Politics.

“Shoot first, talk later”.

As the United States prepares itself to assume a Roman position of power in world politics, it is easy to understand why global opinion is slowly turning against them. Whether this ultimately makes a difference in their stance remains to be seen. But the effects on the common man is surely setting in.

While not taking an outwardly supporting stand, Americans nevertheless seem happy to take a quiet supporting role. And who can blame them after the tragedy that happened on September 11 last year? Not supporting the current American foreign policy would seem almost like a declaration of apathy at a time when national pride was hurt on their own soil; while supporting it would mean surely sending some of their boys to their graves.

But is being part of the silent majority the answer?

In an odd and unsettling coincidence, a new turn of events within my office seems to parallel current world affairs. The library unit of my company decided to unilaterally devise a new level of red tape. They created new forms whose objective was to track how often producers were asking for tapes (seemingly last minute) within a work day. These forms do not mean that the producers would be able to retrieve the tapes, they were designed to eventually be used as documentary proof of how ineffective the producers were, and how apparently inhibitive their patterns were to the librarians’ work flow. The more they signed their names on those forms, the more they can be seen as being disorganized and unreasonable. They would be signing their own professional death warrants.

For those who have ever borrowed books from a public library, or those in broadcast who have borrowed tapes out for edits, I know what you are thinking. They are a library. And their function should be to dispense materials required by the borrowers. Without the emotional baggage of guilt, nor a feeling that every request is one asking for a favor.

So how does this new move benefit anyone?

That is not so clear.

What is clear however is that this appears to be a retaliatory move against a recent report that their staff shut their workstations down before it was time, thereby not being able to service the production teams. It appears to be a case of tit for tat. One designed to cover their own inadequacies.

This move seemed to have been made without any consensual agreement between department heads, as would have been required for any implementation of new procedures that would affect entire departments.

“Shoot first, talk later.”

It is curious to see how global tension has been shrunk to a microcosmic level.

The same dilemma applies. To support this new move would almost mean giving a stamp of approval on an action that was not given absolute sanctioning by all those affected. By extension it would also mean giving up a level of sovereignty to a department that seems to simply want to assert a sense of power and retribution. A department whose message seems to be “you hurt us, we crush you”. Sounds familiar?

To vocalize any protest could lead to other repercussions.

So what do you do? The same question applies. Do you keep keep quiet and hope things will somehow get better?

There is no magical answer that can be a benefit absolutely everyone. Even on a global perspective, any direction will not yield a total win-win outcome.

Perhaps the only answer is to take it to a very personal level.

In a post dinner mooncake and Maxim’s de Paris session tonight, I was reminded of something.

Flashback.

A room. Basic. Hot. Humid. Baptist hymns blasting on cheap speakers. Standing outside one’s body looking in. A few meters ahead, a white coffin. Just a few steps. With every one heavier than the last. Fearing what will be seen. Reaching the edge, peering down, there is a coldness. Like a slumber that will never end. The purity has been returned to the Maker. And a divide is created. Where once two souls shared one life, only one is left behind to continue the journey.

What became blindingly clear at that moment, is that there is no permanence in this life. For all the joy and sadness, love and hate, nothing will remain and all that will be left is alone-ness.

That recognition truly humbles. And it puts you outside of yourself. And you realize that the only one that you need to decide for is yourself. The decisions you make should hopefully allow you to carry on until you too are returned.

Present.

Any decision or action made, for whatever reason used to justify them, will come to pass.

The United States may go on its manhunts and personifying of human ills, and the library in my company may carry on assuming the position of the victim while implementing strategies that will gain them power over the people they were meant to service.

But when you think about it, whether on a macro or micro level, some people will continue to further their imperfections through their choices.
People will live, die and move on. With their past as their blueprint for their Maker’s final judgment.

For my micro situation, I will set my own blueprint and choose not to respond to what is happening. I believe that by abstaining from following the new procedures may, in an extreme scenario cost me my job. But it will save me my dignity and self worth, something that is a birth right and cannot be measured in externalities and money. If that sounds magnanimous, it isn’t. It is hard to stand up for what you believe in, especially when people will challenge such a decision for their own reasons. But when your time comes, you need to be able to meet your Maker and say, I have not wasted Your efforts and work on me. I lived the best life I could have made for myself in the time You gave me. I lived on principle and faith. And every morning, I can look at myself in the mirror and believe that I have not compromised the values I innately know come from You.

Perhaps this is something World leaders and others engaged in human politics will think about before they embark on anything that affects others. Making small positive personal decisions, perhaps things will be better for it.

End.

Death.

Silence.

Its a nice concept. One that sometimes eludes me.

This year, all I have been hearing is noise. Mainly screaming, from inside and out. Mainly due to things I couldn¹t foresee. Couldn't control.

Tonight. Something happened. Trivial. Possibly unworthy of attention under other circumstances.

But despite friends trying valiantly to help me get into the weekend mode, the silence I seek now is still elusive.

Office politics have risen again. Something I ran away from so many times before. The true murderer of any creative person's soul. Something bureaucrats usually fail to understand.

My response to tonight was less than stellar. For the cut has gone deeper that it really deserves. In a situation that could be at best seen as the product of small mindedness, my reaction was the product of nearly three years of consistent battering.

The source of these politics come from one place that has, since I stepped into my current position, sought to make my professional life one of forcedhumility and shame.

One of their members made it clear that I am not the religious ideal that he felt would justify any acknowledgement of my existence as a spiritual being. I am not the perfect virtuous learned Muslim that he and his mates felt they were. So right up front, he made sure I understood I am very low on the hierarchy of enlightenment. That I was not a good Muslim.

He judged me. And he used that to shame me every time I had to approach him on work matters. It made me feel disgusted that some Muslims could be so self righteous and so conceited. In an American organization, I would have
thought that is simply not kosher.

Other occasions, my so called lifestyle came under fire. A lifestyle they could only assess based on what they thought they knew, as opposed to what is reality. Their opinions were summarized by one single Malay expression, which they didn't bank of me hearing, that was used by one of their mates.

Translated, the word was: Dirty.

Early this year, my family suffered a personal tragedy. We took steps to make sure only those who needed to know would know. The pain and the suffering needn't be extended or exploited.

Through ways that we couldn't foresee, this same group of people who has made it their business to know everything that has happened to everyone, found out.

And word spread to others.

Something I so desperately wanted to keep private got leaked and used as gossip.

I never tried to keep my life a secret before. But this was a family affair. And that wasn¹t even respected.

When I got back to the office, they wanted details. Even though I said I didn't want to talk about it. The unit head kept pushing. Regardless of how cracked I looked.

The screams in my head got louder. For even though the things these people were doing were offensive on a personal level, their impact obviously collided with the professional.

To this day they have also made it their job to check on the performance of others. In spite of the fact that if this was ANY other company, their primary duty would be to support the production teams without question, a value I heard was upheld when one of the American bosses was still around. Now, things have changed. And they have made people like me suffer for their change in work environment.

Where do you draw the line. Between work and play. Between acceptance and tolerance. When do you say, enough is enough.

A friend said to rise above it all. I tried. But after nearly three years of hearing their whining and being the brunt of their jokes, I realize why my head is filled with those screams.

I have been discriminated. And abused. And I have had my privacy invaded.

I am not being over dramatic. I am troubled, and I am hurt. And I know what has happened tonight will not yield any good for they will personify the problem with one name: mine. The classic weapon of office politics.

Can I do anything about it. No. For even though you can endeavor to assert change in policies and procedures, it would take a lot more to change a person's heart.

From where I stand now, this constant screaming will not go away. For I have yet to find a way to understand how people can be so cruel, and so methodological in they way the trap others for the sake of power.

But there is always a choice.

Always.

And perhaps the screams can go away. And silence will return.

Fashion.

The word alone implies a world and a people that are at once adventurous and frivolous at the same time. As an industry, it lives in a place of its own, with its own language and ethics.

Not many can understand it fully. And chances are you have to be part of it to totally accept it.

In my experience, I have, by choice or otherwise depending on the time, stayed on the fringe of the industry. Loving the speed of the lifestyle and the color is just about enough for me. As for the rest of the crap that comes with it, I would say no thank you.

Don¹t get me wrong. I love fashion. It matches the ebb and flow of life as it changes and morphs with every season. When I dabbled in fashion however, I found myself among people who could only talk about it every minute of the day. So what if the Berlin Wall was going down, the hemlines were going up!

It is not like that all the time though. I was fortunate to have met people in the industry who were more than their skins. They had their own lives, had strong relations with their families, found joy in more things than the latest Prada handbag. It is rare to find these people and when you do, you realize that you can be 'beautiful' and smart at the same time.

Staying on the fringe allowed me to stay in perspective. Fashion people live with a temperament that is hard to decipher. And it is a lifestyle of extremes. You could be so now this minute, and so over the hill the next. One week you can be absolutely hating another in the industry with all your soul, the following week that person can return as your long lost best friend.

I found myself with floating overhead question marks recently when I talked to an old acquaintance. He is a very established fashion show producer who gave up his degree to pursue his chosen field. I felt like I was so yesterday when he mentioned names of bosom buddies that earlier this year, he hated with his guts. All of a sudden, this model and that other industry person were among his list of favorites. The change in climate made me feel like I was no longer in Kansas. The swing of the pendulum was incredible.

This acquaintance was also extremely passionate in trying to corner me into hiring one of his discoveries: a model that he found in London, over another model he rated as second and even third best, someone so below the grade he was not worth my time. Strange thing is, he had never worked with this other model before and his judgment was based on how he was being treated by the model's agency and the rumors that flew in the industry about him. His perceptions were narrow and unfair. It was the perfect paradox of closed mindedness in an industry that is supposed to strive on openness.

Listening to my acquaintance rant and rave about how I was going to have the industry hate me for not bending into hiring his boy, I realized the true value of being on the fringe. Objectivity and clarity. I sat there listening as if from behind a glass wall. And I sat there with an emotion that can best be described as sadness.

He was a self professed non-fashion person who happened to be in fashion. He believed once that he was objective and could see through the plastic façade of the people he faced every day. But as I looked at his new and improved chosen list of friends, I realized that even as he claimed otherwise, he is surrounded by people who were more into their own pectorals and their skin care regime than the state of the world. He was surrounded by people who would not mind getting close to him, in order to establish a semblance of trust, for he could offer them jobs.

I didn¹t offer his discovery the job. Not because he was not good or not absolutely gorgeous. But because the project had its own set of requirements. The decision could not absolutely be one of personal taste. For to do so would be to disregard duty, your clearest marker of knowing whether or not you are on the right path.

The person I chose in the end performed well. And frankly he validated my decision by proving the baloney I heard as falsehoods. That made me feel proud. Happily, he was also more than just his skin, with interests that stretched into marine biology (!!!!). Conversations with him I am sure would be interesting to say the least. But the opportunities would be few and far in between since we are both in different spheres of existence. That is what you get for being on the outside looking in. You get involved but never are involved.

I guess I will always be like that: on the fringe. Perhaps that is best, so no one can pigeon hole me. But in assessing what had happened, I guess I am now in the bag marked as last season's friends when it comes to my acquaintance. But who knows, with the way things change all the time in the industry, I might end up being the brightest star in next season's crop of goodies.

Just A Thought.

Creative.

A creative mind is a strange and wonderful thing. It gets its inspiration
and motivation from the most unlikely of sources. But when it is coupled
with a dream and an instinct, magic can happen.

Jim Henson did it. George Lucas did it. Walt Disney did it.

A creative mind does not let traditional inhibitors, such as time and money
distract them. It is like the mind of a child, constantly seeking challenges, constantly seeking answers. Pure. They see benefits in both tangible and intangible ways, and sometimes these cannot be seen by the naked eye until some time down the road. Why?

A true creative mind generates, and that energy comes from a source. That source is a vision. And the vision is never negative in nature. Vision is impossible to put a price tag on. It is something that allows the world to see and do things in a different light. It challenges perspectives, and constantly aims to do better.

Someone had a vision to fly. Someone cut his ear off in the pursuit of his
vision.

Creative thinkers can be brought down by office and sexual politics, lack
of support and growth etc. And there are always skeptics and realists who
use commandments, rules and logical equations to trap the creative mind.
Hoping to use it to their advantage, to hone it, to mould it the way they
want it. They want to have it without having to understand it, and more
importantly to respect it, and in doing so are killing the very thing they
want to harness.

Exploration of ideas are crucial to creative purists who are constantly
seeking that exacting moment of their own spiritual immortality. The
process always yields beauty, but the end result always brings in glory.

Successful people will repeat a single mantra: If you can dream it, you can
make it happen.

And when you do, the people who have put obstacles in your path suddenly become insignificant and those who assist become martyrs.

Just A Thought.....

Mahligai: An Asian Love Story

Set in the mythical kingdom of IndraPurba hidden somewhere in the jungles of early 1800s Borneo, this love story takes on epic proportions where customs and traditions, spirituality and superstition rule amidst the splendour of gold and precious stones.

The story begins over twenty-five years earlier. A woman falls in love with a commoner but is forced to give up her relationship to fulfil a prearranged destiny of marrying the future Sultan of IndraPurba. The man is taken away and incarcerated for the duration of his life for daring to court the future ruler’s intended. The man eventually dies of a broken heart. The woman swears that once she becomes Permaisuri, or the Queen, no one will endure the same fate of pre-arranged loveless marriage as her.

But as the years went by, and memories faded to a misty blur, the newly enthroned Sultan and Permaisuri set aside the past they could not control and ruled the kingdom with love and compassion, often lavishing their subjects with grand mass celebrations where gold dust would literally rain from their palace onto the streets below.

Ten years after their ascension to the throne, and after numerous failures to produce a child, the prayers of the soothsayers and the entire kingdom were answered and a beautiful daughter was borne to the Royal Couple. They named her Putri Sakti, appropriate as it literally means Magical Princess, a gift from the Gods.
Putri was indeed a special child, as she seemed to emanate a divine glow previously unseen before. Streams and rivers would sing as they bathed her, jungle creepers would entwine themselves to form shelter wherever she walked beneath them.

The Sultan was so happy that he commissioned a new Palace, a Mahligai to be built in the image of her beauty. It was to be grander than any other palaces past Sultans have built and it would be a monument dedicated to Love. It was an incredible feat of marble and jewels to accomplish but the Sultan insisted that it should be finished by her twenty-first birthday.

As she reached her twentieth year of life, her parents knew that the time would come for her to be married and promptly looked for a suitable partner in the kingdom.

But the coming of a passing traveler, an adventurer who chanced upon the kingdom when he strayed off the path his expedition was on, changed the tide of contentment. John Fenton was a handsome man, a mixed breed of European and Asian blood, a look that was unique if not out of the ordinary in one race, one language, one religion IndraPurba. And for this reason of uniqueness, and for many more, Putri found herself falling in love with this man who stumbled upon her while bathing in a pond filled with flowers.

The love they developed was beautiful and pure. A kind of love that no other could possible imagine nor understand; that is, no one other than Putri’s mother, whom when young too suffered the pleasures and pain of a forbidden love. Her memories returned, this time sharper than if they were to have just happened.

When the Sultan discovered their secret affair, initial sadness turned to anger as the soothsayers told him that the man was not from the kingdom but worse still was a breed lower than the lowest caste in IndraPurba. He therefore deemed the blood that ran in the man’s body to be dirty and impure, unworthy of his daughter’s affection nor the family inheritance and lineage. The anger turned to rage when it was discovered that Putri was with child. New of this was kept within palace walls.

He sent his palace guards to seek him out, in spite of the desperate pleas of both the Permaisuri and Putri. The soothsayers wrongly accused the man to be the illegitimate child of the man the Permaisuri loved as a young woman. A false sense of betrayal set in, as if the past had returned to haunt him for a crime he never committed, the crime of intentionally taking away someone else’s love. Realising that he had never fully gotten the love of his wife, the Sultan turned his anger towards John and ordered him to be impaled and hung outside the palace gates. Putri begged for his life but to no avail. But in deference to his daughter’s tears he chose a seemingly more humane way of killing: death by a cocktail of the combined poisons of the most deadly insects found in all the land, prepared by the ever present soothsayers.

John’s and Putri’s love was strong and they swore that it would survive any cruelty that the world could offer. The Permaisuri decided to use her influence to overturn the Sultan’s orders of barring Putri anywhere near the dungeons, and help her gain access to him. Realising that their time on this world was short, all they could do was to share a moment of bitter silence. Putri then told John that it was not without reason that their love was allowed by the Gods to happen, and it was with purpose that their love was to be subjected to the cruelest test known: forced separation. But even as her tears fell onto John’s cheeks as she held him in her arms, she told him that separation was not eternal for their love would surely show them a way back to each other. In her arms, John died.

When the Sultan heard of his wife’s actions, he cried treachery. And as punishment for disobeying his word, he banished Putri to the highest tower of the Palace.

The Permaisuri, stripped of her powers, swore that true love would conquer all and the Sultan and the soothsayers would not be the true victors. The soothsayers had after all made false claims before. Fearing that the Permaisuri might turn against them, they laid another claim that she often visited the spirit of her former lover in her dreams, something she could not deny as she could not control sometimes dreaming of their youth together. Outraged, the Sultan turned against her and ordered her banished into the outer regions of the kingdom. She was so distraught of her daughter’s fate as well as that of her own that she flung herself over a high waterfall, causing the water to turn white as it mixed with her own blood.

When news of this reached the Kingdom, the subjects were uncertain of how to react. How could water turn white? Did this signify that the Permaisuri was innocent of the accusations? How can their beloved Sultan allow these events to happen? They turned their anger towards the nearly completed Mahligai, for the very symbol of love no longer seemed to retain any meaning.

Much of the monument was destroyed, all the years of toil was put to an end within a day. The Palace guards could do little to stop the destruction. The Sultan managed to appease his people eventually but a gloom had befallen the kingdom.

From the tower, Putri could see what was left of the Mahligai. Her father, unrepentant, refused to allow her to leave the tower until after the child is born, after which he intended to throw it into the same river his wife died in. He wanted a new beginning where his daughter would marry a man of his choice, thereby appeasing his subjects even more. He was in fact so confident of his plan that he chose a handsome man, one of his ministers’ sons who was popular with the people, to be the betrothed.

But Putri no longer had the will to exist. And on her twenty-first birthday, she gave birth. As her daughter emerged, Putri relinquished her life force and her strength to her. Her father could not do anything to stop his own daughter from giving up. For even as he had power over the lives of his subjects, he had no control of human will.
As her life slowly drained from her body, Putri could feel the presence of her mother and her lover. She kissed her newly born daughter and named her Mahligai, as she wanted all to understand that the true Palace of Love was not something made of marble and jewels, but a child that is conceived out of true love. Her daughter bore the combined features of the Permaisuri, John and herself, was thusly the living Mahligai of Love.

Word spread. The kingdom stood still in awe of this child. For her existence marked a new beginning for all.

No one really knew what happened to the Sultan afterwards, nor of the meddlesome soothsayers. All the people of IndraPurba would say, when the colonists finally discovered the isolated kingdom, was “Seindahnya cinta Putri Mahligai!” or “How Great the Love of Princess Mahligai!”.

The End