Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

Pema Tseden’s second full-length movie, the Search, is a movie that says so many things without saying much at all. It is an exercise in patience, a reward of which at the end leaves you not satisfied but mildly contemplative. Much like the uncompromising cinematography, what lies beneath the seemingly unassuming surface reveals an honest and complex understanding of a country and a generation trying to find its place in an unfamiliar environment.

A person of modest build with a soft-spoken demeanour, Pema Tseden introduced the movie to this year’s TIFF viewers by saying that he wanted to present his homeland to a different audience by participating in the festival. The portrayal of Tibet in a different light is also unmistakably significant.

The film is set in the Amdo region of Tibet. A crew of four men — director, cameraman, businessman and driver — are scouting the villages in search of actors to play a movie based on a traditional Tibetan opera called “Namthar”. They are an easy-going bunch that crack each other up in their long drives through extremely rural areas and sleepy town centres. They all speak in their native Amdo dialect. Everyone in the movie, in fact, speaks in this dialect.

The story picks up after they encounter a mysterious woman in a village who used to play the lead female character “Mande Zangmo” of the opera. Just her singing one verse is enough to convince the party that she is the one meant for this role. She refuses to show her face though, which is clad in a pink scarf throughout the movie. She also refuses to join their project, relenting only when they agree to seek her ex-boyfriend who used to play the lead male, “Prince Drime Kunden”. He left her after he got a teaching job in the city, and it appears that this girl has some unfinished business to settle with him. She joins the group, and the rest of the movie is of them going to various places and meeting all sorts of people, all in their quest to fill out the roles for their movie adaptation.

The first thing to commend about this movie is the fact that it is authentic to the core. Being a Tibetan with a good enough grasp of Tibetan, even I found it difficult to follow the movie without reading the English subtitles. The opening credits and titles are all written in Tibetan. Everyone in the movie is Tibetan and almost all of them are non-actors. Mr. Tseden has a wonderful knack of letting the players define the story without making it forced or ham-fisted. Everything seems to blend and flow organically, from the pleasing and percussive sound of the Amdo dialect to the measured pace and spartan effects of the movie.

Zonthar Gyal, the cinematographer, maintains a sure-footed balance between the expansive and the intimate. The villages are sparsely populated, the towns are unevenly developed, herds of yaks and goats share the concrete roadways with honking cars and trucks. The villages look like they are from another epoch, yet they are not idyllic. The dust and mist are often dream-like, and the search, although purposeful and determined, is neither rushed nor languid with these kinds of peculiar metronomes.

Sometimes a single continuous shot is set for almost unbearably long. This stark change in pace from snappy edits in the youtube era makes for an unsettling viewing experience, where not a lot is happening in the screen in front of me and yet I am hooked and perturbed, all at the same time.

The people are weather-beaten and guarded, yet they also possess an easy smile, a sense of community and a desire of showmanship. In one scene, a bunch of novice monks, clearly aware of the fact that they are being taped, are asked to audition for parts in the movie. In the span of a few minutes, these kids who are no older than ten pronounce advanced verses of dialectics and existential philosophy. And they do it all with a mischievous grin.

Such moments of light-heartedness are few and far between. The complete lack of any soundtrack, with the exception of the crew’s music playing the car, creates a heavy and almost stuffy atmosphere. The aforementioned drawn out scenes together collude into a viewing experience that sometimes made me gasp for air in the packed theatre.

There were some parts which I felt were unnecessary and could have been cut, but then I am left with the sinking reflection of a time and place where most of us demand to be dazzled, shocked, humoured, and generally led to feel a certain way when watching different parts of a movie. Rarely do you experience a state of introspection along with the movie, right in the middle of the theatre. Some may call it ennui. I think it’s something more than that. Danny Boyle, director of Slumdog Millionaire, called it one of the most challenging movies he saw at the Shanghai Int’l Fim Festival, where the Search won the top jury prize. I agree with that sentiment.

The Search ends in almost the same way that it began. The audience quietly files out of the movie. The jarring noise of the cineplex outside confronts my senses with an audacity that confirms my belief about the director’s vision and inspiration. The questions that the movie raises echo long after the credits have rolled.

A note (please be aware of possible spoilers):
It seems, unfortunately, that most movies about Tibet are lumped into two extremities: either they are a politically charged study of China’s occupation and its effects, in Tibet or beyond; or they are a propaganda tool for legitimizing the oppressor’s occupation. Case in point, Tibettruth:

…the new offering from Tibetan Director Pema Tseden, of course being an obedient and loyal citizen of communist China he also has a Chinese name too, Wanma Caidan. A slick production filmed in Amdo, Eastern Tibet, superficially it presents a quest to find Tibetans who can perform traditional Tibetan opera, seems that none were available, thus we are left to conclude that the old ways in Tibet are undergoing change, life is moving on, with the underlying implication that this is a good thing. What the film does not address of course is the fact that such change has been forced upon ordinary Tibetans, and that the loss of cultural knowledge is a direct result of China’s imperialistic aggression which has deliberately targeted Tibetan culture for over five decades.

First, let us examine the last sentence of the paragraph above. Done? Let’s move on.

Is it too much to ask to check your tone before knowing who or what you are talking about? The above post from a Tibetan pro-independence blog is cynical and vindictive, and completely unfounded given the fact that the author didn’t even bother to watch the movie, and doesn’t know who or what the director is about (loyal citizen of Communist China, seriously?).

We talk about facts all the time, and we have to given the dire circumstance in Tibet, but one thing that I’ve come to loathe about some of the activists is their unyielding insistence of painting Tibetans as one-note characters. We are refugees, and that is that. In their world, Tibetans barely qualify as individuals or artists with their own ideas of what Tibet means to them.

It goes along the lines of religious zealots and ideologues: you are either with us or you’re against us.

In their minds, every Tibetan must be naked about their suffering. What gets misinterpreted and misunderstood in the shuffle of the reality of a complex life is a failure of advocating for Tibet’s independence, and therefore we are shills for the Chinese occupation.

Getting emotional is understandable, but it is unfortunate when it comes at the price of appreciating and supporting the aspects of our community that should make us proud. Mr. Pema Tseden, who was born in Tibet to a family of farmers, knows as much, and probably more (experience or otherwise), about the dire situation of Tibet.

His work is an honest and poetic look at the way the occupation has altered the landscape in Tibet. Though the premise of the movie isn’t based explicitly on this, it is implied through many instances. There is a scene at the beginning where the crew tries to get a little boy to relay a message to a member of the village. At each request, they hand him a pen or some money as thanks, always advising the kid to study properly.

In another scene, the director and crew look on as a group of Tibetan girls perform a bland dance routine using butter churns as props in an audition for the movie. At the end of it, clearly unimpressed and slightly disappointed, the director asks them to recite some Tibetan poetry. None of them make the cut.

The story of Prince Drime Kunden itself can be interpreted as a metaphor for Tibet, Tibetans or His Holiness. The story of how he sacrifices his children and his eyes to the three Indian sages is a heartbreaking rendition of Tibet’s history, and of course, none of this should mean anything to those of us who are the actual victims of China’s occupation, but it also doesn’t mean that an artist can’t explore it through those lenses.

And what of the fact that this was all made in Tibetan, in the local Amdo dialect? The director told us that the shooting of the film itself took just around fifty days, but to actually get it approved and distributed took him over three years. This kind of perseverance and belief is something that we must applaud. For even in the fairly straightforward argument that the Tibetan language must be preserved and promoted in Tibet, Mr. Tseden shows how it can be done in a profound and meaningful tapestry.

So let’s back off the vitriol, watch the movie and offer substantive points before leaping on to conclusions about people who have as much right to talk about Tibet as you and I.

Taking Back Our Losar 2009

I was visiting Phayul the other day and I noticed a link on the corner that proclaimed “Say No to Losar 2009″. Click the link and it takes you to a registration page with profile pictures of – Tenzin Tsundue, Lhadon Tethong etc., — the various leaders within the independence movement who have supposedly signed on to this appeal. I’ve had talks about this issue a number of times with friends and family. At first I tended to think that “Saying no to Losar” was a good idea, a way to release pent up anger in the lead-up to the 50-year anniversary of the first popular uprisings in Tibet. But the more that I’ve talked about this and thought about it, the clearer it has become: Losar must not be affected because of the significance of 2009.

The reasoning behind the growing call for saying “NO to LOSAR” (which, by the way, makes our new year sound as if it’s just some Canadian mining corporate in Tibet) is this: on the 50th anniversary of the uprising of March 10, 1959, Tibetans all around the world will mute their Losar celebrations, and hold prayers and vigils instead, in a sign of solidarity and in memory of those who have perished inside Tibet.

“No to Losar 2009” is being propagated as a show of respect. As a way of saying to the Tibetans in Tibet and the world beyond that we are capable of missing a few days of festivities, and that we have more pressing and urgent matters to deal with. There is an underlying subtext in the directives being issued by the Tibetan groups in India, and elsewhere, which equates celebrations to callousness.

A reminder that, lest we get too carried away, our brothers and sisters are still bearing the brunt of one of the most oppressive regimes on earth.

All of this is true. It’s true that we are about to begin yet another year reeling from the lies of the Chinese government. It’s true that the Chinese government is increasing its pressure on the Tibet freedom movement. It’s true that there are no signs of reprieve, and yet we’re constantly being told that we have to bide our time and hope that things speed up.

So we’re pissed off, and rightfully so. We’re angry about what has happened so far. We’ve bared ourselves on waves of hopelessness, disbelief, anticipation, and anger. And so, on the most festive period on our calendar, the “No to Losar 2009” advocates tell us to sacrifice our joy for the sake of those who suffer.

Or at least that’s what the Tibetan groups seem to be saying in their press releases. (If I’ve missed or misunderstood any part, I’m more than glad to be corrected.) How can we celebrate in the face of half a century of oppression? It’s a direct appeal to the heart and our conscience.

But what about our heads? Does this make sense tactically, strategically?

One of the most striking parallels throughout history, among the various regimes that have imperiled and attempted to eradicate a group of people, is their ways of trying to bind those in chains into a suffering so deep and pervasive that it sucks the life out of them. Oppressors try to rob the basic humanity of those who are being oppressed. If they succeed in making us inhuman, the crimes of genocide become sterilized and clinical.

So the thinking was in Nazi Germany, in history’s various imperialist and colonialist empires, and in the Chinese regime as well.

So how do we resist genocide? How do we resist the denial of our humanity? One way is to be happy. To be happy is to be human. Happiness is a force that buckles the steely reins of dictators and seeps effortlessly through the shackles and cloaks of oppression. It is a light that dims but never withers, a song that gathers spirits and resonates through the roof for the whole world to hear. It is a burst of colours, of the so many things that make us who we are.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that celebrating Losar every year, happily and profusely, is a victory for a small nation of people numbering less than 2 % of China’s total population.

It is an even greater victory for the smaller minority that lives abroad, in far flung diasporas. It is a sign of defiance and of unity; a blazing symbol and a blaring horn that shouts, “We have our own traditions, we have our own identity and we celebrate our own new year.”

“We do not belong to you.”

The Chinese government may have taken a lot from us, and they continue to, but they can’t take our identity from us. Before all this talk of boycotting Losar, let us not forget that it belongs to us. It is a piece as unique and integral to us as our language, religion and mountains. A part of us that we can hold up against any other country in the world, to let them marvel at our ingenuity; that a civilization spread across a vast plateau high up the Himalayas can devise an intricate calendar all their own. There aren’t a lot of UN countries that can boast that.

But we can. Because Losar is ours.

And sure, some might say, “So what? It’s just a bunch of old rituals and an excuse for a lot of people to throw their money around and act silly.” It is true. But there are some among us who believe in the significance of Losar, of what it means to us, what it means to our parents, and what it says to the Chinese leaders.

Why are we creating this argument around something – celebrating Losar – that means a lot to some Tibetans, and not a lot to some people? It would be fine if the many impassioned activists among us resolved to not celebrate Losar because we didn’t feel right about it. But why dictate your absolutist convictions on the wider community that is already straining from the pressures of maintaining the language and culture in a rapidly homogenizing environment for their children?

The discussions in itself isn’t a bad thing – it’s an example of engaged minds butting heads – but when the debate boils down to accusing those that disagree of being “unpatriotic”, “uncaring” or “unsupportive”, that’s when you have to reconsider sending out mass appeals that have implications beyond just a call for political awareness.

Imagine if those at the helm of all of this issued a joint statement calling everyone to observe a moment of silence in memory of the so many that had perished and continue to suffer. Wouldn’t it be so much more engaging, inclusive and constructive to create programs and actions during Losar celebrations that use the energy of the people that have gathered, to have our various leaders speak out and raise the awareness and fervour of the crowd? Wouldn’t it be wiser and more prudent to use Losar as a high launching point for our campaigns in 2009? What better way to start the New Year off on a powerful note rather than with depressing notes about our state of exile?

Why begin the new year with a whimper?

And yet, because Tibetans inside Tibet have begun this movement, we are told of stories of this bizarre turnaround where Chinese authorities are now doling out cash and trying to force Tibetans to be joyous and happy. How much more absurd can this get?

Have we lost sight of the diversity of our community? Are we to believe that we should feel guilty and ashamed about celebrating something that is a significant part of who we are? Saying “NO to Losar” in 2009 makes as much sense as boycotting tsampa and butter tea because some Chinese company started manufacturing them.

Is there not a better, more articulate way of mobilizing the Tibetans other than telling us “it’s just a few days, get over it”?

Here’s an idea: let us have a day of Losar (either the first day or the third Sangsol day) as a remembrance day by holding a day of fast which not only symbolizes the shared suffering of Tibetans inside and out of Tibet, but also pays respect to those who have perished. We can use Losar as an example to educate people about the distinct features of Tibetan Losar; why Tibetans have a new year based on its own Tibetan Calendar for centuries and why we never consult the Chinese one. This would increase awareness, garner support and raise funds for further actions to serve the Tibetan cause.

Promoting our movement in a positive way will always succeed over issuing fragmented dictates that amplify the insularity of political groups, and subsequently disenchants the wider population that wants less and less to have anything to do with “politics”. The monopolistic and didactic approach defeats the purpose of what the Tibetan groups intended to accomplish with this campaign.

One of the more inspired actions during the brouhaha of the Beijing Olympics last year was when we created our own Tibet games. Did we hang our heads and turn the TV off during the 2008 games? No. We organized street rallies. We enlisted our own athletes and had them apply for visas to China so that they could participate in the Olympics and represent Tibet.

We didn’t even call for a mass boycott of the games, even though we had all the rights and reasons to. So we’re willing to be considerate towards foreign athletes but not to our own traditions?

If our goal is to help our brothers and sisters inside Tibet, then we have to think more strategically before making bold proclamations of what does or doesn’t help the cause. What helps our struggle is to make our presence felt wherever we live. What helps is sending articles to the general public about our upcoming Losar. What helps is inviting local dignitaries and media personalities to our New Year’s celebrations and to let them know that the Tibetans are holding special campaigns around the 50th anniversary of the Chinese occupation. What helps is finding creative ways to celebrate Losar meaningfully in the context of our history, issues and people.

What doesn’t help is alienating a large portion of the community and creating friction over the matter of whether we should or shouldn’t be having fun.

What doesn’t help is singling out a part of your identity and carelessly flicking it off in some misguided attempt to alleviate the suffering of those inside Tibet.

What doesn’t help is having knee-jerk reactions and thinking that they are an answer to our bigger problems.

What doesn’t help is trying to simplify your arguments by comparing the two different realities of Tibetans who live inside and out of Tibet.

What doesn’t help is calling people out to sacrifice something that ultimately turns out to be purposeless. So that, at the end of it all, not only do we have nothing to show for (except for resentment), but we also took away the chance for others to enjoy and have a good time in spite, and because, of the hard times.

And that last point is important. It is especially in times like these, when our outlook is bleakest, that we search and fight for the reasons that make us engaged, energized and alive.

Aren’t the joys of celebrating our identity something worth fighting for?

I certainly think it ranks up there somewhere between our right to self determination and our desire to have an independent Tibet.

We know that there is a lot of grief and anger over the recent crackdowns in Tibet. We know every time we wake up in Canada, and elsewhere, that we are spared from the grim reality of what our brothers and sisters face in Tibet. We know all of that and we must always resolve to change the situation for the better. But we ought to know how to do it in a way that promotes and strengthens our community, rather than polarizing it.

We must also know that Losar is the biggest event in our calendar. We know that Tibetan families everywhere prepare months in advance for this. We know about it from our own childhood: when we wouldn’t be able to sleep on the eve of Losar because of the sheer anticipation of eating khap sey, getting a year’s worth of pocket money, and slipping into new sets of clothes. We know of our visits to the temples, of offering our respects to our ancestors. We know of the so many merchants and shopkeepers who rely on Losar to start their year profitably. And so on, and so forth.

It is all of that.

And it has been that way for centuries. It’s a set of weeks that starts with a series of dances for getting rid of bad karma from the previous year. And it ends with prayers for peace and prosperity for all beings in the coming year. It is a humbling and beautiful way of harmonizing our resolve for peace, our need of festivities, and our commitment to our culture, traditions and language flourishing so that we can hold our heads up high in the face of an empire as oppressive as China.

Sometimes, like they say, you gotta make best of what you got.

And the best way, I believe, for us to help the Tibetans in Tibet and ourselves, is to show China and the rest of the world that we are a nation of free and united people, proud and alive – as emphatically as possible.

Therefore, in response to the call to say “No to Losar”, I offer a humble “No thanks” and a hearty “Tashi Delek.”

[I would be remiss not to thank my partner, Kalsang, for her initial idea about writing this piece, and for encouraging me along the process with her passion for her culture and country, and her quick wit as well.

And also to my friend and mentor Derek, for his advice and fine-tuning of my message.]

There is nothing to say. I’m a little worried about my state of tepidity. The week has been grey and sullen, as if we somehow forgot to invite it to a party that everyone in the cooler next day was excitedly talking about. And now it has brought everyone else down with its dreary jive.

A brief hullabaloo about the TTC strike on the weekend made things a little interesting, but then Monday came and suddenly everyone was reminded about their spilling workload. Days came and went, sprinkling a dismissive shower here and there, going on and on and on and on.

My video project grant application got rejected. I suppose that’s partly to blame for my inordinately glum blog entry. The people behind the donor explained that they had to siphon the grant money to “Toronto priority projects”. My first disappointment of the year. Imagine a volcano caving unto itself. A tire deflating, a pyramid of leaves collapsing and eventually scattered by the wind.

I’ve got nothing to say but I felt like I needed to post something. I’m actually not as depressed as I’m making it out to be, quite melodramatically you could add. I’m just teetering on glib jadedness and a steady vacuum of inspiration. My D-SLR is despondently staring at me through its 14-45mm wide lens; I can’t call it accusing, more like disappointed. My surroundings are implacably sterile; there could be green organic matter oozing out from the walls right now, and all I would’ve noticed was its lack of urgency.

A bomb could go off next door and I’d instantly notice the loosening hinges of the door. OK, maybe that was a little insincere. I probably would’ve scampered underneath my bed if I heard a bang. But I still would’ve commented on the sagging underpinnings.

I’ve got nothing to say and all I can think about are my drooping shoulders. I can’t argue, my greetings are forced and my voice is as dejected as a twelve-year old who gets a pack of new socks for his birthday gift.

It’s Thursday night and I’ve got nothing to say. I had dinner — it was OK. Watching Jon Stewart online and I realize that he’s a comic genius, nonpareil, of our times. And all I can muster is a half-hearted chuckle. It’s Thursday night and suddenly I wish I was out drinking instead. It’s Thursday night: chilly, quiet and funereal.

It’s Thursday night, I’m as fit as I’ve ever been lately, and man — I’ve got nothing to say. I could enthrall you with my activist work, my nomination as the Chairperson of something, my conversations with interesting people, my romantic failures, my work and my plays, my highs and my lows…instead I’ve got nothing to say.

The tunes on my ipod scatter the distortions in my head, but like a school of fish huddling back after the dust settles down, I’m as blank and unresponsive as before. I crack my fingers and nothing still happens. My brother cracks a joke and nothing. A stranger with a tight pair of jeans, silhouetted deliciously against the glare of the streetcar lights, and nothing. Compared to me right now, even the traffic lights seem to change with more enthusiasm.

You say: bah! chin up already. You’re young, relatively debt-free, working in a great office with an even greater mentor. Your bills are paid (well, some of it), your health is sound (except for that slightly recent ache in the back), your moral fibers are firm (most of the times), you’re starting to get a foot into the talk of the community, you’re not all that dumb or bad-looking. So chin the fuck up, dude.

And I guess I agree. I have nothing to be so humdrum about. If my existence is so ordinary, it should be something to be grateful about. Compared to the many who live in constant fear and real poverty, I am a spoiled duke. A flat tire is my main concern while people out there actually have bullets to dodge. I live in a bustling city, and I work in a fantastic community. No exposed, tin roofs letting in the piercing cold rain.

I’ve got nothing to say, but in the course of an hour, I’ve managed to spool off quite a few threads of my recent discomfiture. Funny how some of my entries seem to take a life of its own, albeit a zombie-like state in this instance. I suppose I could put this into my “organic” category. Ha ha. Bloody zinger.

Its an hour to midnight, sleep is slowly creeping up my bones, I’ve got nothing else to say but end this note with a fascinating video that my friend Derek sent my way.

I hope you’ve had a much more meaningful state of affairs. If you like, you can regale me with it, but be warned: all I could probably muster is a distracted “meh”.

Good night.

Quite a lot has happened since I last posted here. For starters: no more snow. Lawns everywhere in Toronto are now slowly showing signs of awaking from their repose — a tint of green that’s barely a murmur now, but lest we get too excited, overzealous revelers were reminded of winter’s still fleeting grip with a chilly thunderstorm yesterday. Hold off on those sandals and shorts for now. I learned it the hard way myself.

The atmosphere in Tibet is still very tense. And it looks like it won’t let up any time soon. The members of the IOC met in Beijing a couple of days ago, and despite the all-around criticisms that it endured at the Olympic torch procession in London, Paris and San Francisco, they decided to stick with their plan of parading the jaundiced torch through Tibet. Any talk of increased violence and bloodshed due to its presence in Lhasa and Mt. Everest were immediately chided by the Chinese government. You can almost picture the embarrassed face of Jacques Rogge on the dinner table, as if sternly admonished by the Chinese patriarch for reaching across the table without any sign of modesty. Like a little schoolboy. Leave the stuff about human rights and “politics” to us, the Chinese officials seem to have said. You worry about people doing laps and things like that, okay? That’s a good boy. Now finish your bowl of wonton soup and bid everyone goodnight.

Hundreds of Tibetans have now been killed as a direct result of the violent crackdowns since the unrest first began in Tibet a month ago. Pictures are floating in almost everyday. The deaths seem to be indiscriminate in its blinding cloak: young and old, monks and nuns, schoolchildren and old peasants. Two state orchestrated media “tours” in Tibet to show the world that it’s all stable and normal, and both of them valiantly disrupted by monks who were gut wrenchingly earnest in their pleas and astonishingly articulate in their demands and objections. The forcibly devoid and make-believe image of Tibet that Beijing keeps presenting to the rest of the country and the world has been tarnished by the crimson robes and blood of monks who continue to defy the iron-fisted authority of a long-outmoded giant. A hungry, unfeeling and insecure party stricken with an authoritarian compulsion that threatens to burn a whole garden of unique cultures and identities to the ground.

I have been very occupied since I last reported about the pro-China demo in Toronto. Ever since that day, there has been this unsettling knot in my stomach, a faintly bothersome perturbation in the back of my mind that insists that this issue will not be resolved as clearly or as cleanly as I’d hoped. Call me naive, and I rightly was, but I’ve always thought that our fight against the Chinese government was something that was markedly straightforward. Our grievances and anger were directed towards a brutal dictatorship that has the blood of millions in its hands. This still active and strong party of Mao Zedong is responsible, by some accounts, for more deaths than Hitler, Stalin and Pol Pot combined.

We have nothing against the Chinese people, culture, or even the country (in its rough description).

What I’ve been shocked with lately, is this insistent and troubling vibe that I’ve been getting from Chinese people. Young Chinese men and women, in Canada, the States and everywhere else outside of China. This almost childish stubbornness that flows out from the mouth and keyboards of ill-informed high school and university students. I’m trying to picture things from their POVs, but it doesn’t add up. Some have called it patriotism, a call to defend your country from any criticism regardless of what the actual issue may be. I’ve been told that the hate-filled slander and vile racism that I come across on internet message boards and blogs are the vocal fringes — a misrepresentation of the majority of Chinese people (ethnic Hans) who have suffered as much as the Tibetans, Uighers and many others.

And then you get this:

For anyone at work or with a shoddy internet connection, this is the full transcript of the short video:

I wish the people to know that China and Chinese people have helped the Tibetan people and improved their human rights.

…how can somebody who cannot even read and write understand anything about human rights?

If they cannot read and write … how can they realize what is being lost?

… in the past in Tibet … the people were just blind faith to believe in their religions. They were controlled … if people think China has mind-controlled them, then they were mind-controlled for thousands of years by their religion.

On the stage you have a round-faced, mousse-haired gentleman who looks like he’s not a year over twenty five. A title states that he is the event organizer. No name is mentioned. A quick pan of the crowd that has gathered, waving the Chinese and Canadian flags. And then he speaks — in a halting, and obviously strained English. Not exactly a crowd captivator. The crowd cheers encouragingly after the first line, perhaps hoping to collectively extract the oratorical resin hidden somewhere beneath his sheepish and milquetoast demeanour. After the second line though, the crowd isn’t really too sure. And then he drops that bomb, with that slight look of glee in his face.

Excuse me if this is really offensive, but right then and there his face looked Mao-ish. I’m sorry. That’s just what he reminded me of. “How can they realize what is being lost?” If there is one sentence that chillingly epitomizes everything that is wrong with online keyboard cowboys, it is that. He looks like he was transposed straight from CCTV and Xinhua, a vile, flabby concoction of selfish nationalism mixed with misinformation.

But that’s not what really bothers me. What’s really worrying about all of this is the absolute lack of any trace of humanity (or empathy) in that person. Maybe I’m being too harsh here. Maybe my judgment is totally out of place, and I should try and rein in my comments.

But to see that young person utter those words, words that he apparently prepared and “practiced” before he got on stage, and to witness this sad, atavistic caricature of another era spewing these explicitly offensive and nigh-psychopathic statements in downtown Toronto, in front of hundreds of people, was throughly dreadful. To him, and the many others who support his maladjusted way of thinking, this “speech” is the succinct embodiment of their rationales.

This, to them, is what justifies the harsh and brutal crackdowns on Tibetans everywhere in Tibet. In this person’s fat and pneumatic head, is a Dalai Lama who is a sexual deviant and a slave master. In his book of history is a barbaric nation that was occupied for hundreds of years, in spite of every known fact pointing to a series of contention and revisionism.

From his eyes he sees a culture that is beneath him, and a peaceful struggle that is spit-worthy and dismissive. His memory is clouded with a red, pervasive ink that blots out any sign of dissent, and to him a torch relay being disrupted is more cause for indignation than a human rights activist jailed and tortured for speaking the truth.

His moral fiber is attuned to the sensitivity of a vast party machine, as opposed to the plights of children being shot in the back on border passes, or young idealists rolled under tanks and silenced by bullets.

His flag is a symbol of pride, one that he had no trouble looking back on when he first left China for greener pastures and greater freedom, but one that he can still wave in the thrusting moment of convenience. As a linchpin to justify his contempt for those that oppose crimes against humanity or have the temerity to demand their rights as an individual.

I urge the people with whom I’ve engaged civilly over the internet in discussions about Tibet to look at this video and then defend his speech (or whatever you’d like to call that). Remember that this is the type of person who’s organizing your demonstrations. And to remember that this is exactly the type of person the Chinese Communist Party wants you to follow.

Tomorrow there’s apparently a similar demonstration in Ottawa in front of the Parliament building. Will this guy be leading the charge again? Does anyone know?

I actually intended to write about something altogether different today. But I guess it’ll have to wait. This post got way longer than I’d planned.

Someone please make a case for this guy, and actually stop me from making him a scapegoat so quickly. I’m unsettled by the ease with which I’ve almost reduced him to a genocidal freak.

Please. Anyone?

If you happened to be shopping downtown on Yonge St. this afternoon, you probably came across the sea of red and the piercing howls that was the pro China demonstration on Dundas Square today. It was an impressive crowd, with Chinese people from all walks of life, chanting “One China! One China!” and applauding themselves at various signaled intervals. You could’ve sworn this was February all over again — the Chinese new year déjà vu. Where were the dancing dragons and child acrobats with silk ribbons?

The reason for the demo today, though, was entirely removed of any cultural or political significance. The event was organized, believe it or not, by international Chinese student groups who were upset about the media coverage of the recent uprisings in Tibet. They wanted Toronto to know the unfettered, unbiased and unadulterated truth — so they handed out copies of “damning” evidence under instructions of the Chinese consulate. The gist of their argument: Tibetans were the violent troublemakers behind the unrest inside Tibet (they deserved what they got); China is one and, above all else, Tibetans should be grateful for that. The obvious face-slapping truth of China’s bloody hands behind the suffering of Tibetans is just western propaganda, and you should be shameful for even having thought of that. We’ll harass the shit out of you if you think otherwise.

I’m not even kidding. Towards the conclusion of the event, at various instances, the Chinese participants mobbed and yelled down with relish anyone who dared to engage with them about Tibet. A Canadian man in the middle of the participants exposed his shirt which had a flag of Tibet on the pocket which absolutely drove the mob into fits and, if it were not for the swift response of the cops, the whole thing would’ve turned very ugly very quickly. At another instance, a fat Chinese boy with a hoodie, who couldn’t have been a year over twenty, shoved and cussed at a person who talked about the dead Tibetans from the last couple of weeks. Old folks were screaming, “You don’t know the truth! You never been to China!” “Liar!”

The whole thing would’ve been ridiculously funny if not for the dangerous underpinnings. This was a large crowd of mostly adults who gathered and exulted in their abject nationalistic fervour. The whole idea behind this event was to show that the greatness of China overshadowed and overwhelmed any aspect of human rights or freedoms. In a pointedly candid display of misplaced fealty, they placed the might of the party before the rights of the citizens. And most worryingly of all, this happened in Toronto, Canada: a place where you can glean all versions of the facts, and not just the one fed down the tubes of the Communist propaganda machine.

If a community of thousands, across an ocean and a continent from its “motherland”, can be shepherded so blindly and easily, what does that mean for the billions in China who actually don’t have the free access to media like we do here in Canada? I try not to exaggerate online, but I’m absolutely serious when I say that I felt like a Jew who inadvertently stumbled into a Nazi rally when the call of Aryan superiority was first spreading throughout Germany. This was how the monks must’ve felt when the cadres of the Red Army, drunk on their premature jingoism, destroyed the monasteries in Tibet and burned Buddhist texts with demented glee during the Cultural Revolution.

It was a chilling reminder about the extent of China’s oppressive tactics. And it was heartbreaking to see otherwise rational human beings being filled with toxic emotions that encourage mass terror and mob justice. Is this what we’re up against? I have to commend the brilliance of the fucking party officials who have honed their crafts and mastered the art of intimidation and shock therapy. After all, they did have the best in the business when it comes to purging millions and torturing the soul out of a nation.

But this was in Toronto. In Canada. This isn’t some village deep in the country of China. We have more than a dozen news channels just in Toronto, and more international ones, including the CCTV of China. How then do you reconcile this fact with the many Chinese students and adults who were adamant in their accusations that the news of Tibet circulating around here were just western media propaganda? When they are aware that China actually shut down Tibet from any international reporters in response to the protests there? When they even kicked their own press people outside of Tibet? When their own intellects have been calling on the government to act differently back in China?

These were university students. How do you explain that? How the fuck…my head hurts just thinking about this.

Scanning the crowd of over a thousand, I saw lots of young, smiling faces unsure of what this demonstration was really about; and mostly excited because they were in such a large gathering in downtown Toronto. Toting Chinese and Canadian flags, they amassed on the edge of the square towards Yonge St., and menacingly stared down the small band of Tibetan protesters who, in spite of the request from the local Tibetan organizations, spiritedly answered the pro China event for the sake of the Tibetans being killed in Tibet right now. The evening news coverage of the demo actually had equal time for the counter-Beijing actions taken today. Take note international students from mainland China: this is what a balanced news report actually means.

I’m glad we decided not to engage the Tibetan community into this. A riot would’ve been inevitable. And this is just what the Chinese officials would’ve craved back in Beijing — a distraction.

As I was about to leave the Dundas Square, I caught sight of one particular Chinese man with whom I just couldn’t help starting a conversation. I had seen what happens when you try to talk up the issue about Tibet as a Tibetan supporter, so I tried to approach this with an objective angle — I pretended to be a Korean reporter. And this was the person in question:

Now, first of all, it took all of my earthbound, human/activist strength just to stifle a chuckle. I mean, seriously – how can you not look at this person waving a fucking UN flag and just convulse with laughter right there on the street? Really, who makes this shit up? I just had to pry this mind open and find out what was cooking his noodles.

“Hi, I’m a reporter from Korea Times. I see you have a UN flag there — can you please tell me why you’ve brought this particular flag to this event here?”

When I first approached him, he seemed a little hesitant. Maybe he thought no one would think twice about a pro China demonstrator waving a flag with the UN symbol on it. It was only after I told him that I was Korean that he loosened up a little. He said he had lots of Korean friends in his athletic club. He even showed me an insignia on his jacket to prove his case.

“I bring it, y’know, to show that we want peace. Tibetans — they create trouble. China want peace.” [sic, from his end, all the way through]

“Right. Do you know that China actually doesn’t want the UN to look into the issue of Tibet? They’ve vetoed against any talk about Tibet at the general assembly.”

“Yes, yes. The problem in Tibet now OK. Tibet is OK.”

I think he was missing my point entirely, so I proceeded with another angle: “Would you support the UN going into Tibet and finding out what’s the problem there?”

“Tibet have no problem. I been there. Tibet OK now. I just want world peace.”

“Tibet has no problem? Then why are there so many Tibetans protesting in Tibet?”

“Tibet have no problem. Tibetans just violent and do looting in Lhasa. I was in Tibet, y’know. Tibetans there happy under China.”

At this point I must’ve had a purple, knobby vein throbbing against my temple, but I kept my cool. For the sake of… journalistic integrity. Yes, that’s what.

“But the violence was only inside Lhasa. Everywhere else in Tibet it was mostly peaceful, and the Chinese army still clamped down on them violently. Do you support their tactics?”

“I don’t know. I just know Tibet is OK now. Don’t worry. Everybody want world peace.”

“Do you support the way the Chinese government has not allowed for any form of protest in Tibet, regardless of whether they are peaceful or not?”

“What?”

Somewhere in this conversation, a random white dude just walked up to us and joined in this discussion.

“What I’m saying is — you see that here in Canada, everyone has the right to protest if it is peaceful. You can’t do that in Tibet or even China. How do you feel about that?”

This is where the stammering begins, and I’m not ashamed to say that I smiled inwardly for reducing him to a blathering fuckwit.

“I…I…I don’t know. We just want to show the rest of the world that China is fine. Tibet is OK now. I been there, y’know.”

“But that’s really not the case. Lots of Tibetans inside Tibet are unhappy with the Chinese government. How do you feel about that?”

“Tibetans…they don’t know. They just…cause violence and loot other people’s properties…”

“Yes, but this was mostly in Lhasa, and only for a couple of days. The rest of the protests were peaceful.”

“Tibetans…they don’t know…they very violent.”

This was one of the few instances when the random white guy chipped in from the periphery. “You sound really condescending and mean when you say that. Look, you’re even smiling when you say those things about the Tibetans. That’s not right, man.”

I wasn’t really seeking any third-party validation from this tiresome exercise, but I was relieved that it wasn’t just me not eating the horseshit this UN flag-waving, pro Communist China sheep was spewing.

As I shook hands with both men and started to part my ways, I turned back one last time and asked him where in Tibet he had really been, since he brought it up so often during our brief discussion.

“Oh — just in Lhasa…”

“Just in Lhasa?”

“Yeah, y’know, and … Ching village.”

I swear I’m not making this up. Right from his hesitant tone to the abrupt pause before he came up with this utterly believable name for a village inside Tibet (Ching or Jing, I forget), it was plain as fresh snow that this guy had a seriously skewed knowledge of Tibet and China’s history. And his smiling attitude for maintaining this kind of dangerous mindset was just the icing on the cake that I didn’t want.

He couldn’t even pull off his bullshit act convincingly. If it’s any consolation, at least my portrayal of a Korean reporter was spot-on. Down to my name: Hong Sung Park. Korea Times Daily. Without a shred of thought. A pro, through and through.

I sure hope Mr. “Cary” is looking forward to this interview in tomorrow’s papers.

What a mess. Yeesh!

The cold clutches of winter seem to dig deeper as we’re heading into the month of March. Like a disgruntled wife brooding about her husband’s absence the night before, the clouds that hover above don’t look they’re going to let up anytime soon. It has been two weeks since I’ve returned, and I gradually started to settle back into an unsteady groove about a week ago. The morning TTC commute to my work (temporarily labeled as ‘volunteering’ since it’s all hedging on how my proposed project pans out) on a bus and a streetcar stamps a note of finality to my removal from the hectic noise of Kathmandu and into the sobered, subdued tone of Canadian routine and orderliness. The familiar red, white and black carriages evoke a faint setting of geometric efficiency, and they mark a stark contrast against the blue micro buses of Kathmandu that stop to offload and receive passengers wherever they please.

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[I realize that this is a touch late now that I think about it, but it begs to be written. It’s a culmination of having been privy to these perpetually baffling social ordinances of our little (quite sizable, actually) Tibetan community in Toronto. I don’t harbour any illusions of this being a particularly regional attribute, nor am I convinced that it is only symptomatic of Tibetan gatherings. What I know of, and muse upon, are only those that I have personally experienced and laughed about later. If it comes across as condescending, judgmental or negative, please grant me the luxury of doubt for the sake of humour. Tibetan parties are very, truly, fun. Come around one if you hear one's in your neighbourhood.

There’s a texture here that’s a shade unique, and personal to me, in some instances, but the overall picture remains constant: drunken people and bad music converging into a night of loose hips and looser wallets.]

If you’ve ever been to any Tibetan parties in Toronto, the first thing that strikes you, after you’ve cleared the entrance, before the crowd gets bigger, or even before the famous Mang-tso hits the floor, is the piquant reservation about the place. Regardless of any kind of venue, location or the organizers, it’s there; like a thick, all-encompassing drape, full of crossed arms and judgmental eyes. Any unsuspecting person who joins the party suddenly becomes self-aware of their arrival, as if they’ve just stumbled into the wrong wedding reception where the bride had just turned heel and abdicated the congregation: all eyes on the intrusive stranger, a little confused and quite annoyed. After a quick second’s existential quandary you naturally assume the “position” as well: blending into the low-lit periphery and corners of the main dance floor, surveying the characters and biding your time. You may take note of this lull in activities to grab yourself a drink, look around for familiar faces and just generally act inconspicuous. Nobody likes a showoff, and certainly not before the real party has begun.

The men are usually garbed in two distinct styles: semi-formal or street. There are variations and combinations for each of them; for example, a dude wearing a semi-formal pair of trousers can have a totally snazzy shirt on top with a pair of tattered sneakers below, or a guy wearing a baseball hat will have a suit jacket more suited for a courtroom appearance. There’s also a third, surging but less prominent style, which is that of a rocker/skater look: drainpipe trousers (sometimes torn at the knees) with converse shoes and a trucker hat. In all of the cases, you can, sort of, assess the employment aspirations and educational background of a person from his looks, and in some cases, determine if he’s single or at the party with a significant other.

There are exceptions of course, and I do not intend to portray such an obviously diverse field of Tibetan men into convenient pockets for dissemination. Fear not, bhumo-tso: your choices are many and varied. It must be said, though, that I feel a pang of disbelief every time a guy decked in a horribly mismatched and double-oversized assortment of bottoms and basketball jerseys, complete with a heavy compliment of silver chains, wrist bands and shiny earrings, manages to capture the fancy of a curious set of eyes. He must be really funny, I think. That or she has an unnatural capacity for street-tough posturing.

My only, genuine, regret is the absence of men in cowboy dresses. The guys, usually middle-aged or older, who were completely oblivious to the raised eyebrows at them and who actually felt bolstered by their outfit. They would have stamped their presence about them with an air of swagger and nonchalance that only a true pioneer from the prairies could muster. They enlivened an atmosphere like no other. They used to; not so much anymore. I have a sinking feeling that they’ve converted to the street look to compensate for the changing times around them. Shame.

The women are naturally, and by far, more interesting to look at. I can attest from experience that for the ladies, the dance begins far before the actual party has actually begun. They commit to a ritual that is time-honoured and bereft of any discrepancy in cultural differences: the arduous task of choosing from the wardrobe closet; the preening, huffed about way that they tend to their faces, the incessant calls to friends (men do that too) and the porous anticipation and excitement at the thought of strutting their heels and whisking the scent of their perfumes around them. Among many others.

When they get to the party itself though, there’s a sudden swerve in their earlier disposition. Inside the venue – with the colourful lights dancing around them, and the music banging off all sides – excitement gives way to ennui, anticipation to annoyance: eyes ready to roll at the slightest perceived threat or interest. With men, it transforms into similarly bored entropy, but with a touch of irritable possessiveness. In both cases, the air of reservation reigns supreme, and the look in both men and women is that of waiting for something to finish; like sleepy villagers in early morning standing in line to have their buckets filled up from the local pump.

The dresses that our women-kin (in the broader, Tibetan sense) wear are multi-faceted, and a lot more attuned to different styles rather than age, or employment/educational standing. The colours usually feature a dark shade in some form, and conservatism is the norm, rather than the exception. Then again, that can be attributed to the Tibetan society as a majority, as an outlook; and not just to the choice attires in parties for women. The jeans are tight, sometimes low-hip, and the tops accessorized by a dazzling array of jeweled necklaces, pendants, braces and shawls. The dresses, I have noted, are black most of the times. Full-length leather boots are parlayed for their aggressive, bold tendencies; and when the women sashay about the dance floor, watch out for the air of entitlement. It is a poor, intrepid but insipid soul who dares approach a girl without the choice permission of her eyes. I haven’t heard of any accounts of guys being kicked upside their behinds with those intimidating sets of boots, but I imagine that it must be most humbling.

Women are also the ones most likely to wear an actual chupa to a dance party. It is a sad and sobering commentary about our society that no one really thinks twice about ladies in traditional Tibetan garbs; but for men it would be a most unsavoury prospect – we who are horrified at being labeled as uncouth or worse: boring.

It should be noted though that the chupa is a lot more form-pleasing and attractive on a woman. For guys, even the most sharp and athletic looking stud becomes reduced to an ungainly bundle of layers – the slim look fat, the short become shorter. Only the most dignified, noble warrior from faraway times would manage to look proud in a setting such as this, and even he would’ve felt ridiculous every time he entered the men’s washroom just to pee.

And it should also be noted that it is usually the older women who can be seen in chupas time and again. They are derisively labeled as aunties, a term coined by the Tibetan community (here? further?) for women hovering around the middle-ages (or maybe even lower – it’s all relative). The men folks of similar ages are called uncles. Those are terms that I absolutely loathe; not only because they reek of crude and unfair classifications, but also because they’re so unimaginative. I’m sure we can find better replacements for Tibetan cougars and sugar daddies. Uncles and aunties just have this queasy, shuddering feeling of naïveté about them; the kind that recalls faint traces of inbreeding and unwanted relatives.

Back to the party: the lights are in a furor, people more or less milling about; but it still hasn’t hit its crescendo yet. The floor still remains, yawning and strangely intimidating. Sometimes it is so bad that you can almost imagine tumbleweeds blowing across it. But then, at the centre of the floor, a phantom appears: twisting and contorting its joints in an irreverent and almost awe-inspiring lack of finesse. Its phantasmagorical movements have a rhythm all its own, removed from the music and the place around it. There it goes: shadowboxing, grabbing its crotch, thumping its chest with one arm across it, shadow-roundhouse-kicking; all in a non sequitor, voluminous disregard for form, beauty or reason. It dances because, it just has to. Who is this enigma? Who is this figure that openly revolts against early-hours convention? Who is it that so openly mocks us, calling us out for our inaction and apathy?

His name is Mang-tso, or T.O.B, as he likes to refer himself, usually in third person; T.O.B being short for “Tibetan Original Blood.” I’m guessing his self-anointed title asserts his undisputed claim to legitimate Tibetan-ness, which sets an awkward standard for mixed Tibetans. T.H.B? T.Q.B? None of them have the ring of T.O.B, as he himself would prove beyond doubt by spitting such ill, memorable, street-certified rhymes as:

We T.O.B, we are cute
We have a dimple.
Look at you, you have a pimple.

Or,

Ra tat a tat a, ra tat a tat ah.
T.O.B Mang-tso need a glass of watah.

And he would offer these sorts of gibberish provisos unasked to anyone, irrespective of time, location, or relevancy. The Tibetan community of Toronto has a lot of personalities, but if there is one character that stands above all, one that breaks through the current of time, change and scrutiny, it is Mang-tso.

Even his name Mang-tso is just a nickname, bestowed by the Tibetans of Toronto for his ubiquity. Mang-tso is the Tibetan word for democracy, and even though he has yet to display any redeemable social skills, everyone knows about him. Every visitor in Parkdale gets to know about him soon enough.

There are countless numbers of stories around him, woven into the fabric of the community, as old as the late 90s settlers and as real as snow. Some are amusing, some tragic, and some just profusely stupid. But let’s not get waylaid by the stories. If there’s one constant theme to Tibetan parties in Toronto, as straight as the divide between men and women, and stronger than even the sepulchral dance floor of the early hours of the party, it is that of Mang-tso breaking the floor.

Let’s also not miss the fact that this guy will come to any party, all the time – bar none. I can’t ever recall one single party where I haven’t seen him gyrating his spines and spitting his rhymes at puzzled strangers. He comes usually attired in a loose shamble of oversized clothes, a baseball hat or a bandana wrapped around his head. Sometimes he has another piece of bandana around his mouth, to conceal his face (I think) which is a purpose defeated since almost no one fails to recognize him. He walks with a purposeful gait, with undulating shoulders and his head hung low, glancing at people sideways (sizing them up?) and mostly harmless. That’s his reputation in the community: eccentric and sometimes annoying, but mostly harmless.

And so goes this party maven; this dance-floor breaker. He isn’t a break dancer by any stretch of imagination, but he does carry himself like he just completed a ridiculous spin on his head. The way he strides towards the bar, exhausted and content, barely masking his effulgence. He seldom sits, choosing instead to lean on walls or tables. He almost always comes earliest, and alone. If there’s one thing the Tibetan organizations in Toronto can be thankful to Mang-tso about, it is his unfailing resolve to support all the various fundraiser parties in the community. He drinks too, but not to the point of incapacity. Most of the times, I should think. How else would he able to afford his extravagant dalliances otherwise?

There’s one more piece in this growing mantle of oddities: he rarely removes his over-sized, down parka. The place can be crowded, musky and dripping with sweat, yet he always has his huge jacket on.

And it’s always just Mang-tso being Mang-tso. Mostly harmless. People these days don’t even nudge each other when they see him getting tribal in the empty dance floor; not unless it’s someone new to town and not fully acquainted with Mr. T.O.B. Who knows, they wink mischievously, he might even serenade you tonight.

The real party, or more elaborately put, the time when the people start peeling off the walls and chairs, and hesitatingly – or enthusiastically, depending on the alcohol intake and popularity of the tune that just beckoned them to dance – enter the dance floor, varies a little from each party but usually starts picking its tempo up after 11 p.m. That is a fact. At every Tibetan celebration night, the mood of the event makes a marked upswing after a rush of bodies suddenly start pouring in from outside, usually two to three hours before closing time. Most people, for whatever reasons, are perfectly fine with their rationale of paying full price for only half of the event. Maybe their choice lies not in the quantity of the time spent, but the quality of it.

So, it’s not really because of Mang-tso breaking the floor and the dam of clogged feet along with it. It’s because Tibetans, at least the young, hip and socially wary, choose to come at a predetermined time of being fashionably late. Not that anyone would notice by this time of the night.

The role of DJing for all of the major Tibetan parties in Toronto is usually serviced by not more than four revolving lists of party anthems enthusiasts. They seem to be quite a populist bunch as well, from the nearly indistinguishable traits and preferences in their music played at every party. Some are a little quirkier than others; but overall, most patrons wouldn’t be able to discern one playlist arranger from the other without the advertised names. They just like the tunes, or they don’t (understandably). Barring any miraculous feat of total crowd captivity, the unfortunate DJ has to put up with muffled post-event assessments from unsatisfied disco aficionados more often than not. “DJ gaa-mas” is a popular sentiment at the conclusion of every dance.

So many possible improvements, so many people to please. The only consolation for a disc spinner is the free admission and the free drinks that he gets for his troubles. And yes, it’s always, unfortunately, a he. Always.

If you were perched from high atop a vantage point, or if you were obscenely tall, and staring down at the people on the dance floor, the moment the area starts to become more crowded, a curious and almost organic arrangement of shapes will take place. After a moment’s hesitation and confusion, a clear pattern emerges: crop circles. They form and break up sporadically, but the overall shapes persist. Partygoers encircling one another, staring at each other and not staring, shuffling their legs and bobbing their heads, almost reluctantly, while possibly imagining all sorts of lurid images in their heads about some other dance patron from a foreign circle.

There are smiles aplenty, of course, and sometimes people do genuinely want to dance. By themselves or in pairs. Usually couples and some eccentric folks (Mang-tso included, although not, hopefully, to his extreme). But I can say for certain that ninety percent of the people there are there to check the others out. It’s the same as any other dance party, and Tibetans are no exception to this.

I know I’ve done this countless number of times. Sometimes you would feel like you’re trapped in a circle, sucked in by its gaping vortex, and you would peer away from the hollowness, towards another circle; as if on the other side, things were much better, much livelier and a whole lot prettier. But you know it’s just misguided, infantile thoughts. That it’s the same story everywhere and nowhere is it more evident than in the circle in which you hopelessly pine for a smaller circle, ideally reduced to just two persons: you and that someone else.

Sometimes you do find that other person, locked in another circle and maybe hoping for the same thing as well. You lock eyes, then quickly look away, blushing and feeling slightly guilty for not feeling content about the group you’re already in with.

But then sometimes you do want to approach that another person, but then are not too sure if that one is attached to anyone else. Does it come tethered? Is it attracted to anyone else? Should I deploy emissaries to reconnoiter and determine the best possible route?

So many questions, so little time.

By the time the party winds down, long after the bar has closed, and the patrons begin to retrieve their coats and friends, you’re hit with the sinking feeling that you might just have wasted another thirty-odd dollars and four hours in a totally fruitless endeavour. Or maybe you don’t feel that way. Maybe you reason that, hey, it’s for the sake of our community. If CTAO/TWAO/SFT/TYC throws a party and needs my support, who am I deny them that?

It’s a roll of dice, usually, and a particular combination of drunkenness, music, atmosphere and attitude. Some of the times you feel great about having been there, most of the times you’re indifferent – meh. And then sometimes, like at the last New Year’s Eve party, when you’re not particularly drunk and the music isn’t particularly happening and you don’t really have the budget to buy the tickets in the first place and yet you manage to buy drinks for four people, somewhere deep inside your gut there’s an incessant clawing that reminds you the next day about how much you totally wasted your time and your money. You can’t help it. Yes, there was a large crowd, and yes, there were some people glad to see you there, and yes, yes you know CTAO absolutely deserved your money. It all leads to a big conclusion of “oh well.”

At the end of every party, there’s always a chance of some sad pugilists waiting to engage in some fisticuffs with some person that either inadvertently brushed against them or looked at them the wrong way. They usually huddle around the gates in groups, buoyed by the self-serving assurance of posse-wisdom and the detached cowardice of gang rushing. Most of these scourges are either recent high school dropouts, or perennial factory dwellers, but always young and stupid. The kinds that see fit to take their frustrations out on strangers or rivals at a time when merriment and congeniality are the flavours of the night. They don’t (can’t) see far, these poor insolents, far beyond the throbbing rage of their alcohol-induced anger, and frustration-fuelled animosities. Their insecurity is veiled by an overpowering sense of machismo, and an excruciating loss of humour and perspective. The angers don’t flare up as much as it used to previously, but it’s still there sometimes, quietly simmering under the hood of a reject, burning with the anger of youth and senselessness.

They don’t usually go beyond name-callings and shovings. It eventually gets broken up. Anger lies simmering and unfulfilled. For now.

At least Mang-tso just spits terrible rhymes. He was mostly harmless.

[In my zeal to post how brutally cold it was the other night at Critical Mass, I realized that it's been quite a while since I last updated this somnolent blog. Is it because of the usual lack of flair and increasing tepidity of my life, or am I sinking into yet another level of laziness & apathy -- the depths to rival a serial pothead?]

Summer was a gas. A handout so thoroughly unassuming and yet drenched with the kind of fulfillment that you only get out of a really great, aching workout. Outdoors, camping…I worked at a community garden, attended workshops… Actually, let’s just forgo this didactic listing of events and instead, aim for one of those meandering, metaphorical streams of recollections and reflections. The ones that somehow converge into a watering hole brimming with grunts, darting eyes and false alarms. Is it just a far-off mirage or is it actually thriving with beasts of all stripes? Are those bobbing logs or idle crocodiles? Hold your nose tight and high, dear reader, for those rare pellets of wisdom might just be under a muddy morass of self-indulgent reverie.

~~~~~

We begin aplomb with Shannon Thompson. Shannon is one of those people who get tagged with all sorts of “mushy” adjectives. Any attempt of writing about her is inevitably weighted with the desperation of fetching for qualities that haven’t been attributed to her previously by someone else. But it’s nigh impossible. Take a cursory glance at people’s comments about her and you get a sense of how much she means to a lot of people: sincere, passionate, hard-working, enthusiastic, inspiring, supportive, brilliant, so on and so forth. You see what I mean? It’s as if I’ve just missed out on this train and I can clearly see the departing end-carriage brimming with people and spirited chatter. It gets tiring sometimes, and equivocally cliché. But the words just don’t mean for naught, for I have had the privilege and the anecdotal heft to see those abstract concepts flow out, materialize and touch a medley of faces.

“Her light is one I grow towards.” Why couldn’t I think of something similar? I guess I could’ve just slipped this one in clandestinely and assume I didn’t know any better. But that certainly isn’t the case. And in any case, I should aim for higher. When you’re stuck in a pit of appraisal, the only thing left to do is look up. And Shannon’s light is definitely one that I look up to.

My first encounter with Shannon was on my interview day. I’d spoken to her earlier on phone, and the thing that struck me foremost was her enthusiasm. It’s not something you can glean just by the way she speaks, although that does play a major role, but more so with her unbridled knack for compassion (stay with me, folks). It’s more of the energetic kind, replete with an elegant skill of listening that she often attributes to her teaching & communications course that she took a while back. She hears you out completely, and unless absolutely pressing for time, returns serve in an uninterrupted, measured and determined manner. But that was the first thing that struck me about Shannon: that infectious sense of enthusiasm.

You get an idea of that energy more when you speak with her in person. The way her expressions are playfully animated, and how she sprinkles every conversation with chuckles and the singsong way by which she carries it. Youthful, for sure, but not in that overbearing way; rebellious without being antagonizing – most of the times, anyway.

Back to the interview: I was the last one being questioned and sorted out for the day. There were about four panelists from what I remember, and I half-expected them to just get through this exercise tiredly and be done with it. I actually did sense a bit of that but my memory is clouded with the presence of Shannon’s, you guessed it, enthusiasm. The questions were pretty standard and the answers flowed naturally.

I got wind of this job opening on Craigslist as I was idly browsing the web one evening. The posting looked innocuous enough, and I figured, what the heck? It sure beat all the retail job opportunities. I fired away a cover letter and résumé to Shannon, not holding out any hope in case it got shattered as usual. At the time, I was mired in a work situation that I absolutely loathed, and the application sent to Greenest City was among the many that I had written after one particularly frustrating day at work.

The following weekend, I was visiting and staying over at a friend’s place in Ottawa. We were enjoying the warm afternoon sun over a cup of tea when my cell phone buzzed. I picked it up and it was Shannon calling from Toronto. I don’t recall what we exactly talked about; it might’ve just been a confirmation from her about receiving my letter and résumé. Whatever it was, after I finished the call my friend looked at me and asked me why I had a smile on my face. I wasn’t offered any job position, really, but talking with Shannon had still left me smiling. It happened a lot over the course of summer and continues on till now.

There’s a side-point I want to address here, and that deals with the perception of me being a dedicated environmentalist or a seasoned community worker which enabled me to land this job. That, unfortunately, isn’t the case; although I wish it were. Sure, I had nascent ideas about climate change and opinions about sinister oil conglomerates. But does that earmark me from the rest of the roving populace? No. You see, the reason for me succeeding what could’ve been a field of far more suitable individuals is about as clear to me as it would be to you. The mechanics of why and how, the situational digressions and the particular environment at the time had somehow, peculiarly, aligned in my favour. I could venture a guess, from an immodest point of view, and say that my impression at the table might’ve tipped the scale a little towards my end. We are animals of vanity: from my immaculate, pin-striped suit to my starched shirt, the reasons for this and that, and the where and when get waylaid by the colours of persuasion. They are stuffed with elements of your disposition but did they really carry me past the finish line in this race? I don’t know, quite honestly. I suppose when it is all said and done, when Shannon and I and the others reflectively contemplate on the year that was, I could maybe ask her “why me?” But, for now, that sort of self-serving question remains mute when there’s still a lot that needs to be tended to. I’ll be sure to let you in on it when and if I get that question answered.

The day after the interview, I was called by Shannon and congratulated for landing the gig. I was elated. I was in the Queen streetcar when she called and I almost high-fived a fellow passenger standing beside me. I didn’t, of course. That would’ve been just confusing and really presumptuous of me. Especially so if it turned out that the stranger was just fired from his work. Talk about a faux pas!

Thus began my work with Greenest City, under the wing and tutelage of Shannon Thompson. Along with Bhavana Kapal & Abbey Huggan, we were entrusted with the task of leading six other youths, hereon referred to as the Youth Green Squad (YGS), into the heady levels of environmentalism, food security, urban gardening and sustainable consumption. Quite a plate, you would think. When you’re kind of green to this whole thing, it becomes even more daunting. It would be commensurate if I said I welcomed the challenge and faced the current with gusto. That, sadly again, is not the case.What happened instead was a curious and not-quite resolved extension of a job-in-training position that continues on till today. I bit my fingernails, wilted at times, and just tried to thoroughly absorb everything that was going on around me. Parkdale’s first community garden: check. Organic food: OK. Youth stewardship: check. Environmental awareness: check. Seed saving: right. Food security: sure. Issues on vulnerability: Uh huh. Arts influx, vitality, permaculture, 100 mile diet, cycling … I might have just bit more than I could chew. It’s definitely not the first time that I’ve gotten myself into such a scenario. But I’ve never before been thrust into a situation where I’m accountable for the holistic development of individuals, and not just for some abstract, quantifiable numbers of a faceless company.

~~~~~

On a sunny, warm spring weekend, when the breeze still harbours a trace of winter in the absence of the sun, more than a dozen hopefuls converged in the still-bare Hope garden. The name ‘Hope’ is an inventive play at ‘Healthy, Organic Parkdale Edibles (has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?) It was to be both an interview as well as a day’s session of work bee in the garden. Holding a clipboard each, as if to indicate that the participants were under a constant shadow of scrutiny — a moment’s slip and they would have to glance worryingly over their shoulder as I scribble a note while shaking my head and rolling my eyes – we sat under the shade of an imposing, aged, unnamed maple tree in the park. Shannon explained the day’s itinerary: all of the prospective environmentalists would be interviewed by a panel consisting of her along with me, Bhavana and Anna (an office intern) on the order of how we received the applications; the rest would be tending to the garden under the supervision of Abbey, the resident garden coordinator. Some applicants requested to be interviewed earlier, some later, and we tried to accommodate that as best as we could.

We had asked the Youth Green Squad wannabes, a week before the day of, to bring a piece of their creation that somehow embodied their being and, if possible, how it would enunciate their probable tenure working with Greenest City. It was idea breached by Bhavana, in the lead-up to the hiring day, to bring another aspect of the applicants to round up their presentation. We didn’t want to settle at just looking at the fruits; we wanted to smell them and taste them as well. Almost everyone brought something along with them, save for a pair of Tibetan sisters who not only managed to not do their project, but also come in late. Tut tut tut, I inwardly muttered, and placed an asterisk beside their names. I must confess that it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and that writing semi-detached notes of judgement for the sake of objectivity was something I actually liked getting used to.

Of all the participants, a kid by the name of Max stood out immediately. Seventeen years old and almost bounding at the prospect of working in a garden, he clicked at all the right places. With an unkempt head of thick dreadlocks and a laid-back drawl about him, he was a student at the local Parkdale high school and had heard about this job opening from his horticultures teacher. He asked questions when we held the group palaver, and when told that they would be doing some light physical work, he jumped — eager to show his willingness at getting his hands dirty. He scored most of the right points at the interview: how he cared about recycling, his love of nature and music. A bonafide youth environmentalist prospect, if I’d ever seen one, and the rest of panel seemed to share in this sentiment as well.

And there were others. Andrew Pangowish, a shy, bear-like, sixteen-year-old native boy with a seemingly perpetual set of downcast eyes who was really into biking and well, quite reserved and unrevealing the first time around, but rest assured, he was going to play a big role later on. Yozajandi, a bright Mexican girl whose immigration status in Canada was in a state of limbo but Shannon wasn’t going to let a purgatorial obstacle like that prevent her from taking Yoz into the program. Karimah, a demure, soft-spoken native of East Africa who was majoring in Architecture at the University of Guelph. And lastly, Alyssa: a bratty, confident, sixteen-year-old classmate of Andrew’s who chastised him during the interview for wrecking her project by not protecting it well enough from the shower yesterday.

As the interviewees whittled down for the day, our ad hoc interview table now under the shade of the tall community housing building that looms over the western edge of the park, we collected our notes and bade good night to each other. We had initially intended to compare and decide who was going to be hired at the conclusion of the process, but the evening turned out to be too chilly and we gave up on that notion soon enough. Throughout the whole session, as we grilled – conversationally, of course – one youth after another, I was struck by the realization that I could have just as easily been on the other side of the table. And even from that point, I wasn’t sure I would’ve stood out as a possible YGS recruit. Some of these kids were pretty damn talented and passionate. Some were even older than me, for crying out loud.

The following day, in the basement office underneath the local community centre, we gathered our notes and engaged in a dispiriting exercise of elimination. I tested the water, since I couldn’t profess to any real, strong feelings about any of the candidates. Shannon and Bhavana were more resolute, relatively speaking, although I could tell that even they were slightly drained from picking out of a pool so equally competent and deserving. We had six to pick from the dozens, and as far as I could tell, only a couple of names were clear-cut choices among all of the judges.At the end of it, the two women decided that they were going to only choose those kids that were currently not attending university and/or, to put it bluntly, from a non-privileged way of life. I agreed, partly because this was one of our mandates in the YGS program, but mainly because this made the selection process so much easier.

~~~~~

The office of Greenest City is a basement space generously provided by the Masaryk-Cowan Community Centre. James Caldwell, the director of the centre, by Shannon’s own endorsement is a keen environmentalist and was on-ball from the inception of the program. The office has an L-shaped layout, with two points of entry from the main floor as well as from the side of the building. The first thing you notice about the basement office is that it doesn’t really feel like a basement. With the exception of the absence of windows on the wall and the presence of all sorts of pipes running across on the ceiling, the brightly coloured basement feels like any other level in the building. With it’s high walls and ample lighting, the office offers a cool respite from the heat of the summer and a warm recluse in the winter. I certainly didn’t imagine feeling how cozy it would in the cold weather; but it is, and as I type this paragraph, the steady hum of the radiator behind me gently cloaks the air with a close, dungeon-y warmth.

Most of the furniture and equipments in the office are either donated or borrowed from Shannon. The used computers were all received from a dealer with a charitable bent. Almost everything in here was once owned by someone else — the less the impact on earth. The walls are all hung with pictures from past endeavours of Greenest City, and posters of plants and animals. There are lots of chairs on the floor, as if inviting a visitor to sit down, chat and learn about the colourful pictures and posters on the wall. What’s the hurry?

The first time I ambled down the steps as a freshly inducted employee of Greenest City, the office was already thrumming with Anna and Mona Koochek typing away on the computers. Mona was a volunteer at the time and she was helping in organizing the garden opening celebration to be held on the weekend. An undergraduate of York University with an affable and coquettish disposition that far exceeds her diminutive frame, she immediately laid out the plans for the party and took us to task with it. Posters were put up, restaurant owners approached, and meals secured. The idea was to get as much cuisine as we could that reflected the diverse spices of the community. There were going to be curries, rice dishes, falafel balls, momos, Ethiopian daal … every platter a slice of Parkdale’s colourful makeup.

The opening ceremony at the garden was a celebration of vaudevillian moderation. Held in the park on which the garden was tilled, the crisp early spring air was cracked by shrieks of children laughing and people chattering. A local, bluegrass band serenaded the attendants softly, prompting the occasional whoot and claps of approval. The outdoor party was set up so that a tent covering the A/V equipment flanked the southern side of the garden, with rows of chair borrowed from the community centre lined around it further down. Colourful posters acknowledging the donors and offering tidbits about the garden were hung on the fences, artfully created by Abbey, who has a flair for wispy lines and delicate sketches.

Observing Shannon schmooze and move about the ceremony is to study a natural connector in all her glory. She stands at a medium height — with a healthy, stocky frame trained from years of cycling and indulging in all sorts of outdoor recreations such as kayaking and hiking. She capers every so often, and her penchant for operatic gestures is amplified when a certain subject or anecdote stokes her fancy. Shannon is one of those rare people gifted with the affability to instantly strike you as friendly and approachable in the most unforced manner — connecting for her is not an effort of socializing but rather a natural means of conversation.

I was stuck in one of my usual moments of uncertainty when faced with a large theatre of unknown faces mingling and creating atmosphere. I wanted to look like I was involved, like someone who was too distracted to bother introducing himself or wishing cordialities to similarly perplexed patrons. There are only so many times you can pretend like the stitch on your sleeve looked really interesting. And so I clicked. My dark, bulky and ugly D-SLR became my means of conversation, and I explored all the intricate patterns of the characters before me through the eyes of my trusty, slightly dusty zoom lens.

The whole event was a performance of colours bouncing ever which way: children’s faces were painted, the rosette of dishes screamed spice and earth-borne culture. The kaleidoscope of the procession was politely balanced with local residents and community activists; all young, old and feasting on a portion of ingredients that made up the neighbourhood where they lived. All of the dishes were paid for by the local BIA; all of them prepared by local restauranteurs. Towards the latter half of the day, an African drumming band further enlivened the affair, kids and adults alike shaking their hips and trying to maintain rhythm with the tribal beat of the drummers.

And then Shannon spoke, wearing a green, costume hat adorned with fruits and vegetables. The local dignitaries spoke as well, pledging their support and belief in all of the hot button, kitchen table environmental issues. People laughed, people clapped. It was quite the landmark event: Parkdale getting her first, very own organic garden space. A lot of promises to be met, and a lot more things to look forward to.

I clicked my camera shut and took stock of what transpired from the day. The volunteers had now started to clean the park up. No paper cups or plates were used for the party, instead we used the cutlery from the community kitchen and some partygoers brought in their own eating implements. Everything was being washed, nothing wasted. I marveled at the quiet, sensible prudentiality of the operation. All of the efforts were marked by an easy-going affirmation, none of it barked or cajoled out with an imposing aura of erudite insistence. It was my third day at work and, already, it felt like I was on the cusp of something utterly transformative.

~~~~~

To be continued…

The notion of a bunch of genetically gifted men dribbling a leather ball for forty eight minutes – all for the singular purpose of putting the said ball through a metallic hoop while others try to impede aforementioned purpose; all the while getting paid an exorbitant sum of money while grown men and little children alike gasp, cheer, applaud and boo through the course of the ball being dribbled through either lengths of the wooden court and being put through the metallic hoop – is a notion that is met with either revulsion or indifference.

On one camp, you have the people who stipulate the virtues of the free market system in dictating how much a player should be paid for basically doing what millions of others do for recreational purposes.

On the other, you have understandably bitter critics: those who bemoan the state of a society that values an entirely over-inflated set of significance upon an assortment of superficial identities, grandiose egos and masochistic emotions.

And then there’s me: a sad member of an ill-fated entourage who willingly, for a few hours at least, let his state of being led through a wild ride of a hopelessly optimistic and ultimately futile pursuit. Yes, dear readers, what I’m referencing to here is the predictably unfortunate conclusion of a brief story of a local team that somehow managed to draw the brim and vigour out of this hollow and gauzelike epidermis of yours truly.

Yes, in spite of the fact that I openly revile others who scream and gesticulate at the TV screen for outcomes that they think could’ve (should’ve) changed if someone had done something else instead, yours truly was there among the best (or worst) of them: bits of spit on the TV screen and standing up at certain periods just because it is humanly impossibly to contain this surge of emotions sitting down. It is understood by some – those who can relate will even still probably disagree – that there is a nigh visceral urge to connect with the people in the TV screen just so you can get your point across. To reprimand them. To support them. And finally, to curse at them.

And yet, even with all the fallout of empty beer bottles and wasted spittle, one cannot help but look back on the ride that was and admire the way it all transpired. It eventually leads to a reverie where one realizes that it was indeed a ride worth getting into. And so, as the train finally reaches its destination (for now), the moment of introspection gives way to a semblance of yet another inexplicable but almost understandable gut feeling: hope.

Thank you Toronto Raptors, you of the 2006-07 team. You have made me feel “proud” for reasons that I cannot be bothered to indulge. May the trials and tribulations of what has past make you a force to be reckoned with in the next season of this so-called national basketball association, that which was invented by Dr. Naismith and perfected predominantly by long-limbed people of African heritage.

Thank you.

And oh, before I forget…

Asshole.