Refugees could be Angels

Refugees flooding the News everytime I switched on CNN,BBC and etc...

I can't help but remember a refugee I met in South Africa. An Eritrean who sought refuge in SA due to the Ethiopian-Eritrean war and with a sick child to heal, she left her doctor husband and nursing job hoping for a better life but instead, unable to find a job due to paperwork issues and years of loneliness; separated with her husband and older son possibly almost ten years without seeing them even once. We lost touch but I never forget her, praying she will be reunited with her family.

A stranger, she walked me to church and she imparted her wisdom of living without giving up, trusting God for Divine Protection and Providence and if we look up, life will seem much more bearable for God is Strength and Protector. She said, "If God is with us, there is nothing to be afraid of."

I will never forget that brief moment we met or the shy eyes of her young son waiting for me outside the toilet like a gentleman on guard. To me, she was a messenger and an Angel. What if strangers we meet are Angels in disguise?

I can't help but share this poem 'Home' by Warsan Shire about refugees. 

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.

you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied

no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough

the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off

or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important

no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here

Poem taken from http://seekershub.org/blog/2015/09/home-warsan-shire/

MADE IN KENYA

Here's a poem from a Kenyan poet who runs the blog, 'Our Daily Poetry'.

Enjoy his depiction of the rich Kenyan way of life.

The Kenyan Woman

MADE IN KENYA By Matolo Kyalo Jr.: Poet, writer and blogger from Kenya.

She is the first to wake up Every morning she makes sure there's milk in my cup She bears the pain from the scorching sun Dust blows off the maize field like smoke from a gun

She keeps the faith and preaches the morals The Good Book keeps her ship away from the corals Her efforts strengthens bonds among families Her relentless love is ever promising like the lilies Every evening she prepares ugali with sukuma

She tells tales of the 20th century as the candle gets dimer She is the last to go to bed, to her only man The true Kenyan woman.

For more poetry visit: ourdailypoetry.weebly.com Facebook page: Our Daily Poetry

Apologies. NaPoWriMo Day 27 to Day 30

Big Big Apologies.

I did finish 30 poems in 30 days for April NaPoWriMo month but failed to post the last few ones on my blog due to hectic schedules.

However, for those of you who have been following my Instagram and Twitter, you would have noticed that I did post each of them on the right days.

Here's Day 27 to Day 30 

A drop of poetry by me. A. Bong 2015
Kopitiam Observation
NaPoWriMo Day 27

A drop of poetry by me. A. Bong 2015
Flight Behaves
NaPoWriMo Day 28

A drop of poetry by me. A. Bong 2015
Humanity
NaPoWriMo Day 29

A drop of poetry by me. A. Bong 2015
A letter to South Africa from your Malaysian sister
NaPoWriMo Day 30

Day 30 was special to me. A South African friend who organized a 'March for Peace' in Johannesburg had requested me to write a poem for him to be recited then. This poems captured what I feel about the Xenophobia attacks in April.

Once again, my sincerest apologies for not updating my blog.
Feel free to follow me at Instagram and Twitter for more poetry and arts updates. Look for me @swakgel.

Xoxo

NaPoWriMo Day 18. Papa's Longing

I've just written this for a 'Man in Solidarity' Project based in South Africa, to be recited by the man giving a welcoming speech.

A drop of poetry by Angelina Bong
NaPoWriMo Day 18
Papa's Longing

A Little Update from me

It has been a long while since I step into my cavern.

Last year has been amazing. I have climbed a little up the stairs of my dreams, immersion into the world of Arts and Poetry.

I was invited to Africa twice. Once as a performer/storyteller in a musical play entitled Basadi Balefatshe in South Africa and later in the year, as a guest poet for Maun International Arts Festival, Botswana. Both proved to be enriching experiences. I have met incredible souls and talented poets. They fueled my passion to reach out in arts and poetry. The power of the spoken word brings healing, encouragement as well as educating in the form of entertainment. God truly entrust each person with different talents to bless the world.

Back in my homeland, we started the World Arts Convention 2014, the first of its kind in Borneo. At the same time, we hosted Malaysia's Biggest 3D Mural Art in a mall. The aim is to elevate the appreciation of arts in the local society. 

I am also very grateful for all who has supported me in my arts; buying my paintings and drawings as well as commissioning me to paint. The start of this year has proved to be fruitful too. I sell at least one painting a month. That's a progress for me ;) We even painted a mural art as part of a community project in Kenyalang earlier this year.

Here's a snapshot of a passerby taking a photo of the 3D mural we painted.

3D Mural Art at old Kenyalang Theatre, Kuching. Photo credit: Samson Koh.

A shout out to God above for guiding me towards a narrower, less travelled path in fulfilling my purpose in life. If I can just reach one soul through one painting or a poem be it in Africa, Korea or Russia, my mission is accomplished. Do pray for me as I continue to sow peace, hope, love and light through my arts.

Thank you for dropping by!

Imperfect is Perfect

I saw a friend of mine posting on facebook, "What is disability to you?" It got me thinking. When you see a young man on a wheelchair, a blind man on the street, a little girl with Down Syndrome, your neighbour who has lost a limb, does disability rings out boomingly loud across your brains?

Well, most of us would react that way when we see someone or something that appeared different from us. We would call them abnormal, handicapped or disabled and most of the time, we would shun them or run away. 

I am brought to mind this vibrant young lady that I met in South Africa. We performed together in a musical play. She not only danced passionately in her crutches but she was so full of life and determination that I was put to shame! That's when I saw that she was not disabled, just slightly different and way more beautiful than many of us. Her soul was a shining gem!

I would like to dedicate this poem I wrote few years ago to those who are born different, handicapped or disabled as society calls but nevertheless perfect in the eyes of God, mentally challenged or perhaps just an underdog who feels like an outcast!

Here's to you:

Imperfect is Perfect

Irregular lines are beautiful

Stains patterned the most unique tapestry

A crooked nose

A smaller eye

An extra thumb

Behold the uniqueness that many despise

The tears of the blind

The moaning of the dumb

The silence of the deaf

Look beyond the physical shell

That hides the beauty of the soul

And reach for the diamonds within

The brokenness of a widow

The death of an unborn child

The limb that no longer exists

The dappled things in life

They are extraordinarily beautiful

If only you will see

Look beyond

And you just might find

The treasure buried inside

In each and every being called human

In each and everything that exists

And grasp the precious gem

The untainted cavern that we can go

The hole that shouts

Imperfect is perfect

A Cultural Encounter with Basadi Balefatshe

It had been more than a day travelling. My body slumped against the chair at the transit area in Doha airport while I struggled to keep my eyes from shutting and dozing off. It was three am and there were a few more hours to go. My heart fluttered in excitement as I reminisced the first time I saw her.

Almost five years ago, I met this vibrant African lady during the Delphic Games in South Korea. We were both representing our countries in the lingual arts competition and as we recited our poems on stage, we both felt connected through our stories and thus, a friendship developed. Through the years we kept in touch and one day, she invited me to South Africa to perform in a musical play and be part of a cultural exchange.

I had heard numerous stories about Africa but I had never been there. I did not know what to expect but I trust whatever happened will be a good adventure. My stomach stirred like busy butterflies and I felt like a teenager having a crush for the first time as I boarded the plane to Johannesburg. I clasped my hands tightly dragging my luggage as I looked out for that familiar face that I had not seen in years. She spotted me first and gave me a big, tight hug. All nervousness dissolved as soon as I met those sparkling eyes that lit up with smiles.

A warm welcome awaited me as some of the cast greeted me with cheerful glees. My heart melted further as the little girl whom I was supposed to stay with allowed me to hold her in my arms. My curiosity had ventured into random questions about what my hostess was going to be like and all questions vanished into thin air as her sweet aura made me felt instantly at home. That was the beginning of a wonderful one month stay with them.

Waking up to the lively chirping of birds, I was all ready for my first day of rehearsal.  As I crossed Mandela Bridge, I saw the iconic legend’s face on a poster with a big smile plastered across his face and I sensed his soul beaming down at me from heaven.  To my amazement, Constitution Hill would be where I would spend the rest of my two weeks practicing. This historical heritage was where Mandela and other freedom fighters were jailed and tortured. I knew this had to be a good start as my morning was showered with the vigour and charisma of Mandela’s determined spirits.

The cast captivated me from the first moment they started singing and swaying their hips to lively African music roaring from the talented band. Everyone was bursting with energy and I wondered if I would fit in. After all, I was not much of a singer apart from echoing melodies in church choir. I assured myself I was there as a storyteller so it would not be a problem. Little did I know I would also need to sing and dance. My eyes glanced up to the wall facing me with words written ‘Conversations We Do Not Have’ and immediately, images of prisoners chained with loneliness flashed before my eyes. My throat choked with emotions as voices soared to the tunes of “open the floodgates of heaven, let it rain…” How ‘coincidental’ it is that this ‘dungeon’ was chosen as our meeting venue to have conversations about women issues which was the main purpose of the musical play.

Basadi Balefatshe meaning ‘World Women’ was the title of the theatre play. As South Africa celebrated Women’s Month, this show was staged in conjunction with International World Women’s Day in March 2014.  It showcased an international journey of a woman as she walked and danced through various phases of her life encountering many other women. She connected with them in various ways even though each was different from her in terms of culture, background, belief and race.

All the women in the play each conveyed tales either of their very own or inspired by people they knew. It was manifested through poetry, storytelling, acting, songs, music and dances. I was humbled to be part of this enriching process of getting to know one another through the weaving of experiences. A refreshing approach that opened my eyes for I had never been in a performance where each wrote their own piece and all was intricately knitted to form a story of its own.

I was moved to tears by the passionate dance from a physically challenged dancer. The powerful and soulful voice of one singer kept me enchanted and I found myself giggling with happy grins to the vivacious expressions of a poet telling us about how the play was birthed through a conversation between her and a dear friend. My fingers tapped with delight as I heard the umakhweyana, an indigenous African instrument being played during a storytelling session where kids gathered around.  My heart cringed at the expressions of depression and anger where one woman was very hurt by her own mother. My mind was blown away by the exquisite recollection of an Eritrean woman’s experience as a soldier defending her country where women had to carry guns and waged on war. I had to clutch my stomach aching from laughter by the comedic acting of one poet who enthusiastically put on a sophisticated accent while communicating a serious message across to the audience about getting laid and paid. I equally enjoyed bringing forth an Asian perspective to the Africans.

The highlight of the presentation was the conversation we put across about women issues. Oppression and discrimination due to gender, cultural expression and beliefs with increasing underpayment were among some of the concerns addressed and brought to light. As we lifted the rain sticks to let its soothing sounds take flight, a male performer joined us and spoke out in support of women to raise awareness on the plights of human trafficking and prostitution. The stage brightened up with a colourful concoction of multiculturalism. That was when the bonding formed with an invisible hand holding us all together to rise up for unity.

As we invited all women to come together as one through a very uplifting track, we heartily moved to the beats set aflame by the band and engaged the audience to the catchy rhythm. I still could not believe my own ears as I heard myself singing along in African. I guess I did not have to worry about fitting in at all. What a priceless moment in celebrating the beauty and purpose of women through arts, culture and music!

The three days performance ended but the messages and the people kept a glow burning in the recesses of my heart. I had a week left to chill with my newfound friends. It was an amazing cultural exchange. Waking up to sweet innocent cries of the little baby girl with long eyelashes blinking at me, singing lullabies to her, savouring exotic and scrumptious food specially prepared by my hostess, watching South African sitcoms, walking on the streets with an African princess donning a myriad of fabrics and beads with her rain stick by my side, being asked all the time whether I know kung fu, listening to storytellers in Freedom Park, giving impromptu drawing workshops, relaxing with Rastafarians, trying vegan food while laughing at each other’s jokes, dropping by Mandela’s house, visiting townships, drinking coffee served by traditional healers in their hut adorned with animal skins and hearing wise words from a young spirit-filled pastor were just a few of the little perks I got to try. Not forgetting taking the taxi-vans known as combis almost every other day with all eyes on me every time I climbed into them. Not surprising at all considering I was practically the only Asian looking person boarding them. It was fun.

The time finally arrived to bid farewell to the loving souls that I had met. Parting at the airport was sad but I knew somehow we would meet again. Reaching home made the trip felt surreal.

Months passed but that memory relived itself from time to time. It is with much hope that this little baby of creative genius, Nolwazi Mkhathini also known as Nomkhubulwane will continue to grow and flourish. This idea of bridging the gap while crossing cultures by having a dialogue between women from all parts of the world to stand united in embracing each other’s identity and diversity working towards promoting peace and humanity is a noble one.

I believe the little glow that had started should be passed around the globe and set a spark to get the conversation going. A toast to more of Basadi Balefatshe!