So, it’s been six months already. Friday messaged me and reminded me. Have been thinking about this. Did I get out of this what I wanted? Yes, I’m glad I did this. It was true that at the beginning entries were a lot more regular and there seemed to be a lot more going on. But there was also the reflection that for a lot of us, this period was a time of flux. And I appreciated being able to see some of that through here. I wasn’t as regular as I should have been, but I appreciated what it helped me become. I looked at articles not just in the sense of “Do I want to read this?” but also “Would other people like it too?” and I think that was useful for me. And I’m glad that everyone, everyone here, really was someone who I wanted to know more about. Every entry I enjoyed, every entry that was posted was guidance to me. And I am happy.
So thank you all for a good run, and good bye! God bless!
I like this, and I think it’s appropriate for 9/11. I like the show in general, but I found it interesting that they didn’t seem to show how many people in total reacted in what way, which is what they do for some situations.
The strangest thing so far has been that I do actually miss the fuzziness of the world when I had imperfect eyesight. It was a lot easier to ignore things if you couldn’t see them. Now I can’t take off the glasses and just retreat.
This is also SO VERY TRUE:
Not sure whether I like the message, but it is beautifully done.
Ellen Page: ‘Why are people so reluctant to say they’re feminists?’ | Film | The Guardian .
Ibrahim el-Salahi: from Sudanese prison to Tate Modern show | Art and design | The Guardian .
I’ve been thinking a lot about post-colonialism and Singapore, and how we really haven’t developed a post-colonial discourse in South East Asia. It’s almost like we’ve given everything up for the sake of moving forward, including looking critically back at our own past. But now, I’m looking at things and really really questioning if it isn’t really because of the past that we have the inequalities, the rifts, the cracks in our societies today. The British moulded our society to their benefit, and we’ve never really looked at that and been like, okay, this is what we need to do now to actually try and make it an even playing field. Because it’s still the Malay, the Chinese dialect, the South Indian people who are supposedly doing worse in schools, who can’t seem to be as employable, as wanted, as Singaporean as the Baba, the English-speaking, the culturally more Western segments of our society.
My father has a fruit guy he’s been going to for years. As a child I’d wander after my father, through the piles of longan and lychee, Thai mangoes and starfruit, and the fruit guy would say “Girl, you try this one”. My father calls him “Tiger Brother” in a dialect, I don’t know which. On Hari Raya, my father orders baskets of fruit from him, and loads up the car with durian, guava, oranges, mangoes, to be cut and served to my very big extended family after hours of visiting.
When I lived in Egypt, I had my own fruit man for the first time. He was a little, dark old man in a fruit store on the corner. He always seemed very amused at having three foreign girls with broken Arabic come to his shop. He had a kid helping him, sometimes, maybe a nephew, or a grandson. The fruits in Egypt are delicious. He’d let us munch on a banana each for free, and sell us whatever was in season. Gorgeous, perfect persimmons that he assured us weren’t from Occupied Palestine, figs that looked like hearts when you cut them in half that were so sweet they tasted like they’d been sugared, watermelons that hopefully hadn’t been grown in Nile water. He’d teach us the names of the fruits in Arabic, and test us on them the next time we came by. I’d recognised the name for figs from the Quran, and he approved. The entire area of Mohandiseen was apparently wrecked by the first revolution. He was an old man, and the wheels of revolution are still turning. I pray that he is safe.
Now, my fruit man is a fruit family. Thursdays they are at the market near the Prefectural Offices. The father smokes and naps at the side of the stall after all the office workers have gone back into their offices after lunch. He gives me free tomatoes sometimes. The son never gives me a discount, but he tells me what’s good today. The mother never comes on Thursdays. She comes on Sundays at the Sunday market near Kochi castle, and talks to me. One week I came with a friend, the next week she asked me what happened to my friend. I generally come alone, I think she pities me for that. She checks to see if I know how to eat the fruit. Loquat – no, yamamomo – not really, peaches – yes. I think she calculates the prices wrongly, sometimes, but I have to translate the prices to do it, so I don’t really bother to check. It’s worth it, really. Now cherries have started to come into season, and the peaches are turning perfectly red at their tips, the last of the loquats and yamamomos are at the corner of the stall, and we are in summer.
Wednesday is very sorry she’s been out of it for a while. She is writing a post now just for you.