Boleh Tahan ~ TAKE A TRIP
ONCE IN A WHILE—QUITE
OFTEN, IN FACT—I take a ‘round-the-world’
trip. Vicariously, via my address book, I visit people
whose names appear therein. I flip through the pages
and am instantly with them. Reviewing what I know
about them, I wish them well in every way. I regularly
visit people in lands like Australia, New Zealand,
Hong Kong, The Philippines, Japan, Malaysia, Thailand,
Singapore, Indonesia, Nepal, Germany, Portugal, Denmark,
Norway, Holland, England, the US, and Canada. And
each person I visit has his or her own unique story,
quite unlike that of anyone else.
Many people I used to write to are/were refugees
from Vietnam, Cambodia or Laos. When they were in
their Camps, waiting for resettlement in other countries,
unsure about their situation and future, writing letters
was a thing most of them did assiduously. And how
sweet their names sounded to them on the Camp P.A.
system, when they were called to collect letters from
the post office; their ears were finely attuned to
such announcements!
Now, mail delivery is no longer a joyful
thing for them, when it often brings only bills. They
got what they wanted—resettlement in places
like Australia, America or Norway—but the happiness
they expected to find there has—in most cases
—receded from them, like the horizon. Are they
any happier now than they were before? Indeed, I met
several people in America and other countries who
I had earlier known in the Camps, who told me that
although they now had things on the material level
beyond their previous dreams, they weren’t happy
because they had no time, and would like to be back
in the Refugee Camps again!
Here is a man who walked across Cambodia
from Vietnam to Thailand, facing torture and death
at the hands of the Khmer Rouge and the booby traps
liberally strewn on jungle trails; frequently having
to step over human bones, he felt he was passing through
hell (I believe he was!) He has recovered from the
horror of that ordeal, but will never forget what
he saw there. Happiness is an illusion, he says.
There is someone who escaped his country
by overcrowded boat, but after a few days at sea they
had run out of food. One by one, his companions starved
to death; unable to face such slow death, others jumped
into the sea to drown. Those who survived did so only
by eating the flesh of the dead. Filled with revulsion
at what he was forced to do, this man has since become
a vegetarian; he says he can no longer put meat into
his mouth.
I know a couple in San Jose whose boat was
wrecked on a small island in the South China Sea,
far from the shipping lanes. Marooned for months until
rescued by a fishing boat, they managed to survive
by catching and eating sea birds and shellfish. Their
deprivation and despair led them to devote themselves
to alleviating the sufferings of others whenever possible;
they now run a clinic.
Another man helplessly watched his children
drown, and lived a nightmare thereafter until I told
him he wasn’t to blame, and should not carry
the burden of their deaths forever. The sea-bed is
strewn with the bones of those who left their homeland
in search of peace and happiness, but never made it.
A lady with two children was eagerly waiting
to be reunited with her husband who had gone to the
US first; just before she left the Camp, however,
she received the news that her husband had been killed
in a car smash in Texas. Numb with grief, she went
to begin a life of struggle in her new country.
In Chicago is a family who suffered the loss
of one of their daughters while in the Camp; unable
to get adequate medical treatment, she succumbed to
fever and was buried in a plywood coffin that was
too small for her, leaving her feet sticking out at
the bottom.
All had tales of sorrow and woe, but many
hid them and wept alone, feeling, that since others
had similar stories, nobody wanted to hear theirs.
But there were also tales of courage and
success—so many. Through their hardships and
suffering, many people became aware of a spiritual
dimension to their lives that they previously did
not know was there.
Some years ago, I reached the point of writing
about 150 letters per month (an average of 3 per day),
and my letters are always individually written, not
stereotyped as in a newsletter. Several times, I was
asked why I don’t write a newsletter instead,
but I don’t like to receive such impersonal
things, so I don’t send them. I’m lucky
if I get replies to half the letters I write, of course,
so after some time I give up writing to people who
don’t respond; how do I know if they are receiving
my letters, or even if they are still alive, if I
get no replies? It’s a bit like writing to ghosts
or Santa Claus! I write now between seventy and a
hundred letters monthly.
Whenever I periodically update my address
book, some names are added and others omitted—those
who didn’t bother to reply to my letters. It’s
not my fault that we lose contact. Maybe—in
the case of the refugees—I am part of their
past that they prefer to put behind them and forget
as they forge new lives for themselves.
Here is Michael in Germany, who was a monk
in Thailand many years ago; he regrets he didn’t
continue. In England is my sister Glennie; we’ve
become closer since her husband died. Here’s
my Indian friend, Ramesh, who lives in the US and
who faces his troubles with such fortitude. Over in
Norway is Hanh, who was felled by a stroke some years
ago and has difficulty in writing more than a few
words to me, yet she still tries. In Java, there is
Vajira, kind and loyal, who has kept in touch with
me for the past 20 years. In K. L. is Wongsy, who
lends me his ear when I need to let off steam, and
who will do anything for me. Goh, Going, Gone is a
promising young man from Malacca. Sad Minh, in Atlanta,
tells me anything, knowing he’ll get a sympathetic
response. Tor Hor’s letters from Penang are
informative and full, but don’t come very often;
that is so—the latter part—with many people.
In a US jail is Barry, who found one of my books in
his prison library; though only 22, he writes a good
letter and expresses himself well. The Vo family started
out empty handed, but later did so well with their
Sydney bakery business that I asked them what they
put in their bread. Perth is the home of Sheila Sharpeyes,
a teacher; we correspond as if we’ve known each
other ages, although we’ve never met; she reads
my books thoroughly and spots all the mistakes (hence
the nick name I gave her), and encourages me to go
on writing when I feel like giving up. In Melbourne
is Tuan, who had many a hard time translating for
me, but who came through it okay. And in Turkey is
my new friend, Ali, who I’ve written about elsewhere
in this book.
Different names, faces and stories. When
I write to anyone, I see their face in my mind’s
eye, and it is as if I’m talking with them in
person; each one is important to me in some way.
Seize the moment, instead of putting it off
until another day; sit down and write. You would be
surprised at what comes out if you did that; it’s
not as difficult as you think it is.
Take a trip, whenever you like; you don’t
need a ticket or passport; no need to pack a bag or
make hotel reservations. Just go!
THE END
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