The Daily Whine

Recently there was some hooha in Singapore over a Malay man who was arrested after returning from Pakistan for Jihadist training with an Al Qaeda-linked group. What got his front-page coverage was the fact that he was a self-radicalized Jihadist through fundamentalist Internet websites. In other words, he became a self-help terrorist (The Straits Times labeled him a terrorist, and to be honest, I’m not in opposition to this view).

Interestingly, the man was a Law School graduate with an elite-school background in Singapore. This did not fit the profile of most terrorist trainees, who conventional wisdom places to be living beneath the poverty line and poorly educated at the same time. This got the government worried because it suggested that Singapore, with a relatively large educated class, could potentially become a breeding pond for fairly big numbers of smart Jihadists waging war with our pro-American government.

I bring all this up because I heard a very interesting dialog between two young Chinese on my way home. They were talking about the likelihood of a self-radicalized army [poetic license] of Jihadists surfacing in Singapore, and one of them said something to the effect of "I find it so hard to believe that anyone can be radicalized without help from anybody else."

Really? Because I would like to present Exhibit A — my parents.

My parents are not Jihadists (or at least not that I’m aware of). They are, however, overwhelming supporters of the KMT (Kuomintang) party in Taiwan, and fervently  follow Ma Ying Jiu’s pot-holed campaign for the presidency. They have rallied along with other KMT supporters in front of the KMT HQ in Taipei (I have a photo of them grinning like groupies at the rally). They have flags of the KMT stashed somewhere in the store-room. They engage in spirited discussion with anyone who cares, about why outgoing president Chen Shui Bian of the Democratic People’s Party is the devil incarnate. And they shake their fists with conviction when they tell me that Taiwan needs the KMT to take them forward.

Ignore for the moment the fact that neither my father nor mother are remotely Taiwanese. Never mind that they aren’t even Chinese (of Chinese descent, yes; Chinese, no). Let’s also forget that they both live in Singapore. What is just so amazing about my parents’ pro-KMT fervor is that neither of them has any friends or acquaintances in the KMT (or any other Taiwanese party, for that matter). In other words, how they became KMT supporters is almost as interesting as the fact that the KMT agenda has absolutely nothing to do with them.

My parents lived in Taipei for about a year and a half, when my sister and bro-in-law were working there. As far as I can tell, most of their time spent indoors was in front of the TV with one of the Taiwanese cable news channels on. They watched Taiwanese news like political analysts, eagerly calling out developments and making sharp commentary to each other as the news unfolded. This wouldn’t be all that amazing if not for the fact that prior to this period, my parents probably didn’t speak 500 chinese words between them. They didn’t read the newspapers, and they didn’t meet with other sofa analysts for coffee and debate. The TV was their only source of interaction (unidirectional as it was) with Taiwanese politics.

There are 3 significant conclusions to draw from this.

Firstly, if ever we needed proof of the power of the media to form opinion and shape views, this was it.

Secondly, you don’t need any other interaction to self-radicalize as long as your propaganda content is easily understood, easily accessible, and easily reinforced.

Thirdly, senior citizens and retirees with cable television represent a large untapped market for Jihad.

First things first - I love Magical Realism and there is no finer example than Garcia Marquez’s.

That said, in the absence of further fiction from Marquez, I highly recommend the South American trilogy of Louis de Bernières as a worthy alternative. de Bernières , of course, is notable for writing "Captain Corelli’s Mandolin", which was then made into a legless Hollywood movie with the awful Nicholas Cage and the bewildered Penelope Cruz (the novel is much, much better, by the way).

I didn’t see it coming. While I enjoyed "Captain Corelli’s Mandolin" eons ago, I had written off de Bernières

as a one-hit flash-in-the-pan, despite being utterly clueless about his other work. This says much more about me as a judgmental prick than de Bernières as a writer, of course. Thank god for warehouse book sales then, because it was at one of these a few years ago that I picked up a roughed-up copy of "The War of Don Emmanuel’s Nether Parts" for one dollar (I kid you not). I must have thought this was a failed attempt at erotica, because looking back, I can’t say I had any idea the book I held in my hands would be one of the best reads I’ve ever come across. I subsequently took it with me on holiday and finished half of it on the plane and the other half on the road. It was a hilarious read with irreverence of the sort I highly appreciate, having spent a good part of my life indulging in Seinfeld. This was almost four years ago.

The strangest thing about my elation at having discovered a gem of a novel was that I then lost absolutely all urgency to consume anything else de Bernières

wrote (which   happens rarely, I should add  - I belong to that breed that prefers to indulge in a new-found obsession to the point of implosion). I only recently picked up the second and third parts of de Bernières’ South American trilogy (in fact, I only just discovered they were even parts of a trilogy; I was a third of the way into the third book before noticing that it was published a year after the second).

This past weekend we had a photoshoot to manage, so it was the ideal opportunity to get into a new novel. Photoshoots only ever mean one thing - lots and lots of waiting. Nothing happens for hours, then a flurry of shots, then nothing happens again for another couple of hours, then another flurry. I was happy to get into 100 pages or so of "The Troublesome Offspring of Cardinal Guzman" (the third part), but when I got home, I plunged right into "Señor Vivo and the Coca Lord" (the second part) and finished it at lunch just now. I plan to get through "Troublesome Offspring" during the long weekend this week (how convenient!)

I shan’t spoil the story. All I’ll say is, if you like Magical Realism or Marquez, or if you wished "100 Years of Solitude" didn’t end, then head down to the nearest bookstore and get hold of de Bernières’ South American trilogy right away.

How did we not win that contest?

The thought of stepping into an office full of Milan supporters later fills me with dread.

This sucks. Liverpool are down a goal just a minute before halftime despite having the better run of play.

Another 45 minutes to go. Bring Kewell on!

3 hours to go. Butterflies in my stomach. Nerves are frayed.

I was all bravado a day ago. Made a huge bet with the boss without hesitating. Two-nil, no sweat. We’re that good in Europe.

Now I’m sweating.

Read an email today. Very direct, straight to the point, terse even. And a lot of unnecessary punctuation.

The whole email consisted of three lines, which can be summised:

"What’re all the x & ys about???" and

"What are the other points about????"

Let’s just say I wish I had the presence of mind to reply:

"read properly lah!!??!!!" or

"don’t read properly how to understand???????"

Now, I appreciate short email; it’s something I’m consciously trying to work on myself. It’s the Indiscriminate use of punctuation marks that get to me.

Others I’ve seen:

• Where’s my ad??!
• What time are you coming?!!?
• This is unacceptable!!!
• You were late!!!!
• Who’s your daddy??? :)

I am not a big fan of multiple punctuation marks. Whenever I see an email with multiple punctuation marks, I always envision the sender sweating buckets and getting a stroke. An additional exclamation point or six doesn’t make me pay closer attention; it makes me want to go over there and slap the writer silly with a banana peel.

Liverpool are through to the Champions League Finals in Athens next month. After extra time. And penalties. And near cardiac failure.

Only in Jakarta baby. Only in Jakarta.

Even animals experience loss. I am certain about this because this morning, as I stepped into the office, I noticed an unfamiliar cat sitting outside our gate, peering in but motionless. She reminded me of Big Head, a kitten we found lost in our compound a couple of days ago.
Big Head had been crying non-stop since last Friday. We couldn’t find the source of the crying, but we could hear it, and it was loud. Finally over the weekend, Memed and Dedy discovered the little one in our attic space. How it got there, we don’t know, but apparently, there were three kittens, and Big Head was the only one still crying.
When I first saw Big Head, he/she looked blind, with pus covering the eyes. It could hardly get around; it tried gallantly, but kept falling. And it couldn’t stop crying. I estimated the kitten was at most just 2 weeks old. Shahrum patched it up real good, cleaned the eyes so it could see again, but we just couldn’t get it to feed. The mom was nowhere to be seen, and we knew it was only going to be a matter of days before Big Head would die from starvation. Big Head was not a cute kitten, but it was in desperate need of care.
We put Big Head (I call it this because the head was disproportionately enormous compared to the malnourished body) in a cardboard carton so that at least it wouldn’t run into trouble. There are dogs next door, and this street is full of hungry cats. The least we could do for it was give it a chance. The next day, we brought a tiny blanket (made up of an old cushion cover from my home).
Initially, I had cause for optimism. Big Head seemed to respond  a little to our care. During the day, in particular, Memed’s daughter would play with it on the lawn and, I thought, it appeared mildly content. At least it stopped crying incessantly.
But it still wouldn’t drink the milk we put before it, and it started to shiver yesterday. Even Memed’s little girl looked glum.
So when I saw that cat outside our gate this morning, I knew Big Head had passed away. I asked Memed what happened. He said the kitten finally died last night. The mom actually came into our compound, looked inside its box, saw the body and left. She didn’t take it with her. But this view didn’t tally perfectly with what I thought was happening before me - that the mom couldn’t let go. Of course, there are further questions to complicate my own suspicions too. How could I be so sure this was the mom? And if it were really her, where had she been all this time while her baby was starving? But such questioning ultimately only says more about our own human values.
So when Shahrum (whose eyes clearly glistened) and Memed were digging up a hole in the lawn to bury Big Head, and we heard some meowing outside, a mere two feet away, just beyond the iron fence, I walked round to take a look. Sure enough, the mom was sitting by our garbage heap, making that barely audible, sad cry.

  Big Head in the state we found him

I can see clearly now

Big Head in slightly happier times

Even a child knows Big Head doesn’t have much further to go now

It looked like a peaceful passing

RIP

Strictly speaking, I’m not from Muar. My dad is. But I spent sufficient time growing up there to feel it’s at least my family’s hometown, even if it isn’t mine.

So this guy makes me so proud that I have a link to Muar.

(In case you have absolutely no idea what he’s going on about, don’t worry about it. Neither does my dad, and he’s from Muar.)