Since ancient times, philosophers have grappled with this question, “What separates man from the animals?” Though answers have been forthcoming in the millennia since, perhaps the most accurate one of them all came from an unlikely source; Hollywood. In the movie, “The Matrix Reloaded”, villain and computer virus simulation Agent Smith sums it up in these elegant words. “Without purpose … we would not exist. It is purpose that created us. Purpose that connects us. Purpose that pulls us. That guides us. That drives us! It is purpose that defines us. Purpose that binds us.”
That which defines us is our purpose. The logical step now would be; what is our purpose? Are we just machines of the Darwinian ideology, whose purpose is to ensure the continual of our species, reproduction and satisfying our baser instincts? If this was true however, we would not be any different from the myriad species of ‘lesser’ animals then. No, our purpose cannot be derived from the science of biology. We must look towards the human psyche, or as the religious would say, the human soul, for this is what differentiates us from the pack; this is what made us the dominant species, the only species capable of bringing upon extinction onto itself.
In actual fact, the quintessential purpose of a human is to seek bonds, to feel wanted, needed and important. It is that which drives us towards our many actions, and which the lack thereof is many times the sole reason for suicide victims. Humans are social animals, that much has been bandied around for ages and proven correct. Thus, when a human is isolated from the world, he sinks into a state best described as ‘in the pits’, in which the individual is unable to metaphorically climb out of, and he sinks yet further, resulting in a never-ending cycle that erodes the mental state, culminating in suicide, the ultimate release. Since we are as of now the only species capable of contemplation and the will to actually end our own life, our purpose then, is to avoid this at all costs, for self preservation is deeply ingrained in us, and is the one instinct that is hard to override. And that purpose is just as said, to form bonds, and to feel wanted. However, there are many different forms of expression of that. For the gamer who sits in his house, doing nothing but play computer games. He appears alone, unloved, disconnected from the world. That is not so, for he has ingrained within his mind, a ‘perceived reality’, in which the characters, or avatars, in the games are his ‘people’, his connection, his bonds, and his world. He derives his purpose from these creatures made up of nothing but pixels, yet he has fulfilled his purpose. The point here then, is that no matter how isolated one seems, the very survival of that person shows that the individual’s purpose has been met, however strange the method might be. Facebook is another example. Its casual setting and multiple options to comment, poke, and otherwise engage the people provides one with an easy way of staying connected. Multiple comments indicate an active social setting, and things like birthday wishes can give one satisfaction of their own importance within his or her social network. And this is of course why Facebook has succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.
Suicides are inevitable, even in this well connected world. In fact, it is on the rise. This worrying trend has been attributed to the rise of the internet, where increasingly non personalised interactions have taken over the normal socialisation of our ancestors, taking away our purpose. We shall not discuss this here, but rather, if there can be a solution to these all. Surprisingly, Hollywood has yet again supplied us with an unlikely answer, and with the same movie. What if, instead of acting like a gigantic internet of virtual worlds, the Matrix reproduced a separate reality for each of its plugged in mind, where every wants and needs of the human psyche can be satisfied. For example, jilted lovers can plug themselves in, and the Matrix will create an exact copy of the other party and due to the advanced AI as shown, will be sentient and interact as if in real life. An even simpler example would be someone with monetary wishes. Plug in, generate the appropriate scenario, and one satisfied human coming right up! This could, in fact, be utopia, and once the technology is available, expect everyone to rush for it, for who would want to suffer in the real world, when the Matrix could provide any wish that you needed fulfilled? In fact, even if the cost of this was to end up as a battery for the machines, it would be one all would willingly pay, for rather than a ‘jail for the mind’ as described by the wise sage characterisation (Morpheus), the Matrix would be ‘the utopia that would never exist’.
In this case, our purpose will be completely fulfilled, albeit in a virtual environment. Yet, this would most certainly doom the human race, for who would again dabble in the real world, when the virtual one is much more satisfying, much more fulfilling, and much more utopian? And so, even then, this argument about purpose would still drag on and on, for even with what limited knowledge we have, one thing is conclusive; the human mind is never satisfied. We seek more and more, like an addict on drugs, and we obey the Law of Diminishing Returns, which is based on the unique human psychology where more does not necessarily means better. Truly, aster realising our purpose of bonds and social networking, it is highly unlikely that we will be satisfied, bringing us yet again to the never-ending question, ‘What is thy purpose?’
In actual fact, the quintessential purpose of a human is to seek bonds, to feel wanted, needed and important. It is that which drives us towards our many actions, and which the lack thereof is many times the sole reason for suicide victims. Humans are social animals, that much has been bandied around for ages and proven correct. Thus, when a human is isolated from the world, he sinks into a state best described as ‘in the pits’, in which the individual is unable to metaphorically climb out of, and he sinks yet further, resulting in a never-ending cycle that erodes the mental state, culminating in suicide, the ultimate release. Since we are as of now the only species capable of contemplation and the will to actually end our own life, our purpose then, is to avoid this at all costs, for self preservation is deeply ingrained in us, and is the one instinct that is hard to override. And that purpose is just as said, to form bonds, and to feel wanted. However, there are many different forms of expression of that. For the gamer who sits in his house, doing nothing but play computer games. He appears alone, unloved, disconnected from the world. That is not so, for he has ingrained within his mind, a ‘perceived reality’, in which the characters, or avatars, in the games are his ‘people’, his connection, his bonds, and his world. He derives his purpose from these creatures made up of nothing but pixels, yet he has fulfilled his purpose. The point here then, is that no matter how isolated one seems, the very survival of that person shows that the individual’s purpose has been met, however strange the method might be. Facebook is another example. Its casual setting and multiple options to comment, poke, and otherwise engage the people provides one with an easy way of staying connected. Multiple comments indicate an active social setting, and things like birthday wishes can give one satisfaction of their own importance within his or her social network. And this is of course why Facebook has succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.
Suicides are inevitable, even in this well connected world. In fact, it is on the rise. This worrying trend has been attributed to the rise of the internet, where increasingly non personalised interactions have taken over the normal socialisation of our ancestors, taking away our purpose. We shall not discuss this here, but rather, if there can be a solution to these all. Surprisingly, Hollywood has yet again supplied us with an unlikely answer, and with the same movie. What if, instead of acting like a gigantic internet of virtual worlds, the Matrix reproduced a separate reality for each of its plugged in mind, where every wants and needs of the human psyche can be satisfied. For example, jilted lovers can plug themselves in, and the Matrix will create an exact copy of the other party and due to the advanced AI as shown, will be sentient and interact as if in real life. An even simpler example would be someone with monetary wishes. Plug in, generate the appropriate scenario, and one satisfied human coming right up! This could, in fact, be utopia, and once the technology is available, expect everyone to rush for it, for who would want to suffer in the real world, when the Matrix could provide any wish that you needed fulfilled? In fact, even if the cost of this was to end up as a battery for the machines, it would be one all would willingly pay, for rather than a ‘jail for the mind’ as described by the wise sage characterisation (Morpheus), the Matrix would be ‘the utopia that would never exist’.
In this case, our purpose will be completely fulfilled, albeit in a virtual environment. Yet, this would most certainly doom the human race, for who would again dabble in the real world, when the virtual one is much more satisfying, much more fulfilling, and much more utopian? And so, even then, this argument about purpose would still drag on and on, for even with what limited knowledge we have, one thing is conclusive; the human mind is never satisfied. We seek more and more, like an addict on drugs, and we obey the Law of Diminishing Returns, which is based on the unique human psychology where more does not necessarily means better. Truly, aster realising our purpose of bonds and social networking, it is highly unlikely that we will be satisfied, bringing us yet again to the never-ending question, ‘What is thy purpose?’
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Singapore's legion of foreign talent: GOOD? BAD?
In 2010, Singapore's female Table Tennis team had just upped its achievement, and beat mighty China at their own game of table tennis, otherwise known as Ping Pong. A proud moment trumpeted by the PAP government as a triumph of its policies with regards to the sporting world of Singapore. However, this ‘pride’ of Singapore is mostly misguided; at best a result of mass media propaganda, and at worst a slow degradation of Singapore’s fabric of society, as ‘foreign talents’ flood in to don Singapore’s colours, and locals slowly come to desire instant success in all endeavours simply by throwing money at the problem.
The criticism of the team is mostly directed at the fact that the players are made up of Chinese nationalities turned naturalised Singaporeans, and that China in fact did win the championship, in a way. Of course the other side of the coin argues that these players are bred Singaporeans, and that they deserve all the support they can get from their adopted countrymen as they fight for Singapore’s glory on the world stages. Which side is correct though? We take a look at the facts.
Other than the original table tennis foreign talent, Mdm Jing Jun Hong, who married a Singaporean, which one of these talents has actually stayed in Singapore long-term? Looking at other sports, we have the soccer players Mirko Grabovac and Egmar Goncalves, who after pledging to bring Singapore soccer to a higher level, rescinded their Singaporean citizenship and returned to their home countries, after presumably getting lots of money from the Singapore Sports Council’s foreign talent scheme. We then place the spotlight on Lee Jia Wei, who was the flag bearer for Singapore in the 2006 Beijing Olympics. Despite pledging her love for Singapore and other stuff, and a flitting romance with Indonesian born shuttler Ronald Susilo, she married a Chinese tycoon about a decade older than she is, after a whirlwind romance and a suspected shotgun marriage. Given the Chinese adage ‘嫁雞隨雞， 嫁狗隨狗’, which literally means "marry chicken follow chicken, marry dog, follow dog", is it not foreseeable that Lee will eventually return to China, since her husband is not a naturalised Singaporean and will unlikely be, given the wealth and businesses he owns in China.
Also, how true can the ‘bred’ Singaporean tag be when these players have only been here for a few years and sport distinctively different ways of life and even language, through which their accents are as obvious as any mainland Chinese we can find on the streets? While many may point to Singaporeans as unaccepting of these players, that we should treat them as our own instead of as foreigners, it seems that we are not the only ones scrutinising their nationalities. This is a quote from a Chinese newspaper, which states that the Singaporean players are ‘wolves that have bitten the hands of the wolf breeders’. Turns out, even China thinks that our players belong to them! And who can deny them that, when the entire team, from the coaches to the players were all ‘imported’ from China. Frankly, it’d have been easier to swallow if the coaching staff were Singaporean, instructing these players in the Singaporean way of playing and honing their talents. Alas! With a mainland Chinese as the coach, the style of playing is still the Chinese style, which brings home the uncomfortable truth that the only thing Singaporean about the team is the money that has been pumped in. From the newspapers, we also realise that these talents did not come willingly. It appears that the ‘elite’ players that we have imported came over not due to a desire to play for Singapore, but because they were not able to make the mark in China, and were faced with the difficult choice of either disappearing into the darkness of obscurity and poverty in their native country, or fame and riches in Singapore. We once again question the ‘love’ these players supposedly have for our island nation, the tag of ‘Singaporeans’ that they wear, and perhaps even more importantly, do they even know the history, the significance of this country? Do they sing the national anthem with pride, or just stand silent as it is blasted out over them, stumped by the foreign language used in the song?
Of course, the problem is not only within the players themselves, but something intrinsically wrong with the policies of the government. Given Singapore’s small size, there is a limit on the talent pool here, which results in the lack of sporting achievement on the world stage, especially for team sports such as soccer and basketball. However, we must not forget that true blue Singaporeans have had their days in the spotlight of world sports, such as Mr Tan Howe Liang, our first Olympic medallist, and Mr Ang Peng Siong, once the world’s fastest swimmer over 50 metres. This raises a few questions. Since local athletes can compete with the rest of the world, why are we still getting these foreign talents to don our colours, and paying them exorbitant amounts of money to do so? While I do agree that having foreign players can and do up our standards to a certain extent, as a small nation which has defied the odds of survival to become one of the more respected and well to do country in the world, does sporting excellence really matter much to us Singaporeans? We are obviously incapable of fighting against the big nations such as China, the USA, and Russia, where large amounts of people and money ensure trophies, so why do we even try? Isn’t it much better to spend all these money on developing local sports, education and others? To even try is the same as smashing your head against a rock. Frankly, it would be much better to let Singaporeans represent their countries, trying their best, and encouraging them even if they fail. Supporters of the policies will no doubt point their fingers at various other countries in an effort to raise the ‘if you can do it, we can too!’ argument. I agree that the import of foreign talents have been used to raise a country’s chances of success at sports, such as France’s Zinedine Zidane and Patrick Viera of soccer fame, who were born in Algeria and Senegal respectively. What these people miss though, is that these imports were brought in to augment and lend a lift to the existing national team, which was already of high quality and not to replace the entire squad, which therein lays the difference between them and us. In our table tennis squad, there is no Singaporean, coaching staff included. There is definitely no way of seeing the team other than the Chinese ‘B’ squad, which perhaps ironically do describe at least two of the players, Wang Yuegu and Feng Tianwei, who as mentioned above, came to Singapore after being unsuccessful in their bid to represent China.
Some have argued that although Singapore is small, that does not mean that we should not enjoy success in sports. These people point to Denmark, a small European country with almost the same population as Singapore, yet has won the second highest prize in world soccer, the European Championships in 1992. That is however, not an accurate comparison once we look at the starting line up that Denmark had for the finals. From the goalkeeper to the striker, we see that all of them are Danish. Not a foreign talent in sight. They did not buy success, but instead had sent the best team the country had, had them try their best, and were rewarded with the championship. Why can’t, or rather why won’t, Singapore do the same? Moreover, with regards to Denmark, they are Europeans, which comes with all that it signifies. Taller, bigger and definitely stronger, they are able to compete on a level playing field at least in the physical sense, with the other countries. Singapore, with its largely Asian population, does not have that, and will always lose out against bigger opponents such as the Europeans. This means that our bid is already doomed from the start. To realise this, one simply has to look at the statistics. How many physical, non-niche sports have been dominated by Asians? Pitifully little to none is the answer. There is no chance of success in these sports and it would be a waste of money, time and resources to even try. I can only wish that the government realises this and stop the diarrhea of money to these foreign talents and concentrate on what they do best, the governance of the country and the assured continual well being of its citizens.
The criticism of the team is mostly directed at the fact that the players are made up of Chinese nationalities turned naturalised Singaporeans, and that China in fact did win the championship, in a way. Of course the other side of the coin argues that these players are bred Singaporeans, and that they deserve all the support they can get from their adopted countrymen as they fight for Singapore’s glory on the world stages. Which side is correct though? We take a look at the facts.
Other than the original table tennis foreign talent, Mdm Jing Jun Hong, who married a Singaporean, which one of these talents has actually stayed in Singapore long-term? Looking at other sports, we have the soccer players Mirko Grabovac and Egmar Goncalves, who after pledging to bring Singapore soccer to a higher level, rescinded their Singaporean citizenship and returned to their home countries, after presumably getting lots of money from the Singapore Sports Council’s foreign talent scheme. We then place the spotlight on Lee Jia Wei, who was the flag bearer for Singapore in the 2006 Beijing Olympics. Despite pledging her love for Singapore and other stuff, and a flitting romance with Indonesian born shuttler Ronald Susilo, she married a Chinese tycoon about a decade older than she is, after a whirlwind romance and a suspected shotgun marriage. Given the Chinese adage ‘嫁雞隨雞， 嫁狗隨狗’, which literally means "marry chicken follow chicken, marry dog, follow dog", is it not foreseeable that Lee will eventually return to China, since her husband is not a naturalised Singaporean and will unlikely be, given the wealth and businesses he owns in China.
Also, how true can the ‘bred’ Singaporean tag be when these players have only been here for a few years and sport distinctively different ways of life and even language, through which their accents are as obvious as any mainland Chinese we can find on the streets? While many may point to Singaporeans as unaccepting of these players, that we should treat them as our own instead of as foreigners, it seems that we are not the only ones scrutinising their nationalities. This is a quote from a Chinese newspaper, which states that the Singaporean players are ‘wolves that have bitten the hands of the wolf breeders’. Turns out, even China thinks that our players belong to them! And who can deny them that, when the entire team, from the coaches to the players were all ‘imported’ from China. Frankly, it’d have been easier to swallow if the coaching staff were Singaporean, instructing these players in the Singaporean way of playing and honing their talents. Alas! With a mainland Chinese as the coach, the style of playing is still the Chinese style, which brings home the uncomfortable truth that the only thing Singaporean about the team is the money that has been pumped in. From the newspapers, we also realise that these talents did not come willingly. It appears that the ‘elite’ players that we have imported came over not due to a desire to play for Singapore, but because they were not able to make the mark in China, and were faced with the difficult choice of either disappearing into the darkness of obscurity and poverty in their native country, or fame and riches in Singapore. We once again question the ‘love’ these players supposedly have for our island nation, the tag of ‘Singaporeans’ that they wear, and perhaps even more importantly, do they even know the history, the significance of this country? Do they sing the national anthem with pride, or just stand silent as it is blasted out over them, stumped by the foreign language used in the song?
Of course, the problem is not only within the players themselves, but something intrinsically wrong with the policies of the government. Given Singapore’s small size, there is a limit on the talent pool here, which results in the lack of sporting achievement on the world stage, especially for team sports such as soccer and basketball. However, we must not forget that true blue Singaporeans have had their days in the spotlight of world sports, such as Mr Tan Howe Liang, our first Olympic medallist, and Mr Ang Peng Siong, once the world’s fastest swimmer over 50 metres. This raises a few questions. Since local athletes can compete with the rest of the world, why are we still getting these foreign talents to don our colours, and paying them exorbitant amounts of money to do so? While I do agree that having foreign players can and do up our standards to a certain extent, as a small nation which has defied the odds of survival to become one of the more respected and well to do country in the world, does sporting excellence really matter much to us Singaporeans? We are obviously incapable of fighting against the big nations such as China, the USA, and Russia, where large amounts of people and money ensure trophies, so why do we even try? Isn’t it much better to spend all these money on developing local sports, education and others? To even try is the same as smashing your head against a rock. Frankly, it would be much better to let Singaporeans represent their countries, trying their best, and encouraging them even if they fail. Supporters of the policies will no doubt point their fingers at various other countries in an effort to raise the ‘if you can do it, we can too!’ argument. I agree that the import of foreign talents have been used to raise a country’s chances of success at sports, such as France’s Zinedine Zidane and Patrick Viera of soccer fame, who were born in Algeria and Senegal respectively. What these people miss though, is that these imports were brought in to augment and lend a lift to the existing national team, which was already of high quality and not to replace the entire squad, which therein lays the difference between them and us. In our table tennis squad, there is no Singaporean, coaching staff included. There is definitely no way of seeing the team other than the Chinese ‘B’ squad, which perhaps ironically do describe at least two of the players, Wang Yuegu and Feng Tianwei, who as mentioned above, came to Singapore after being unsuccessful in their bid to represent China.
Some have argued that although Singapore is small, that does not mean that we should not enjoy success in sports. These people point to Denmark, a small European country with almost the same population as Singapore, yet has won the second highest prize in world soccer, the European Championships in 1992. That is however, not an accurate comparison once we look at the starting line up that Denmark had for the finals. From the goalkeeper to the striker, we see that all of them are Danish. Not a foreign talent in sight. They did not buy success, but instead had sent the best team the country had, had them try their best, and were rewarded with the championship. Why can’t, or rather why won’t, Singapore do the same? Moreover, with regards to Denmark, they are Europeans, which comes with all that it signifies. Taller, bigger and definitely stronger, they are able to compete on a level playing field at least in the physical sense, with the other countries. Singapore, with its largely Asian population, does not have that, and will always lose out against bigger opponents such as the Europeans. This means that our bid is already doomed from the start. To realise this, one simply has to look at the statistics. How many physical, non-niche sports have been dominated by Asians? Pitifully little to none is the answer. There is no chance of success in these sports and it would be a waste of money, time and resources to even try. I can only wish that the government realises this and stop the diarrhea of money to these foreign talents and concentrate on what they do best, the governance of the country and the assured continual well being of its citizens.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Abuse
As she stood outside the wooden door, she shuddered. A chilling wind blew past, perhaps echoing within its biting cold the reality of what she would find inside the four-room flat. She checked her watch, and bit back a yelp of shock, as she realised the numbers shown on those luminous hands. 4 a.m, the watch proudly displayed upon its face.
'The curfew!' she thought fearfully, sweat inexplicably appearing on her forehead.
Cursing herself for not paying attention to the time as she drank, she slowly slid in her keys, trying to make as little noise as possible. She winced as the lock sprang open with a click. Approaching cautiously, she let out a sigh of relief as she slid into the living room, cat-like.
'Where the hell have you been!?' A roar washed over her.
Her eyes widened in shock and fear as a giant silhouette stepped into the living room. Seconds later, blazing lights came on, and a finger withdraw from the switch and pointed slowly, menacingly at a face.
'I...I..we...went drinking wi..with the gals...dear' she spluttered
'A likely story you bitch!' and with a slap, sent her face crashing to the floor.
'You were fucking around again weren't you! With Charles or Dick or whatever right!? Don't think I don't know that you slut!' he spit the words, smeared with malice, at her.
She couldn't even reply, so hard was her crying. Her only wish was that her only precious, Rachel was not awakened by the commotion. Just then, she caught sight of something, and apprehension dawned on her. Empty beer bottles lay around, dripping their leftover contents over the carpet. She sighed inaudibly. It was going to be one of those nights again....
'Dear, I love you...please don't make me angry anymore ok? It breaks my heart to see you in this...' He cooed, seemingly forgetting that her injuries weren't self-inflicted.
Perhaps wisely, she kept silent. Things hadn't been this bad all the time. She could still vaguely remember a time when they usually cuddled, basking in their post-coital bliss, in the middle of the night. All that changed, as always, when he lost his job. A high flyer in a MNC, he took the blow hard. No longer the sole breadwinner of the family, his ego was hit hard, and drinking became his way of life. Despondent with his change, his wife worked hard, from day to night, just to avoid seeing him in his drunken state. and that served only to incense him, and delusions started haunting him, even taking control of him when he was drunk, oblivious and lost to the world. And the pattern of beating and consoling, beating and consoling just repeated itself over and over again, each time he drank, which was more often than not.
And of course, just like any sane person, this roller-coaster ride of emotions and physical abuse was taking its toll on her. Back in her room, she found and picked up a card from the floor. It was her IC. Beside the name Choo Mei Lian was a face she no longer recognised, with a face free of scars and full of smiles, and which she realised with a startle had been taken only 4 years ago.
The picture seemed to steel her resolve,and a fire blazed in her eyes, and she pocketed the card without so much as another word.
The next few days passed like a dream, incident and abuse free. She could not believe her luck, and she was right. Luck was not to be trusted. On that day, 5th of May, she came back, despondent. She was pregnant. Again. But this child was not of love, but hate. She had been raped, being forced upon by her drunken waste of a man. This had been weeks ago, and he had again apologised, groveling for her forgiveness. Wishing to love this man again, she forgave him. But never did he expect that this Child would have come. She couldn't handle it. Her stretching point was at its very max, a very fragile mix of volatile chemicals piled up inside of her.
She turned the knob. Again, bottles of amber liquid flowed, seemingly endlessly, onto the floor. Rachel was crying again. She kneaded her temples, willing them to stop hurting. and before she could step over the kerb of the doorway, the all-too-familiar roar started anew.
'WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!? THE FUCKING BABY HAS BEEN FUCKING CRYING FOR AN HOUR! WHAT KINDA FUCKING MOTHER ARE YOU!?' and the accompanying slap came hard and fast onto her face. She fell back, shooting a look of utter disgust to her assailant. Her limit had been reached, and Rachel's incessant crying wasn't help things at all. A vein ticked on her temple.
'NO MORE!' she shouted. 'YOU ARE THE FUCKER!' and following that outburst was every resentment she had ever felt towards her husband.
'YOU BLOODY BITCH!' was the reply, as the man became lost in his drunken stupor. And the shouting travelled back and forth, with the baby's crying completing the chorus of melodious voices, each clamouring for attention within the sonata of their arguments.
She lost it.
Babbling incoherently, she found strength to deflect her husband's blows. The abuse was through, she was through. Running towards the kitchen, passing by the man, passing by her only love, her baby, and her life flashed through her eyes, as they tend to do when imminent death was approaching. Opening the window, she saw her husband's eyes widen in shock and realisation, but it was too late. All he could do was gape, as she wrenched open the window.
'Goodbye.' was the only word she manged, as she flew through the window, ghostlike, but with a all-too-human fatality. She dropped, and her man watched her, in silence, in shock, and also in awe of her bravery, for he had never found in himself neither the strength, nor perhaps the insanity to do it, even in his most despondent times, where suicide was not only contemplated, but close by, talking to him with its vile poison, slowly corroding away his mind.
A dull thud woke him up. He rushed over to the window, and looked down. There was his wife, mangles perhaps, but with a strangely intact face. And what he saw shocked him. Upon her face was not an expression of pain, but peace. She had finally made peace with fate and death, leaving him behind.
'NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!' was all he could muster, the scream reverberating throughout the neighbourhood. She had left him the horror of life, the torture of all his debts and burdens and his daughter. She had found peace, he hadn't. Her pain and suffering had finally finished. He broke down, sobbing uncontrollably as the sheer horror of reality hit him full in the face. His legs slowly moved, reaching for the window ledge even as his tears slowly stopped flowing down his face.
Just as he stepped over the ledge, a giggle made him turn around. Greeting him was joy, life's gift to the world, and her very own daughter. Looking at that face drove suicide and its greetings away. Here was his little bundle of joy, a living legacy of his once-beloved wife.
He steeled his resolve, just as she had days, but worlds, ago.
'The curfew!' she thought fearfully, sweat inexplicably appearing on her forehead.
Cursing herself for not paying attention to the time as she drank, she slowly slid in her keys, trying to make as little noise as possible. She winced as the lock sprang open with a click. Approaching cautiously, she let out a sigh of relief as she slid into the living room, cat-like.
'Where the hell have you been!?' A roar washed over her.
Her eyes widened in shock and fear as a giant silhouette stepped into the living room. Seconds later, blazing lights came on, and a finger withdraw from the switch and pointed slowly, menacingly at a face.
'I...I..we...went drinking wi..with the gals...dear' she spluttered
'A likely story you bitch!' and with a slap, sent her face crashing to the floor.
'You were fucking around again weren't you! With Charles or Dick or whatever right!? Don't think I don't know that you slut!' he spit the words, smeared with malice, at her.
She couldn't even reply, so hard was her crying. Her only wish was that her only precious, Rachel was not awakened by the commotion. Just then, she caught sight of something, and apprehension dawned on her. Empty beer bottles lay around, dripping their leftover contents over the carpet. She sighed inaudibly. It was going to be one of those nights again....
'Dear, I love you...please don't make me angry anymore ok? It breaks my heart to see you in this...' He cooed, seemingly forgetting that her injuries weren't self-inflicted.
Perhaps wisely, she kept silent. Things hadn't been this bad all the time. She could still vaguely remember a time when they usually cuddled, basking in their post-coital bliss, in the middle of the night. All that changed, as always, when he lost his job. A high flyer in a MNC, he took the blow hard. No longer the sole breadwinner of the family, his ego was hit hard, and drinking became his way of life. Despondent with his change, his wife worked hard, from day to night, just to avoid seeing him in his drunken state. and that served only to incense him, and delusions started haunting him, even taking control of him when he was drunk, oblivious and lost to the world. And the pattern of beating and consoling, beating and consoling just repeated itself over and over again, each time he drank, which was more often than not.
And of course, just like any sane person, this roller-coaster ride of emotions and physical abuse was taking its toll on her. Back in her room, she found and picked up a card from the floor. It was her IC. Beside the name Choo Mei Lian was a face she no longer recognised, with a face free of scars and full of smiles, and which she realised with a startle had been taken only 4 years ago.
The picture seemed to steel her resolve,and a fire blazed in her eyes, and she pocketed the card without so much as another word.
The next few days passed like a dream, incident and abuse free. She could not believe her luck, and she was right. Luck was not to be trusted. On that day, 5th of May, she came back, despondent. She was pregnant. Again. But this child was not of love, but hate. She had been raped, being forced upon by her drunken waste of a man. This had been weeks ago, and he had again apologised, groveling for her forgiveness. Wishing to love this man again, she forgave him. But never did he expect that this Child would have come. She couldn't handle it. Her stretching point was at its very max, a very fragile mix of volatile chemicals piled up inside of her.
She turned the knob. Again, bottles of amber liquid flowed, seemingly endlessly, onto the floor. Rachel was crying again. She kneaded her temples, willing them to stop hurting. and before she could step over the kerb of the doorway, the all-too-familiar roar started anew.
'WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!? THE FUCKING BABY HAS BEEN FUCKING CRYING FOR AN HOUR! WHAT KINDA FUCKING MOTHER ARE YOU!?' and the accompanying slap came hard and fast onto her face. She fell back, shooting a look of utter disgust to her assailant. Her limit had been reached, and Rachel's incessant crying wasn't help things at all. A vein ticked on her temple.
'NO MORE!' she shouted. 'YOU ARE THE FUCKER!' and following that outburst was every resentment she had ever felt towards her husband.
'YOU BLOODY BITCH!' was the reply, as the man became lost in his drunken stupor. And the shouting travelled back and forth, with the baby's crying completing the chorus of melodious voices, each clamouring for attention within the sonata of their arguments.
She lost it.
Babbling incoherently, she found strength to deflect her husband's blows. The abuse was through, she was through. Running towards the kitchen, passing by the man, passing by her only love, her baby, and her life flashed through her eyes, as they tend to do when imminent death was approaching. Opening the window, she saw her husband's eyes widen in shock and realisation, but it was too late. All he could do was gape, as she wrenched open the window.
'Goodbye.' was the only word she manged, as she flew through the window, ghostlike, but with a all-too-human fatality. She dropped, and her man watched her, in silence, in shock, and also in awe of her bravery, for he had never found in himself neither the strength, nor perhaps the insanity to do it, even in his most despondent times, where suicide was not only contemplated, but close by, talking to him with its vile poison, slowly corroding away his mind.
A dull thud woke him up. He rushed over to the window, and looked down. There was his wife, mangles perhaps, but with a strangely intact face. And what he saw shocked him. Upon her face was not an expression of pain, but peace. She had finally made peace with fate and death, leaving him behind.
'NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!' was all he could muster, the scream reverberating throughout the neighbourhood. She had left him the horror of life, the torture of all his debts and burdens and his daughter. She had found peace, he hadn't. Her pain and suffering had finally finished. He broke down, sobbing uncontrollably as the sheer horror of reality hit him full in the face. His legs slowly moved, reaching for the window ledge even as his tears slowly stopped flowing down his face.
Just as he stepped over the ledge, a giggle made him turn around. Greeting him was joy, life's gift to the world, and her very own daughter. Looking at that face drove suicide and its greetings away. Here was his little bundle of joy, a living legacy of his once-beloved wife.
He steeled his resolve, just as she had days, but worlds, ago.
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