Angelina Bong: Sarawak Artist and Poet

What do you do?
How did you get into poetry?
What do you paint?
Can you tell me briefly about your journey into the Arts?

I get asked these questions a lot. My profile can be seen on http://www.sarawakart.com/artists/angelina-bong/

Feel free to check out other Sarawak artists when you are there.

Cheers!

Xoxo

LOOK UP

YOU ARE NOT ALONE

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

I could feel the waters rushing through my tyres. The rain balls thumped hard onto my window screen, and splashed out like waterfalls gushing down into the tar roads as I drove under the heavy downpour. My astigmatism which has possibly worsened was not helping either. What if flood occurred and I got stranded in the middle of the roads? I was staying on the outskirts of the city and I was trying to get home after watching The Hobbits.

“You are not Alone.” I recalled the words given to Gandalf the Grey when he was on the brink of death. Lady Galadriel came and freed him. I reminded myself I was not alone either. God was with me. The angels were with me. They would keep me safe. True enough, the rain stopped halfway to my home and I was able to open the gate without being soaked wet.

http://i.imgur.com/Epstpoo.jpg

Galadriel was later surrounded by the dark and they tortured her courage by telling her she was the only little light in the darkness. However, she was not alone. Her compatriots came to the rescue. Many times, we think we are alone with evils, disasters and nasty people attacking us. That is not true. We forget that there are angels around us, sent by God to guard and protect us. We need only believe. The world is not only a physical one but a spiritual battle that we could not see with our normal eyes.

http://puddlesgathering.com/blog/ani-th_the_battle_of_the_five_armies.gif

The dragon with all its pride and confidence wanted to crush Barn and his son. His son was terrified. Who would not be with the dragon behind you, ready to pounce and burn you up? Barn was calm. He assured his son to look at him. The dragon was defeated. Likewise, when we feel that we are going to vanish and hope is nowhere to be found, LOOK AT OUR FATHER. Look at HIM that IS ALL POSSIBLE and not at ourselves who are merely humans. LOOK UP to God, our Father and we will not grow weary. HE is able to do immeasurably more than we can possibly imagine.

http://www.kabobfest.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/black_man_praying.jpg

Bilbo, small and weak without a warrior’s training was the most courageous of them all. He put love and honour above greed and gold. Thorin was blinded by GREED. So blinded that he forgot his true purpose, he almost could not wake up but a dear kin awakened him to his senses. Let us not be crushed by the power of Greed, Pride and Lust. We are born for a greater purpose than to be swallowed up by worldly desires.

https://wallwidehd.com/wp-content/uploads/2014-The-Hobbit-The-Battle-of-the-Five-Armies-Wallpaper-364x227.jpg

Let us learn from this movie. Let the past year be a lesson from our downfalls and let our successes be an encouragement to go on, pursue our passion, fuel our adventures, fulfil our mission and spread a little light and love everywhere we go.

A Blessed and Happy New Year to you all!

The Innocent Cries

Broken pieces fly over me

Shards of memoirs flash by

Running across green hills

Smiles and chatters with family

Will these days ever return?

Fears paint the faces around me

Hopes and dreams crumble and torn

I lie awake with no more tears

Numb to bombings and shootings

Will this madness ever end?

Hunger and thirst becomes a norm

The little one cries out for milk

I have nothing left to give

Not even my pride or dignity

What is left for me to do?

Blood spilling like water fall

In the name of religion and politics

Broken limbs and dying spirits

Defeat rises more than victory

What have I done to deserve this?

I ponder on the golden days,

Bread and honey on the table,

The white lamb at my feet,

Dance to the echoes of the caves,

Will I ever hear music again?

Source: http://www.mamalisa.com/images/non_ml_images/bluebird.gif

A bird perches on my window sill,

Fluttering with chirps of glee,

Pecks on my cheek with a kiss,

Something melts in my heart,

Is it trying to say something?

A shrill cry fills the gloomy shack,

A child hovers over her dying mother,

She shakily says to her and me,

I will see you both in heaven,

Are my days fewer than I think?

Source: http://www.momscleanairforce.org/wp-content/uploads/sky_bird-580x386.jpg

The bird flies up high to the sky,

Blue and pink with sunny rays,

A drop of peace amidst death notes,

Do not be afraid it seems to say,

My body shall die but not my soul

I dedicate this to the innocent victims of the recent Gaza/Israel War and especially the minorities who might be slaughtered in Iraq. 

Bubble of Joy

Dear readers,

This short story/fiction is inspired by real experiences of what a fibromyalgia patient goes through. It is written with hope to bring awareness to fibromyalgia as well as shed some light to those who are suffering from it or other diseases that involve chronic pain, depression or even mental illness, panic disorder and etc. 

If you are suffering from any kinds of pain physically, emotionally, mentally or even spiritually, I hope this story will enlighten you and give you hope. Enjoy.

Pain in Silence
A Sketch by Angelina Bong

BUBBLE OF JOY

Her feet trudged along the sands of a foreign land, with unbearable scorching heat purging her porcelain skin beyond skin deep. Miles and miles of golden sand stretched out ahead as the grains infested her blistered, bloodied toes. There was nothing living anywhere around, not even the thorny sights of cactus.

           She had thrown herself into the beginning of a dark, forsaken journey alone. Loneliness and hunger took over her sanity as she longed for a visible companion. Thoughts of dying permeated her mind every single second. Yet it did not happen. Death would not visit her.

She could not turn back although the quest already appeared to be a lost cause. Her vision slowly dwindled as the ravaging wind blew sand into her eyes. Her wounds stung as the dryness continued to worsen. She wished to take her own life yet an unseen drop of grace stopped her. It kept her moving as she hoped to reach the oasis at the end of the desert. The living water that never ran dry lay beyond the oasis in a promised paradise known to many as a legend. She believed it to be more than mere folklore.

Intan woke up in agony. It was only three in the morning. Her muscles groaned in soreness and her body felt bruised. Her left feet burned with a deep penetrating ache. Her dream felt real as she recalled the thousand miles in the forlorn desert.  Would she ever discover a paradise on earth? She cried in hopelessness as she popped another painkiller into her mouth.

Intan had been living with fibromyalgia since her diagnosis a year ago. It had been a rollercoaster ride as she fought to keep from falling into the abyss of despair. Her days were filled with pain, gloom, desolation and extreme fatigue although there would be a few bright days which were becoming a rarity. It was common to have piercing pain poking her simultaneously like nails being hammered into her flesh. She wondered how anyone could undergo crucifixion in the old days. At times, tingling sensation spread throughout her entire body as if ants were crawling and feasting on her skin. The worst ordeal came from tackling multitudes of symptoms accompanying her physical afflictions ranging from migraines, irritated bowel syndrome, occasional hives flare ups, sinusitis, and so forth.

Waking up every morning was a struggle for her as her body mimicked bouts of arthritis with stiff fingers clenched up refusing to be loosened. As soon as her eyes opened to the rising sun, she would beg God on her knees to give her strength as she prepared to enter the warzone. She clawed her way through tiredness for the rest of the day with what little energy left to make ends meet. Her nights were not of rest and rejuvenation as she battled with insomnia and sleep disturbances. Once in a while, she would sail through her daily chores smoothly and pondered whether the previous day’s combat was a stroke of ill-fantasy.

  She devoured on every new research she could get her hands on and tried making lifestyle changes but nothing worked. She suffered alone for she knew not one single soul in Malaysia who had the same sickness. No one understood her and she wished she might as well be dead since her quality of life had gone down the drain.

Her colleagues accused her of faking it to gain sympathy. Her friends perceived it was all a hallucination of her mind. Her family thought she possessed some psychological disorder. Intan was also afraid it might all be a conjuring of her messed up imaginations. What if the distress brought upon her flesh was non-existent? How did she end up with this mysterious illness leeching on her? She buried her face in her pillows and cried to sleep again.

Her younger self appeared to her. She was in a party smiling and dancing away. A group of friends were surrounding her and they were all shaking their hips to Intan’s moving rhythm. A sanguine with a warm heart, she was always on her toes bouncing with energy and effortlessly enjoyed making new friends. Bubbly, jovial and carefree were the words one would use to describe Intan. Bringing laughter into people's lives was once her life’s purpose. Where had it all gone to? What happened to her joyful radiance? How did depression get to her? When was the last time she had truly laughed? Fibromyalgia had transformed her into a dead corpse walking on thin air waiting for her bones to dry up completely and crack.

She knew that no great person whisked through life without overcoming the strongest hurdles. She recalled her grandmother telling her about Abraham who had to leave his comfortable life to go through the crazy hot desert to reach the Promised Land. She especially admired the late Mother Teresa who continued to tend to the poor without fail despite her deteriorating health even when she was ailing in her old age. Intan also recently followed Nick Vujicic on Twitter as she felt a hint of solace to know that a man born without limbs could live a life of fulfilment without complains despite his inconveniences and disabilities to do what normal people could do.  Why could she not have as much endurance as them?

A dark cloud hung over her. Like a shadow transcending from below, there was mist creeping up from the earth. Fogging her vision and blocking her bloodstream, it was violating her senses. Gripping on her nerves and pressing her chest, something emerged from the shadows and began strangling her. Her veins were on the verge of bursting while she choked from suffocation and sent jolts of throbbing pain to her head. Her muscles were aching to be freed but her limbs started to numb. She could feel coldness sending shivers down her skin as she smelled suicide breathing on her face. She heard death knocking on her door. Fires of hell enwrapped her soul. Captured and imprisoned, she blinked away tears in silence. Crying for pleas of help and fighting to overcome death, she forged to stay alive.

In the darkest hours of giving up, Intan’s eyes flipped open. It was another night of restless sleep. Every night, she had to go through multiple episodes of wild dreams. Her doctor told her it was normal for fibromyalgia patients to have sleeping disorders. She was unable to control her intense dreams leaving her worn-out even after ten to fourteen hours of sleep. Any amount of sleep was never enough. She woke up every other morning feeling like she had pulled an all-nighter. She wondered why her Lyrica never really worked.

Doctor Lee prescribed Lyrica to Intan in order to relieve her pain. Somehow her body reacted indifferently to it. Her somatic aches were not eased at all and her sleep was still in turmoil. On top of that, her finance was diminishing as both Lyrica and her doctor’s consultation fees were expensive. Frustrated, famished of rest and burnt out, she dragged herself like a zombie to work. It was another day of fighting fibromyalgia.

Cloistered behind high walls, the bustling sounds of cosmopolitan lifestyles seeped through the bricks that surrounded her. Ambushed by creeping poisonous ivy, the thick walls were made of dusty moulds of wood. Occasionally, there were voices outside this little cavern unknown to the exterior world. The noises did not distract her. In fact, she was oblivious to them. Inside the walls, there was immense silence. Not even a drop of water could be heard. There was no breeze passing through at all. Listening intently to the stillness, she could hear a voice calling from within her. She sat down quietly facing the walls with her ears perked up. She wondered if the voice from inside her was her own.

Soon, darkness came. A dim candle flickered in the hollow where she sat. She could smell the stench of blood engraved around the walls. She suddenly felt a deep aspiration to be a martyr and to be killed for a cause. It was better to die than to wait in vain and not lived at all. She embraced this torturous yearning not knowing what she was looking for. Where was she and why was she there? What was her purpose in this enclosure? Was it the beginning or the end of her journey in life?

Her emotions were fragile yet not conforming to the voice within her. Finally she understood the voices and societal pressures outside those barriers. It was scary to be out there yet it was even more horrific to be inside with not a single soul to be seen. She craved for an audience to listen to that voice mysteriously sneaking up her throat. Whose voice was that? Was there something living inside her? Why was she trapped in there? She was alone in the world yet not of the world.

Hungry and crouching with her disjointed knees, she sensed a surge of insatiable thirst. Dressed in white and gold, she remembered she was a princess in exile. Malnourished beyond the naked eyes, she starved not for bread but for the voice within. The presence of the voice grew stronger but she could not bring it out no matter how hard she tried. What did the voice want of her?

Many days passed and she had a hunch that the angel of death would visit her soon. She vowed to become a glorious bride but by the look of it, her desire would never be fulfilled. Where was her prince charming? There was a vague memory of a prince asking her to wait for him. She reminisced about the promises he made to come and rescue her. There was no sign of any living person. Would he ever make it? Her parched throat made no sound and she sat motionless waiting for her groom.

Intan woke up with cold sweat enveloping her entire face. She gasped for breath as she called to mind the stale air from the small dark chamber with towering walls. Why was she having all these disturbing dreams? There were many times she thought she would rather have cancer or some autoimmune disorders. A life-threatening disease would eventually lead to death and end all the miseries in her life.  At the very least, that could satisfy her human mind that she was truly ill. She was sick of fighting an illness that has no known cause. Most people she knew only burdened her with advices on how to eat and exercise right without truly knowing what she had to bear night and day. At times she imagined her own death approaching and wished very much it would come sooner.

A bright light was shining down on her. She smelled fresh dew. Hearing voices of angels floating above her, she saw an injured lamb at her feet with blood all over its white fleece. Pools of water started to swell in her eyes. Suddenly, the lamb leapt into the clouds and disappeared. A blinding ray flashed down and cast away the spirits of anguish that was lurking in the air. The dark clouds gradually rolled away. The lamb reappeared spotless and pure white. It trotted in good spirit towards Intan and she automatically ran to hug it. Flowing tears streamed down her cheeks as she cuddled the lamb in her arms.  

She woke up and found herself beaming although her mood was somewhat melancholy. Her face was flustered and wet. She must have cried in her dreams. Could it be that she finally could smile after so long? Could that be tears of joy? This was the first time she had awakened without feeling afraid, anxious or terribly disturbed. Would she ever feel this way again? Why was fibromyalgia sucking away all her happiness? Was she depressed and not know it? How long had she been living in this state?

Soaked in divine sweetness, she woke up to the face of a King. His warm brown eyes gazed at her in a fatherly manner. He gave her a cup of honey, served as tea to quench her thirst. She stared at him in suspicion as he seemed to understand all her thoughts and longings. He nodded and exchanged words without audibly speaking. Was she in heaven or some fairy land?

She sat up on the bed of roses as he poured water from nothingness onto her. The feel of the water on her skin was magical beyond human expression. She understood she was instantaneously being cleansed of every impurity ever existed in the history of her life. He caressed her hand softly and on the spot, she could catch a glimpse of his kingdom. He gave her a foretaste of treasures that were to come. She was not even of royal blood but this king had bestowed a part of his glory upon her; something so rare and prized. She did not know whether to cry or to laugh as an extraordinary flame of bliss burst forth from her heart. No words could fully explain what she was going through. No happiness in this world could be compared to this moment. She felt belonged and utterly loved. Who was this king? A renewed vigour soared through her heart.

She opened her eyes. It was pitch black. Alas, it was just another dream. Prickling sensations were spreading all over her legs and her right foot was frozen. She was itching with hives infesting her arms like fiery parasites making a nest on a piece of meat. Yet, something sweet lingered in her. She did not feel frustrated but instead, a sense of peace held her. What were her dreams telling her? They were beginning to take a completely different direction from the usual dark nightmares. Would she be able to meet the King again?

Someone shook Intan hard. She jerked herself up as soon as she became aware that the hands firmly gripping her right shoulder belonged to Frodo. Frodo from ‘Lord of the Rings’ was sitting beside her? What nonsense!!! He summoned her to wake up, sleep no longer and beckoned her to follow him to the balcony. She gawked in disbelief as she tried to soak in the picturesque view of Rivendell where the elves from the story were living. Could it be possible that she was even there? Frodo waved his hand in front of Intan and brought a series of flashbacks presenting Frodo’s life journey in preserving the infamous ring to play right in front of Intan’s eyes. Forging ahead in difficult circumstances, she could see that Frodo never gave up. He stayed true to his task entrusted solely to him till the very end.

Intan felt ashamed. She broke down and started to weep. How many times in her life did she wallow in self pity and gave up on trying to get better? Tears of helplessness from overdue penned up frustrations led to wailings of bitterness. Frodo stroked her hair as one would to a little girl crying as his other hand found its way to Intan’s. As he held her fragile fingers in his small palm, he whispered to her that she was precious. Intan shook her head and blurted, "Precious?!! I'm a failed creation. Fibromyalgia has consumed me." 

Frodo’s sombre expression turned into one of good cheer as his eyes lit up with a twinkle. Grinning from ear to ear, Frodo said gently, “You might think that this fibromyalgia that you’re having is a curse but will you believe me if I tell you that this can be turned into a great opportunity for you to reach out to people?”

Intan’s ears twitched as her eyes blinked and signalled Frodo to go on. “Remember the king that you met? He sees the pain you are going through and he knows you have a kind soul. He has sent me as a messenger to ask you to fulfil a mission. You have suffered much and with that, you will be able to relate to the sufferings of others. He wants you to be his hands and feet to bring comfort and love to the bruised and broken-hearted humankind that the king so dearly loved. When you seek to console them, you will be healed from within. Be the bubble of joy that you are meant to be.”

Tears flooded Intan’s eyes as she glimpsed a silver lining in her fibromyalgia. For the first time, she tried to accept fibromyalgia. Clasping Frodo’s hands, she spoke, “Thank you Frodo for coming to me. Please tell the king that I am so grateful for this special task. Who am I to deserve such a high honour?”

Intan rose to her feet and she began to dance, rejoicing like fluttering butterflies. Frodo jiggled along with her and as they were swinging side by side to an invisible music, a dove flew towards them and perched itself on the balcony’s railing.

Intan woke up and her heart was beating fast to the tempo in her dream as if she was really on her twirling feet.  Feeling light-headed, Intan propped herself up on her pillows. A gush of wind blew across her face and goose bumps surfaced all over her body. She glanced towards the direction of the wind and realised it came from her ajar glass window. Sitting stock-still on the window sill was a dove. Intan’s mouth fell open and her hands trembled as she cowered behind her blanket, pulling it up to her neck. There was a streak of grey shade running across the milky white feathers on its right wing which happened to be exactly the same as on the dove in the dream. How coincidental could that be? What if it was not a dream and her soul was in another realm?

The dove took flight, flapping its wings vigorously and stood for like a second mid-air fixing its gaze towards Intan’s direction before it finally flew off. She felt strangely excited as she relived her dream and it was as vivid as if she was still there. She closed her eyes and slowly drew a long breath as she noticed a new power rising from within her.

'The Calloused Hands' written for Basadi Balefatshe - An International Journey of a Woman

It's been a while since I wrote in this cavern.

I just got back from South Africa. Its been an enriching and wonderful experience. I've learnt so much and been blessed over and over by the places I visited and especially by the amazing souls that have touched my life while I am there. I've got a million stories to tell and a lot more to weave into stories that I know I will use someday.

I went there to perform in a musical play and also to engage in cultural exchange.

Here is a poem-story that I presented/performed for a musical play entitled ‘Basadi Balefatshe’ (World Women) – ‘An International Journey of a Woman’ at Joburg Theatre, Johannesburg, South Africa in conjunction with International Women’s Day. This poem-story was also told during an International Storytelling Festival at Pretoria, South Africa.

The story is a fiction inspired by the lives of some Asian women. However, the photo below is a real picture of me and my popo’s hands J

Me and Popo's hands

The Calloused Hands

Popo!!!! I call out in high pitch glee

Her wrinkles curve and smile at me

Happiness awakened from distrait

Finally after all those years of wait

I rush to her side, she coughs out blood

Lying on her deathbed without a word

Her body lays motionless but her eyes

Twinkle with whispers of love and cries

Tiny and frail hardly explains her body

More fragile than a new-born baby

She lifts up her bony shaky fingers

Cupping my face and let one lingers

Rough and dry her old skin against mine

Worse than burns from acid and alkaline

Her teary eyes pierces deep into my soul

Bringing me back to great times of old

********

Mama died when she gave birth to me

Papa sits in jail for raping her repeatedly

Popo brought me up with love and care

She took me in which was an act so rare

She woke up at five every morning

Chicken porridge was her best cooking

Alternating with butter buns and bread

There was nothing my taste truly dread

I was a noisy and naughty little girl

Always caught with my feet awhirl

She never spared me from the rod

Never to spoil but instil fear of God

When I behaved well, she would fry

Banana fritters so good you would cry

She would hug me and laugh out loud

Chasing rain from the hovering cloud

Popo’s hair was always in a small bun

Neat and tidy not a hair seen in front

Wraparound sarong tied with a knot

Her lips wearing a shade of red hot

Day and night she worked hard

Tending to vegetables in her yard

A kind soul, still sharing a fruit or two

Turning away the needy was a taboo

A storyteller at night with her hair down

Filled with tales to enchant and astound

Memoirs of her younger self and ah kong

My grandpa who had died forty years long

I once asked “Popo, are you not tired?”

Pointing upwards, her secret transpired

“My strength comes from high above”

“All is made possible in the name of love”

I continued, “Why did you choose to keep me?”

She held me tight and said, “Why would I flee?”

“God gave you to me, one of his greatest gifts”

“You’re innocent no matter who your papa is”

Time passed, I had to leave for university

Popo would come to see me in the city

Each time she grew shorter and shorter

While the hunch on her back grew bigger

Work began to eat away all my time

I strived to pay back every single dime

Popo was far from my heart and mind

I was exhausted after a long day’s grind

One day a phone call made my heart broke

Popo fell down the stairs and had a stroke

Panicking I prayed it was not too late

I had promised to bring Popo on a date

********

Her mouth opens wide gasping for air

I keep muttering that it is so unfair

She holds my gaze in blinking tears

Am I facing one of my biggest fears?

Popo softly moans “I’m going home”

“I am not leaving you alone to roam”

“Do not cry my cucu, I know you care”

“I will watch over you from up there”

Her calloused hands clasp mine tightly

Not letting go I grip them to me closely

“I love you” springs from her watery eyes

Breathes her last and to heaven she flies

p/s: If you like poetry, feel free to browse my poems at my previous posts labelled 'My Poems'.  

Revolt by Qaisra Shahraz

Revolt is one of the first few books I managed to finish for the start of 2014 and I think you should totally read it up too. Why so? My review is below. 

Revolt by Qaisra Shahraz

I wanted to leave a customer review on Amazon itself but because I have not bought any books from Amazon, I am not allowed to do so although I am definitely going to order some books online, possibly as soon as possible.

Reading has been challenging during the start of the new year due to a lot of recent happenings in my family especially with the festive seasons but I am so glad I managed to squeeze in time to read this book. 

Revolt is beautifully engaging. My feet was on tiptoe the entire time my eyes ran through the words on the book as the stories flowed from page to page, gripping my heart from the first to the last. My emotions catapulted like a chameleon, raging from intense anger and grief to shedding tears of joy and thrill as I felt the loss, desire, passion and sacrifice of the characters. 

The descriptive motions led me picturing myself living in the story amidst the rich traditions and cultures of the Pakistani way of life. Important issues concerning many Asian women and men particularly of contradicting values between modernity, faith and tradition were cleverly brought to light and addressed. The striking contrast between the rich and the poor depicted in the stories are very real in the world we are living in today. This made me ponder on the times I have turned my head away from those who are in need. Read on and perhaps you might be moved to take action to do something about poverty in your area.

I sensed my heart rising in rebellion as each character revolted in the name of love. How often have we encountered these people in our community but shun them from our lives? Perhaps reading this will melt our heart a little and enabled us to embrace the differences that each individual brings. 

Revolt was not only a truly enjoyable read but intelligent as well. I'm an inch wiser now as each character's beliefs and actions taught me a thing or two about love, life and faith. I hope I get to visit Pakistan someday and witness the rich cultures described vividly in the book and of course, to taste all the delicious food mentioned. 

I'm definitely looking forward to reading more of Qaisra's works. 

Be Thankful for the Good and Bad Times of 2013

I just came back from the hospital and another illness is added to the list! Doctor confidently diagnosed my bald patch as Alopecia Areata and asked me to use the same topical treatment cream I applied on my Vitiligo patches.

For those who didn’t know, last year I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, Disc Herniation and Sciatica. In between all that, I have frequent diaarrhoea, food poisoning, sinusitis, sleep disruption, headaches and etc. Earlier this year, Vitiligo came and leeched itself on me. Just last month, the doctor guessed I have Neuritis and today, I am given Alopecia. Wow, what’s next?

As I googled up on Alopecia, it says that 1 in 5 people would progress to total baldness. So I’m going bald after turning slowly into a leopard with spots? What other autoimmune disorders will creep up? How disfigured will I get? Will I be shunned by society? Hmmm…should I freak out? For some reason, I am unusually calm although I can’t say I am not disappointed, upset or more sombre than usual.

Beginning of this year, I quit my stressful job and came back to my hometown. I’ve been ‘jobless’ for almost a year although I do get part time/freelance stuffs once in a while. The illnesses have taken a toll on my body physically, mentally, emotionally and even spiritually. I’ve gained 10 kgs since last year. Tomorrow is the last day of the year. Should I lash curses at God and hold resentment against him? Should I throw away all smiles and laughter and wallow in self-pity? I think not.

As I look back at this past year of 2013, there is much to be thankful for. Yes, even in my multiple sicknesses and trials and losses, I am thankful. I won’t put up a front and tell you that it has been a breeze and every day I had wakened up being grateful. I confess I have been bitterly frustrated, depressed, fearful, doubtful and even angry at God many times. Why did the Almighty God allow heaps of things to happen to me?

 Well, He’s God and I’m not. Therefore, I will never completely understand and grasp the big picture that He has in mind. I believe He has a plan for all these. He always does. He promises in

Romans 8:28 ‘We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.’

If God can give Sarah a child at her impossible old age and raised Lazarus from the dead, I am sure there is nothing that is impossible for Him. There must be something good out of all these trials and sufferings.

First and foremost, I am very grateful for the Lord’s grace and strength for helping me get through my painful days and days when I felt hope was just too far away. I am especially thankful for His constant Providence through unexpected sources that has kept me going although I was and still am technically jobless. I even get to go on several travel trips overseas through sponsors! I also thank God for the generous love from my family and friends. I still get to celebrate Christmas where many are homeless and cannot even go to church because of terrible disasters like the typhoon that plagued so many Filipinos. I am thankful for shelter and food and looking at my size, I’m sure you will know that there is always plenty of food on the table, if not too much. 

I would also like to thank God for the many times I've been hurt, misunderstood, rejected and humiliated for at times like these, I felt I had a glimpse of God's painful sacrifice for us. I thank God for all my illnesses because they keep me a little humbler and dependable on God for without Him I cannot go on especially on days when my physical strength is at its lowest. It was at times like these that I sometimes felt the closest to God although there were many times that I thought He had abandoned me. Again, those times were crucial to help me develop my faith. I sure hope it is not diminishing but growing instead. I am glad to still be alive, kicking and moving where millions have died or became bed-ridden.

Due to my ‘joblessness’, I have time on my hands and I have been immersing myself in creative projects from crafts, paintings and especially writing. Writing has always been a childhood dream buried and forgotten because it is not something someone in my country would encourage you to take seriously especially if it involves fiction or storytelling. Same goes to painting. There are plenty of poor artists around me and those who cared didn’t want me to end up like them. I am thankful however that my family supports my endeavours and although most of them do not understand or even read my writings especially my poetry, they never stopped me from doing them or put pressure on me to quickly find a desk job or a 9 to 5 occupation. I mostly felt the ongoing pressure from within myself. It is by facing the dark and forging ahead to fight those battles that I was able to draw much inspiration to write and paint. So for these trying times, I want to thank God for leading me through this foggy war. Without all these ‘unforeseen circumstances’, I would never have time to sit down, reflect, write and paint. I would have been too busy trying to look my best, be my best at my career and on top of that, acting like a social butterfly fleeting from one party to the next.

I don’t know if I will ever be cured of all my sicknesses or whether I will get financially stabilised in 2014. One thing I know and I’m certain of is that God is always with us. No matter the hurdles he’ll make me jump over or the raging sea that he’ll have me cross, I know He is faithful even when I am not and that means He’ll give me all the necessary graces to not only persevere but to rise above them all triumphantly. And so, in sickness or in health, in baldness or in full crown of glory, I thank God and will thank Him for all He has prepared for me in this coming year. After all, what are a little baldness, a little pain and a little poverty as compared to the crucifixion pains and humiliation suffered by Jesus on the cross? What we have or will ever have is pale in comparison to His. Let us draw strength from He who has been through it all.

As He has commanded, let us obey and

'give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.' (1 Thess 5:18)

By the way, I am working on my first novel while compiling my poetry. Hopefully, I’ll get to publish them both in 2014. Also, more paintings will be on sale! Here’s to a fruitful and joyous Happy New Year no matter whatever circumstances we find ourselves in. One more thing, I thank God for you. Will you pray for me as I pray for you?

HUNGER GAMES

Watching Hunger Games: Catching Fire yesterday sent me hungry for more. Both Katniss and Peeta's characters left me with a mind to wonder...what will become of them? I must say Jennifer Lawrence has once again proved to be a remarkable actress with more than intelligence and vulnerability combined. What's more intriguing about this film is that it has a striking resemblance to the world we lived in today. This movie has sparked a fire in me to reflect on life.

Today we live in a society where the rich becomes richer and the poor becomes poorer. Yes, there are ongoing talks about helping the poor and thousands if not millions of humanitarian aid organizations out there. Every company is doing something to help the poor to keep tabs with their corporate social responsibility. Otherwise, their customers might just run to the next company who appears to be more 'caring'. Everyone seems to be doing their part. Do they really care or it is just another marketing gimmick like what Katniss and Peeta was sent to do in their tours?

Hungry children die of starvation every other day. Human trafficking exploits them and takes advantage of their vulnerabilities. Poor mothers with babies are forced to beg on the streets with rich neighbours living next to them who are oblivious to their existence. Millions of people die of diseases due to lack of clean water and basic necessities that we so often take for granted. How many more can't even afford to go to school while spoilt rich kids skip classes to go shopping? It is absurdly appalling that many go hungry while so much food is thrown away in other parts of the world. Remember the party on the eve of the Hunger Games? Many such feasts are held everyday in this world with food deliberately wasted. How many wish they can puke all the food out so they can try more delicacies? Nowdays, that is not a rare wish at all.

Then again, are the rich with all the wants and materials they can have more happy than the hungry and poor? It is undeniably a fact that suicidal and depression is higher in richer countries. Why so? Perhaps we should really look back and think. 

Are the poor really powerless with no hope to live? Are the rich so high and mighty that they would never suffer from sorrows? Far from true. So why then do we continue with the ongoing pursuits of wealth and pleasures that can never last? What games are we playing that are leaving us hungry for more? 

We can feel if not see clearly the invisible walls that separate the rich and the poor, like the District 12 and the Capitol. People screwing and 'killing' each other to go to the top. Hunger Games paints a clearer picture of the world we live in.

So are we left with no hope? Not at all...Watching Katniss and Peeta gives me a glimmer of hope to keep fighting as they keep fighting to rise above their persecutions, trials and oppressions. Above that, to give a voice to the voiceless and help them fight.

The greatest lesson is FAITH. Fight in faith. And when all is said and done, there's still heaven. We can hope in that. Life's on earth not all that's left. As Katniss longs to run away to a safer place in the hope to have a better life, we can trust in that longing too, with hope. 

I totally agree with the words of Bruce W. Mcdonald in his book, "The Fight of Faith." He wrote,

"There is nothing wrong with longing for heaven....'I consider the present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. (Romans 8:18'

Shall we then strive in our own Hunger Games? Let's not give up on life ;)

CHINA

Dear readers,

The work below is a piece of fiction inspired by true life's circumstances. I rarely   post short stories on this blog but has always been fascinated by them. This is one of my few attempts to bring light to some issues tormenting girls. Feedbacks, comments and constructive criticisms are most welcome! 

CHINA

           

It was summer 1999. I would never have thought life could ever be like this. A slave like me could never want something more from life. Besides, I was never truly alive. I was a tool to be used and confiscated when all was said and done. I should never question what I was born to be for it was all laid out for me. I was bought by a price. If anyone who should remain silent for the rest of her life, it should be me.  Whatever happened must be a stroke of luck or some mighty invisible hands at work.

In the cold winter’s night of 1987, a Chinese baby girl with lovely shining eyes was born. Her cries filled a small corner of a city in the province of Anhui. She was a pretty sight to behold. Unfortunately, her mother looked at her with terror in her eyes and refused to hold this baby that was born of her flesh. Her father came in, saw the baby and quickly tucked her in his arms and fled the room. It was too much a risk to keep the baby. The one child policy meant they could only have one kid and it would have to be a boy. The boy could help in his laborious business and would be able to carry the surname of the family. A girl would be of no use to them. The father passed this crying baby bundled in rags to a red-haired foreigner waiting near the dock and she was never to be seen again in China. That poor little baby was me.

I grew up not knowing who my parents were. I always thought Master was my father but at age six, it finally dawned on me that my siblings were all tanned. I was the only fair child. At first I thought I was special and then realised the colour of my skin was a curse. They would all make fun of me and said Master picked me from the rubbish bin and bleached me till I was pale yellow because the stench on me was too horrible that no one could bear to be near me. I ran to Master asking him who my parents were and how did I end up in a land where no one else looked like me and was reprimanded with six harsh beatings from a rattan rod. From that day onwards, I never questioned Master again. Nor would I ask anyone where I came from.

It was never easy to please my Master. I tried singing but ended up sounding like a grasshopper creaking in the woods. I practiced dancing again and again but my clumsy feet prevented me from swinging graceful hips that I never had. I never excelled at any performances that my siblings could do so easily. They all seemed like a chore to me and I wondered why I did not possess any talents worth pursuing. How was I going to help Master make money? Would he throw me out because I could not contribute anything to make a living? All I could do was sit and beg but that was not helping much.

One day while I was begging, a beautiful lady with long blond hair and clear blue eyes came to me. She gave me a chapatti with some hot dhal. She told me I was pretty. My heart almost stopped in disbelief. I wondered whether she was telling the truth or she was just giving compliments out of pity for my kind who had to sit and beg. I smiled graciously at her and she patted my head gently. No one had ever touched me like that before. I did not know whether to cry, to run or to laugh. Instead, I stared at her blankly till she left. That night, I could not sleep at all thinking of the gorgeous maiden sent from heaven and her soft hands. 

The next day, I saw her again. She was passing the dusty streets of Pink City. Clad in a blue kurta and jeans, she came over and handed me a McDonald’s vegetarian burger. I was too stunned to speak. I had always seen teenagers and family enjoying Happy Meals in the yellow, red and white restaurant and could only dream that one day, some angel would bring the burgers to me. My angel arrived in the form of a fine lady with sparkling eyes that spoke of love when she gazed into mine. This time, I thanked her in English. I knew a few words of English from my older siblings who had picked it up in the streets from the foreigners who had come to visit Jaipur. From that day onwards, I saw my angel every day without fail. She would bring me food to eat and thanks to her, I learnt a lot more English although our conversations were always brief. I looked forward to our meetings everyday and for the first time in my life, I felt happy. I loved her so much and I swore I would die for her if anything threatened her life.

This angel of mine gave me a present. It had attractive women with long flowing dresses stuck on papers. Each paper had different pictures that were delicately drawn with meticulous details. There were some words at the bottom of each piece. My angel told me my present was a book. I was mesmerized by it. I started looking at my book every night and imagined that I would be one of those graceful ladies wearing striking gowns. It was a consoling dream every night where I could escape from my harsh life. Sad to say, Master saw me one night clutching my book and took it away from me. He tore the pages right in front of me as I choked back tears of grief. He made me promise never to touch a book again for it would spoil my pure mind. I nodded quietly.

One cloudy day, this angel of mine stopped coming. I waited till sunset and she still did not come. I was heartbroken. I asked around the shopkeepers and stall owners who might have known her. One of them told me that she flew back to the United States. My heart was torn. My angel left and betrayed me. My only source of joy had to be taken away.  She did not even say goodbye. I was left all alone again in the slums where I did not even belong. I realised I was from a different planet and it hurt so badly. I could not cry for crying was forbidden. Master would strike us with a stick so hard we would be bruised till we could not walk for days. I sucked all the pain into my soul and I grew quiet. I vowed never to smile again unless it was to seduce and tempt, never to let anyone into my heart again. I became silent and only spoke when it was absolutely necessary.

My heart cried till it cries no more. I was turning twelve and Master was preparing me for something huge. I was no longer allowed to go and beg. I was to take care of my skin and made sure I would not do anything to hurt myself physically. There were no more beatings or slapping. I was to make sure I knew how to walk properly. I had to take dancing lessons everyday although it was difficult as I was never cut out to be a dancer. Master told me someone would visit me and make me a woman. That person is of great honour and he would bring great wealth to our home. He told me that I would never be the same childish and foolish person like I was before. I was to become a mature, wise and refined lady once this honourable person paid his visit and made me one. I was delighted and did all my preparations with care. I would finally bring admiration and riches to Master. I would be the best slave anyone could ever have. I was born to be that.

The day finally came when that honourable person arrived. He wore a bright orange turban and he had such a long beard that you could weave them into braids. He introduced himself as Mr. Jee. After performing a dance, Master took me and him into a room filled with all things shiny and gold. The bed was covered in red silky sheets with golden embroideries. I would never dream of sleeping in a bed as heavenly as this. Although everything looked like dreamland, I felt strange at the thought of a bed in a meeting place. Mr. Jee looked at me intensely and switched off the lights. I was afraid of the dark and wanted to say something but I kept my mouth shut. Within seconds and swift like the lightning, his fat hairy hands reached for my golden saree and tore all my clothes off. He started touching me all over but something inside my heart told me this was not right. How could such horror make me a woman? I panicked and kicked him with all my strength, I fled the room and for fear of Master’s disappointment, I ran with all my might away from my Master’s home. I ran till I could run no more and slept in the corner of a street. I was only covered in my torn saree cloth that I managed to grab with me.

I woke up in the broad daylight with noisy kids roaming around the sandy alleys. No one seemed to have noticed me. Everyone was engaged in their own daily routines. There were a few camels strutting slowly across me. I was hungry, thirsty and scared. What if Master did send his troop to look for me? The last time someone tried to run away, Master found him and chopped his arms off. This armless boy grew into a man who would beg for the rest of his life with a paper cup as his companion. I feared that would happen to me. I quickly gathered my saree and wrapped myself properly with it and started to move. I walked till my feet bled and toes blistered for I was without shoes when I left that shameful chamber. It was soon midnight. There was not one single soul to be seen along the highways of the desert. I took my slumber on the roadside till I heard the honking of cars. It was still dark but fear took hold of me again and pushed me to get up and walk.

On the fourth day, I was drained of all my energy under the terrible scorching heat of the desert. My head was spinning and my steps became slower and slower. I was dying for water. I did not dare ask anyone for fear of them recognizing me as Master’s slave. I continued to trudge on the rough roads dragging my painful feet. Alas, I could take it no more. I slumped against a tractor like a huge rock thrown at a wall and slept. I passed out for hours. Not even the sound of honking trucks could wake me up. I lay at the roadside like a dead log.

I was awakened by some foreign music that was new to my ears. I opened my eyes and sat up. I felt like I was in a room of another planet. There were no glitzy decorations so loved by the Indians. The blanket covering me was filled with some puffy cotton and it was satin white. In fact, the whole room was white in colour leaving only chairs and tables in mahogany. Even the wardrobe was white. It was peculiar but very clean. Nothing like the home I slept in. I jumped out of bed and ran out of the room. I saw an old man and a young woman looking at me. I stared at them for I was startled to see people of different colours than I would normally see. The young woman had similar features like mine. She had long straight silky black hair and she also had pale yellow skin.  She began to explain to me that she saw me on the roadside when they were passing by as tourists in Jaipur on the way back to Delhi. She thought it was a rare sight to see a fellow Chinese sleeping on the streets and so she saved me.

I finally found out one piece of information about myself. I am Chinese. How odd. I never heard of that word. Whatever it meant, I must be part of it or it was part of me. I started to sob and tears flowed out like rivers of water penned up in my silence all these years. I told them in my broken English about what happened and the young woman held me like a baby in her arms. She assured me she would help me in whatever ways she could.

            The air was clean and there were different types of big trees lining up the tar roads. There were no honking from the cars that passed by us and no beggars were in sight. We reached a huge mansion with brown window panes surrounded by a blooming garden with magical flowers that I had never seen before. The young lady grasped my hand, walked me into the house and led me up the stairs into my room. I could hardly breathe when she told me the room belonged to me. It was magnificent and fit for a princess.

            Painted in pink, I had a queen size bed with quilted covers all to myself. There was a desk next to it with a table lamp so exquisite I could only imagine ever to see in a palace. I leapt for joy as I looked at the shelves and beamed at the hundreds of books waiting for me to be read. I could escape into different imaginations anytime. I reached out for a book and flipped the pages. I saw weird organic shapes with words all over them and there were lines in each shape. I wished I could read them.

            The young lady pointed at the shapes and told me those were the maps of the world. She explained we were all living on this planet named Earth and it consisted of various countries. It took her and her husband one year to sort out paperwork to get me from India to the United States. She even went on a search to discover how I reached India. She finally pointed to a huge part of a shape and told me, “That’s China. That was where you were born.”

            My eyes moistened with tears as I finally understood the meaning of my name. I am China.