Only Connect: what the Saphira Prize means to me

So I made it: the new novel of Sarawak is finished. I submitted the unpublished manuscript to the Women in Publishing Society, Hong Kong, for consideration for the Saphira Prize 2012. On March 15, 2013, I was announced the winner of the Prize. My novel will be published in Hong Kong no later than March, 2014. 

 

Receiving a crystal trophy at the Announcement of the Winner of the Saphira Prize 2012

Receiving the Award is being able to tell my relatives in Sarawak, my father's birthplace, that the book I have been doing research for on previous trips to Sarawak is now completed, has received positive endorsement from the literary circle, and will be published in the coming year. It has been my dream to present to my father, now in his nineties, my published novel about his homeland, and to bring the book back to our extended family in Sarawak. That goal is now within reach. 

The best that has happened with the writing of this novel is my connection with my father's family, not by way of the Christmas card or letter we had been sending every year for forty some years, but rather, making four trips in the past seven years with my ever supportive husband Michael to Sarawak, feeling the warmth and welcome of my relatives there, forming true friendships, the camaraderie, the laughter, the meals shared, the hugs, the words of caring that come from the heart. As well, the sadness felt every time we left after a week's visit, and the tears shed with every death in the family. As I wrote this novel about migration, remembrance of ancestors, family values, and reconcilation, I was walking a parellel line in reuniting with my Sarawak family, making up for forty some lost years when our relationship was little more than annual Christmas cards and occasional communications. I have been blessed with unconditional support from my relatives in Sarawak as I roam my father's homeland in search of material for my book. My writing of the novel has come to mean rediscovering my family this slice of the globe, paying respects to the ancestors who had long migrated to Sarawak and built a life for themselves and their descendants through blood, sweat and tears, reconnecting with my present relations and with my paternal heritage. If only for this, the book will be a success. If only for this, I am grateful and blessed.

Class of '62: fifty golden years!

Hong Kong, November 9th, 2012. Like a teenage girl about to embark on her first date, I felt my adrenalin surging as I ascended from Queens Road Central to mid-level on that impressive engineering feat, the outdoor escalator. Passing to the left and right of me the busy thoroughfare of myriad shops and sundry eateries with big and colourful billboards hanging over them, as the escalator took me up the northern slope of Hong Kong Island, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia and expectation, reminiscing my days growing up in Hong Kong, my birthplace, my hometown, my school days. To a good extent, time had stood still on those small streets on the slopes of old Hong Kong. I had come back many times on personal and business trips, but this time, it was different and special, because I was back for the Golden Anniversary of my high school graduation, a reunion of the Class of ’62 of Sacred Heart Canossian College, a Catholic girls' school I attended from kindergarten on. Fifty years are a marker, a truly golden, magic number, and well worth traveling thousands of miles for. 

The two days of reunion celebration involved a visit to the Sun Yat Sen Museum in Hong Kong, a multi-course dinner attended by almost eighty students of that graduating year, with a handful of very supportive husbands, and four teachers from our era, a mass at the well-preserved heritage chapel in the old school site, a walk down memory lane, through whatever was left of the old school on mid-level Caine Road where we spent our high school years, a dimsum luncheon, and finally a tour of the new campus on Chi Fu Lane, Pokfulam, quite a distance from the old school site. A good number of overseas graduates returned to Hong Kong for the occasion, some with spouses. A wonderful, memorable time, reliving the glory and the dream of youth, reviving  friendships formed over fifty years ago. A time of gratitude to the school and teachers so much a part of our formative years. A time for old classmates to fill in on the intervening years between then and now. Those two days were not just looking back: it was also a celebration of life beyond high school, no matter what route we had taken, what fate had bestowed. Regardless of stations, choices, careers, achievements, triumphs, disappointments, misfortunes and tragedies the past fifty years, we were brought closer in those hours of the Reunion.

One of the original buildings of the old school campus on Caine RoadThe Chapel as it stands today
The high school building of the old Sacred Heart campus

Only too soon, it was over, some returning home across the seas, some carrying on in our old beloved Hong Kong, all back to the normality as each defined it. For some, the 50th Anniversary Reunion promised to be the beginning of long-term renewed friendships. For others, it was a spark that lit up the wonders of youthful camaraderie, only to be extinguished when the party was over. Irrespective, it was wonderful while it lasted. If nothing else, it must have left some lasting residual sweet taste of remembrance with everyone. The Golden Reunion was a grand achievement, thanks to the organizers and the participants. 

Looking ahead, I am thinking Diamond -- 60. 

The Killing Fields: confronting the heart of darkness

Six months after my visit to Auschwitz, my tour of Cambodia, October, 2012, brought me to another confrontation with one of the darkest and most shameful chapters of human history – the Khmer Rouge regime, under its infamous leader Pol Pot, April, 1975 to January, 1979. A total of over two million died during the regime, from execution, starvation and disease.

While Cambodia was mourning the passing of King Norodom Sihanouk who died a week before my visit, and his larger-than-life photos were displayed in front of many public buildings in Phnom Penh, I visited the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, the site of the former Tuol Sleng Prison, commonly known as S21, converted from a high school to a prison during the Khmer Rouge regime. Its prisoners were the once elite of the country, professionals, intellectuals and the rich, as well as members of the preceding military government, and the regime’s own cadres accused of being traitors. Silently, somberly, I walked through the halls of death, past barb-wired fencing, bleak and spartan rooms for interrogation and torture. In one building were all too horrid photos of the victims of different modes of torture, celluloid testaments to acts of inhumanity committed by the regime on the prisoners of S21. In another building were mug shots of all the inmates of S21, portraits of resignation, defiance, fear, confusion. In desperation and fear of more torture, many were to confess to crimes they did not commit, unaware that confessions or not, they would be sent to the Killing Fields for execution. The once high school, converted to a prison, S21, during the Khmer Rouge regimeWalking past narrow individual cells and mass detention rooms, I finally came to a hall displaying autobiographical accounts by the sole seven survivors of the 20,000 inmates of S21.  A photo of the group of seven taken after their liberation in 1979 was posted. Lean and gaunt, they were the ultimate witnesses to the human spirit, its dignity, hope and resilience. Today, only two of the seven survivors are still alive. They were at the genocide museum to meet visitors. I bought a copy of Huy Vannak’s biography of Bou Meng, one of the two living survivors, and had a photo taken with him.

With Bou Meng, one of the living survivors of the Khmer Rouge regime

From S21, I rode a tour bus to the nearby Choeung Ek execution ground, commonly known as the Killing Fields. On that hot and humid day, the former secret execution site of the Khmer Rouge regime was a quiet, peaceful field of green grass, deciduous trees, a few shacks, marred by expansive vacant ditches that were once the mass graves of the executed.  A tall and slim-looking Memorial Hall with glass walls on four sides contained the skulls of those killed in the Killing Fields during the Khmer Rouge regime, grim and shocking reminders of the cruelties, atrocities, horrible crimes against humanity committed there over thirty years ago. 

The Killing Fields today: ordinary, restful fields of green grass and scattered trees, marred by empty mass graves

 At the time of the Khmer Rouge (Pol Pot) regime, truckloads of prisoners arrived every day, most of whom were executed immediately upon arrival. Blindfolded, they were made to kneel facing a pit. Every prisoner suffered a shattering blow or two to the head and neck from behind, and he or she would fall into the mass grave dug out for that purpose. Those not killed immediately were detained in a dark room till the next day to be executed. Our guide described the wide range of instruments used for killing: hatchets, hoes, knives, cart axles, anything that would deal a fatal blow to the victims, even the long, dried and hardened leaves of the sugar palm, with sharp, tooth-like edges like a saw’s.  One of the most heartrending sights was the Killing Tree, a huge old tree with a big, hard trunk, against which the executioners beat babies, while their mothers watched before they met their own demise. Sounds coming from loudspeakers hung on a nearby ‘Magic Tree’ were used to drown out the cries and moans from the victims being executed. The Killing Tree: too heartrending for thought

A few butterflies flittered among the scattered wild flowers of the Killing Fields, green grass everywhere, surrounded by distant trees. The place seemed ordinary, even restful, but for the empty mass graves and signs marking the scenes of horror over three decades ago. Perhaps peace had finally come to the spirits of the victims in the Killing Fields….

The Memorial Hall: skulls of the unidentified victims at the Killing Fields

Of Shakespeare and pavlova

Call it nostalgia. Yesterday, Mike, Tim and I went to Stratford, Ontario, to the celebrated annual summer theatre, the Shakespeare Festival. We didn’t see a Shakespearean play this time. We saw the musical 42^nd Street, a joyful escape, great choreography, good tap dancing, peppy music. Afterwards, we headed to the English Parlour for dinner and my favourite pavlova. Been saving up those calories all week to spend on that meringue dessert, named in honour of the Russian ballerina Anna Pavlova. Time to indulge….

The sweet and decadent pavlova at the English Parlour

The pavlova has been a constant on every trip to Stratford, ever since I started going some twenty years ago with a few buddy colleagues at the Agincourt Public Library to that theatre town named after the famous one in England. We’d go after work to a show, carpooling a hundred and thirty kilometres from Toronto to Stratford at five in the afternoon, braving the rush-hour traffic on the 401 to make the eight o’clock curtain. Sometimes, when the traffic was light, we arrived with an hour to spare, and we’d sit at a picnic table on the bank of the Avon, also named after the one in England, and eat the sandwiches we had packed, watching the swans glide by, a peaceful, dreamy existence. After the show, we’d go to the English Parlour in town, and treat ourselves each to a pavlova, before driving the hundred and thirty kilometres home.

The swans on the Avon at Stratford, Ontario

In the beginning, there were four of us, Betty, Jane, Louise and me. Then more colleagues at the library joined in. It was more or less a girls’ night out. Betty died in 1997, ever gracious and lovely Betty, and the rest of us have retired over the years, each turning to our own after-retirement interests, fulfilling our family commitments, and some experiencing the joys of grandparenthood. And gradually, the enthusiasm for the Stratford group outings dwindled. Today, they have become just a treasured memory.

Mike and I are going back to Stratford again in two weeks, this time to see and hear Christopher Plummer at his one-man show. And I will have another pavlova, and reminisce the times with my library colleagues there, and think of Betty. 

Stratford, Ontario   August 4, 2012

                                                                        

Are the people behind the Genius Bar geniuses? How I found out in a recent traumatic saga...

Part One.   The Tale of the Photos

Last week, I walked into the well-lit store with the big, bright and bitten apple logo, in my neighborhood mall. As usual, I was greeted by one of those confident-looking young attendants in blue t-shirts, name tags around their necks, and electronic tablets in hand. I said I had an appointment with the Genius Bar. I was seated at the Bar at the back of the store, and soon greeted by a Genius Bar expert. I explained when I was downloading photos, there was a warning note in my computer (a MacBook Air) that said my files were full, and I needed to delete some files.

He took a look at the little trash basket icon at the bottom of the computer screen, clicked on it, and saw all the unwanted files I had moved there. At this point, to give him the benefit of the doubt, he probably asked the question casually if he could empty the trash, to which I would have nodded consent, caught on the spur of the moment, and especially since I had wanted to delete those files in the trash in the first place.

With deft movements of his hand, too swift for my eyes, clicking, and crunching, he emptied the trash basket. Now, that would clear up a lot of space in my MacBook Air! It did! But my iPhoto application had disappeared from the computer, when we had both seen my photos neatly organized as albums and events in iPhoto before the emptying of the trash! My prized and treasured photos since 2007, from my travels, research trips for my novel-in-progress, weddings of my children, grandkids through their stages of development, all gone in a jiffy, like a wisp of smoke!

I was on the verge of tears. No worry. My Genius Bar expert connected my laptop to the external hard drive which I had been using to back up all my files, to retrieve my lost photos. But there were NO PHOTOS! According to the expert, the external hard drive had backed up all my files except for the photos! It would always remain a mystery. He took my computer into the secret back room behind the Genius Bar to search for the photos with their special equipment, but could not find them.  He then gave me the final diagnosis: the photos saved in the iPhoto application of my computer were all irretrievably lost.

Part Two.  The Tale of the Manuscript

The Genius Bar expert who tended to me at the Apple store back home in Toronto had reinstalled the iPhoto application into my laptop, after it disappeared along with all my photos stored and organized therein. Three days later, when I was visiting my parents in their town, I took my laptop again to the Genius Bar of the Apple store in their neighborhood, because there were still some glitches with the iPhoto application in my computer. The expert there gave a quick diagnosis of the problem, and said he needed just to restore the iPhoto application, and everything would be fixed. To me, the word ‘restore’ was a frightful word, evoking the wiping out of computer files.

“Will my documents be safe?” I asked.

“Oh yes, no documents will be touched. Only your iPhoto will be restored,” he reassured.

“My most important file is my novel manuscript. I can’t lose it. It’s backed up in my external hard drive, but to be safe, why don’t I buy a memory stick and back it up there as guarantee,” I said.

“You don’t have to do that. Just email the manuscript to yourself.” With that, he proceeded to send my manuscript file in my computer to my email account. “Go get a coffee. Come back in half an hour,” he said.

While I had coffee at the mall’s food court, I checked my email inbox from my phone the whole time, but the message with my manuscript attachment never arrived. Thirty minutes later, I went back to the Apple store. I asked to talk to my Genius Bar expert. After waiting for him to finish helping another customer, he went into the back room, and finally came out with my laptop. He came up to me. I sensed something was amiss.

“Something happened,” he began. “It was entirely my fault. I bear full responsibility for what happened. I pushed the wrong button, and all your files are gone. I am sorry.”

I broke into tears. Sorry? For wiping out the novel I was writing for two years, and about to finish? Did he realize what it meant? I never got the email that was supposed to have my manuscript attached. Now my only hope and salvation would be in the external hard drive that I had used to back up all my files. It had failed me with the photos. Let it not fail me with the almost completed first draft of my new novel.

Anxiously, I, and the Genius Bar expert, waited while the little external hard drive did its work, putting the backed-up files into the computer. It ran its course in ten minutes, the longest ten minutes ever. When the reinstalling was finished, we checked the restarted computer. And it was there…my manuscript, and I assumed everything else, except for the lost photos.

Epilogue

Days later, I was told by my computer savvy cousin that there was a way to retrieve deleted files, though not at Apple stores, as long as the computer was not reformatted, a fact which you’d think those Genius Bar experts would know, and should have told me. It also meant all my deleted photos could have been restored, if my entire computer hadn’t been cleaned out by the second Genius Bar expert who tended to me in my parents’ town.

It was a lesson learned. Always back up your important files in more places than one. I almost lost my novel-in-progress. I could not have rewritten, reconstructed a 75,000 word manuscript. In frustration and disappointment, I would have given up writing for good. 

As for my photos, I still have most of them stored in one of the photo services websites, Kodak Gallery. To add insult to injury, Kodak Gallery is closing in a month and a half. But that’s another story!