Auschwitz and Birkenau

If I had to name one site I visited during my week in Poland, April 2 – 7, 2012, that left with me the deepest and most lasting impression, it would have to be Auschwitz and Birkenau, often referred to collectively as Auschwitz. The day we were there was Holy Thursday in the calendar of the Catholic Church, a day in preparation for Christ’s Passion and Death on the Cross, a rainy, gloomy day, under a low, grey sky. It was a very different journey from the happy wanderer’s visits to historic old towns and awe-inspiring monuments, magnificent churches and incredible salt mines. Movies and books about the Nazi death camps have told a lot of the horrors of the Second World War, but could not deliver the poignant reality that a visit to Auschwitz could. My trip to Auschwitz was a sad, sober, shocking learning experience, a harsh and raw confrontation of man’s shameful inhumanity to his own kind, in all its appalling magnitude, beyond any boundary of reason.

Led by a well-schooled guide no more than in his mid-twenties, who took us from the indoor prisoners’ blocks, cells and museums of Auschwitz to the mostly outdoor grounds of Birkenau, my group and I walked through one of the saddest times in human history. Through the entrance gate to Auschwitz, we filed in, past blocks of two and three-level red brick houses, identified by numbers, as were the prisoners who came to be just numbers.

The entrance gate to hell

Wall charts in the museum, housed in former prisoners’ blocks, told of 1.3 million, mostly Jews, but some from other ethnic groups too, deported to Auschwitz from various countries in Europe, of which 1.1 million died there, from overwork, starvation, torture, exhaustion from prolonged roll-calls in extreme outdoor weather, subjection to medical experiments, appalling living conditions, execution by firing squads or phenol injections, and most of all in the infamous gas chambers. Silently, in respect to the long dead, we filed through the rooms with glass encased displays of objects that once belonged to the prisoners who died in the camps: thousands of men’s, women’s, children’s shoes, clothing including children’s and babies’ overalls and smocks, hats and spectacles, suitcases, and, what struck me most, women’s hair, weighing hundreds of tons, collected in a display case that ran the length of one room, along with the fabrics that were woven with such. A painful ordeal to lay eyes on them, and yet they were there, to remind and shock. And when I walked through the narrow hall with photos of victims, some in their middle years, some too young to die, some drained and desperate, some with expressions still radiating hope, with their years of birth and death inscribed, I wept.

One of the prisoners' blocks at Auschwitz - on the right was an execution wall where prisoners were shot

At Birkenau, a short bus ride from Auschwitz, we saw low brick and wood buildings with chimney stacks, behind barbed wires. The chimneys were supposedly for furnaces used to heat up the prison cells. However, the cells were never heated, and living conditions remained most appalling. Led by our guide, we walked in the rain on muddy ground to the crossroad near the train tracks where the newly arrived prisoners had once stood. There, our guide described the scene of the arrival of one such train-load. The prisoners would be divided into two or three groups. Those too young or old or weak to work would be sent immediately to the shower, where they were ordered to strip and even told to remember the numbers on their clothing and belongings, for retrieval after the shower. Only in their last moments did they realize they were doomed inside the chamber of death, when the deadly gas, Zyclon B, descended from vents in the ceiling. Such a scene was to be repeated numerous times from the time the gas chamber was used for extermination of the prisoners in 1941 until 1945. By a forest at the far end of the camp, we saw ruins of the gas chambers and the crematorium, demolished by the Nazis before their surrender, to eliminate traces of their crimes.

 

Prisoners’ houses with chimney stacks at Birkenau behind barbed wire fences

Ruins of a gas chamber, blown up by the Nazis before their surrender

Finally, we stopped at the end of our route, where a modest stone monument to the dead at Auschwitz and Birkenau was erected, with a big arrangement of fresh white roses laid on its front step. On either side of the main monument were horizontal tablets at regular intervals, each with words in a different ethnic language cast on it, all a desperate, silent scream in the common language of humanity:    

    

Introducing Foster City...

The widest part of the Foster City lagoon system is called the Central LakeFoster City, California, may not be familiar to many: perhaps it is one of the better kept secrets of America.   But residents of the San Francisco Bay Area, and some travelers to California, know the place, a quiet, moderate-size residential and business hub south of San Francisco, on the Peninsula side of the Bay, in the heart of silicon valley, about twenty minutes' drive during non-rush hours from San Francisco International Airport. It belongs to San Mateo County, perhaps the prettiest part of the county. It has lagoons and canals with bow-shaped bridges, reminiscent of a little Venice, or Suzhou. Townhouses and low-rise apartment complexes line the shoreline of the lagoon, like year-round resorts, but without the hubbub raised by tourists. The widest part of the lagoon system resembles a lake, known to some residents as the Central Lake. On a clear day, the water in the Central Lake mirrors the blue sky, rippled only by refreshing breezes and water birds diving in for food. Walkways and a twenty-acre park with flowerbeds and a children's playground, named the Leo J. Ryan Memorial Park, take up a great stretch of the Central Lake shoreline, in the commercial and business section of Foster City. Joggers and dog walkers compete with mallard ducks, Canada geese, and myriad little coots for space on the boardwalk along the park. Perched on a rock on the water's edge is an occasional majestic egret with snow-white plumes, or a hungry pelican ready to make a dive for food. And there are those scavengers, the gulls, spending many a lazy, hazy afternoon floating in the water. A majestic egret perched by the edge of the lagoon

Concerts, and an occasional wedding, take place in the amphitheatre in the park by the Central Lake. Nearby, a wooden gazebo protrudes into the lake, peaceful by the light of dawn, romantic by the reflections of the rising moon. On sunny days -- and most days are sunny, except for some winter rain -- the lagoon is oftentimes a thoroughfare for pontoons, rowboats and canoes, as well as windsurfers. Dragonboat races are held too on weekends. 

I've had the privilege to return to Foster City many times, a home away from home. To me, it is one of the most peaceful areas in America, from my experience of having lived for a good number of years and traveled quite extensively in the country. I could harbor a sense of personal security strolling along the lagoon at night, or waiting by a curb for my taxi in the early morning hours. And the place boasts of a laudable public school system, and a busy, user-friendly public library. It even has good, authentic Chinese food! Some dream town in the midst of the concrete jungles of America, and with the best Californian weather. You just wonder: is it for real?

 

Townhouses on the edge of the lagoon

The mirror in the Central Lake

The Foster City lagoon at dawn

More about Sarawak

As I continue working on my novel-in-progress about Sarawak, and with encouraging comments on my blog, I feel it is time I tell you more about Sarawak in the form of photos from my last research trip earlier this year, focusing on sites that will figure much in my novel. These pictures will give an idea of the time setting of my novel, and the people and events that are an inspiration for my fictitious work. 

Refer to "Sarawak" in the Travel Section of this website for more photos from my 2008 trip there. 

The Astana, home of the White Rajahs in the 19th and 20th centuries when Sarawak was under the rule of the Brooke regime

 

A "five-foot way" in front of shophouses in the Main Market, Kuching

Atap Street, a Chinese bazaar in Kuching', where houses used to have atap (palm leaf) roofs in the 19th century 

The present-day riverfront boulevard in Kuching, capital city of Sarawak

The present-day Courthouse in Kuching facing the Sarawak River, where much of the action during the Chinese Miners' Rebellion of 1857 took place

Model of a Fish-Eye Junk at the Chinese Historical Museum in Kuching. Immigrants from southern China went on sea journeys in these boats to Borneo in the 19th century, where they made a living as miners, plantation workers, or merchants.

A kopitiam (local coffee shop or teahouse), a popular joint in towns and bazaars in Sarawak

Modern-day Bau, a mining town since the 19th century, about 22 miles from the capital Kuching. Its gold mines attracted many Hakka (Chinese) immigrants to its locale in the 19th century. Its former name was Mau San, named after the shape of the mountain shaped like a hat.

The remains of the famous flag pole in Mau San, perhaps the only remnant of the mining town that was destroyed after the failure of the Miners' Rebellion against the Brooke regime in 1857

Site of the miners' town of Mau San which was destroyed after the failure of the Miners' Rebellion in 1857

The temple in Jugan, where the leader of the Hakka miners and of their rebellion against the Brooke regime was buried after he was killed in the rebellion

Entrance to Ghost Cave in Bau, where widows and orphans of slain Hakka miners took refuge and were burnt or smoked to death following the failure of the Miners' Rebellion. An altar was erected at the entrance to appease the spirits of the dead in the cave.

Present-day Siniawan, a bazaar about 5 miles from Bau Town, the scene of the bloody battle between the Hakka miners and James Brooke's men on February 24th, 1857

A boat crossing between the banks of the Sarawak River at Siniawan, a riverside bazaar about 5 miles from Bau

Present-day Buso, another bazaar upriver about 5 miles from Bau, another scene of the massacre of Hakka miners as they fled from Kuching after their rebellion failed

Up the river from Kuching into Dayak territory, where this native tribe used to headhunt in days of old

Interior of a Dayak longhouse

The birth throes of a novel in progress

Having finished the first draft of my last novel, The Heart of the Buddha, some eight years ago, I was nervous, yes, worried, about starting a new work. What if I had a writer's block, couldn't write as I did, or had simply lost it? And now, some six months after I put the first sentence down on my laptop, I am making good headway, moving forward, slowly most days, but surely. I find myself once more in the throes of giving birth to a new novel, painful and difficult at times, but loving every moment of it.

The pain is in the story that's unfolding, the sadness and pathos it invokes, to the point that I cry whenever I reread the all too poignant and emotionally charged scenes. Placing myself in some situations in the story reduces me to tears. And yet, they have to be written. 

A good number of chapters in my novel in progress are set in a Bidayuh longhouse. The difficulty is in the remoteness of the subject matter. Writing about the Bidayuh Dayak tribe of Borneo, their customs and lifestyle, in the ninetheenth century is a challenge, to say the least. My sojourn to a Bidayuh kampong, Ana Rais, during my visit to Sarawak in February was helpful, but could not satisfy my story needs, and I came away with many unanswered questions, some of which had not come up until I actually got down to writing those chapters involving my Bidayuh characters. I found myself treading on thin ice. How could I write about these longhouse natives from pre-colonial days when I had only been briefly acquainted with a twenty-first century Bidayuh kampong? Seeking a mentor who could be a source of reference on the Bidayuhs has so far been futile. Books on the subject matter are next to zero. I therefore have resorted to the Internet, to find information on the many aspects of Bidayuh life in the nineteenth century. And I have not been disappointed. There is a wealth of knowledge out there on my subject matter. But how reliable is this pool of information? When the first draft of the novel is completed, I will have to negotiate someone who would be able and willing to read the draft and point out any errors regarding the Bidayuhs. But that will be another problem. 

Suffice it to say that the novel is taking shape. The first draft of many drafts to come is two-thirds down. It is a labour of love. I am confident the fruit will be sweet, whenever it ripens. 

Sarawak 2011

In February, Mike and I returned to Sarawak, my father's homeland, this time to research my next novel. It was a most fruitful journey, including visiting Sri Aman, the Mulu Caves in eastern Sarawak, and Iban and Bidayuh Dayak longhouses. Most importantly, we revisited Buso, my father's bazaar where he spent his childhood, and Bau, the town and district that will figure much in my novel. We went to the Sarawak jungle border with Kalimantan (Indonesian Borneo), near Bau. And we combed the streets of old town Kuching, the state capital, searching the past, reconnecting with a time when Sarawak was under the rule of the White Rajahs in the nineteenth century.

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