I was working on my notebook one evening, blogging in public via wifi, at it was about 3 am in the morning. A woman walked in and sat in the adjoining table. At first I did not notice her, but 
another guy about three meters away seemed to be looking anxiously at my direction and I turned to look at what caught his attention.
He was staring with some disbelief at the woman sitting near me. I looked up slowly and without trying to seem obvious that I was curious or glare at anything which might turn up to be surprising or weird. She was of very fair complexion, somewhere in her mid-forties, hair slightly dishevelled or unwashed, with rather skimpy clothing. Her arms had many pockmarks of blood clots and scratches, which looked reasonably fresh. Her eyes are piercing and searching. She was quiet, and looked into her handbag. For a while I thought she was digging into it, as her torso was turned aside. But she seemed to be putting her hand between her crossed legs, and her face was turned towards me.
I kept on working on my laptop.
Certainly, I was uncomfortable. But I thought that if I appeared not to care, and ignore her, like some ostrich with its head in a hole on the ground, I would not have to contend with any trouble or end up having to explain myself to the police an hour later.
Eventually, my power drained to a low and I had to shutdown and leave. I left without ever looking at her again.
How I behaved, made me feel "normal", that is, like everybody else around who sees a sick person that might become a burden, and walks on the other side of the road to avoid taking responsibility.
How hard it is, really, to reflect on the good samaritan story. I guess, Jesus could have added that it was not a man who got robbed, but if it was an abandoned human who had lost all dignity and sunk into madness, and was beatened up yet, and robbed.
Just as well, when walking in Bishan Mall, or Toa Payon Central, or at my late night bouts in McDonald's, I seem to notice people 
who seemed to have "lost it", mumbling to themselves or desperate for a conversation or food or drink. Once with a neighbour having coffee, another woman called at my table and started talking loudly to me. To many, she was just another "mad woman", as my neighbour described her, and he preferred to ignore her completely. But she chose to sit immediately in front of me, sharing my table. She kept on commenting on my look, and then asked if she could get a drink. Well, I was broke, really, but had a two dollar bill in my pocket. I asked her what she wanted and she couldn't say. I suggested an ice tea, and she still couldn't say. I got it and presented it to her and when on with my work, but as she was insistent in mumbling to me, I put down my work and tried to listen to her incoherent mumbles. My neighbour got up to leave, somewhat annoyed at the interference and my willingness to pay heed to this "mad woman". But after no more than a few minutes, I knew she was a repeating the whole conversation over and over again, until she then talked about being abandoned by her husband and being without food or work, and that she was desperate. 
She had just opened up, and I simply had no stomach for it. I knew myself that I could not help, even if I were to surrender the small change I had left with me. My own life was desperate, and here I was, no better than her, and I could finally hear this woman's cry for help. It was nothing normal, for the whole paradigm of what constitutes as ordinary for any person in such dire straits is a wholly changed perspective, with only a flicker of what other people might recognise as "sane". The state of affairs in Singapore where mental health which is so closely linked to our obsession for physical well-being, is depressing to say the least.
I was reflecting at length at this whole point and awoke this morning to blog down all my irrate concerns about mental health when I noticed the HOME section of The Straits Times read: For every suicide, there are seven unsuccessful bids. (Page H7, 11 March 2006, The Straits Times)
The funny thought that flooded my mind this morning when I rolled out of bed was a short story about death and suicide (I will work on it shortly), but in particular the line in my head, "
Death is the only way to defy Gravity". That is some weird physics, man!
another guy about three meters away seemed to be looking anxiously at my direction and I turned to look at what caught his attention.
He was staring with some disbelief at the woman sitting near me. I looked up slowly and without trying to seem obvious that I was curious or glare at anything which might turn up to be surprising or weird. She was of very fair complexion, somewhere in her mid-forties, hair slightly dishevelled or unwashed, with rather skimpy clothing. Her arms had many pockmarks of blood clots and scratches, which looked reasonably fresh. Her eyes are piercing and searching. She was quiet, and looked into her handbag. For a while I thought she was digging into it, as her torso was turned aside. But she seemed to be putting her hand between her crossed legs, and her face was turned towards me.
I kept on working on my laptop.
Certainly, I was uncomfortable. But I thought that if I appeared not to care, and ignore her, like some ostrich with its head in a hole on the ground, I would not have to contend with any trouble or end up having to explain myself to the police an hour later.
Eventually, my power drained to a low and I had to shutdown and leave. I left without ever looking at her again.
How I behaved, made me feel "normal", that is, like everybody else around who sees a sick person that might become a burden, and walks on the other side of the road to avoid taking responsibility.
How hard it is, really, to reflect on the good samaritan story. I guess, Jesus could have added that it was not a man who got robbed, but if it was an abandoned human who had lost all dignity and sunk into madness, and was beatened up yet, and robbed.
Just as well, when walking in Bishan Mall, or Toa Payon Central, or at my late night bouts in McDonald's, I seem to notice people 
who seemed to have "lost it", mumbling to themselves or desperate for a conversation or food or drink. Once with a neighbour having coffee, another woman called at my table and started talking loudly to me. To many, she was just another "mad woman", as my neighbour described her, and he preferred to ignore her completely. But she chose to sit immediately in front of me, sharing my table. She kept on commenting on my look, and then asked if she could get a drink. Well, I was broke, really, but had a two dollar bill in my pocket. I asked her what she wanted and she couldn't say. I suggested an ice tea, and she still couldn't say. I got it and presented it to her and when on with my work, but as she was insistent in mumbling to me, I put down my work and tried to listen to her incoherent mumbles. My neighbour got up to leave, somewhat annoyed at the interference and my willingness to pay heed to this "mad woman". But after no more than a few minutes, I knew she was a repeating the whole conversation over and over again, until she then talked about being abandoned by her husband and being without food or work, and that she was desperate. 
She had just opened up, and I simply had no stomach for it. I knew myself that I could not help, even if I were to surrender the small change I had left with me. My own life was desperate, and here I was, no better than her, and I could finally hear this woman's cry for help. It was nothing normal, for the whole paradigm of what constitutes as ordinary for any person in such dire straits is a wholly changed perspective, with only a flicker of what other people might recognise as "sane". The state of affairs in Singapore where mental health which is so closely linked to our obsession for physical well-being, is depressing to say the least.
I was reflecting at length at this whole point and awoke this morning to blog down all my irrate concerns about mental health when I noticed the HOME section of The Straits Times read: For every suicide, there are seven unsuccessful bids. (Page H7, 11 March 2006, The Straits Times)
The funny thought that flooded my mind this morning when I rolled out of bed was a short story about death and suicide (I will work on it shortly), but in particular the line in my head, "Death is the only way to defy Gravity". That is some weird physics, man!
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