lost in paradise · 2017. 3. 2. · “don’t give me that look. if you start crying i’m going...

Lost in

Paradise

By: Daisnen R. Baldonado

Table of Contents

Foreword……………………………………………………………….i

Short Stories(10)

Japan……………………………………………………………………….1

China……………………………………………………………………..9

Korea……………………………………………………………………19

Singapore…………………………………………………………..24

Thailand………………………………………………………………28

Myanmar…………………………………………………………….34

Philippines……………………………………………………….43

Saudi Arabia…………………………………………………….56

Africa………………………………………………………………….70

Malaysia…………………………………………………………….73

Quotes(10)

Japan……………………………………………………………………78

China……………………………………………………………………79

Korea…………………………………………………………………..80

Singapore…………………………………………………………..81

Thailand………………………………………………………………82

Myanmar…………………………………………………………….83

Philippines…………………………………………………………84

Saudi Arabia……………………………………………………..85

Africa………………………………………………………………….86

Malaysia…………………………………………………………….87

Poetry……………………………………………………ii

Japan………………………………………………………88

China……………………………………………………..90

Korea……………………………………………………..93

Singapore…………………………………………….94

Thailand……………………………………………….95

Myanmar……………………………………………..98

Philippines………………………………………….100

Saudi Arabia……………………………………….102

Africa……………………………………………………104

Malaysia……………………………………………….107

Songs(10)…………………………………………………iii

Japan………………………………………………………110

China………………………………………………………114

Korea………………………………………………………116

Singapore…………………………………………….119

Thailand…………………………………………….....124

Myanmar………………………………………………128

Philippines…………………………………………..133

Saudi Arabia……………………………………….136

Africa…………………………………………………….139

Malaysia……………………………………………….144

Personal Essay(2)

Lady in White………………………………………149

Trip to Mary’s Home…………………………151

References………………………………………….154

Foreword

Let’s face a simple fact, several of us might think that the world is now full of tedious scenes, full of misery, disaster and slothful people that makes us think, there’s nothing in this world would make us feel contented about life. But look at the bright side, there are still lots sceneries where you haven’t even noticed yet, their beauty and their wonderful cultures. As you flip the pages of this magazine, don’t think about your problems, just bear in mind all the positive things that you would be able to discover today.

I

Losing My Father

By Watanabe On

Translated by Hamish Smith

When I opened my eyes that morning I could see my father standing at the basin by the foot of my pillow, shaving his beard for the first time in quite a while. A breeze blew in through the window and made the curtain sway against the crisp morning sun, which cast green-blue shadows over my father’s face. Small birds were chirping outside.

“Dad, it’s such a nice day,” I said to my father.

“Beautiful weather! Now hurry up and get out of bed. I’m taking you to have a look at the harbor today,” he said as he carefully shaved off the final patch of stubble.

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“You mean it? Great!” I said, ever so happy. “But Dad, why are you shaving?”

“I’ll look like your dad if I have a beard. Don’t you think so?” said my father as he looked over at me and poked out his thin tongue.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, if I have a shave then I’ll look a little less like a father…I’m planning on taking you to the harbor today and leaving you there. Pretty good idea, huh?” My father laughed as he spoke.

“You lie!” I said as I got myself up and out of bed.

My father hurried to change me into some brand new flannel clothes. He then put on a fresh, tailor-made, sweet-smelling straw hat, of which I had never seen before, along with a red neck tie. Then we left the house. All the people in the houses under the violet and rose-red summer morning sky were most likely still sleeping. My father waved a long walking stick around as we made our way down the abandoned main street towards the railway station.

“I hope we don’t run into anyone,” my father said to himself.

“Why?” I asked. My father didn’t answer; he just continued talking to himself.

“Oh, this kid is the worst. A father and son only ten years apart! Boy-oh-boy, have I had enough of this.”

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“Why?” I asked again, peeking at his face. My father said nothing, he just laughed, almost as if he couldn’t hear my voice. I began to get upset. I tried to get closer to my father, but he coldly pushed me away. He then told me off in an oddly gentle manner.

“Come on now. People might think we’re brothers if you get too close, and we can’t have that.”

I screwed up my face with malice and glared at my father’s smooth, clean-shaven face and red neck tie.

We boarded the steam engine as it arrived. My father turned and looked out over the edge of the town as we passed it by, all the while whistling ‘A Young Man’s Fancy’. I felt like he had gotten even colder towards me.

“So, are we going to see a ship?” I asked with an anxious heart.

“Yep, might even ride on one…” My father pulled a dashing purple handkerchief from his breast pocket and used it to wipe a pair of tortoise-shell glasses before putting them on. The eyes behind the lenses betrayed no sense of guilt. The smell of Coty cologne wafted from the handkerchief and was so strong that it made me choke.

“There’s nothing glamorous about going to take a look at a harbor,” said my father.

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“Dad, why are you wearing those glasses?” I asked as I looked up, confused at his unbecoming appearance. At that my father got very angry.

“Dad? You’re an idiot, kid. What makes you think I’m your dad? You call me Dad again and I’ll give you what for!”

“…” It was then that I suddenly felt like this man, with this sour expression, was really not my father. I kept thinking that maybe I really had mistook this man for my father when I opened my eyes that morning. Me and him–how much of a connection did I really have to this mystery of a man I called Dad–he certainly was only about ten years older

than me–and anyone could see that there was something not right about that. I slowly began to feel sick. The only person I really knew was myself. Confusion swept over me.

“Don’t give me that look. If you start crying I’m going to leave you on the train!” said my father, bluntly, but then instantly tried to warm up to me.“Just kidding. You didn’t really think I would do something like that, did you? Honestly. I’m really happy that you’re able to see me off,” my father said with a laugh. I started to regret having left the house that day. There was nothing I could do but look out the window over the clear country landscape as it blurred into soft tears.

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We arrived at the harbor station. My father called out to a station attendant who wheeled over two red leather suitcases. I got into a car with one of the suitcases and was driven towards the wharf, all the while wondering when exactly my father had brought these two suit cases along. I looked at the name plate on the suitcase only to see that it was blank. Occasionally my father would grip the rim of his hat and look back out of the window of the car in front and, for some reason, laughed through his tortoise-shell rimmed glasses while his red neck tie fluttered in the wind. And that’s when, oh, that horrible, cunning, unfeeling face! I felt misery build up in my chest and I had to look away.

The SS. Sakusonia will be departing at seven am was written on the message board at the gate to the harbor. My father made his way to the SS. Sakusonia with both bags in tow. I stood on the wharf and looked out at the black, rusted iron hull of the ship. Before long a gong echoed from within, and a steam whistle sounded from the fat chimney.

“Thanks for everything! Look after yourself!” my father call out to me, smiling, from the deck of the ship.

“You too!” I yelled back as I looked up towards the deck.

The ship left the dock. My father raised his new hat high in the air and used it to wave goodbye. I waved my cloth cap back as hard as I could.

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I sat myself down on the huge bricks of the wharf and lost myself for the better half of a day in the ocean breeze. Finally a customs officer in a blue uniform with a blue button put his hand on my shoulder.

“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’re planning to throw yourself into the water?” he asked. I suddenly found myself in sorrow and began to sob.

“Hey now, hey now, we can’t have that. Crying won’t help. Tell me what happened.”

“I’ve…lost my…father!” I finally replied. And then I told him how my father had fooled me.

“What does your father look like?” asked the customs officer.

“I’m trying to picture him. Yeah, he looks a lot like you. He had no beard, a clean face. Honestly, he looks just like you!” I cried. The customs officer look flustered as he ran both his hands over his fleshly shaven face. My father. No beard. Straw hat. Tortoise shell glasses (which he wore sometimes). A red necktie. A right gentleman. The kind customs officer wrote down a personal description and put in an inquiry with the next port of call for the SS Sakusonia.

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However, the fact was that although details like red neckties are good clues, there was nothing in the description that would let you pick him out from a crowd.

And that’s how, that morning, I was abandoned by my father. From then on I would be all alone, and would have to go on living a life completely unbearable. But even so, and as difficult as it would be to recognize him, I must always keep his face in my mind, with and without the beard.

8

A Doctor’s Story

Chai Jing

One

I met a doctor at dinner. He was both red and expert, and could tell a story, too.

He used to live in Xinjiang Province, working with the government’s Help Xinjiang [improve its standard of living] Program. He hadn’t been there long when he ran into a thorny problem. A very prestigious old man had come down with a serious illness. He was unconscious and breathing through his mouth, and had muscle spasms.

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Facilities for good medical care were not available there. Neither open-chest surgery nor a using a respiratory machine were possible.

He stood to one side, empty-handed, and watched for a while. Eventually he said he wanted a newspaper.

The locals thought he was a witch doctor, but there was nothing they could do, either. “What kind of paper?”

He thought for a moment, then told them he wanted that day’s official Party newspaper.

Someone ran off and bought him a brand new one.

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After searching through the paper he selected the front page and rolled it into a conical tube. He placed the large end on the old man’s face, covering his nose and mouth.

Everyone stood there waiting. After five or six minutes, the old man began to breathe normally. After an hour he was able to speak. The relatives were falling all over themselves to kneel down and call the doctor a genius.The people at our table were also struck dumb. He told us that the patient had actually been suffering from respiratory alkalosis. Because of his rapid breathing, too much acidic carbon dioxide was being exhaled from his body. So, covering his face with the paper cone was like using a

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respiratory machine. He re-inhaled some of the exhaled carbon dioxide and fixed the problem.

I asked him, “Why did you want the official Party newspaper?”

He smiled. “It’s good paper. Rigid.”

Two

After that he cured many people’s diseases. He became known as a “godly lantern” by the people of Xinjiang. Once when he cured a Uygur woman of a serious disease, she shook his hand gratefully and said, “You must convey my best wishes to Chairman Mao, that honorable old gentleman.”

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He told her sincerely, “Auntie, we’re already in the third generation of leaders.”

I think of this sometimes late at night, and laugh so hard I shake.

He said he’d never come across any medical malpractice in his entire life, and there was none in the Department of Andrology he headed. I listened to him, but I didn’t believe it.

He smiled and told a story about a comrade he supervised in the Department. He’d spent his whole life taking care of common ailments in the elderly; his youngest patient had been eighty. One time – he didn’t know how it had happened – a

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young woman came in seeking care. The two of them chatted and laughed, and he spent fifteen minutes using the stethoscope to listen to her heartbeat. The next patient was an old lady who had been waiting there in the same room the whole time. When it was finally her turn, the comrade paid her no mind, and just stood there saying goodbye to the girl. The old lady said, “Gimmee that!” She grabbed the stethoscope impatiently and pressed it up against her blouse. The comrade finished speaking to the young woman and, a minute later, he’d finished the old lady’s exam.

The old lady wasn’t happy. “You lout!” she shouted.

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The doctor heard the shouting from upstairs and sent a nurse down to invite the old lady up. When she got there, the nurse very ceremoniously introduced him as “our leader, the doctor with the most authority.”

He went up to the old lady and took her hand. “That was too much,” he said with a sorrowful expression on his face. “Tell me all about it. I’ll fire him.”

The old lady was embarrassed. “No, that won’t be necessary, really. It’ll be enough to just discipline him. Then he proceeded to personally give the old lady a check-up. She handed him her medical history and it was about as thick as a novel – the old lady had

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been taking her own blood pressure every 15 minutes every day.

He said that such things aren’t actually useful in an exam, but what’s most important is for a doctor to be positively “enthralled” while perusing the figures. After he finished looking at them, he listened carefully to the old lady’s heartbeat with his stethoscope for a long time. The most significant thing he told her was, “vision’s a bit occluded.”

On her way out the old lady said, “I’m already half cured.”

He went to work at a free clinic in Shaanxi Province, where he treated a patient who was paralyzed on one side of his body.

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He saw the man again the next year. The man limped up to him and said he was cured, and couldn’t thank the doctor enough.

The doctor said it was nothing, that he was just doing what he was supposed to do. After all, that was why the Party’s Central Committee had sent him there.

The man was happily surprised. “The Party’s General Secretary is so busy,” he said shyly, “but still thinks of me?”

The doctor coughed lightly. “Yeah, really.”

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The Woodcutter And The Tiger

One day, a woodcutter called Sok went into the forest to cut wood. On his way he found a tiger lying on the path. He looked more closely at the tiger. He saw that it way lying on top of a snake’s hole. “A snake has bitten it,” thought Sok.

He was a kind man and he felt sorry for the tiger. He took some medicine from his bag and rubbed it on the tiger’s fur. Straight away, the tiger opened his eyes. He saw that his beautiful fur was covered with medicine. He was very angry.

“Look what you have done to my fur!” he roared.

“I thought a snake had bitten you,” said Sok. “I didn’t want you to die.”

“Me? Die?” said the tiger. “Look, nothing bit me. I was asleep, that’s all. But you’re going to die very soon. I shall eat you for my lunch.”

Sok was very frightened. He knelt down on the ground and said, “Please don’t kill me. Please wait until I can find someone in this

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forest. Then I’ll ask him who is right, if you’re right you can eat me. If you’re wrong, then let me go.”

The tiger agreed and Sok looked around to find any living creatures. Then he saw a horse and a cow.

He told them the whole story, and then he asked, “Can you please help me. Who is right-the tiger or me?”

The horse and the cow knew that Sok was right. But they did not say anything to Sok.

“If we say Sok is right,” they said to each other, “the tiger will be very angry. He’ll eat us instead of Sok.” So they decided to walk away without deciding anything.

Now Sok was even more worried, he looked around again. Soon he met a hare. He told the hare his story.

“Please help me,” he asked.

“Yes. I’ll help you,” the hare replied. “Go back and start talking to the tiger; I will be there as you two were talking.”

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Sok went back to the tiger and started talking. Soon the hare come along.

“What are you two talking about?” the hare asked.

The tiger said, “I was just asleep but this man covered my beautiful coat with medicine!”

Then Sok said, “I thought a snake had bitten him. I didn’t want him to die.”

“Hmmmmmm,” said the hare. “I want to find out what really happened. Go back to the place where you were sleeping, tiger. I would like to know from the beginning.”

The tiger went back to the snake’s hole and laid on top of it. The snake came out of its hole and bit him.

“This time, don’t rub any medicine on his fur,” said the hare. So the tiger died and Sok were saved.

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Two Days in a Foreign Land

It was a forsakenly hot day, the morning sun seethed with unmet madness in the sky. The sun was burning his eyes as Zheng Nian took in the unremarkable sight below him – hundreds of men in yellow helmets packed in the cavernous construction site like an upturned beehive let loose. When the nauseous feeling passed over him, Zheng Nian could not resist leaning forward again from where he squatted surveying the foreign world below him. Assigned to pave cement on the roof, Zheng Nian wondered if the ground forty-storey below him was as stubbornly hot as where he was. Where he was, up there, the ground surprised his feet with the heaviness of heat burning through his safety boots. At the thought of his body hurtling accidentally down the point of no return, cold sweat broke his skin. He retreated a little from the unfinished edge of the roof, the sun raining angrily down hard on his back. Since he arrived here in Singapore two days ago, the dank, dead weight of unforgiving heat and humidity dogged him by surprise. There was little clarity to feel up there in the head when baked in the heat. Zheng Nian suddenly thought about his hometown in Hubei – walking in the creeping

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cold, wisps of winter in the air – when he could think so clearly, so effortlessly. As if nature heard his thoughts, a slight warm breeze nudged the air, startling the beads of perspiration gathering earnestly on his temple. Just before he arrived in Singapore, he was huddled in layers of wool, scrunching across the snow-swept ground he could barely feel, the milk-colour of whiteness in the air blinding him, the harsh cold of winter biting into his heart. Where he was now perched on the roof, it was the other way around. Zheng Nian was all ready to ditch the white singlet on him, surrendering it like a white flag to the onslaught of the punishing heat. The heat rising up from the concrete was too much to take it all in as his body leaked under the weight. Before he lost consciousness, before his parched body hit the free flight to the ground, his mind set adrift by the sun out in full force, he could only watch as each drop downward – whittling past each storey of the unfinished HDB block – took out the dead weight of life on him. He couldn’t ignore the irony, the prospect of being truly alive when dead. Singapore is a safe place. He was told that much by those who had come before him. From his village alone, a handful had worked in the city-state. For those who didn’t land a job there, they had left the village for the bigger, richer cities in the country – the jewels of Pearl River Delta – Shenzhen, Guangzhou and the other coastal cities. Like others before him, he wanted to take in the world before it was lost to him. He felt compelled to leave like what others had done to build a better world for themselves and their families. In the short thirty-minute journey from the airport to the workers’ dormitory, Zheng Nian drank in the gleaming prospect of a future that would have been out of reach if he had stayed behind in his hometown. Yet, he felt dehydrated of hope. As he took in the neat cityscape of buildings interspersed with trees that lined the smooth roads everywhere, Zheng Nian caught the parallel paradox of his situation – he was there to build the buildings as he tried to build a life for himself and his family while unbuilding his very presence back home. He wondered, how many of these inanimate structures would he have to build to truly set himself free? Despite the air-conditioning in the van, the sun

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creeping into his eyes was too much for Zheng Nian to bear. There was little clarity in his head to think about those thoughts that emerged onto the shoreline of his consciousness. He was exhausted. Exhausted at both the prospect of what he had left behind, and of what was to come before him. In those last moments when he suddenly lost consciousness in the fierceness of the heat, when he fought to keep himself from tipping over the edge of no return, he wondered where his son would be when he’s all grown up? Surely, he would be happy, in a meaningful job, blissfully married in an affluent China? Would he look more like him, or his mother – a face crumbled with unfounded worry when he broke the news to her on his plan to work in Singapore? Don’t go, she begged. I’m still young, 35, strong enough to do the work, he replied. I want a better life for you and our son. Two years, I’ll be back. Our son will only be almost 3 years old then, just in time for him to learn to talk and call me papa. Don’t worry, nothing will happen. Singapore is a safe place. Taking in the last breath of dust chalked up by the cement and concrete around him, it wasn’t lost on Zheng Nian that he hadn’t seen much of the garden city that he had come to see. Neither had he built the buildings he had come to build, nor the promises of the future that was his to keep. He had a future then.

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The Tame Tigers of Thailand

The tiger is at once and everywhere a symbol of fear, of raw power, and death. He is a creature who roams with majesty, able to fell water buffalo six times his own size and weight. He is able to crush the neck and skull of a human in just a few seconds with his mighty teeth and jaws. In India he is the most feared of all those who dwell in the animal kingdom.

But in the Tiger Temple in Kanchanaburi, 100 miles north of Bangkok, there is a major tourist attraction especially set up for those who seek the thrill of walking with these stunning beasts of nature. They do so without fear. How is that possible?

The tigers of Kanchanaburi have never tasted blood. From birth they are fed only cooked meat, so they are tame and never attack or kill anyone or anything. They are like warriors who have never seen war, or eunuchs that guard the king’s harem. They are little more than very large house cats. And while this is an amazing sight for tourists, it

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reflects an anomaly with nature. But this much is clear: Their condition is a consequence, not a cause.

The Thais have made the tiger their dependent. But do they blame the tiger for his timidity? No.

We have a parallel condition in the Western world, more particularly, in the United States. By holding free markets as sacred, and by making government regulation of them the enemy, we have created our own subset of dependents. This group goes by many different names—unemployed, welfare recipients, the poor, those in poverty, and, too often, by such ugly terms as lazy, welfare cheats, and worthless. But in contrast with the Thais, we created their condition while, simultaneously, we blame them for it.

Our economy is the biggest in the world, able to support and sustain our entire population in relative comfort. Our GDP totals $15 trillion, our income pool totals $12.75 trillion, and our workforce totals 150 million. Simple math shows that we have $85,000 of income per person. That is an

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average, but anyone who uses it needs a refresher course in statistics. The reason is because the distribution of our income is severely skewed in favor of those at the top. Indeed, the bottom one-half of our workforce receives just 8 percent of the total, or $15,292 per year for each worker. At the high end, incomes reach well into the billions of dollars each.

Our economic anomaly is also a consequence, not a cause. We could change it. But we are conditioned to watching those 75 million workers and their families (157 million in all) living in squalor while we call them names. After all, we would not know how well off we are if we did not have them around to watch, and to complain about, and to curse. We also love to blame them for the byproducts of poverty: high crime rates, excessive drug usage, prostitution, illiteracy, school dropout rates, mental health issues, obesity, murder, teen pregnancies, lower life expectancies, anger, frustration, and social immobility. It’s all their fault. All they need to do is go to work.

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I am not good at concealing morals as in fables and parables. So I will ask this simple question: How do you untame a tiger? The short answer is: You feed him some bloody meat. Or, stop feeding him mush. But the long term solution is you let human intelligence, rather than greed, set limits in the market place. Learning to share equitably the fruits of all our labors can be the cause of our future prosperity.

Go tigers!

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The Four Puppets A Tale of Burma Told by Aaron Shepard

Once there was a puppet maker who had a son named Aung. The father always hoped his son would grow up to be a puppet maker like himself. But to Aung, such a life was far from exciting.

“Father,” said Aung one day, “I’ve decided to leave home and seek my fortune.”

The puppet maker looked up sadly from his work. “I wish you would stay, my son. The life of a puppet maker is an 40eighbor40g one. But if you must go, let me give you companions for your journey.”

He showed his son four wooden puppets he had carved, painted, and costumed. “Each puppet,” he said, “has its own virtue and value.”

The first puppet was the king of the gods. The puppet maker said, “The god’s virtue is wisdom.”

The second puppet was a green-faced ogre. “The ogre’s virtue is strength.”

The third was a mystic sorcerer. “The sorcerer’s virtue is knowledge.”

The fourth was a holy hermit. “The hermit’s virtue is goodness.”

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He told his son, “Each of these virtues can help you on your way. But remember, strength and knowledge must always serve wisdom and goodness.”

Aung started off the next day. On his shoulder he carried a bamboo pole, with food and clothing tied at one end, and the puppets hanging by their strings from the other.

When night came, Aung found himself deep in the jungle. He stopped beneath a banyan tree.

“This looks like a good place to sleep,” he said to himself. “But I wonder if it’s safe.”

Then Aung had a funny idea. “I think I’ll ask one of the puppets!” He turned with a smile to the king of the gods. “Tell me, is it safe here?”

To his amazement, the puppet came alive. It got down from the pole and grew to life size.

“Aung,” said the god, “open your eyes and look around you. That is the first step to wisdom. If you fail to see what is right before you, how easy it will be for others to misguide you!”

And the next moment, the puppet was hanging again from the pole.

When Aung had gotten over his shock, he looked carefully all around the tree. There in the soft earth were the tracks of a tiger! That night he slept not on

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the ground but in the branches above. And he was glad he did, for in the middle of the night, he saw

a tiger come prowling below him. The next day took Aung into the mountains, and at

sunset he left the road and camped a little way up the mountainside. When he awoke the next morning, he saw a caravan coming along the road below. A dozen bullock carts were piled high with costly goods.

“That caravan must belong to some rich merchant,” Aung told himself. “I wish I had wealth like that.”

Then he had a thought. He turned to the green-faced ogre. “Tell me, how can I gain such riches?”

Aung watched in wonder as the puppet left the pole and grew to life size. “If you have strength,” boomed the ogre, “you can take whatever you like. Watch this!” He stamped his foot and the earth shook.

“Wait!” said Aung. But it was too late. Just below them, dirt and rocks broke loose in a landslide. It rushed down the mountain and blocked the road. The terrified drivers jumped from their carts and ran off.

“You see?” said the ogre. “Is it really that easy?” said Aung, in a daze. He hurried down to the carts and rushed from one

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to another, gaping at the heaps of rich fabrics and piles of precious metals. “And all of it’s mine!” he cried.

Just then, Aung heard a sob. Lying huddled in one of the carts was a lovely young woman his own age. She cried and shivered in fear.

“I won’t hurt you,” said Aung gently. “Who are you?”

“My name is Mala,” she said in a small voice. “My father is the owner of this caravan. We were on our way to meet him.”

All at once, Aung knew he was in love. He wanted to keep Mala with him forever. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take you with me and care for you.”

Mala sat up angrily. “Go ahead! Take me, like you’re taking everything else! But you’re just a thief, and I’ll never, ever speak to you!”

Aung was shocked. Was he really just a thief? He didn’t know what to say.

The ogre came up beside him then. “Don’t listen to her. She’ll change her mind—and anyway, the important thing is you got what you wanted. Now, let’s go.”

The ogre cleared the road, then helped Aung lead the caravan. That afternoon, they came out of the

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mountains, not far from the capital city. Aung asked the ogre, “What should I do, now that

I have all these riches?” “Don’t ask me!” said the ogre. “Ask the sorcerer!” Aung turned to the mystic sorcerer. “Can you tell

me?” The puppet came to life and floated before him, as

Mala looked on with wide eyes. “If you want your wealth to grow,” said the sorcerer, “you must learn the secrets of nature.”

He tapped Aung with his red wand, and together they rose high in the air. Looking down, Aung saw everything in a new way. He could tell what land was best for farming, and which mountains held gold and silver.

“This is wonderful!” said Aung. “Just think how I can help people with what I know!”

“Certainly you could,” said the sorcerer. “But knowledge is power. Why not keep it all for yourself instead? Isn’t that what other people do?”

“I suppose so,” said Aung. So they came to the capital city. Aung became a

merchant, and with the help of the ogre and the sorcerer, he grew many times richer than at first. He bought a palace for himself and Mala, and kept the puppets in a special room of their own.

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But Aung was not happy, for Mala still would not speak to him.

One day, he placed before her a headdress fit for a queen. The heavy gold was set with dozens of large rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. The magnificent piece had cost Aung a third of his wealth.

Mala took one look and pushed it away. Aung was heartbroken. He said, “Don’t you know I

love you?” But she only glared at him and said not a word.

The next morning, Aung went to the puppets’ room and spoke to the ogre and the sorcerer. “Mala’s father must now be very poor, while I have more than I need. I’ll help Mala find him so I can pay him for what I took. Maybe then she’ll speak to me, and even learn to love me.”

“A terrible idea!” said the ogre. “You should never give up what is yours. You’re just being weak!”

“Besides,” the sorcerer told him, “you’re too late. Mala ran away last night.”

“What?” cried Aung. He rushed through the palace, but Mala was nowhere to be found.

Aung returned to the puppets’ room in despair. “What good is all my wealth if I’ve lost what I care for most?”

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For once, the ogre and the sorcerer were silent and still.

Then Aung remembered there was one puppet he had never called on. He turned to the holy hermit. “Tell me, why has everything gone wrong?”

The puppet came to life. “Aung, you imagined that wealth brings happiness. But true happiness comes only from goodness. What is important is not what you have but what you do with it.”

The king of the gods then came to life and stood beside the hermit. “You forgot what your father told you, Aung. Strength and knowledge are useful, but they must always serve wisdom and goodness.”

“I won’t forget again,” said Aung. From that day on, Aung used his wealth and his

talents to do good. He built a splendid holy pagoda, and offered food and shelter to those who visited the shrine.

One day among the visitors, Aung saw a young woman he knew well. An older man stood beside her, both of them wearing humble clothes.

“Mala!” cried Aung. He rushed over to the startled young woman and knelt before her puzzled father.

“Sir, I have done you great wrong. I beg your

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forgiveness. All I have is yours, and I give it up gladly. I will be content to return to my village and make puppets.”

“Father,” said Mala softly, “this is Aung. But he has changed!”

“So it would seem!” said her father. “And if so, it would be a shame to let go of a young man of such talent. Perhaps he would like to work for me, and live with us in the palace.”

So Aung became the merchant’s assistant, and before long his partner, and when Mala’s heart was won, his son-in-law.

As for the puppets, Aung still called on them as needed. But though he was helped often by strength and knowledge, he was guided always by wisdom and goodness.

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My Father Goes To Court by Carlos Bulosan

When I was four, I lived with my mother and brothers and sisters in a small town on the

island of Luzon. Father’s farm had been destroyed in 1918 by one of our sudden Philippine floods, so for several years

afterward we all lived in the town, though he preffered living in the country. We had a next-door neighbor, a very rich man, whose sons

and daughters seldom came out of the house. While we boys and girls played and sand in the

sun, his children stayed inside and kept the windows closed. His house was so tall that his

children could look in the windows of our house and watch us as we played, or slept, or ate, when there was any food in the house to

eat.

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Now, this rich man’s servants were always frying and cooking something good, and the aroma of the food was wafted down to us from the windows of the big house. We hung about and took all the wonderful smell of the food into our beings. Sometimes, in the morning, our whole family stood outside the windows of the rich man’s house and listened to the musical sizzling of thick strips of bacon or ham. I can remember one afternoon when our neighbor’s servants roasted three chickens. The chickens were young and tender and the fat that dripped into the burning coals gave off an enchanting odor. We watched the servants turn the beautiful birds and inhaled the heavenly spirit that drifted out to us. Some days the rich man appeared at a window and glowered down at us. He looked at us one

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by one, as though he were condemning us. We were all healthy because we went out in the sun every day and bathed in the cool water of the river that flowed from the mountains into the sea. Sometimes we wrestled with one another in the house before we went out to play. We were always in the best of spirits and our laughter was contagious. Other neighbors who passed by our house often stopped in our yard and joined us in our laughter. Laughter was our only wealth. Father was a laughing man. He would go in to the living room and stand in front of the tall mirror, stretching his mouth into grotesque shapes with his fingers and making faces at himself, and then he would rush into the kitchen, roaring with laughter. 46

There was plenty to make us laugh. There was, for instance, the day one of my brothers came home and brought a small bundle under his arm, pretending that he brought something to eat, maybe a leg of lamb or something as extravagant as that to make our mouths water. He rushed to mother and through the bundle into her lap. We all stood around, watching mother undo the complicated strings. Suddenly a black cat leaped out of the bundle and ran wildly around the house. Mother chased my brother and beat him with her little fists, while the rest of us bent double, choking with laughter. Another time one of my sisters suddenly started screaming in the middle of the night. Mother reached her first and tried to calm her.

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My sister criedand groaned. When father lifted the lamp, my sister stared at us with shame in

her eyes.

“What is it?” <other asked.

“I’m pregnant!” she cried.

“Don’t be a fool!” Father shouted.

“You’re only a child,” Mother said.

“I’m pregnant, I tell you!” she cried.

Father knelt by my sister. He put his hand on her belly and rubbed it gently. “How do you

know you are pregnant?” he asked.

“Feel it!” she cried. 48

We put our hands on her belly. There was something moving inside. Father was frightened. Mother was shocked. “Who’s the man?” she asked. “There’s no man,” my sister said. ‘What is it then?” Father asked. Suddenly my sister opened her blouse and a bullfrog jumped out. Mother fainted, father dropped the lamp, the oil spilled on the floor, and my sister’s blanket caught fire. One of my brothers laughed so hard he rolled on the floor. When the fire was extinguished and Mother was revived, we turned to bed and tried to sleep, but Father kept on laughing so loud we could not

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sleep any more. Mother got up again and lighted the oil lamp; we rolled up the mats on the floor and began dancing about and laughing with all our might. We made so much noise that all our neighbors except the rich family came into the yard and joined us in loud, genuine laughter. It was like that for years. As time went on, the rich man’s children became thin and anemic, while we grew even more robust and full of fire. Our faces were bright and rosy, but theirs were pale and sad. The rich man started to cough at night; then he coughed day and night. His wife began coughing too. Then the children started to cough one after the other. At night their coughing sounded like barking of a herd of

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seals. We hung outside their windows and listened to them. We wondered what had happened to them. We knew that they were not sick from lack of nourishing food because they were still always frying something delicious to eat. One day the rich man appeared at a window and stood there a long time. He looked at my sisters, who had grown fat with laughing, then at my brothers, whose arms and legs were like the molave, which is the sturdiest tree in the Philippines. He banged down the window and ran through the house, shutting all the windows. From that day on, the windows of our neighbor’s house were closed. The children did not come outdoors anymore. We could still

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hear the servants cooking in the kitchen, and no matter how tight the windows were shut, the aroma of the food came to us in the wind and drifted gratuitously into our house. One morning a policeman from the presidencia came to our house with a sealed paper. The rich man had filled a complaint against us. Father took me with him when he went to the town clerk and asked him what it was all about. He told Father the man claimed that for years we had been stealing the spirit of his wealth and food. When the day came for us to appear in court, Father brushed his old army uniform and borrowed a pair of shoes from one of my brothers. We were the first to arrive. Father sat on a chair in the center of the courtroom. Mother occupied a chair by the door. We

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children sat on a long bench by the wall. Father kept jumping up his chair and stabbing the air

with his arms, as though he were defending himself before an imaginary jury.

The rich man arrived. He had grown old and feeble; his face was scarred with deep lines. With him was his young lawyer. Spectators

came in and almost filled the chairs. The judge entered the room and sat on a high chair. We

stood up in a hurry and sat down again.

After the courtroom preliminaries, the judge took at father. “Do you have a lawyer?” he

asked.

“I don’t need a lawyer judge.” He said.

“Proceed,” said the judge.

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The rich man’s lawyer jumped and pointed his finger at Father, “Do you or do you not agree that you have been stealing the spirit of the complainant’s wealth and food?” “I do not!” Father said. “Do you or do you not agree that while the complainant’s servants cooked and fried fat legs of lambs and young chicken breasts, you and your family hung outside your windows and inhaled the heavenly spirit of the food?” “I agree,” Father said. “How do you account for that?” Father got up and paced around, scratching his

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head thoughtfully. Then he said, “I would like to see the children of the complainant, Judge.”

“Bring the children of the complainant.”

They came shyly. The spectators covered their mouths with their hands. They were so amazed

to see the children so thin and pale. The children walked silently to a bench and sat down without looking up. They stared at the

floor and moved their hands uneasily.

Father could not say anything at first. He just stood by his chair and looked at them. Finally

he said, “I should like to cross-examine the complainant.”

“Proceed.”

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“Do you claim that we stole the spirit of your wealth and became a laughing family while yours became morose and sad?” Father asked. “Yes.” “Then we are going to pay you right now,” Father said. He walked over to where we children were sitting on the bench and took my straw hat off my lap and began filling it up with centavo pieces that he took out his pockets. He went to Mother, who added a fistful of silver coins. My brothers threw in their small change. “May I walk to the room across the hall and stay there for a minutes, Judge?” Father asked. “As you wish.”

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“Thank you,” Father said. He strode into the other room with the hat in his hands. It was

almost full of coins. The doors of both rooms were wide open.

“Are you ready?” Father called.

“Proceed.” The judge said.

The sweet tinkle of coins carried beautifully

into the room. The spectators turned their faces toward the sound with wonder. Father came

back and stood before the complainant.

“Did you hear it?” he asked.

“Hear what?” the man asked.

“The spirit of the money when I shook this hat?” he asked.

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“Yes.”

“Then you are paid.” Father said.

The rich man opened his mouth to speak and fell to the floor without a sound. The lawyer

rushed to his aid. The judge pounded his gravel.

“Case dismissed,” he said.

Father strutted around the courtroom. The judge even came down to his high chair to

shake hands with him. “By the way,” he whispered, “I had an uncle who died laughing.”

“You like to hear my family laugh, judge?”

Father asked.

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“Why not?”

Did you hear that children?” Father said.

My sister started it. The rest of us followed them and soon the spectators were laughing with us,

holding their bellies and bending over the chairs. And the laughter of the judge was the

loudest of all.

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Oil Field by Mohammed Hasan Alwan, translated by Peter Clark

When Ja’far’s father went to work for SakOil, I asked my Dad about these oil fields everyone was talking about. He told me they weren’t that far from our village. That evening I kept on asking and asking him about them, and eventually he took me up to the roof of our house. He pointed with his slender hand to the eastern horizon, where five spots of light flickered uncertainly.

“There,” he said gently, “under each of those flares is an oil well.”

I was obsessed with these lights, staring at them like a moth which tries to steer by the stars, hoping that I could fly straight toward them. Over on the other side of the roof, the washing hung damp in the still air. An ant crawled over my foot, heading for a dark corner.

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I kicked it away – I wasn’t going anywhere. I stood up and followed my Dad back down to our living room like a disappointed Sufi.

Yet my faith never vanished. All that hot, damp summer, I spent many hours looking at the 67eighbor67g of those flares as if I was some religious novice. They were like some great show, the gas squeezing up from the depths of the oil well to be consumed in flame against the intense black horizon, like some great dragon. I could hardly step onto the roof without looking to the east and counting those flares like a catechism. Every time one appeared I rushed to my Dad, a lucky astronomer who has sighted a new star in the sky. Dad never shared my excitement.

Every morning I would watch the men setting off to work in those oil wells. Some went in cars to the SakOil headquarters wearing suits, though whenever they were in the village they wore the local thawbs.

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Others gathered at the vegetable souk where large buses took them to the distant fields. These wore blue overalls and long leather boots and carried yellow safety helmets.

They were all enchanted for me, all heading for the mystical oil fields early in the morning and coming back at sunset. Out there they were subduing the earth, extracting oil, feeding those flares, discovering the impossible and mixing with Americans. In short, they were playing major roles on the world stage every day. And they weren’t just setting light to those flares above the oil wells, they were providing fuel for our village as well. When they got back they were full of illuminating stories, stories I collected up in my mind as if they were relics of an immortal saint.

I treasured the tales cousin Sulaiman told when he came back from Bahrain for my grandmother’s funeral.

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He had worked on the first pipeline project, when American women were roaming the streets without covering their heads. “People used to be more accepting,” he said with a sigh. The men nodded.

Once Ali, our 69eighbor, said he was one of the workers crowded around the king in the black and white photograph of a recently-discovered oil field hanging proudly on his sitting-room wall. I didn’t know he had been this close to royalty, so I asked which one was him. He said he was hiding his face because taking photographs is haram. My Dad said it was past my bedtime.

Ja’far used to live in the street opposite our house. His Dad would spend three days without a break in the oil field, and then come home to spend a couple of days with his wife and children before setting off again. Ja’far told me his Dad boarded a fast boat that

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took him from the port of Ras Tannura to an off-shore oil rig in the Safaniya field in the middle of the sea.

Ja’far became my best friend. Every day I heard a different story from him about his Dad. I didn’t ask myself whether a story was true or not – anything was possible for his Dad. All I wanted was one day to work in an oil field myself, and to have a son who would be as proud of me as Ja’far was of his Dad.

My Dad didn’t work in the oil field. He taught at the deaf and dumb school at the end of our street. He spent his day with children who could not speak or hear, and so I could hardly expect him to bring home any interesting tales. When Dad came back with a bag of fresh hamour from the fish market and a bag of cabbage leaves from the souk, I’d be at the other end of the village, playing football with Ja’far. When his Dad got back from the oil rig he would greet me with a

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warm handshake. And one day he gave me a small medallion stamped with SakOil. I guarded it like a jewel from Paradise.

One afternoon after prayers, Ja’far told me that he had some important news. His Dad would no longer be working in the Safaniya field. He was being transferred to a new oil field in the middle of the Empty Quarter. This meant that instead of boarding a fast boat he would be taking a plane owned by SakOil into the desert, translating him ever closer to heaven.

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I asked Dad that evening whether the flares we could see from our rooftop were in the middle of the sea or in the middle of the land. He replied with a laugh, his hands thrown up as if he was surrendering.

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“My boy, keep calm. One day you’ll see them at our front door.”

“At our front door?” I almost shouted.

He nodded, but he didn’t say any more.

That night I dreamed about oil wells. I was up on the roof of our house singing the praises of the flares to a group of people down below, but I didn’t recognize them. The flares came closer and closer, and I carried on praising them loudly like a devoted sorcerer. They flickered even brighter and came right up to me in a circular wave of stars and fire. I bent down to the closest flare and reached out to touch it. My hand pierced the flare smoothly. It felt so cold. I kept my hand within the flame.

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I dreamed of the oil wells many times after that night, and it seemed as if my dreams were coming true. As the oil fields developed, the wells sprung up nearer and nearer to our village. Ja’far moved to al-Dammam – his mother muttering about the dangers of asthma and bronchitis – but I didn’t mind. Soon the wells were so close we could see the workers moving around the base, or climbing up to adjust the machinery.

I was dreaming of the wells last night. My kid sister was coughing again, shaking and crying in the darkness as she struggled for air. She had woken up my mother as well, who came in with a drink of water and sat down beside her, stroking my sisters’ hair and humming an old song. I lifted my head from the pillow.

“Do you think father knows anyone who could help me find a job at SakOil?” I asked.

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She stopped singing and looked up.

“Go to sleep,” she said.

• Supported by the National Lottery through Arts Council England

“THE HANDS OF THE BLACKS”

LUIS BERNARDO HONWANA

I don’t remember now how we got onto the subject, but one day Teacher said that the palms of the black’s hands were much lighter than the rest of their bodies because only a few centuries ago they walked around on all fours, like wild animals, so their palms weren’t exposed to the sun, which made the rest of their bodies darker and darker. I thought of this when Father Christiano told us after catechism that we were absolutely hopeless, and that even the blacks were better than us, and he went back to this thing about their hands being lighter, and said it was like that because they always went about with their hands folded together,

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praying in secret. I thought this was so funny, this thing of the black’s hands being lighter, that you should just see me now — I don’t let go of anyone, whoever they are, until they tell me why they think that the palms of the black’s hands are lighter. Dona Dores, for instance, told me that God made their hands lighter like that so they wouldn’t dirty food they made for their masters, or anything else they were ordered to do that had to be kept quite clean.

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The Silent Whisper

by Maclean Patrick

The heat woke him up. It was 3 in the morning, not a good time to wake up for it will take him close to forever to go back to sleep. In this heat, it was better he stayed awake until dawn. But staying awake was not something he looked forward to.

Sitting up, he looked out the window. The city lights glowed in the horizon. There was still life at this hour, still people going about their business within the graveyard hour.

Midnight did not scare him. But 3am did.

It was the hour the Whispers came out. And as he wiped the sweat from his brow, he heard a whisper.

“Awake. You’re awake.”

He cup his hands over his ears. Closed his eyes and asked the heavens to spare him from the pain of entertaining this unwelcome visitor.

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“No point hiding. You can hear me,” she said, her breath; cold against the back of his ear. “Do you have an answer for me?”

He bent over, head touching his knees as he sat; rocking slowly on his mattress.

“Go away,” he managed a weak protest.

“What is your answer?”

“Go away.”

“Answer me..”

“Go away.”

“You PROMISED me an answer tonight,” her chilly lips hovering closely over his fore-head.

She was bolder now. Invading what little private space he had left in his personal bubble. More demanding, more forceful in her request and she was not one to take “No” for an answer. Yet, tonight he had, had enough.

“No,” he finally spoke up.

“What?”

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“No,” he lowered his trembling hands, his eyes still close. “My answer is no.”

“Don’t you want release?”

“Yes, but not like this.”

“Just take my offer.”

He shook his head from side to side as his rocking continued. He could feel her, just in front of him, watching him move, waiting for his reply.

“Yes, I am hurting. And everyday is another day of heart-ache and misery. And I’m barely coping from breath to breath. But dum spiro, spero. I’m still breathing, I’m still hoping. If you take me, it will not be like this. I’ll let destiny take me, fate set the clock. Sorry, but you just have to wait.”

There was a silent whisper. A word spoken, yet unheard. He felt her breath as she mouthed a phrase that went pass him and then she was no more. Gone into the night and he knew he was alone, again, in the room.

He cried.

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It was 3am, the darkest time of the night and the silent form was returning empty-handed. Her colleagues had more luck. Returning with the Damned. Returning with those whom had replied, “Yes.” They lifted the wretched souls like ragged dolls, jeering at her for she had nothing in hand. She snarled back at them, “I’ll have him. It’s just a matter of time. He’ll break and I’ll bring him back with me. Death always wins in the end.”

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Quotes from Japan

78

Quotes from China

79

Quotes from Korea

\

80

Quotes from Singapore

81

Quotes from Thailand

82

Quotes from Myanmar

83

Quotes from the Philippines

84

Quotes from Saudi Arabia

85

Quotes from Africa

86

Quotes from Malaysia

87

Poetry

ii

Forever High atop a vast ridge

I gaze at the world below and think of you.

I always think of you. My love is everlasting My passion eternal.

These few precious moments alone fuel my ravenous desire

For you. They nourish my fervor,

For you. Fan my fears of losing you.

Kindness is your virtue Inner beauty your advantage

Can I cling to one such as you? Carry on with one like you

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Forever? Love me and I will always love you

Forever

Poetry by Daichi Matsui Historical information provided by Wikipedia

89

Song of River City 《江城子•记梦》by Su

Shi (Song Dynasty)

90

http://www.chinawhisper.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/Song-of-River-City.jpg

十年生死两茫茫，不思量，自难忘。千里孤坟，无处话凄凉。纵使相逢应不识，尘满面，鬓如霜。夜来幽梦忽还乡，小轩窗，正梳妆。相顾无言，惟有泪千行。料得年年肠断处，明月夜，短松冈。 Ten years, dead and living dim and draw apart. I don’t try to remember, But forgetting is hard. Lonely grave a thousand miles off, Cold thoughts, where can I talk them out?

Even if we met, you wouldn’t know me, Dust on my face,

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Hair like frost.

In a dream last night suddenly I was home. By the window of the little room, You were combing your hair and making up.

You turned and looked, not speaking, Only lines of tears coursing down.

Year after year will it break my heart? The moonlit grave, The stubby pines.

92

An Early Winter Letter by Kim Yong-taek

Lovely leaves have all been shed

from the mountain ahead of me. Longing for the empty mountain,

white snow might fall

upon the river.

Before the snow falls, I would love to see you.

93

True Friends

What is a true friend? A true friend says what they think their friend

needs to hear even when they know that their friend may get angry. A true friend doesn't leave because they are

afraid to be with you. A true friend doesn't leave when the fun stops and things get uncomfortable. These are

just of few of the values that real friends hold dear. In short, A true friend recognizes the value of the

friendship and holds it sacred.

94

In the Home of the Homeless

One window among many reflects events mirrors rubbish a broken roof lashed to its frame

collapsing and crumbling as it struggles on

the crowded world of the homeless the community of the world could offer

the edge appears missing a family nearly recovered

the house stays cold alien hardship returns

to have your roots yanked out from under your family tree

to wander through different times and places strength ebbs away destitution charity impressions blur hardship approaches

one essence in submission those people one essence many differences

fallen absconded overgrown neglected just 'a case'

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the times shift and change on the move

'refugees' through circumstance pressure wears you down constricts you until aborted hope collides with strength

grit marks fade never entirely

grimy windows in the heart of the city exist go are strange lonely distorted

image portrait identity 'ghost' living

twisted shadow blamed

the house you can't find can't return to the hope that sustains the dream that warms

under the flyover pavement have mercy image fuses eroding love

possessions gone roads closed promises broken

can't go forward can't go back trapped public place packed with the poor

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the centre cordoned off

'refugees' through circumstance melt into disarray

Sanam Luang Park* trespassed altered expands into every corner of the city

2.

look around aimlessly against the world instinctively connected release

rubbish mounts cast offs abandoned destitute deprived humiliated

looks unsettled like an unfinished house dream no further than a home

a road an alley a side street like a sign nothing is what is seen

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"To Wilt is to Bloom," a Poem by Maung Chaw Nwe

"The World of Poetry," an anthology in memory of the late Maung Chaw Nwe

On her first trip to Burma, my journalist friend Catherine Traywick documented the lives of a number of local poets. The memento she brought

me back was a little volume called The World of Poetry (edited by Zeyar Lynn, Moe Wai, and Wai Khaung), an anthology to commemorate the 10th

anniversary of the poet Maung Chaw Nwe's death.

On page 99, I stumbled on the piece below, clearly an homage to the political dissidents' defiance.

Was Chaw Nwe thinking about the nameless students, monks, and citizens who died on the

pavements of Rangoon in the August 88 uprising when he composed these stanzas? I like to think that he was. So, on the 25th anniversary of the

fateful event, I did my best to transplant his

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http://kennethwongsf.blogspot.com/2013/08/to-wilt-is-to-bloom-poem-by-maung-chaw.html


http://catherine-a-traywick.com/

Burmese lines in new soil, in Shakespeare and Milton's fertile English language. May Chaw Nwe's verses and the spirit of the fallen heroes of 8-8-88

bloom and grow forever!

99

THE TREE

By G. Burce Bunao

The tree was very beautiful to me

When I was a boy

I climbed for fruit or out of a branch of the tree

Made me a toy--

A top, for instance, that spun around, carefree

And wound for joy

Until it toppled over and was dead.

No longer the boy,

I find the tree as beautiful as though not

Just for branch

Or a bunch of fruit but-more than that-for a bed

Or to fence the ranch

In which I raise the beasts that fill the pot

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In the many shapes

My simple commerce turn them to like bread

Or fish or grapes

To feed the brood the little woman me.

There go the boys.

Go watch them, strong limb; spread up the tree,

They pluck their toys

Out of its branches, as out of my childhood tree

I shaped my joys.

“Every little thing that happens in our childhood is somewhat memorable. It makes us smile every time we

reminisce to those memories. This poem is also pertaining to the joys of the children while playing in

the tree. Those moments still remains every time a child see the tree that becomes a part of their lives.”

101

A POEM TO A WONDERFUL BROTHER

We think of you in silence

We always speak your name

We have so many memories

And your picture in a frame

We do not need a special day to bring you to our minds

Since days we do not think of you are impossible to find

We think of you when we play but that is nothing new

We think of you with love today

We are always with you

You are now our guardian angel watching us from your place of rest

Heaven must be a beautiful place

102

For God only takes the best

God please look after Zak

Don’t let him walk alone

After all, this is his first time away from home

Until we meet again –

103

I Am an African Child

I am an African child

Born with a skin the colour of chocolate

Bright, brilliant and articulate

Strong and bold; I'm gifted

Talented enough to be the best


Often the target of pity

My future is not confined to charity

Give me the gift of a lifetime;

Give me a dream, a door of opportunity;

I will thrive


104

Do not hide my fault

show me my wrong

I am like any other;

Teach me to dream

And I will become


I am the son, daughter of the soil

Rich in texture and content

Full of potential for a better tomorrow

Teach me discipline, teach me character, teach me hard work

Teach me to think like the star within me


105

I can be extra-ordinary

call me William Kamkwamba the Inventor;

Give me a library with books

Give me a scrap yard and discarded electronics

Give me a broken bicycle;

Plus the freedom to be me

And I will build you a wind mill


We are the new generation

Not afraid to be us

Uniquely gifted, black and talented

Shining like the stars we are

We are the children of Africa

Making the best of us

Yes! I am an African child

106

My Soul is Downcast

Dedicated to Danielle Cheng for her insightful feedback.

My soul is downcast within me

My eyes are weary from weeping

My heart is faint; Lord, have mercy

Restore my faint heart that's failing


My hands are weary from working

My faith is weak; Lord, have mercy

Restore my weak faith that's failing

107


My eyes are tired of seeing

My strength is gone; Lord, have mercy

Restore my faint hope that's failing


But Christ is present in suffering

He gives me grace; He shows mercy

He gives me a sweet song to sing


But Christ is my Hope in suffering

He gives me hope; He shows mercy

He gives me a true tune to sing

108


But Christ is my Song in suffering

He helps me sing; He shows mercy

He restores my voice that's fading


But to Christ, my Saviour, I cling

He lifts me up; He restores me

In Him, I find rest in suffering

109

Songs

iii

UTADA HIKARU – FIRST LOVE LYRICS

Saigono kissu wa

Tabako no flavor gashita

Nigakute setsunai kaori

Ashita no imagoro ni wa

Anata wa doko ni irun darou'

Dare wo omotte 'run darou'

You are always gonna be my love

Itsuka dare kato mata koi ni ochitemo

110

I'll remember to love

You taught me how

You are always gonna be the one

Imawa mada kanashii love song

Atarashi uta utaeru made

Tachidomaru jikan ga

Ugoki dasou to shiteru

Wasuretakunai koto bakari

Ashita no imagoro ni wa

Watashi wa kitto naiteru

Anata wo omotte 'run darou'

111

Yay yay yeah

You will always be inside my heart

Itsumo anata dake no basho ga aru kara

I hope that I have a place in your heart too

Now and forever you are still the one

Imawa mada kanashii love song

Atarashii uta utaeru made

You are always gonna be my love

Itsuka dare kato mata koi ni ochitemo

I'll remember to love

112

You taught me how

You are always gonna be the

Mada kanashii love song yeah

Now & forever ah...

113

Peng Yu Zhe xie nian yi ge ren

Feng ye guo yu ye zou

You guo lei you guo cuo

Hai ji den jan chi shen mi

Zhen ai guo cai hui dong

Hui ji mo hui hui shuo

Zhong you meng zhong you ni

Zai xin zhong

Peng you yi sheng yi qi zou

Na xie ri zi bu zai you

Yi ju hua yi bei zi

114

Yi sheng qing yi bei jiu

Peng you bu ceng gu dan guo

Yi sheng peng you ni hui dong

Hai you shang hai you tong

Hai yao zou hai you wo

115

Tim Saranghamnida lyrics in Korean, Romanization and English translation. English Translation

So bad..a person a like you.. Why did you take my heart without my permission? Im living with so much difficulty But you dont even know.

I know.. that its not me That im not worthy enough for even a blink of your eye But sometimes cant you share your smile with me too? Even if its not love

Please turn back just once sometime

If I wait endlessly like this today 116

Again its the one word in my heart that I cant keep inside I love you.

Yesterday, I layed my head on my desk And I think I fell asleep grieving for you When I opened my eyes, the tears had smudged Your name and hopeless doodles

Please turn back just once sometime

If I wait endlessly like this today Again its the one word in my heart that I cant keep inside

117

I love you.

As I look at your back image which I got so used to I say those silent tear-like words, I love you.

118

CORRINNE MAY – SONG FOR SINGAPORE LYRICS

It's a brand new day a brand new story

I remembered the way it used to be

We've come so far

You're my history you're my beginning

In all I've done I've been nurtured in your arms

And you carried me this far

Chorus:

I want to sing

Sing a song for Singapore

With every generation there's more to be

119

grateful for

So come and sing


You're my brother you're my sister

I'm thankful for my Singapore

My Singapore

Singapore

Come together everybody

Fly the flag and share our story

Live our wildest dreams

Celebrate the red and white

120

The moon and stars in harmony unite

Let every colour every heart

Chorus:

I want to sing


With every generation there's more to be grateful for

So come and sing




121

My Singapore

Singapore

Bridge:

We've had our ups and downs

Sometimes the best things are taken for granted

You're my family you're my home

Chorus:

I want to sing


With every generation there's more to be grateful for

122

So come and sing




My Singapore

Singapore

123

Loy Kratong

Wan-pen duean sìp-sŏng , náam nong dtem dtà-lìng

The full-moon day (of) the twelfth month, as water fills to the banks

Rao tang-lăai chaai yĭng sà-nuk gan jing wan loi grà-tong

124

We all both men and women are having fun

in Loi Krathong day

loi loi grà-tong, loi loi grà-tong

float float the Krathongs, float float the Krathongs

loi grà-tong gan láew,kŏr chern nóng gâew òrk maa ram-wong

125

We have already floated the Krathong already, I would like to ask you (beloved younger lady) to come out and dance (Thai folk dance)

ram-wong wan loi grà-tong, ram-wong wan loi grà-tong

dance in the Loi Krathong day, dance in the Loi Krathong day

126

bun jà sòng hâi rao sùk-jai

making merit will give us happiness

127

Ahead of the Curve Lyrics - Monsters Of Folk

Another perfect day

They keep piling up

I got happiness that I can maintain

Some beginner’s luck

I had shoes to fill

Walking barefoot now

Can’t tell north from south

But no split hair’s gonna get me down, no

I’m stayin’ above the flat line

And I’m ahead of the curve

Take a piece of the sunshine with me

128

On a red-eye flight to another world

It isn’t any trouble

If you wanna come with me

I know it’s out the question, honey

But I sure could use the company

And a place to be

Now the sky is pink

Rooftop swimming pool

I’m not carefree, no

I’m free to care

I just never do

All the bags are checked

129

And the reasons why

Yesterday lingers on

That’s the piece you keep when we say goodbye

You can get what you want now

Knock it out of the park

Bury it by the river

Easy, there’s a search party

But it’s getting dark

I won’t hold you to nothing

I wanna make that plain

Prob’ly end up a stranger and crazy

But I’m still hoping there’s another way

And a place to stay

130

What a scene has got you sentimental

When the knot comes, when the knot comes loose

All the things you’ve put upon your mantle

What a shame, what a shame

It’s old news

I’m staying above the flat line

I’m ahead of the curve

Take a piece of the sunshine with me on a all night drive to another world

You can get what you want now

Knock it out of the park

Prob’ly end up a drifter and lonely

But I’m still hoping for a change of heart

131

And a place, a place, a place to start

132

Leron Leron Sinta Lyrics Leron, leron sinta Buko ng papaya,

Dala-dala'y buslo, Sisidlan ng sinta,

Pagdating sa dulo'y Nabali ang sanga Kapos kapalaran, Humanap ng iba.

Gumising ka, Neneng, Tayo'y manampalok,

Dalhin mo ang buslong Sisidlan ng hinog.

Pagdating sa dulo'y Lalamba-lambayog,

133

Kumapit ka, neneng, Baka ka mahulog.

Leron, leron sinta Buko ng papaya,

Dala-dala'y buslo, Sisidlan ng sinta,

Pagdating sa dulo'y Nabali ang sanga Kapos kapalaran,

Ang ibigin ko'y Lalaking matapang, Ang baril nya'y pito,

Ang sundang nya'y siyam Ang sundang nya'y siyam

Ang lalakarin nya'y 134

Parte ng dinulang Isang pinggang pansit Ang kanyang kalaban. Leron, leron sinta Buko ng papaya, Dala-dala'y buslo, Sisidlan ng sinta, Pagdating sa dulo'y Nabali ang sanga Kapos kapalaran, Humanap ng iba

135

I’d Like to Have At least Ten Daughters

O, God! O, my God! You whose blessings are many.

Give me several daughters, ten at least.

When I die, two will be next to my feet and two next to my head.

Two will be next to the wash-woman*, they'll tell her: "Wash our mother with great care."

Two will be next to the cover-woman**, they'll ask her, 'What is missing? What is enough?"

Two will weep over me on the mattress, saying "Oh mother! Oh mother of my sisters!"

Two will be in the kitchen, they'll serve coffee to those who come and go offering condolences.

Two, on the doorstep, will await their husbands to order them to weep for my death.

136

One of them will tell her husband, "I don't want you any more and I'm not yours any more

Unless you shave your head and mourn my mother."

And when he answers her, "Be ashamed! Oh, woman! Men don't cry.

If your mother is dead, replace her with my own."

She'll answer him bluntly then, "You're mistaken, son of men, if you think your mother can replace mine.

My mother, like a green paradise, cheers me up whenever she comes near me.

My mother, like a jar of fresh water, quenches my thirst whenever she appears.

While your mother, like a nasty b*tch, barks at me whenever I pass by.

137

Your mother, like a malevolent cloud, smothers me whenever she shows herself to me!"

O, God! O, my God! She who has no daughter dies in distress.

Her house is open to the wind and sand.

Her jar is uncovered and a coiled snake lies in it.

Her mattress is hung out and nobody weeps for her.

Except for her daughter-in-law whose tears are fake.

One moment she says, "Oh, mother!" Another, "Oh, darkness!"

Then "O, God! I have prayed to you so much so that you would free me from the one who smothers me."

138

Malaika (kiswahili) - Angel (english)

Malaika, nakupenda Malaika.


Nami nifanyeje, kijana mwenzio,

Nashindwa na mali sina, we,

Ningekuoa Malaika.


Ningekuoa Malaika.





Ningekuoa Malaika.


Ningekuoa Malaika.

139

Kidege, hukuwaza kidege.

Kidege, hukuwaza kidege.

ningekuoa dada

ningekuoa mama



Ningekuoa Malaika.


Ningekuoa Malaika.





Ningekuoa Malaika.


Ningekuoa Malaika.

140

English Translation

Angel, I love you Angel.


And me, what should I do, my love?

I don't have any money,

(LITERALLY: I'm defeated by wealth, I don't have any.)

I would marry you, Angel.











141

Little bird, I always dream of you, little bird,

Little bird, I always dream of you, little bird,












I don't have any money, I would marry you, Angel.

142

Sandarkan Pada Kenangan

(Leaning on the memories)

Kenangan manis kau dan aku

(Sweet memories of you and me)

Takkan terluput

(Would never fade)

Duri ranjau dalam bercinta

(The thorns in loving)

Lumrah dunia

(Is normal (in this) world)

144

Sayang menyayang

(Love..Loving)

Cinta dikenang

(Love remembered)

Perasaan menjadi rindu

(Passion became missing (you))

Oh! Lihatlah diriku

(Oh! Please look at me)

Yang kehilangan

(Who lost)

Tanpa kasih mu sayang

(Without your love..honey)

Siapalah aku

145

(Who am I?)

Sayang menyayang

(Love..Loving)

Saling percaya

(Trusting (each) other)

Punca kasih berpanjangan

(Is the source of a long-lasting love)

Mengapa kita harus bersengketa

(Why should we fight each other)

Kerana fitnah dan salah sangka

(Because of defamation and misunderstanding)

146

Apa yang telah terjadi pada kenangan

(What happened to the memories)

Sememangnya aku tak pernah melupakannya

(Which I could never forget)

Mengapa mesti ada perasaan benci

(Why should have a feeling of hatred)

Kerana cinta dan percaya luput dalam perasaan

(Because love and trust faded in the emotional)

Marilah kasih

(Come on ..honey)

Kita saling sayang menyayang

(Let us loving each other)

147

Kalaulah ada benci

(If there is hatred)

Kita sandarkan pada kenangan

(We just leaning to the memories)

148

A Lady in White

It was ten years ago but the memories did not fade. I was three years old then, when my mother noticed something unusual. She was washing clothes that time, and I was busy playing with the bubbles from the basin. Suddenly I heard a voice, the voice keeps calling my name. I looked for the place where the voice is coming from, and when I looked at the logs, there I saw a lady. She was very tall, her hair is like thin threads of black, it was so fine. She was wearing a white dress. She looks very pale and skinny. The lady said, come with me and I am going to give you five pesos. I was not convinced, I told my mother that there’s a lady in white whose been talking to me. She asked me,

149

“Where is it?” I said, “There behind the logs”. I kept on telling her the whole time but she couldn’t see it. The lady won’t stop from talking to me, so I said “If you won’t leave me, I am going to hit you with a rock”. When I keep on repeating it, my mother was convinced that I saw a supernatural being. We left the clothes that she was washing, she ran and we went out of the house. She was telling our neighbours of what happened. A memory that would never be erased.

150

Trip to Mary’s Home

Visiting the house of our Virgin Mary has always been a heart whelming experience. As you enter the gates of the Simala Church, you

can feel the presence of the holy virgin mother. There are lots of parts in the church. While you are praying, you gotta enjoy the sceneries of

different saints. You got to pray with your own needs. You have the chance to bond with your

family and at the same time, thank our Almighty father for all the blessing that were given to us.

In all sections, you feel safe. No thieves, no heartless people, their intentions are fully to

pray and embrace the greatness of the sceneries. You can see the heartfelt gratitude of

the people who’ve been praying for their recovery in any disease, they offered their

wheelchairs, uniforms, medals wholeheartedly, believing that their recovery is brought by their faith to God. All people are following the rules, ‘

151

they are very polite, very kind. There are huge and small statues. The most unforgettable

experience anyone could ever have because you got a chance to embrace and be one with the

soul of the Almighty father.

152

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m2r7oPBmM:

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carlos.html

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alwan-story

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whisper/

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http://www.chinawhisper.com/top-10-classic-chinese-love-poems/

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https://www.google.com/search?site=&tbm=isch&source=hp&biw=1280&bih=662&q=song+notes+wallpaper&oq=song+notes+wa&gs_l=img.1.0.0.9573.13163.0.16081.13.12.0.0.0.0.985.2041.0j1j2j1j6-1.5.0....0...1ac.1.64.img..8.5.2036...0i5i30k1j0i8i30k1.mg8s1Z38ZeE#imgrc=Y8Ygdm2r7oPBmM





http://www.aaronshep.com/stories/043.html

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https://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/apr/18/oil-field-mohammed-hasan-alwan-story

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http://www.theshortform.com/story/the-hands-of-the-blacks

https://macleanpatrick.wordpress.com/2010/04/22/short-story-the-silent-whisper/

https://macleanpatrick.wordpress.com/2010/04/22/short-story-the-silent-whisper/

http://www.mywordwizard.com/japanese-love-poetry.html

http://www.chinawhisper.com/top-10-classic-chinese-love-poems/

http://everlastingfriend105.blogspot.com/2014/09/korean-love-poems-in-english-translation.html

http://everlastingfriend105.blogspot.com/2014/09/korean-love-poems-in-english-translation.html

http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poems/friend/true/

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maung-chaw.html

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http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/c/corrinne_may/song_for_singapore.html

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https://philippine-literature.jimdo.com/literary-works/poems-101/

http://www.voicesnet.com/displayonepoem.aspx?poemid=73645

https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/african-child-3/

http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/u/utada_hikaru/first_love.html

http://songs-lyrics.blogspot.com/2006/06/peng-you-tagalogenglishchinese-kim.html

http://songs-lyrics.blogspot.com/2006/06/peng-you-tagalogenglishchinese-kim.html

http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/c/corrinne_may/song_for_singapore.html

http://learnthaiwithmod.com/2013/11/loi-kratong-song-lyrics/

http://filipino-folk-songs.blogspot.com/2011/11/leron-leron-sinta.html

http://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=4486

http://africa-african.blogspot.com/2011/03/malaika-famous-east-african-song-lyrics.html

http://africa-african.blogspot.com/2011/03/malaika-famous-east-african-song-lyrics.html

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