“Music’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. Play it loud enough, it keeps the demons at bay.”  —      Across The Universe

“We’re all different though we may pretend otherwise. We’re all strange inside. We learn how to disguise our differentness as we grow up.”  —-The Shipping News

This whole world is wild at heart and weird on top.–David Lynch

“The reason old souls enjoy spending time alone is because they never really are.”  — Much love from your invisible friends, The Universe

“This is the Great Knowing, this is the Awakening, this is the Voidness; so shut up, live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry.”
- Jack Kerouac

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”  —   Martin Luther King, Jr

“I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me.”  —  Roland Barthes

“There is something in every one of you that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in yourself. It is the only true guide you will ever have. And if you cannot hear it, you will all of your life spend your days on the ends of strings that somebody else pulls.”- Howard Thurman

“Rest in reason; move in passion.”–Khalil Gibran

“One resolution I have made, and try always to keep, is this: To rise above the little things.”  —      ~John Burroughs

“I begin to realise how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. He taught me that if you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good. Hot is no good, either. White hot and passionate is the only thing to be.”  —     My Uncle Oswald by Roald Dahl

“The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.”
― Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

“We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it’s our job to invent something better.”
― Chuck Palahniuk, Choke

Photo by Lola Abrera

It was the last day of the year. My companion and I had wanted to celebrate the New Year in Sagada, a hippie town up in the mountains of Cordillera region of the Philippines. However, due to a series of wrong turns, missed buses, and idle wandering we missed our bus and found ourselves hitching a ride with a passing vehicle. We had no idea where it was going, but we jumped on anyway. Since it was the 31^st of January, transportation had ceased on most provincial dirt roads. It was a gamble, but our vision of starting the new year in Sagada was clear and unwavering.

Photo by Lola Abrera

At the helm was an 11-year-old boy who gave us a quick glance, before turning his eyes back to the road. Seated next to him, his older brother—about sixteen years old, moon-faced and smiling—who asked us about our trip. He said that in the next town, just across the river, there might be something there for us. We wondered how we would get across the river, but he smiled, winked and said, “Don’t worry, this jeepney is going there.” And as the vehicle veered away from the main road, descending unto a slope, soil crumbling beneath its wheels, we reached lands end, face-to-face with the churning river. The machine hummed, then broke into a roar as it charged over the water. It wasn’t deep, but the liquid moving fast, rushing over black and gray rocks. My travel buddy and I gasped at the streaming flood below, the stark blue sky above and rusted bridge overhead. Flashing white teeth, the younglings in the front looked our way and laughed.

The vehicle stopped in front of a store. The teenager told us that this is where we should get of as the jeep was heading towards its final stop: their village.

Photo by Lola Abrera

Sitting on the wooden planks of the shop sat a mother, staring into space, an infant in her arms, an old woman whose eyes had turned an oyster-grey from blindness, and several children sucking on tiny clear plastics with orange-flavored ice inside. My companion and I had no clue where we were. There were no buildings apart from a few stone walls, where two adolescents sat, looking over at the small crowd and what looked like a gathering place below the ridge. The owner, a petite middle-aged woman with chin-length hair and dark eyes, greeted us. “You are in Bulaga…like the one on TV!” she said with laugh, citing the popular noontime show. We asked if there was transportation that we could take to get to Sagada. Her forehead wrinkled and said that due to the holiday, there would be no more buses passing through the town. A man in his early thirties, with a thin moustache and a fitted black shirt, overheard our plight. He introduced himself as “Angelbert Banasen.” He worked for a security faction based in Manila, the country’s capital. It was his first vacation after two years. He said he was happy that he would finally be able to spend time with his wife again, whom he wed shortly before he was sent to the city.

Our newfound guide told us that a wedding was taking place. Angelbert said that he would ask if any of the visitors were heading up north and if they would let us ride with them.

Photo by Lola Abrera

Photo by Lola Abrera

The noon bell rang. People lined up by the cement structure that served as the town’s main venue. To the beat of the gong, the residents passed bags of food down the queue. Angelbert called us to join in. Trying to be polite, we tried to say no, but he already had two bags of food—rice, noodles, and meat—ready for us.

Photo by Lola Abrera

He later took us down a row of broken rocks that served as a makeshift stairs, and into the wedding party. The mother of the bride opened her arms, gave us a hug, a quick peck on the cheek, and invited us in. Most were dressed in Western clothing but there were a few, the respected elders, who came wearing the traditional striped red and black loincloth, known as a bahag. As the parents gave their speeches in their dialect, even if we could not understand, we joined in chuckling and cheering along with  the crowd. With copper gongs and stretched drums, a troupe began to play. The old and young, jumped to the middle of the hall. Side-by-side, they clapped, waved, stomped their feet, and danced to the ancestral ghosts that resided within the trees, the sky, and the earth.

Photo by Lola Abrera

“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.” — Neil Gaiman

“Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right.” -Oprah Winfrey

“One resolution I have made, and try always to keep, is this: To rise above the little things.”
- John Burroughs

“The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears, and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective.”- G.K. Chesterton

To change ones life: Start immediately. Do it flamboyantly. – William James

“All great changes are preceded by chaos” – Deepak Chopra

“And now they’re telling me I’m crazy over here because I don’t sit there like a goddamn vegetable. Don’t make a bit of sense to me. If that’s what’s bein’ crazy is, then I’m senseless, out of it, gone-down-the-road, wacko. But no more, no less, that’s it.” – One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest

“Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish—a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow—to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested . . . Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.” – HST

“I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’” – Jack Kerouac

“To be a surrealist . . . means barring from your mind all remembrance of what you have seen, and being always on the lookout for what has never been.”
—Rene Magritte, quoted in Time, April 21, 1947
It is living and ceasing to live that are imaginary solutions. Existence is elsewhere.”
—Andre Breton
“We are all failures—at least, the best of us are.” – J.M. Barrie

“We are all capable of infinitely more than we believe. We are stronger and more resourceful than we know, and we can endure much more than we think we can.”  - David Blaine
“There is safety in the midst of danger. What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?”
- Van Gogh

“To be weird! That is my goal!”-Alfred Jarry

And finally….

“Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink.”- Charles Bukowski

Photo by Lola Abrera

“The Boxcutters” (www.theboxcutters.wordpress.com) is a blog dedicated to those brave enough to live life according to their own rules.

Here’s what ‘The Boxcutters’ is all about:

Graffiti artist Banksy once said, “Think from outside the box, collapse it, and take a fucking knife to it.”  We at Boxcutters are fueled by a desire to break down, tear up, and rip apart the confines set by society. Boxcutters is a blog that aims to cut through the bullshit. It’s a site dedicated to those who have never fit in, “the round pegs in the square holes.” It’s a site that aims to honor the people who have shaken up the status quo, refusing to abide by the definitions set by the public at large and have, instead, chosen to live life on their own terms—without apology, without fear, and without regret.

Boxcutters is a place for those eager to provoke the greater consciousness. Boxcutters are those whom society has dismissed and called as insane, rabble-rousers, punks, or hopeless dreamers. A ‘boxcutter’–artist, writers, revolutionaries–will be featured each week. With posts updated every Friday, the entire week will showcase articles, photos, music, and videos of the featured boxcutter.

Photo by Lola Abrera

First up, a week of Lester Bangs! Check out the hilarious yet insightful piece by guest writer John Jayvee del Rosario, who is also the singer and drummer for the Manila-based folk-punk band, The Sleepyheads. Needless to say, he’s an authority on Lester Bangs and all things rock ‘n’ roll.

In no particular order, here are a few ‘boxcutters’ you can look forward to saturating yourself with for 2012: Lester Bangs, Andy Warhol, The Sleepyheads, Truman Capote, David Lynch, Miranda July, Tracey Emin, Romeo Lee, Christopher Hitchens, Hunter S. Thompson, Morrissey, Alfred Hitchcock, The Velvet Underground, Hugh Hefner, Bob Dylan, George Carlin, Cindy Sherman, William S. Burroughs, PUNK! (all things PUNK-related), Malcolm McDowell, Marilyn Monroe (yes, really…you’ll see why), Jeanette Winterson, Ian McEwan, Malcolm X , Saul Williams, Wong Kar-Wai, Werner Herzog, Stanley Kubrick, Michel Gondry, Roald Dahl, Harvey Pekar, MAD Magazine (the ‘good years’ of Alfred E. Neuman), Stan Brakhage, Richard Pryor, Daniel Johnston, Patti Smith, Alan Moore, Banksy, Ingrid Bergman, Bjork, Marlon Brando, Man Ray, Dada (movement), Orson Welles, Pablo Picasso, Gus Van Sant, Christopher Isherwood, Aung San Suu Kyi , Jim Henson, Ernest Hemingway, David Foster Wallace, Jack Kerouac, Bruce Lee, Damien Hirst….and much more.

Welcome…to the Outside.

Photo by Lola Abrera

Anne Frank had just turned thirteen. Like any other adolescent, she undergoes physical and emotional changes that are a source of both curiosity and frustrations that she records in her diary as letters to an imaginary friend named “Kitty”. However, Anne Frank is no ordinary schoolgirl; she is a Jew living in Amsterdam during the reign of Hitler.

Fearing persecution by the Nazis, Anne, her family and four others hid in the ‘secret annex’ of her father’s office for two years until they were discovered in August 1944. Miep Gies and Bep Voskuijil, two secretaries who worked in the building, found her notes and kept it from the authorities in the hopes that she would one day be able to continue it. Unfortunately, Anne Frank died of typhoid and exhaustion in the Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp. She was just three months shy of her sixteenth birthday.

Otto Frank, the family patriarch and only survivor, acquired the notebooks and had her work published and fulfilled his daughter’s wish of becoming a writer.

In the tiny, dusty, sunless, crowded attic, Anne observed the world around her. She documented the fear and devastation caused by the war, the delicate balance of relationships amongst the people around her, and reflected on her own stirrings into womanhood.

Anne Frank at her desk

Frank’s writing is eloquent, honest and mature yet also filled with the optimism and curiosity of a child. She has a keen sense of justice and empathy, and is arguably the best record of this dark period in human history. One example is in her entry on January 13, 1943, where she writes:

“Terrible things are happening outside. At any time of night and day, poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes…Families are torn apart; men, women and children are separated. Children come home to find their parents have disappeared. Women return home from shopping to find their houses sealed, their families gone. The Christians in Holland are also living in fear because their sons are being sent to Germany. Everyone is scared. Every night hundreds, or maybe even thousands of people are being killed in Russia and Africa. No one can keep out of the conflict, the entire world is at war, and even though the Allies are doing better, the end is nowhere in sight.”

From the limited edition "Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank" illustrated by Marc Chagall (yep, THAT Marc Chagall)

Despite the chaos caused by the regime and her own transformations, Anne Frank’s sense of self, and even humor, is consistent throughout her journals. There is a deep sense of awareness that she is in fact, in the process of change. Even at her tender age, she understands the importance of self-reflection, catharsis and friendship. Her diary, which she christens as “Kitty” becomes her one true friend and only confidant. On June 20, 1942, she wrote:

“It’s an odd idea for someone like me to keep a diary; not only because I have never done so before, but because it seems to me that neither I—nor for that matter anyone else—will be interested in the unbosomings of a thirteen-year schoolgirl. Still, what does that matter? I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart.”

From the webcomic "Anne Frank Conquers the Moon Nazis" by Bill Mudron

Little did she know that millions of people from all over the world would read her work, and that her writin would be the voice for the countless, nameless victims of the Holocaust. It remained Number 1 in the New York Times Bestseller List for nine weeks and continues to rank as one of the best loved books of all time. Her work is not only read for its description of the war and oppression but also because it depicts the universal experiences of growing up and human resilience in the face of adversity.

Her prepubescent frustrations, from sibling rivalry to constantly feeling misunderstood, are common experiences of teenage angst, which cleaves the reader to her. There is vulnerability to her words and with each page; one begins to feel as though an intimate friendship has been formed.

Yet, her profound insights, not only to the horrors of World War II, but also in her vivid portrayal of an everyday life in the confines of a secret annex, showcase a wisdom beyond her years and an unwavering spirit that to this day, continues to inspire young and adult readers alike.

Want to know more? Check out:

The Secret Annex – http://www.annefrank.org/en/

Anne Frank Conquers the Moon Nazis – http://www.excelsiorstudios.net/comic.html

Songs to Anne Frank: http://www.last.fm/music/Bob+A.+Feldman/Anne+Frank%27s+Diary%3A+Songs+from+a+Musical

“The struggle for democracy and human rights in Burma is a struggle for life and dignity. It is a struggle that encompasses our political, social and economic aspirations.” – Aung San Suu Kyi

Photo from uncorneredmarket.com

Even from a distance, I could tell that the port town of Kawthaung would be intense. The buzz of market vendors, hustle of charlatan guides and blinding outfits of hippie backpackers broke my travel trance.

The nationals of Burma, also known as Myanmar in Southeast Asia, are a prime example of those in a perpetual state of fear, poverty and disappointment. A military dictatorship has controlled the state since the 1960′s. The ruling power has rejected the peoples pleas for a democracy; such as the refusal to acknowledge Aung San Suu Kyi as the victor in the May 1990 elections and subsequently putting her under house arrest. Suu Kyi won the Nobel Prize in 1991, yet has remained shut in by the Junta. Aung San has been released twice in 17 years (1993, 2002) only to be rearrested on each occasion. The despots have also denied their people basic human rights. The denizens have been subjected to torture, violent ethnic segregation, and most recently, were not given immediate aid from the destruction caused by Cyclone Nargis, which killed over 134,000 people and exposed 1 million Burmese to disease and displacement.

The case for hope continues to weaken.

Despite several protests that resulted in countless deaths, the reign of the military junta persists.

Our boat approached the pier where a young man stared, like a hunter assessing its target. I was intimidated. His glare was a mix of contempt, defiance and curiosity.

He stood at about 5″4 and wore a pressed white dress shirt and worn-out, yet clean, brown slacks. I extended my arm to shake his hand, but he shot me an embarrassed look. Disfigured, like 80% of the town’s people, his right arm was twisted and shrunken, and his hand, the size of small child’s, was where his elbow should have been. I pretended not to notice. He exhaled, grinned and said: “Hallo, hallo…how are you? I am Jon.” It was not his eagerness, but his vulnerability that was disarming. I felt my face flush with the shame of my initial apprehension. “I will tour you around. Where are you from? Thai?” the gentleman quipped, in more of a statement than a question. I answered “I am Filipino.” He responded with a hearty “ah, same-same but different, no?”

He was soon joined by a friend whose wrinkles, creased brow, and betel- and tobacco-stained teeth, made it hard to believe that he was only in his late teens. Unlike Jon, this youngster had no qualms about his appearance. Wearing a simple T-shirt, a baseball cap and a cocky grin, he was the Tom Sawyer to Jon’s Huck Finn.

The four of us sauntered through the bazaar, where laborers scurried atop food trucks, merchants yelled their best prices and the roar of motorcycle engines emphasized Kawthaung’s frenetic energy.  Wandering the streets like old comrades, we came across a burned-down building: all that was left was a heap of charred rubble. My friend proceeded to pull out his camera, but Jon jumped in front of him and cried out, “Sir, sir…No, no..no, NO photos! Please.” A photography fanatic, Peter* still kept trying to take his shot. With a look of pure disgust, they walked away to join the pack of lost boys loitering outside a local eatery. We had let them down.

Photograph by Anthony Medrano

Moving beyond the periphery, my partner and I entered the inner section of Kawthaung. The layers of dirt and urban decay gave way to family-run shops and workers going about their business. The community’s rhythm was a pleasant one. The villagers offered nothing but their sincere smiles, friendly greetings and a glimpse into their daily lives. We found ourselves peeking inside an elementary school window. No one noticed at first, but then a few children, aged eight to nine, looked out. Some whispered to their seat mates, others pointed with curious glee. My friend and I grinned and made silly looks to the stifled laughter of the students. Their faces shone with youth and innocence. It began to shower and we waved our hidden goodbyes. As we searched for cover, I took one last look at the kids, a few of whom were listening attentively, while many were daydreaming or trying to communicate jokes to their friends. I wished they could stay there forever–in a bubble of time, where their only concerns would have been fighting boredom instead of oppression, violence and poverty.

We climbed the cement stairs that led up to the gilded Stupa. Breathless and searching for the entrance, our eyes fell on a girl who stood meekly before us. Her soft round cheeks had white ash marks and she wore a long tattered cream shirt. She did not smile nor speak, but only came to hold our hands. She clutched them as though she belonged with us. With bare feet, the child took us around the Wat and back to the home of her parents. Her mother seemed overjoyed. Not at the return of her daughter, but for the potential of cash.

Rather than scolding us for being with her, the mother pushed the daughter on to us. It was time to go. As we walked away, the woman whispered something to the girl, who jumped in for an embrace. It felt pure and honest. I do believe for the child it was. We gave her a bottle of water and a hug. Realizing that we had only given water, her parents glared at us and harshly pushed the girl back inside their small cinder block house. They had expected a lot more.

A frightening thought is that the next hand she could reach out for could belong to anyone; from the 60-year-old pedophile to a member of a prostitution ring. I will never know.

Turning to take one last look at the island, I noticed the women collecting the clothes that they had laid out to dry. Intense hues of blues, pinks and crimson reds contrasted against the tiny patches of green grass. The sun was setting and the breeze began to cool. I came to understand that the trip had been one of extreme oppositions. Each person we encountered spoke for the country. Jon and his buddy were the nation’s most conspicuous victims: the decrepit, the malformed and the lost. The fledgling students gentle laughter bred a reason for hope. While the girl’s pacified voice communicated the public’s case louder than any words ever could. The ambiguity of her future is shared by the inhabitants of Burma; whose their government, like the characters of her parents, hindered progress and manufactured despair.

The land slowly disappeared as we inched closer to Ranong, Thailand, but the shadows of those we encountered grew stronger. The blood-orange dusk concluded my Burmese day, but for the people of Burma, independence seems a far away dream.

Learn more about Burma/Myanmar:

Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burma

BBC News: http://www.bbc.co.uk/topics/burma

BBC Country Profile: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/country_profiles/1300003.stm

CNN.com: http://topics.edition.cnn.com/topics/myanmar

Books:

Letters from Burma by Aung San Suu Kyi

Finding George Orwell in Burma by Emma Larkin:

Burmese Days by George Orwell

Make a difference. Help the people of Burma through these organizations:

Foundation for the People of Burma – The organization is dedicated to providing humanitarian aid to the people Burma.

http://www.foundationburma.org/

Free Burma Coalition – Founded in the University of Wisconsin in 1995, the organization is pushing for democratic freedom for the country.

http://www.freeburmacoalition.org/

Disasters Emergency Committee (DEC) – Formed in 1963, the DEC is a UK based umbrella organizations for 13 humanitarian aid agencies. The committee strives to raise the standards of humanitarian support.

http://www.dec.org.uk/

*Originally published in Enrich Magazine (2009)

(Gifs from http://lucynic83.tumblr.com/)

“I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. Recording the man shaving at the window opposite and the woman in the kimono washing her hair. Some day, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.” – Christopher Isherwood, 1930

Waiting. That’s what happens when you get older. When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to get out. The future—and the kind of life that I wanted to lead—was something to be hunted, apprehended, and roped down. As I got older, finally out of school and on my own, experience was the name of the game—jumping into any and every situation, no matter how dire, risky, or just plain stupid.  I wanted to soak up everything that life had to offer. Curiosity and desire overpowered fear—fear was, in fact, a motivator. But as you get older, settling in one place, one job, and succumbing to the empty, infinite space of the web, the TV—where each day is really not all that different than the previous one—the ‘waiting room’ no longer seems like such a gray place, rather a space filled with artificial warmth. It is easy. It is comfortable. It is sad.

While in youth, one’s hopes and dreams may have seemed so far away, the images of which were vivid, bright, and fully-formed, age means a slow, yet imperceptible death—the Self slowly fading away. And as one’s drifts farther and farther away from the harbor of childhood ambitions, there is little one can do but let the slow steady waves take you away towards that vague, desolate space where many have rested before you—your mother, your father, your high school friends.  Looking forward, however, means declaring that ‘dreams change’: a fool’s acceptance that the fierce determination of their youth was no match to reality’s sobering ways. When the vision of a future is hazy, when the options seem so vague, or worse, predictable and expected—mortgage payments, babies, cubicle life—looking backwards becomes life’s greatest indulgence.

The wind blew in, awakening me from my tired slumber. The room was empty: a mattress on the floor, a plastic Ikea doohikey for clothes, and a lone table at the corner. But my room was large. Its walls were painted the shade of fresh butter, and it had high ceilings and French doors that opened up to a small balcony overlooking the cobblestone street below.

All I had was a backpack, a towel, and a bed sheet that I bought from KaDeWe, Germany’s most popular department store. I rented out the room for 200 Euros from Felix Wolter, a young art student. The apartment was located in Gleimstrasse Street in the bourgeoisie-bohemian district of Prenzlauer Berg. The apartment, riddled with black graffiti scrawling was where ‘hip and pretty’ ended and ‘decay and decrepit’ began. There was a café and bar beside the building; but despite its tattered red velvet couches, free Wi-Fi, and coffee offerings on the menu, the rough, scowling crowd—downing their beers and whisky at noon—and the sneering waitress made it clear that the place was more the latter than the former.

I can’t remember how many other apartments I looked at—conducting most of my searches on Craigslist and Couchsurfing—but this had been, by far, my favorite. Luckily, Felix, who I suspect was high during my visit, felt the same way. With glasses, a goatee, and a stocky yet fit built, and one of the organizers of Berlin’s Critical Mass, to many, he might seem like the equivalent of a New York ‘hipster’. (I know this because of the news clipping cutout of him leading a bike parade, his fist in the air and a cigarette hanging from his lips.) Critical Mass originated out of San Francisco and was a cycling-driven demonstration to bring peace—and more bikes—to the streets. But then again, he wouldn’t have cared. He was a Berliner, and that was all that mattered to him. Not German, but a Berliner. And Berliners are the proud gatekeepers, ambassadors, and some would even say, ‘citizens’ of their city. They were proud of the unique, free flowing, and ever-changing culture that they revived and recreated from the rubble of their dark, war-torn past.

Set in the Eastern sector of Berlin, the apartment was laid out in the most unusual fashion: the bathing area was in the kitchen, and by extension, the toilet was within proximity. The bathing area, made out of a tub that had grown yellow with age and a makeshift handheld shower, was adjacent to the dining table—with only a thin curtain for modesty’s sake. The bath, an obvious last-minute do-it-yourself renovation during the cold war period, jutted out from the rest of the building, with a large window with a view to the street below—perfect for those with a penchant for exhibitionism. But this setup was not uncommon for an apartment in East Berlin. It was, in fact, quite mild compared to other layouts. (I was told that one apartment supposedly had the toilet located in the middle of the stairs.)

Differences between the Eastern and the Western sectors of Berlin were often hot topics, especially when nights—or mornings—were winding down, and there was little left to talk about. It was also a favorite topic amongst new residents of Berlin, such as myself, reveling in the sense that one was finally beginning to understand the city—a foolhardy assumption, of course.

If you were a student, a traveler, a writer, a performer, an artist, a hipster, a free spirit, or just plain broke—or all of the above—you lived in the East. In fact, before one had any right to identify themselves an ‘artist’ (or any other similar term), one had to move to the East first. You see, in a city of 3.4 million inhabitants and 12 bezirkes (i.e., boroughs), where you lived, determined (whether you agreed with it or not) who you were: your economic status, your political affiliations, and most important of all, your taste.

The popular districts of Charlottenberg, Wilmersdorf, and Tiergarten are mostly comprised of the crème de la crème of the Berlin society, including business bigwigs, city celebrities, and international V.I.P.’s. Schöneberg is another upper class area but is best known for its gay population and left-wing attitudes. Mitte is divided into the affluent locals in the Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden section whilst the younger, student crowd are situated towards the north. Prenzlauer Berg at the northern section of Mitte, is known for the “BoBo’s” (Bourgeoisie Bohemians) and is becoming one of the city’s favored districts for expatriates, artists, and young families. Other artsy boroughs include Friedrichshain and the Bergmanstrasse area of Kruezberg, which is known for the many non-conformist beatniks, punks, and fashionistas. On the other hand, Kreuzberg’s Kottbusser Tor section is known for its large Turkish population and myriad of alternative “Doner Parties.” Neukölln—heralded as the ‘new Kreuzberg’—is another hotspot for the young, the daring, and the broke, who flock to the area for the cheap apartments and the non-conformist, anti-establishment street cred that comes with living in the borough. Like Kreuzberg, Neukölln is a cultural melting pot, whose largely immigrant (and marginalized) residents hailed from Turkey, Asia, and Africa. The least popular sections of Berlin, and farthest from its center—barely within the periphery of the S-bahn ring that defines the territory of Berlin—is Wedding and Lichtenburg, which is often affiliated with the right-wing conservatives. Ironically, Wedding, like the English translation of the word, was also where married folks, new or otherwise, moved to when they were ready to raise a family or had grown tired of city life. When people said that they were moving to Wedding, it was understood that they were ‘settled’, ready to grow up and old. People who moved to Wedding were never heard from again. Lichtenburg, on the other hand, was known as the stomping ground for Neo-Nazis. The area, and its (mostly) proudly racist inhabitants, was a stern reminder that the city’s horrific past would always lurk in the shadows; that what man and mob are capable of will always be too close for comfort. No matter how many new buildings were erected or what civilized, cosmopolitan, or socially-conscious movements were created in this living, breathing city, the fact was that there would be no hiding from the horror that occurred. More frightening still, was the knowledge that there was no guarantee that such tragic events couldn’t happen again.

Prenzlauer Berg, north of Mitte, however, was a borough caught in the in-between: the high-brow cosmopolitan culture of Mitte (at student-friendly prices) and the sense that one was on the cusp, at the tipping point and the creative edge that defined the Southern districts—without the danger of actually living life on the edge. Apart from Mitte, Prenzlauer Berg, home to many English-language schools, kindergartens, and hostels, was a magnet for the foreign residents and newcomers of Berlin, as most jobs and short-term apartments in the area were easy enough to wrangle. Prenzlauer Berg, or ‘PBerg’ as it was called by the locals, was easy to navigate, and rough and eccentric enough to tickle those with a love for whimsy and wonder. I fell in love with the area immediately. And it was no mild infatuation; three out of the six places I lived in were located in Prenzlauer Berg. The district, much like the rest of Berlin, was intoxicated by the past. While the city was very much a modern city, with its denizens committed to burying the horrors of their history, there was still a sense of nostalgia for the past. While no one wanted a return to the dark days of Hitler or the GDR, a yearning for the mood-filled days-and-nights of the past: secret café sessions in beaten down smoke-filled hole-in-the-wall jaunts, the flair and flamboyance of Vaudeville, the rhythm and spirit of the ‘golden age’, and, even, the beginnings of underground punk. The present, and the future, may be a much neater, orderly, and peaceful place, but for Berliners, the past, in all its madcap, kitschy glory was where magic—and the real party—could be found. Their obsession with the past was evident in the many GDR-themed bars, cafés, and haunts (and accompanying mismatched granny-esque furniture), and the success and popularity of the city’s many vintage shops. Soon, I found myself possessed by nostalgia. The past—the artifacts, the style and culture, the images of a different time—come with stories, whether they were even true or not. Vintage wasn’t just a preservation of the past, but the acknowledgement of something special. Berlin—past, present, and future—was special, indeed.

The kitchen and the narrow hallway, made even narrower by the multiple bikes leaning against the wall, were painted a shade of crayon blue, while the wooden floor planks were a shade of pastel-mint. The paint on the tables and chairs, the same hue as the floorboards, was peeling. The kitchen was in dire straits—exactly how I liked it. A European-style washing machine—with a small metal cylindrical grid where the clothes were placed and washed—was in place of the oven. When I first entered the apartment, Felix and his very tall, blonde, blue-eyed friend (who I later found out was working in a Doner shop, of all places), were smoking rolled cigarettes and drinking beers, and behind them, a large map of the city—every side street, every U –and S-Bahn line, every park, was sketched over a blue board. The green lines of the map were wild vines unfurling, choking and releasing, and stretching and spilling furiously over and into the city’s landscape: the beaten-down squats, the bullet-scarred buildings, and the horror, trash, sleaze that made even the brightest of days seem as though it was eclipsed by wild moonlight.

The city was intoxicating. Berlin promised new life, where anything and everything was possible. Berlin was a life in pictures: flipping backwards and forwards in sepia, black-and-white, color, with only the steady ‘click, click, click’ of your mind’s shutter for company. Berlin was Europe. Berlin was New York—but better. Berlin was art, and music, and culture, and youth. Berlin was a chance to believe in something—that vague, hazy imperceptible notion that there was more to clocking in and clocking out. Berlin was an underworld; where only the restless and the renegades—who were happy enough to be swept up and under the city—were permitted entry. But this was no 21st century occurrence: Berlin had been, was still, and would always be this way.

Guardian.com - Jeanette Winterson

Critics consider Winterson’s 1985 semi-autobiographical account as one of the best productions of modern fiction due to its stylistic prose and creative structure, with each chapter named after a book in the Bible.  It has also been heralded as one of the most important works in gay literature today. It was later made into a television mini-series in 1989. The screenplay was also written by Winterson, winning her the BAFTA award.

Jeanette is a lonely isolated girl living in Lancashire, England. Adopted into an evangelical household, Jeanette grew up with absent father and an overly zealous mother who forbade from going to school for several years, calling it a “Breeding Ground” that would “lead her astray.”

She obeys religious teachings, attends church every Sunday and though viewed by the attendants as “full of spirit,” she is an active participant in congregation. However, she becomes a teenager and besides the mother’s mounting fears of her “bad influences,” Jeanette discovers that she is interested in women. She falls in love with a girl named Melanie. The day she meets her, the pastor also begins his sermon on “unnatural passions” and notices her new friend getting upset. As they spend more time together, she wonders if it was what the preacher talked about in church. However, her mother does notice at first, initially relieved that Jeanette was no longer spending time with Graham. Jeannette begins to feel the stirring of her emotions but is confused with what she had been taught, especially since it conflicted with her goal of becoming a missionary. She confesses her feelings to her mother and during the next mass, the preacher turns to them and declares them as sinners, demanding that they give up their sin and atone at once, stating that they cannot love the Lord and each other at the same time. Jeanette is betrayed and devasted. The entire town, except for Mrs. Jewsbury whom they laud as unholy, attempts to “cure” Jeanette of this evil and locks her into a room until she repents. She eventually gives in, but as soon as she is released runs to find Melanie who tells her that they are forbidden to see each other. They cry and kiss all night, confused but in love.

The next day, Jeanette comes down with glandular fever. During her illness, her mother comes to her with a bowl of oranges and declares that she had made her choice and that there was no going back. However, Jeanette did not make a choice, at least not the choice that the Church forced upon her.

Time passes, peace is restored, and Melanie moves away.

One day, a new convert, Katy, comes to the church. They fall in love. They go away together for the weekend, but encounter her mother’s friend. Feeling trapped, Jeanette is unsure of what to do. She returns home to her mother smashing dishes and calling the pastor. They had been discovered. What followed were a chaotic array of meetings. People began to act differently around Jeanette, even losing their place in the sermon after catching her eye. She has been ostracized. She leaves home, first afraid to return because those that do “ don’t survive, because two realities are claiming them at the same time. Such things are too much. You can salt your heart, or kill your heart, or you can choose between the two realities” (109).

However, she eventually does return. As one would expect much has changed, and much has not. Nevertheless, her mother states rather philosophically, when faced with pineapples than her favourite, “Oranges are not the only fruit.”

Winterson’s novel is one that would strike a chord for the many men and women who have struggled to embrace their identity. In many cases, like the characters of Jeanette, they face opposition not just from general society but also in their own homes. On the other hand, there are also those who suffer in silence, forced to deny a natural part of themselves in favour of public acceptance. Many view difference as a threat to the social order, an aberration of their religion and biology. However, the fatal flaws of these arguments are the idea that there is only a single law, a single religion or a single way of living. The author states in an interview that she wrote the book in order to forgive and understand the past (www.jeanettewinterson.com). For many people who are subject to sexual, racial or even economic prejudice, rejections are not easy wounds that heal. Some are only granted acceptance if they “fit” the accepted stereotype of being gay. One example is men who can only gain acceptance as homosexuals if they fit the stereotype of flamboyant characters portrayed on television. Thus, the public can declare themselves “liberal” but without having to face the truth that a person’s emotions are involved, not characters for their entertainment. Though sexual orientation and religion is often a topic of debate, such as the case of Winterson’s novel, where the pastor declares that she cannot have both. Thus, a person not only loses a right to him or herself but loses the right to spirituality as well. Intolerant behaviour and judgement impinges on another human being rights. The book’s use of biblical phrases to refute the arguments of her detractors points out the irony of their judgment. The novel is also, as Winterson states, a process of healing but on a deeper level, it is also someone telling her story, which is what the bible is about as well—a means to comprehend their life and the world around them. At present, many religions do not accept same-sex relationships. It is a sad fact, but hopefully, one day soon, things can change.

The God of Small Things begins with a quotation from the writer John Berger: “Never again will a single story be told as though it’s the only one.” Thus, even as the novel dives into non-linear, multi-voiced perspectives, it is built around the experiences of the twins, Rahel and her brother Estha, the “small things” that alter their fate and their family Ayemenem in the Marxist state of Kerala, India.

At the age of seven, a tragedy–the death of their half-English cousin Sophie Mol–separates the twins. Living and traveling aimlessly, the book begins when the siblings are adults: Rahel returns to Ayemenem after hearing that Estha (Esthappen) had finally come home.

Flashing backwards and forwards in time, from 1969 to 1993, Roy’s masterpiece tackles politics and Indian society- communism, the caste system and religion – as well as love, the loss of innocence, and confronting the past.

Ammu, the mother of the ‘two-egg twins’ left her violent husband to live with her blind mother, Shoshamma Ipe (referred as Mammachi meaning grandmother), her brother Chacko, and her bitter aunt Baby Kochamma. Rahel and Estha’s mother falls in love and begins an affair with Velutha who works in the family’s Paradise Pickles and Preserves factory. Their romance is mired by his status: he is an untouchable, a pervati, who are the lowest group in the caste system. Rahel claims that she saw him marching with the communist, which adds to Baby Kochamma’s hatred towards him. The writer refers to him as “The God of Small Things” and “The God of Loss.”

Chacko, a former Rhodes Scholar returned to India after his divorce with Margaret, an English woman who remarried. He first came as a teacher then later, with his “Bharat bottle-sealing machine, his Balliol oar and his broken heart,” returns to Ayemenem upon his father’s death to build the business, Even if his wife had left him for another man, he is still deeply in love with her and they continue to exchange letters. After the death of Margaret’s husband, she and Chacko’s daughter, Sophie Mol, visits them in the humid southern Indian town.

As the novel weaves backwards and forwards in time, its theme remains clear: things can change in a day. Thus, while grown-ups focus on the big issues, such as social structures and ideology, the small things-those undetected and seemingly irrelevant occurrences – alter their lives.

The family watches “The Sound of Music” in the theatre, where Estha, after being sent out for singing during the film, is sexually molested by the “Orangedrink Lemondrink man.” Later in the story, Amma and Velutha’s relationship is discovered, where the former is locked in the house and the latter is banished. In a fit of rage, she blames the twins who decide to run away and Sophie begs to join. In the river, the boat capsizes and their cousin drowns. The siblings search in vain, but fall asleep in the abandoned house they fondly call “The History House.”  Their mother also loved the abandoned house by the river, but for entirely different reasons–it was where she would meet her lover,  Ammu.

The next day, Sophie’s body is discovered and the blame placed on Velutha. The police arrest the man for having the audacity to cross caste lines and violently beat the untouchable. The twins, who have become close to him, witness the thrashing. They confess what had happened to the Chief of Police, but it does little good because the officer fears that the wrongful arrest of Valuthu, a communist supporter, would instigate further unrest. He threatens Valuthu’s accuser, Baby Kochamma, that if she did not make Rahel and Estha withdraw their story, he would charge her for the false accusation. She manipulates the twins into believing that by accusing the factory worker of the crime, they would be able to save their mother from jail. The woman also convinces them that they pushed their cousin out of the boat because they were jealous. The twins believe both lies and testify against Velutha, who later dies from his injuries. However, when their mother hears of the charges, she runs to the police and confesses what had happened. Fearing exposure, the aunt coerces Chacko into banishing his sister and her children from his home. Ammu cannot afford to fend for both children and sends Estha to live with his father. She lives in poverty and dies in an accident at the age of 31-the same age the twins reunite. No one informs Estha of her death and Rahel watches her mother’s body placed into the cremation oven.

Crossing the greatest line, the twins make love out of “hideous grief.” And in the final chapter, the reader learns the details of Ammu and Valuthu’s relationship. Unable to exist in the world of Big Things, they found joy in the world of the Small Things. Each night they make a small promise, the words: “Tomorrow? Tomorrow.” On their last night together, she turns to says it one more time, “Naalay.” Tommorrow.

Winning the England’s most prestigious literary award, the Booker Prize, in 1997, as well ranking No. 1 on numerous Bestseller lists and having been published in more than 20 countries, Arundhati Roy’s first novel has garnered international acclaim. However, despite the book’s success, it also drew national criticism. An individual lawyer by the name of Sabu Thomas chastised for her depiction of intercaste lovemaking and pushed that the last chapter be removed, but fortunately, the obscenity charges were dropped. She was also the first Indian woman and non-expatriate to win the prize.

Roy’s masterpiece calls attention to the “small things” in life, an especially important reminder in this modern society. It is the “small things” that burden Rahel and Estha, such as the daughter’s perception of Ammu’s ever decreasing love, Estha’s sexual abuse from a stranger, and the truth about their cousin’s death. These issues are not confronted, and ends up haunting them throughout most of their adult life. Meanwhile, Ammu and Valutha can only exist together in the midst of the “small things” as in their world of the “big things” (their caste), they can never love each other freely. Thus, these seemingly inconspicuous details profoundly affect the lives of all the characters. Like the novel, people often find themselves chasing after larger goals, ideologies, a preservation of status, yet the subtle elements-such as a moment of peace or a harsh word said impulsively-is often what remains.

The novel touches on the positive and negative effects of maintaining tradition. As the older characters seek control, like Pappachi, who attempts to hold on to his power in the household, or Baby Kochamma who conserves societal rules out of her own bitterness and failed romance, it is the entire family pays the price. However, despite the author’s criticism of the caste system, she points out a need to maintain a sense of cultural identity. Even as the family takes account of colonial influences, such as wearing Western clothing to pick up Margaret and Sophie Mol, watching “The Sound of Music,” Chacko’s education in England, Rahel’s life in the United States, none of the characters renounces their “Indian-ness.” As Sophie Mol steps into view, “Hatted, bell-bottomed and Loved from the beginning,” their cousin’s Caucasian roots is not an issue or a subject of envy for the other children.

There is no real play on ethnic difference, and even Chacko’s depiction of life abroad is not peppered with racial issues between being dark or white, nor is it the source of the breakdown of his marriage with Margaret, and neither is Rahel’s divorce with the American, Larry McCaslin. This “small thing” is an important step in third world literature. Most especially for countries that have experienced colonization, or where Western media plays a strong influence the culture.

Thus, as globalization forges on, it does not mean a culture has to be lost. Tied to this theme is the return to Ayamenen. Even as Ammu, Chacko, Rahel, and Estha flee their home, they ultimately come back.

***Photos not mine.