Freedom, definition

freedom |ˈfrēdəm|

noun

ORIGIN Old English frēo (adjective), frēon (verb), of Germanic origin; related to Dutch vrij and German frei.

. the state of not being imprisoned or enslaved. 

I'd really like to take this opportunity to show my appreciation for the support of the general public for their kind wishes, friends from school and those I have been fortunate to meet along the way, and most importantly, family because without them, there is no us. 

Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 

This should not be taken as an opportunity to speculate or continue on with the vicious rumours. It is simply a celebration of my father's release from prison. I would appreciate it if we could be left to pick up and regain the last two years we have lost. Thank you. 

The Disability of Language

This is going to be a difficult post to write, as the title suggests and as you can imagine. Words can be as beautiful as they are disabling. Do we always mean what we say? Do we say things to hide what we really mean? Do we mean I love you when we say I love you or do we indeed actually very really mean something completely different?

I've been thinking about this for some time now and I've been trying to figure it all out and I may have come to the simple conclusion that words do not always express how we truly feel. Books and books, words after words, blogs beyond blogs, speeches spoken speeches - are we saying what can't be said with just wondrous words?

In art - no matter the medium - could it be possible that feeling and emotion is expressed more clearly? Colour, shapes, paint, plaster - a potpourri of possible intentions. But they could mean so many things, there is no definite meaning. As such, it is only words that can decide what it is we mean something that we want to reveal, or hide. Which then makes me wonder, are words there to hide what we mean or to attempt to explain what we do indeed want to say?

The debate I suppose continues. Language is a beautiful phenomenon and words are like confetti. But what on earth do I mean by that, right?

Her Name was Carol

The year is 1950-something. New York city. The scene is the toy department of Frankenberg's. Therese Belivet is staring into space, her toe is bleeding, her career in stage designing is nowhere near Broadway, she is not in love with her boyfriend, she has no family. Then she meets the completely mesmerising Mrs H. F. Aird, first name Carol, a customer looking at dolls as a present for her daughter. Therese attends her with as much professionalism as she can muster, but her heart is lost and when the woman has disappeared behind closed lift doors, she takes a chance and writes a Christmas card. Carol calls her to say thank you then proceeds to invite the impressionable Therese for lunch.

What happens next is a true adventure of the heart. It is as much as a growing up tale, as it is a love story. Carol is the divorced older woman who is given a chance to completely break free and throw caution to the wind. Therese is the young girl who has no real past but chances for an uncertain future with what may possibly be true love. Together, they give in to their desires: they answer the questions of their heart fully and unashamedly. But all is not well, and the fragility of love is put through the test of seperation and persecution.

The novel, initially published as A Price of Salt in 1951, is an undeniable read. In my opinion, it's a beautiful book to read on a rainy day, curled up in bed. It's carless and passionate. There's an amazing trip taken into the American heartland. It calls out to the adventurer and lover in us all. Give it a chance and take the trip down the heady and bubbly road of what we dare call love.

History Hysteria: the Middle East

I am often greeted by raised eyebrows and awkward silences when I tell people that I study history. The reaction is even more astute when I tell them that I actually do like it. But history is the ultimate window in to the history and conscience of humankind. It is both a science and a humanity - its methodology is precise yet its analysis is wonderfully broad.

But more to the point. The Middle East. My interests were tweaked when I started reading A Peace to End All Peace: The Fall of the Otoman Empire and the Creation of the Modern Middle east, written by David Fromkin. Allow me to highly recommend it. It has opened my eyes and deepened my understanding on how such a complex and exotic region became so absorbed in political chaos. The book questions (and partly answers) the actions of European politicians and how they grossly misinterperated a region they knew too little about. The book also highlights a Middle East that was a museum in a 20th Century development buzz. Politically backward with wazirs and tarbushed figures who had little appreciation or understanding for the renaissance of Europe, nor the political flair of the West.

The Ottoman Empire, a giant with a malignant malaise, beautifully disillusioned to the end. Young patriots who through inexperience and desperation, led the Ottomans to their defeat. Sharp politicians who knew so much about too little. Lobbyists, supporters, campaigners, experts. The heroic and foolish. The romantic and false. All heroes and cowards alike.

The Middle East, as we know it today, was the creation of Arabs, Jews, Muslim, Christian, Turkish, British, French - all with their own ideals, their own borders, their own tactics, their own divisions, their own answers to the ultimte question: what to give to whom? The culmination of many many many factors, which miraculously and fatefully created one of the most, if not the most, volatile region in this already unstable world we live in.

To the historian, it is a true wonder. To the human being, we can only hope for the best and pray for the ultimate solution.

General Allenby enters Jerusalem, tactfully on foot.

To be a Pierced Deer

Frida Kahlo.

I believe she's one of the most exquisite painters I can claim to know. Her art is provocative. There's an air of danger to them. Her paintings are like dares : I dare you to feel my pain, I dare you to be loved and hurt, I dare you to fall from dizzying heights, I dare you to look beauty straight in the eye and bite your thumb at her.

But she was more than a painter, and more than life too. She was larger than life, though not in the sense her husband Diego Riviera was larger than life. With her exotic background (her mother was Mexican while her father was German) and her long skirts, she was a painting all by herself; and in fact, she mostly painted self-portraits. She would depict her lifelong physical pain (she was in a horrific accident in her youth) and emotional suffering (she could never have children), yet at the same time there is much beauty in the pain. Her art was encouraged by her husband, also a famous and well-credited muralist. She began painting on her back (the accident broke her spine) and she went on to paint life.

I had the good fortune to see an exhibition of her work. It was in 2005, at the Tate Modern in London. I remember begging my father to bring me and, bless him, he relented, and we went. It was an amazing experience to see her work face to face. I got the feeling of being completely naked while in such presence. It was as if the paintings were judging, taunting, tempting me. She truly is a genius on canvas.

She was portrayed in the film Frida by Salma Hayek, and it's worth a watch if you're interested in knowing a little more about this amazing woman. It's a very good film based on the biography of her by Hayden Herrera, which I also recommend.

Et voila.

Sometimes Love is in a Different Language

I watched Aimee & Jaguar the other day. I've seen it before but for some reason or other, this second viewing was much more affecting. The film, set against the backdrop of a falling Berlin in 1944, tells the story of the beautiful but horribly doomed love affair between the wife of a German soldier (Lily; nicknamed Aimee) and a secretly Jewish secretary working for a Nazi newspaper (Felice; the enigmatic Jaguar). Felice also helps with the Resistance movement - a dangerously precarious life as you can imagine. Exciting times, as she poignantly puts it. She meets the lonely, romance craving, short-sighted housewife Lily at a concert-hall, but it's a brief and impression-less meeting as far as Lily is concerned. Felice however becomes fascinated and as fate would have it, they meet again and become better acquainted - both a little more intrigued by the other, both craving for a chronically absent sense of security. And despite the bombs and the fear, they fall quite helplessly in love.

It's a case of where bombs fall, may love flourish. And despite the impending tragedy, they remain honest human beings who eventually pay the ultimate price for a taste of happiness when happiness was as rare as a food ration card.

The story is beautifully told. It's an affecting tale that's bound to remind us that love comes when it is least expected, or wanted. Juliane Kohler and Maria Schrader, who play Lily and Felice respectively, deliver one of the best performances I have ever seen. In German, no less.

A Good Cause

Recently, I was offered an insight into the good work of Princess Azizah of Pahang who has taken up the often under-looked cause of families who want to be families. She has brought to light the plight of parents who have been unable to conceive through her foundation, the Tengku Azizah Fertility Foundation (TAFF). With the help of this organisation, parents are given the financial and medical aid needed for IVF treatment. 

My mother and I were invited to the TAFF Family Day not too long ago and we were able to witness her kindness and genuine care for these families. It was so touching to see the proud parents with their bundles of joy - their faces radiant with happiness. But the credit really does go to the Princess who was without snobbery and who had given her whole heart into the project. She is aided by able doctors and a dedicated team who believe in her and in the cause. 

I was most impressed by her good work and it really was an eye-opening experience. I do wish the foundation well in all its success. 

The X-Files Always Rings Twice

Last night, after 3 agonising days of waiting, I was finally awarded a trip to watch the X-Files Movie: The X-Files 2: I Want to Believe. To say the least, I was far from disappointed. Trish (not her real name. Her identity remains protected by the forces that be) in an act of selflessness, agreed to accompany me on this historic journey. She knows of my like of the X-Files and didn't think my alien rap too bad. Besides, I would not have seen it with anyone else. Well, David and Gillian were both busy for the premiere anyway.

My family was there, thus making the treat even more delightful. The film opened scarily enough with a kidnapping and a severed limb in the snow. Very classy. Although the pace could've been faster, the film stayed true to its identity as a thriller, more disturbing than outright frightening show. Mulder and Scully, sans their agent-status, were wonderful as always. Special mention to Mulder's facial hair, and I do mean his beard. Dr Scully, as she is now known as, looks awfully sexy in a lab-coat. Needless to say, I was sitting in a pool of drool half-way throughout the film.

This film has everything you want in it: love, hope, chills, overcoats, Ford cars, heads, two-headed dogs, snow, blood, more snow, gay marriage and everyone's favourite agents.

Through the doors of the Sublime Porte

Istanbul's been on my mind: I've been thinking about the Byzantines, the Ottomans and the Bosphorus. I've been emersed in its history, its very rich and vibrant history. Its buildings, morning light across the Golden Horn. I've been reading John Freely's Istanbul: The Imperial City, and I highly recommend it. It's very well written and full of pictures (miniatures, photographs) for the visually inclined. He alludes to many of the great classical works about and from Istanbul. I was particularly drawn to Elivya, a religious scholar who was attached to Sultan Murat I and his court. An extract of a procession is as follows:

"All these guilds pass in wagons or on foot, with the instuments of their handicraft, and are busy with great noise at their work. The Carpenters prepare wooden houses, the Builders rasie walls, the Woodcutters pass with loads of trees, the Sawyers pass sawing them, the Masons whiten their shops, the Chalk-Makers crunch chalk and whiten their faces, playing a thousand tricks... The Toy-Makers of Eyup exhibit on wagons a thousand rifles and toys for children to play with."

Another place, another time. Take a walk through these doors once in a while, even if it's all just in your imagination.




Ah to be an illuminator at the palace!