of their semitic cousins?

To provide a comprehensive list of such occurrences throughout history would be quite a task. I shall therefore here only highlight the more spectacular ones. According to Biblical accounts, this Jewish lad called Shamgar killed 600 Philistines (ancestors of the Palestinians) with an ox goad. An ox goad, by the way, is a narrow wooden stick used by sheperds to flog their herd into formation while they graze on the grass. Now imagine that! Killing 600 people with a narrow wooden stick. Even Rambo had a general purpose machine gun. This Shamgar character must have been quite a bad ass fighter.

His more illustrious counterpart Samson (of 'Samson and Delilah' fame) did one better by killing 1000 Philistines, armed only with the jaw bone of a donkey. Suddenly, the enorminity of David's feat against Goliath (a Philistine too?) pales in comparison.

It is also written in the bible that Samson went into Gaza, saw a harlot and "went into her". In what is perhapes a sick act of imitation, another Jewish lad by the name of Ariel Sharon is today sending his troops and bulldozers into Gaza and fucking the Palestinian inhabitants up, tearing down their homes and inflicting civilian casualties while at it. In an image beamed on television, an elderly Palestinian woman was seen scrounging around on all fours looking for her medicine amidst the rubble of what was her home. The war criminal Sharon's CV include the massacare of refugees, including women and children, at the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in 1982, not to mention numerous other atrocities commited while he was chief of the millitary. The Israeli military machine continues to roll on, equipped with modern state of the art jet fighters, bombs and nuclear weaponry funded by American taxpayer money. Their arsenal also include spin doctors, gazillionaire political lobbyists and media moguls like Rupert Murdoch, prolific manufacturers of hate and deception.

I visited Jerusalem a couple of years back, and while roaming the streets, I bumped into a group of young Palestinian school children who had such adorable toothy-grins and razor-sharp wit. Their brown and blue eyes were brimming with innocence and life and each of them walked with the confidence and swagger of one with the world at his command. They seemed totally oblivious to the opression and poverty imposed upon them and their families. After a charming picture session during which they repeatedly shook my hand and revelled at the sight of the blinking flash, I was told by the tour guide that these were the same kids you see on TV pelting rocks at Israeli tanks and troops. Blimey!

As I bade farewell to my new friends, their smiles seemed to tell me that every stone thrown at a juggernaut Israeli tank is a spit of defiance in the face of tyranny. So bring on your tanks, ox goads, donkey jaw bones, and what have you to the fight. These kids will bring their courage.

Out of college, money spent
See no future, pay no rent
All the money's gone, nowhere to go
Any jobber got the sack
Monday morning, turning back
Yellow lorry slow, nowhere to go

But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go
Oh, that magic feeling
Nowhere to go
Nowhere to go


Adapted from The Beatles' You Never Give Me Your Money.

What is Cool?

In this age of popular culture where trendiness and the ability to be within the "in" crowd serve as cultural capital in the social world, many amongst us are confronted with this daunting question: How can I be cool?

None of us would admit that our minds are constantly in the process of considering this question. Because if you do, then you're not cool. Which would render the original question self-defeating. But every second of our waking (and probably sleeping) lives, this question slithers its way across our subconscious mind, influencing the way we dress, speak, walk, laugh, write. Everything.

So how do you attain 'cool'-ness? If you try too hard, it ain't cool. But if you don't try at all, you're a slob. If you say you're cool, it ain't cool. But if you don't, then people might not notice. The answer to this conundrum then, is elementary. Cool-ness is inherent. You have it or you don't. But who's to say who is cool and who isn't, anyway? Who attributes and attains authority? Apparently, our enquiry has reached a dead end.

But I'll tell you who's definitely NOT cool. Those guys who organise government campaign roadshows around this island. I'm no cool guru, but have you even seen their shows? They'd have the same lame old acts time and again. These middle-aged men and women who assemble the acts must really thing that it melts the hearts of heartlanders every year to see adolescent boys and girls dancing around stage in native Hawaii costumes to some Beach Boys tune. And I do suppose they think it's trendy to have Elvis impersonators on stage every year. And balloon games are supposed to send a rush of blood to my head in excitement. Couple all of these with the tacky decorama, cheesy music and frighteningly excessive make up, and you cannot be blamed for thinking that you accidentally walked into a Cher concert. Or KISS, for that matter.

I came across pictures on the web taken at an anti-drug roadshow. Credit to the organizers for their valiant efforts. But they had little boys in loin cloth and headbands posing bare bodied on stage. A bunch of women were in striking red skirts dancing in synchronized fashion carrying rainbow-striped umbrellas. Ain't that cool?

Best part is, the article began with this proud boast:

"Put on your dancing shoes, move to the beat and feel the rhythm of DanceWorks! 2002, the dance event of the year!"

Dance event of the year? Even Woodstock 69 did not proclaim itself to be the concert of the year. Imagine the audacity of THESE lads!

The article ends with a tinge of glory and relief:

"To all participants of DanceWorks!, you are all winners for having had the dedication and determination to perform your wonderful dance routines on stage. We salute you for your hard work and for having taken that first step towards a healthy and drug free lifestyle. Till next year, do continue to move and groove;away from drugs!"

Perhaps the organizers believe that they have made use of their youthful sense of trendiness well by reaching out to the youth population with their message. Perhaps a heroin junkie decided to kick his habit for good after years of painful addiction because he was swayed by the cha-cha beats and colourful streams of banners at the concert.

I laud the organizers for their noble intentions in spreading the message. But still, the fact of the matter remains hauntingly, like the specter of a plague. You guys have absolutely no notion of "cool"-ness. You guys must have been seating on the organizing panel since the 80s. Back then, most of you still had hair. The more adventurous amongst you tried the afro then. A decade too late. Yes. You weren't cool even back then.

Make way for new and young talent. Get new personnel who will take your roadshows to greater new heights. What your gig needs is a fresh injection of concepts and ideas. The audience has suffered for far too long.

Just some feedback from an honest roadshow enthausiast.





post-article thoughts: a tinge too much passion and edge over nothing, wasn't it?

A gem I uncovered while going through the shelves of the school library.


do not say my people are lazy
because you do not know
you are only a critic, an onlooker
you cannot know or judge

do not think my people are weak
because they are gentle
do not think that we have only music
because we love life

do not condemn us as poor
because we have very few banks
see here the richness of our people
the brimful hearts that do not grab or grapple
we collect humanity from the sun and rain and man
transcending the business and the money

do not tell us how to live
or organise such nice associations and bodies
our society was an entity
before the advent of political philosophy

do not say -
because you do not know


Adapted in part from
Mohd. Hj. Salleh

Mind Rambles on a Rainy January Afternoon:
SARs, civet cats, the CIA and bludgeoned chickens.

They recently discovered that civet cats in China could be the hosts of the latest appearance of the SARs virus. Without intending this to be a fucked up comment that fringes on ethnocentricity at all, I must say that it's no surprise there's an outbreak, really. I've walked past a street market in Hainan once. They were selling all sorts of animals in there. A lady was splitting a live tortoise's body apart with a huge knife in front of me. When the front plate finally cracked apart from the shell, I could see the poor fella's heart still beating. The lady just ripped the heart apart (how often have we used the phrase "ripped my heart apart" repeatedly without understanding the full physical ramifications and reality behind the event actually occurring?) and threw it to one side, followed by the intestines and other organs. The guy who bought the tortoise stood near, looking introspectively, keen on having first view of the merchandise he paid good money for.

I saw cats stacked in cages too. But this is not an attack on any particular nations' dietry preferances and slaughtering etiquette. Every nation has its peculiar consumption habits and means of inflicting pain on others. Throughout time, mankind has excelled in the areas of invention and refinement when it comes to inflicting tourture and pain. Mordern day institutional manifestations of this inherent trait in human beings can be seen from the Gestapo to the KKK, and on through the CIA.

The point being, that few nations can be spared the rod when it comes to punishment for cruelty to others including animals. So let this be a message to all. Stop animal cruelty. I'm not a vegan. I eat meat. But if you've got to eat em, then kill em in the fastest and most humane way possible. Get a sharp knife and go for the big veins that run through the throat. There's even a consumer's health incentive to slaughtering by means of slitting the throat. You see, the blood has acidic content. When you kill the animal by pounding its head or running electricity through it, there is no bleeding and the blood therefore stays within the animal. After some time, the acidic content will dissolve in the flesh of the dead animal. Consuming the meat thus becomes harmful for one's body. Now there's a scientific rationale behind slaughtering by means of slitting the throat. But do you know how many electrocuted and bludgeoned chickens and cows are hanging by shop windows these days? Think about that.

Just a few tips on how to kill animals. For one's necessary consumption for the sake of sustenance, of course. Oh my, the story has deviated that far.

But back on the topic of dietry preferences, I reckon that China's fetish for consuming "exotic" animals is a reflection of historical circumstances. Historically, the commonfolk of China have had hard times surviving as a result of floods, famines and other natural disasters. Scarcity of food must therefore have been a major policy issue for them in the pre-modern days. The people therefore adapted to their surroundings to beat the scarcity by experimenting with consuming many different kinds of animals (and parts). This may be mere speculation, but think about it the next time you tug into your bear's paw soup.

My canary he died last night.
Suffered from a fright.
His hanging cage was jumped at
by my neighbor's curious cat.

His songs were always moving.
I heard it every morning.
A voice like chords from strings
in strains that come to sonnetting.

A trowel my father used
as he softly prodded and mused.
Buried the lifeless bird
in a handful of dirt.

A pinch of bread held by a stick
with bite marks from his tiny beak.
Some water left inside the dish.
A meal my lovely never finished.

But the tragedy of it all
is as he came to a fall,
his final song
wasn't that very long.

I never gave him a name.
Always thought it would be lame.
But in death, I call him Gerald.
Poor, sweet Gerald.