Saturday, November 4, 2017

The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate by Ted Chiang

The story I have to tell is truly a strange one, and were the entirety to be tattooed at the corner of one's eye, the marvel of its presentation would not exceed that of the events recounted, for it is a warning to those who would be warned and a lesson to those who would learn.

My name is Fuwaad ibn Abbas, and I was born here in Baghdad, City of Peace. My father was a grain merchant, but for much of my life I have worked as a purveyor of fine fabrics, trading in silk from Damascus and linen from Egypt and scarves from Morocco that are embroidered with gold. I was prosperous, but my heart was troubled, and neither the purchase of luxuries nor the giving of alms was able to soothe it. Now I stand before you without a single Dirham in my purse, but I am at peace.

Allah is the beginning of all things, but with your permission, I begin my story with the day I took a walk through the district of metal smiths. I needed to purchase a gift for a man I had to do business with, and had been told he might appreciate a tray made of silver. After browsing for half an hour, I noticed that one of the largest shops in the market had been taken over by a new merchant. It was a prized location that must have been expensive to acquire, so I entered to peruse its wares. Never before had I seen such a marvelous assortment of goods. Near the entrance there was an astrolabe equipped with seven plates inlaid with silver, a water-clock that chimed on the hour, and a nightingale made of brass that sang when the wind blew. Farther inside there were even more ingenious mechanisms, and I stared at them the way a child watches a juggler, when an old man stepped out from a doorway in the back, almost as if he has been expecting me. 

"Welcome to my humble shop, my lord," he said. "My name is Bashaarat. How may I assist you?"

"These are remarkable items that you have for sale. I deal with traders from every corner of the world, and yet I have never seen their like. From where, may I ask, did you acquire your merchandise?"

"I am grateful to you for your kind words," he said. "Everything you see here was made in my workshop, by myself or by my assistants under my direction."

I was impressed that this man could be so well versed in so many arts. I asked him about the various instruments in his shop, and listened to him discourse learnedly about astrology, mathematics, geomancy, and medicine. We spoke for over an hour, and my fascination and respect bloomed like a flower warmed by the dawn, until he mentioned his experiments in alchemy.

"Alchemy?" I said. This surprised me, for he did not seem the type to make such a sharper's claim. "You mean you can turn base metal into gold?"

"I can, my lord, but that is not in fact what most seek from alchemy."

"What do most seek, then?"

"They seek a source of gold that is cheaper than mining ore from the ground.  Alchemy does describe a means to make gold, but the procedure is so arduous that, by comparison, digging beneath a mountain is as easy as plucking peaches from a tree."

I smiled. "A clever reply. No one could dispute that you are a learned man, but I know better than to credit alchemy."

Bashaarat looked at me and considered. "I have recently built something that may change your opinion. You would be the first person I have shown it to. Would you care to see it?"

"It would be a great pleasure."

"Please follow me." He led me through the doorway in the rear of his shop. The next room was a workshop, arrayed with devices whose functions I could not guess—bars of metal wrapped with enough copper thread to reach the horizon, mirrors mounted on a circular slab of granite floating in quicksilver—but Bashaarat walked past these without a glance.

Instead he led me to a sturdy pedestal, chest high, on which a stout metal hoop was mounted upright. The hoop's opening was as wide as two outstretched hands, and its rim so thick that it would tax the strongest man to carry. The metal was black as night, but polished to such smoothness that, had it been a different color, it could have served as a mirror. Bashaarat bade me stand so that I looked upon the hoop edgewise, while he stood next to its opening.

"Please observe," he said.

Bashaarat thrust his arm through the hoop from the right side, but it did not extend out from the left. Instead, it was as if his arm were severed at the elbow, and he waved the stump up and down, and then pulled his arm out intact. I had not expected to see such a learned man perform a conjuror's trick, but it was well done, and I applauded politely.

"Now wait a moment," he said as he took a step back.

I waited, and behold, an arm reached out of the hoop from its left side, without a body to hold it up. The sleeve it wore matched Bashaarat's robe. The arm waved up and down, and then retreated through the hoop until it was gone. The first trick I had thought a clever mime, but this one seemed far superior, because the pedestal and hoop were clearly too slender to conceal a person. 

"Very clever!" I exclaimed.

"Thank you, but this is not mere sleight of hand. The right side of the hoop precedes the left by several seconds. To pass through the hoop is to cross that duration instantly."

"I do not understand," I said.

"Let me repeat the demonstration." Again he thrust his arm through the hoop, and his arm disappeared. He smiled, and pulled back and forth as if playing tug-a-rope. Then he pulled his arm out again, and presented his hand to me with the palm open. On it lay a ring I recognized.

"That is my ring!" I checked my hand, and saw that my ring still lay on my finger.

"You have conjured up a duplicate."

"No, this is truly your ring. Wait."

Again, an arm reached out from the left side. Wishing to discover the mechanism of the trick, I rushed over to grab it by the hand. It was not a false hand, but one fully warm and alive as mine. I pulled on it, and it pulled back. Then, as deft as a pickpocket, the hand slipped the ring from my finger and the arm withdrew into the hoop, vanishing completely.

"My ring is gone!" I exclaimed.

"No, my lord," he said. "Your ring is here." And he gave me the ring he held. "Forgive me for my game."

I replaced it on my finger. "You had the ring before it was taken from me." At that moment an arm reached out, this time from the right side of the hoop. "What is this?" I exclaimed. Again I recognized it as his by the sleeve before it withdrew, but I had not seen him reach in.

"Recall," he said, "the right side of the hoop precedes the left." And he walked over to the left side of the hoop, and thrust his arm through from that side, and again it disappeared.

You have undoubtedly already grasped this, but it was only then that I understood: whatever happened on the right side of the hoop was complemented, a few seconds later, by an event on the left side. 

"Is this sorcery?" I asked.

"No, my lord, I have never met a Djinni, and if I did, I would not trust it to do my bidding. This is a form of alchemy."

He offered an explanation, speaking of his search for tiny pores in the skin of reality, like the holes that worms bore into wood, and how upon finding one he was able to expand and stretch it the way a glassblower turns a dollop of molten glass into a long-necked pipe, and how he then allowed time to flow like water at one mouth while causing it to thicken like syrup at the other. I confess I did not really understand his words, and cannot testify to their truth. 

All I could say in response was, "You have created something truly astonishing."

"Thank you," he said, "but this is merely a prelude to what I intended to show you."

He bade me follow him into another room, farther in the back. There stood a circular doorway whose massive frame was made of the same polished black metal, mounted in the middle of the room.

"What I showed you before was a Gate of Seconds," he said. "This is a Gate of Years. The two sides of the doorway are separated by a span of twenty years."

I confess I did not understand his remark immediately. I imagined him reaching his arm in from the right side and waiting twenty years before it emerged from the left side, and it seemed a very obscure magic trick. I said as much, and he laughed. 

"That is one use for it," he said, "but consider what would happen if you were to step through." Standing on the right side, he gestured for me to come closer, and then pointed through the doorway. "Look."

I looked, and saw that there appeared to be different rugs and pillows on the other side of the room than I had seen when I had entered. I moved my head from side to side, and realized that when I peered through the doorway, I was looking at a different room from the one I stood in.

"You are seeing the room twenty years from now," said Bashaarat.

I blinked, as one might at an illusion of water in the desert, but what I saw did not change. 

"And you say I could step through?" I asked. 

"You could. And with that step, you would visit the Baghdad of twenty years hence. You could seek out your older self and have a conversation with him. Afterwards, you could step back through the Gate of Years and return to the present day."

Hearing Bashaarat's words, I felt as if I were reeling. "You have done this?" I asked him. "You have stepped through?"

"I have, and so have numerous customers of mine."

"Earlier you said I was the first to whom you showed this."

"This Gate, yes. But for many years I owned a shop in Cairo, and it was there that I first built a Gate of Years. There were many to whom I showed that Gate, and who made use of it."

"What did they learn when talking to their older selves?"

"Each person learns something different. Even though the past is unchangeable, one may encounter the unexpected when visiting it. Do you now understand why I say the future and the past are the same? We cannot change either, but we can know both more fully."

"I do understand; you have opened my eyes, and now I wish to use the Gate of Years. What price do you ask?"

He waved his hand. "I do not sell passage through the Gate," he said. "Allah guides whom he wishes to my shop, and I am content to be an instrument of his will."

Had it been another man, I would have taken his words to be a negotiating ploy, but after all that Bashaarat had told me, I knew that he was sincere. "Your generosity is as boundless as your learning," I said, and bowed. "If there is ever a service that a merchant of fabrics might provide for you, please call upon me."

"Thank you. Let us talk now about your trip. There are some matters we must speak of before you visit the Baghdad of twenty years hence."

"I do not wish to visit the future," I told him. "I would step through in the other direction, to revisit my youth."

"Ah, my deepest apologies. This Gate will not take you there. You see, I built this Gate only a week ago. Twenty years ago, there was no doorway here for you to step out of."

My dismay was so great that I must have sounded like a forlorn child. I said, "But where does the other side of the Gate lead?" and walked around the circular doorway to face its opposite side.

Bashaarat walked around the doorway to stand beside me. The view through the Gate appeared identical to the view outside it, but when he extended his hand to reach through, it stopped as if it met an invisible wall. I looked more closely, and noticed a brass lamp set on a table. Its flame did not flicker, but was as fixed and unmoving as if the room were trapped in clearest amber.

"What you see here is the room as it appeared last week," said Bashaarat. "In some twenty years' time, this left side of the Gate will permit entry, allowing people to enter from this direction and visit their past. Or," he said, leading me back to the side of the doorway he had first shown me, "we can enter from the right side now, and visit them ourselves. But I'm afraid this Gate will never allow visits to the days of your youth."

"What about the Gate of Years you had in Cairo?" I asked.

He nodded. "That Gate still stands. My son now runs my shop there."

"So I could travel to Cairo, and use the Gate to visit the Cairo of twenty years ago. From there I could travel back to Baghdad."

"Yes, you could make that journey, if you so desire."

"I do," I said. "Will you tell me how to find your shop in Cairo?"

"We must speak of some things first," said Bashaarat. "I will not ask your intentions,  being content to wait until you are ready to tell me. But I would remind you that what is made cannot be unmade."

"I know," I said.

"And that you cannot avoid the ordeals that are assigned to you. What Allah gives you, you must accept."

"I remind myself of that every day of my life."

"Then it is my honor to assist you in whatever way I can," he said. He brought out some paper and a pen and ink pot and began writing. "I shall write for you a letter to aid you on your journey." He folded the letter, dribbled some candle wax over the edge, and pressed his ring against it. "When you reach Cairo, give this to my son, and he will let you enter the Gate of Years there."

A merchant such as myself must be well-versed in expressions of gratitude, but I had never before been as effusive in giving thanks as I was to Bashaarat, and every word was heartfelt. He gave me directions to his shop in Cairo, and I assured him I would tell him all upon my return. As I was about to leave his shop, a thought occurred to me. 

"Because the Gate of Years you have here opens to the future, you are assured that the Gate and this shop will be remain standing for twenty years or more."

"Yes, that is true," said Bashaarat.

I began to ask him if he had met his older self, but then I bit back my words. If the answer was no, it was surely because his older self was dead, and I would be asking him if he knew the date of his death. Who was I to make such an inquiry, when this man was granting me a boon without asking my intentions? I saw from his expression that he knew what I had meant to ask, and I bowed my head in humble apology. He indicated his acceptance with a nod, and I returned home to make arrangements.

The caravan took two months to reach Cairo. As for what occupied my mind during the journey, I now tell you what I had not told Bashaarat. 

I was married once, twenty years before, to a woman named Najya. Her figure swayed as gracefully as a willow bough and her face was as lovely as the moon, but it was her kind and tender nature that captured my heart. I had just begun my career as a merchant when we married, and we were not wealthy, but did not feel the lack.

We had been married only a year when I was to travel to Basra to meet with a ship's captain. I had an opportunity to profit by trading in slaves, but Najya did not approve. I reminded her that the Koran does not forbid the owning of slaves as long as one treats them well, and that even the Prophet owned some. But she said there was no way I could know how my buyers would treat their slaves, and that it was better to sell goods than men.

On the morning of my departure, Najya and I argued. I spoke harshly to her, using words that it shames me to recall. I left in anger, and never saw her again. She was badly injured when the wall of a mosque collapsed, some days after I left. She was taken to the bimaristan, but the physicians could not save her, and she died soon after. I did not learn of her death until I returned a week later, and I felt as if I had killed her with my own hand.

Can the torments of Hell be worse than what I endured in the days that followed? It seemed likely that I would find out, so near to death did my anguish take me. And surely  the experience must be similar, for like infernal fire, grief burns but does not consume; instead, it makes the heart vulnerable to further suffering.

Eventually my period of lamentation ended, and I was left a hollow man, a bag of skin with no innards. I freed the slaves I had bought and became a fabric merchant. Over the years I became wealthy, but I never remarried. Some of the men I did business with tried to match me with a sister or a daughter, telling me that the love of a woman can make you forget your pains. Perhaps they are right, but it cannot make you forget the pain you caused another. Whenever I imagined myself marrying another woman, I remembered the look of hurt in Najya's eyes when I last saw her, and my heart was closed to others.

I spoke to a Mullah about what I had done, and it was he who told me that repentance and atonement erase the past. I repented and atoned as best I knew how; for twenty years I lived as an upright man, I offered prayers and fasted and gave alms to those less fortunate and made a pilgrimage to Mecca, and yet I was still haunted by guilt. Allah is all-merciful, so I knew the failing to be mine.

Had Bashaarat asked me, I could not have said what I hoped to achieve. It was clear from his stories that I could not change what I knew to have happened. No one had stopped my younger self from arguing with Najya in our final conversation. But perhaps I might be able to play some part in events while my younger self was away on business.

Could it not be that there had been a mistake, and my Najya had survived? Perhaps it was another woman whose body had been wrapped in a shroud and buried while I was gone. Perhaps I could rescue Najya and bring her back with me to the Baghdad of my own day. I knew it was foolhardy; men of experience say, "Four things do not come back: the spoken word, the sped arrow, the past life, and the neglected opportunity," and I understood the truth of those words better than most. And yet I dared to hope that Allah had judged my twenty years of repentance sufficient, and was now granting me a chance to regain what I had lost.

The caravan journey was uneventful, and after sixty sunrises and three hundred prayers, I reached Cairo. There I had to navigate the city's streets, which are a bewildering maze compared to the harmonious design of the City of Peace. I made my way to the Bayn al-Qasrayn, the main street that runs through the Fatimid quarter of Cairo. From there I found the street on which Bashaarat's shop was located.

I told the shopkeeper that I had spoken to his father in Baghdad, and gave him the letter Bashaarat had given me. After reading it, he led me into a back room, in whose center stood another Gate of Years, and he gestured for me to enter from its left side.

As I stood before the massive circle of metal, I felt a chill, and chided myself for my nervousness. With a deep breath I stepped through, and found myself in the same room with different furnishings. If not for those, I would not have known the Gate to be different from an ordinary doorway. Then I recognized that the chill I had felt was simply the coolness of the air in this room, for the day here was not as hot as the day I had left. I could feel its warm breeze at my back, coming through the Gate like a sigh.

The shopkeeper followed behind me and called out, "Father, you have a visitor." 

A man entered the room, and who should it be but Bashaarat, twenty years younger than when I'd seen him in Baghdad. "Welcome, my lord," he said. "I am Bashaarat."

"You do not know me?" I asked.

"No, you must have met my older self. For me, this is our first meeting, but it is my honor to assist you."

As befits this chronicle of my shortcomings, I must confess that, so immersed was I in my own woes during the journey from Baghdad, I had not previously realized that Bashaarat had likely recognized me the moment I stepped into his shop. Even as I was admiring his water-clock and brass songbird, he had known that I would travel to Cairo, and likely knew whether I had achieved my goal or not. The Bashaarat I spoke to now knew none of those things. 

"I am doubly grateful for your kindness, sir," I said. "My name is Fuwaad ibn Abbas, newly arrived from Baghdad."

Bashaarat's son took his leave, and Bashaarat and I conferred; I asked him the day and month, confirming that there was ample time for me to travel back to the City of Peace, and promised him I would tell him everything when I returned. His younger self was as gracious as his older. 

"I look forward to speaking with you on your return, and to assisting you again twenty years from now," he said.

His words gave me pause. "Had you planned to open a shop in Baghdad before today?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I had been marveling at the coincidence that we met in Baghdad just in time for me to make my journey here, use the Gate, and travel back. But now I wonder if it is perhaps not a coincidence at all. Is my arrival here today the reason that you will move to Baghdad twenty years from now?"

Bashaarat smiled. "Coincidence and intention are two sides of a tapestry, my lord. You may find one more agreeable to look at, but you cannot say one is true and the other is false."

"Now as ever, you have given me much to think about," I said. I thanked him and bid farewell. 

For a moment I was unsure if I were dreaming or awake, because I felt as if I had stepped into a tale, and the thought that I might talk to its players and partake of its events was dizzying. I was tempted to speak, and see if I might play a hidden role in that tale, but then I remembered that my goal was to play a hidden role in my own tale. So I left without a word, and went to arrange passage with a caravan.

It is said that Fate laughs at men's schemes. At first it appeared as if I were the most fortunate of men, for a caravan headed for Baghdad was departing within the month, and I was able to join it. In the weeks that followed I began to curse my luck, because the caravan's journey was plagued by delays. The wells at a town not far from Cairo were dry, and an expedition had to be sent back for water. At another village, the soldiers protecting the caravan contracted dysentery, and we had to wait for weeks for their recovery. With each delay, I revised my estimate of when we'd reach Baghdad, and grew increasingly anxious.

Then there were the sandstorms, which seemed like a warning from Allah, and truly caused me to doubt the wisdom of my actions. We had the good fortune to be resting at a caravansary west of Kufa when the sandstorms first struck, but our stay was prolonged from days to weeks as, time and again, the skies became clear, only to darken again as soon as the camels were reloaded. The day of Najya's accident was fast approaching, and I grew desperate.

I solicited each of the camel drivers in turn, trying to hire one to take me ahead alone, but could not persuade any of them. Eventually I found one willing to sell me a camel at what would have been an exorbitant price under ordinary circumstances, but which I was all too willing to pay. I then struck out on my own.

It will come as no surprise that I made little progress in the storm, but when the winds subsided, I immediately adopted a rapid pace. Without the soldiers that accompanied the caravan, however, I was an easy target for bandits, and sure enough, I was stopped after two days' ride. They took my money and the camel I had purchased, but spared my life, whether out of pity or because they could not be bothered to kill me I do not know. I began walking back to rejoin the caravan, but now the skies tormented me with their cloudlessness, and I suffered from the heat. By the time the caravan found me, my tongue was swollen and my lips were as cracked as mud baked by the sun. After that I had no choice but to accompany the caravan at its usual pace.

Like a fading rose that drops its petals one by one, my hopes dwindled with each passing day. By the time the caravan reached the City of Peace, I knew it was too late, but the moment we rode through the city gates, I asked the guardsmen if they had heard of a mosque collapsing. The first guardsman I spoke to had not, and for a heartbeat I dared to hope that I had misremembered the date of the accident, and that I had in fact arrived in time.

Then another guardsman told me that a mosque had indeed collapsed just yesterday in the Karkh quarter. His words struck me with the force of the executioner's axe. I had traveled so far, only to receive the worst news of my life a second time.

I walked to the mosque, and saw the piles of bricks where there had once been a wall. It was a scene that had haunted my dreams for twenty years, but now the image remained even after I opened my eyes, and with a clarity sharper than I could endure. I turned away and walked without aim, blind to what was around me, until I found myself before my old house, the one where Najya and I had lived. I stood in the street in front of it, filled with memory and anguish.

I do not know how much time had passed when I became aware that a young woman had walked up to me. "My lord," she said, "I'm looking for the house of Fuwaad ibn Abbas."

"You have found it," I said.

"Are you Fuwaad ibn Abbas, my lord?" 

"I am, and I ask you, please leave me be."

"My lord, I beg your forgiveness. My name is Maimuna, and I assist the physicians at the bimaristan. I tended to your wife before she died."

I turned to look at her. "You tended to Najya?"

"I did, my lord. I am sworn to deliver a message to you from her."

"What message?"

"She wished me to tell you that her last thoughts were of you. She wished me to tell you that while her life was short, it was made happy by the time she spent with you." She saw the tears streaming down my cheeks, and said, "Forgive me if my words cause you pain, my lord."

"There is nothing to forgive, child. Would that I had the means to pay you as much as this message is worth to me, because a lifetime of thanks would still leave me in your debt."

"Grief owes no debt," she said. "Peace be upon you, my lord."

"Peace be upon you," I said.

She left, and I wandered the streets for hours, crying tears of release. All the while I thought on the truth of Bashaarat's words: past and future are the same, and we cannot change either, only know them more fully. My journey to the past had changed nothing, but what I had learned had changed everything, and I understood that it could not have been otherwise. If our lives are tales that Allah tells, then we are the audience as well as the players, and it is by living these tales that we receive their lessons.

Night fell, and it was then that the city's guardsmen found me, wandering the streets after curfew in my dusty clothes, and asked who I was. I told them my name and where I lived, and the guardsmen brought me to my neighbors to see if they knew me, but they did not recognize me, and I was taken to jail.

I told the guard captain my story, and he found it entertaining, but did not credit it, for who would? Then I remembered some news from my time of grief twenty years before, and told him that the Caliph’s grandson would be born an albino. Some days later, word of the infant's condition reached the captain, and he brought me to the governor of the quarter. When the governor heard my story, he brought me here to the palace, and when your lord chamberlain heard my story, he in turn brought me here to the throne room, so that I might have the infinite privilege of recounting it to you.

Now my tale has caught up to my life, coiled as they both are, and the direction they take next is for you to decide, Your Majesty. I know many things that will happen here in Baghdad over the next twenty years, but nothing about what awaits me now. I have no money for the journey back to Cairo and the Gate of Years there, yet I count myself fortunate beyond measure, for I was given the opportunity to revisit my past mistakes, and I have learned what remedies Allah allows. I would be honored to relate everything I know of the future, if Your Majesty sees fit to ask, but for myself, the most precious knowledge I possess is this: Nothing erases the past. There is repentance, there is atonement, and there is forgiveness. 

That is all, but that is enough. 

Tuesday, October 24, 2017

How is 1984 relevant today?


George Orwell’s prophetical account on post World War II social order allows twenty first century readers to reflect on how 1984 still applies to today’s society and government. Like most Dystopian fiction, this story is allegorical and it is easy to see that there are certain distinct parallels between the fictional government of 1984 and our modern governments in reality. 

The form of dystopian society which Orwell portrays features a society that has sacrificed its privacy and individualism to the state in return for security. Telescreen surveillance is an intrusion of citizens’ private lives, instilling a certain fear in them to always obey the law out of a sense of paranoia that they are being watched. As found in the novel; “It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public place or within range of a telescreen.” (Part 1, Chapter 5). Any facial gestures that suggests abnormality is a punishable offense, which in Newspeak is called facecrime. 

The issue of surveillance seems more relevant in today’s world then it was during Orwell’s time. In 2001, Malaysia became the first country to use identification cards that integrate both photo identification and fingerprint biometric data on an implanted in-built computer chip called the MyKad. Biometric data facilitates data surveillance of citizens by the government. Some would argue the enclosure of highly sensitive personal information in the MyKad like electorate information is a very ‘Big Brother’ Orwellian concept since it enables the ruling government to monitor citizens’ voting patterns, corrupting the entire voting system. This excessive data surveillance grants the government even greater control over citizens by providing information of MyKad holders making all civilian behaviour transparent to the State.

Ignorance is strength

Towards the end of the novel, readers are presented with a secular equivalent of a catechistic-like process. The state brainwashes the once liberty-seeking Winston into loving Big Brother. Winston is hence reborn as a patriotic citizen as a result of this catechism. He is made to believe he is happy by accepting Big Brother as his God. 

This Orwellian idea of catechism applies to religious extremists in today’s world suicide bombers. They are motivated by misguided religious doctrines into assuming that dying in the name of religion is an honour that guarantees them a place in heaven. Terrorist organizations adopt an Orwellian mind control approach and utilize it in systematic campaigns over their own people. These organizations enforce total obedience to their ideology that their members are “prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do so” (Part 2, Chapter 8). This chillingly accurate description of the mentality of today’s suicide bombers explains the nature of how these extremist groups recruit their members. 

North Korea also appears to represent the concept of Orwellian dictatorship. Strangely enough, North Korea’s history formally began with the formation of the Democratic People’s Republic in 1948 following the establishment of two rival governments. The following year, 1984 was published. the North Korean single party government relies heavily on propaganda and mass mind control at a national scale to foster love and obedience to its leaders. Propaganda posters with slogans like “Let’s live our own way” and “Adore Kim Jong Il with all your heart” reminiscent of the slogans of 1984: “War is peace”, “Freedom is slavery”, “and Ignorance is strength.” Christopher Hitchens, during a 2005 event, pointed out in his speech more shocking similarities between 1984 and North Korea. For instance, state radios and public loudspeakers that mainly air praises to the leaders can be found everywhere. Shockingly enough, their volume can be turned down but never off. Even at work places separate sessions are allocated o yell cries of hatred against South Korea and the West every day, almost like the Two Minutes Hate in 1984. 

War is Peace 

In 1984, the recognition of a common enemy is essential as the universal centre of hatred for Ingsoc to thrive. For example, The Two Minute Hate functions to shift citizens’ displeasure of their controlled state of living away from the Oceanian government and toward enemies. Goldstein, whose existence is highly questionable, mainly serves as a fall guy for the government to justify all its political misconduct and warfare. 

Following the Gulf War, President Bush declared that the United States was going to establish a “New World Order” that will ensure the safety of the American people. Americans fear of terrorism has been indulged by different Goldstein figures like Osama bin Laden over decades on their television screens. Each time there is a new enemy; steps are taken to ensure national security by providing the public with a false sense of patriotism. Similar to the ‘telescreens’ in 1984, the mass media of the United States mainly function to spread propaganda each time there is a conflict by singling out an enemy. By faintly reinforcing American authority, whatever that is conveyed is no longer value and judgement-free. Assuming the Bush administration invaded Iraq mainly for oil rather than what the media says is, which is to defeat a dictatorship, it is apparent that the United States is like Oceania in the sense it creates wars for its own convenience. It is interesting to observe that even a country that prides itself of its liberal views is in reality subject to such totalitarian-like media brainwashing.

Another example of media indoctrination to convince the world that war is indeed peace is by manipulating language. In 1984, critical thinking is not required since all information is conveyed by telescreens in the form the Party wishes it to be. This is further enforced through the introduction of Newspeak, which intends to decrease words to provide specific meaning, while our modern media creates new words and complicate meaning. This is explained in the novel when Syme tells Winston, “Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact, there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking-not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.” (Part 1, Chapter 5). 

One example is the Israeli – Palestinian conflict. Cohn (2002) points out how the international media use”linguistic manipulation” to lead people to side whoever governments support. Israeli occupied territories are categorized as ‘disputed territories’, while Israeli settlements are already recognized as Israeli neighbourhoods. Just like the society of 1984, our media attempts to shape our opinions by rendering us of our own ability to think and judge critically by providing bias reports rather than comprehensive coverage of events. 

In conclusion, we can see that Orwell's outlandish interpretation of our world in his future is to a certain extend accurate if reviewed in the right perceptive. Indeed most parts of the world are free from totalitarian governments. However, Orwell is trying to warn readers against a government that strip its people of their power to think critically and reasonably, and express themselves. Democratic or not, the government still has control over its people and can take action if its position is threatened. Orwell’s ingenious classic conveys the fact that the society of the future generation, which is ours, might not be too far from being similar to the Fascist society he wrote of.

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Beautiful Malaysian Towns: Kampar

Kampar is unarguably one of the most beautiful towns in Perak. A new township in the area called Bandar Agacia has a few rows of shop houses inspired by American design. 















There are even some shops which are named after iconic Disney films and characters. 





Just a few miles away from Bandar Agacia is New Town. At the center is the iconic Grand Kampar Hotel. 



Even the design of the shop houses here are not the generic Malaysian type. They seem heavily inspired by European design, which gives the entire town a unique look. 





Kampar has truly developed into a flourishing town and it is mostly thanks to the establishment of the University of Tunku Abdul Rahman in the area. Kampar is now a thriving university town. The campus is beautiful to say the least. 




Friday, May 26, 2017

Top 10 Sabahan and Sarawakian Food Outlets We Hope Would Expand Their Business Into West Malaysia

While living in Sabah for two years, we discovered there were many restaurant franchises that are famous in West Malaysia have not set foot in East Malaysia yet. But that did not mean we were left out when it comes to great Malaysian food. Borneo has its own restaurants and food outlets that are just as good, if not better, than the ones in the Peninsular. So here are the Top 10 Sabahan and Sarawakian Food Outlets We Hope Would Expand Their Business Into West Malaysia. 

1) Yoyo Cafe

Source: Google Images

Popular for its milky tea, this cafe has recently diversified its menu with an assortment of bread, pastries, cookies, cakes and even gift sets.

Source: Google Images

Yoyo's Pearly Milk Tea

2) Multi-Bake

Source: Google Images

With over 32 outlets all around Sabah, this bakery serves a variety of more than a 100 different types of baked goodies. It is most popular for its Cake of The Month.

Source: Google Images

Multi-Bake's bread and cakes

3) Upperstar

Source: Google Images

People don't just come here for the awesome food but for the ambiance as well. Apart from local and western cuisine, they also serve all kinds of beverages as well. The kitschy decor with Internet-equipped cushioned booths add to the experience.

Source: Google Images

Upperstar's unique decor.

4) Rafflesia Chicken Hut

Source: Google Images

As the name suggests, they specialize in Malaysian-styled chicken dishes. Apart from that, there is also all kinds of side dishes, beverages and desserts on their menu. For an air-conditioned restaurant, the food is surprisingly inexpensive while maintaining a high quality.

Source: Google Images

RCH's Pandan Chicken Rice

5) SCR Restaurant

Source: Google Images

This Singapore-Sarawak joint venture was opened in 1987, thirteen years before West Malaysia's The Chicken Rice Shop. SCR now has over 30 outlets throughout Borneo, including East Malaysia, Brunei and Kalimatan (Indonesia). Although it specializes in Singaporean chicken rice as the name suggests, it also serves a range of Western and fusion cuisine as well.

Source: Google Images

Part of SCR's menu.

6) Karamell Almondo

Source: Google Images

Famous for its soft ice cream made from milk powder and natural vanilla bean, the ice cream here does not contain eggs and gelatin. One of its latest hits on the menu is the Sabah Cocoa Soft Ice Cream which is made with the Majulah Cocoa, Sabah's homegrown premium cocoa bean.

Source: Google Images

Sabah Cocoa Soft Ice Cream

7) Borenos Fried Chicken

Source: Google Images

Serving American southern comfort food just like KFC, McD and Marrybrown, what makes Borenos appealing is it is much ore affordable. The name is a combination of “Borneo and “Sabah”. Its fried chicken is popular for its tender texture and juiciness.

Source: Google Images

American comfort food.

8) Sabah Kertang Restaurant

Source: Google Images

Famous for its Giant Grouper, this Sabahan seafood restaurant has three branch in Kota Kinabalu, one in Miri and a brand new outlet in Sandakan. They also feature a variety of fish, squid and prawns in our Menus.

Source: Google Images

The Giant Grouper.

9) Southern Bakery

Source: Google Images

Although they serve a variety of bread and cakes, Southern stands out for its egg tarts and Kaya puffs which are to die for!

Source: Google Images

The famous Kaya puffs.

10) Sugar Bun 

Source: Google Images

Alright, so we'll admit we're cheating a little by including this franchise in this list because they by the time this article was written, Sugar Bun has already opened two outlets in West Malaysia. With over 90 outlets all across the world, this is probably one of the most successful East Malaysian food outlets out there. Starting out as a simple ice-cream parlour in the late 70s, Sugar Bun's menu now also serves a variety of Borneo cuisine as well as some Western dishes. 

Source: Google Images

More than just ice-cream.

Did we leave any good ones out? East Malaysians, we need your opinion. Let us know in the comment section below. 

Saturday, May 20, 2017

The Deeper Meaning Behind 'Get Out'

SPOILER ALERT IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED 'GET OUT'!

One of my all time favourite horror films is 2005's The Skeleton Key. In case you haven't watched that film (spoiler alert), two black slaves in New Orleans use voodoo magic to exchange bodies with their white masters' children. They grow up, get old, find younger white people to exchange bodies with and continue to prolong their lives across almost three generations. One of their final victims is the character played by Kate Hudson. I watched this movie more than ten years after it was released. Despite really enjoying this film because it was fun and had something important to say about race, I was also a little frustrated because it did not really explore its theme to the fullest.

So now, we have Get Out by Jordan Peel. In this film, the roles are reversed. Instead of oppressed black people taking over privileged white people's bodies with voodoo, it is white Negrophiliacs taking over innocent black people's bodies through surgery and hypnotism.

This film is a shout out to horror films of the past which were not just pure entertainment, but were also social commentaries on society. There are so many layers to this film that you probably missed it the first time watching it. So here is The Deeper Meaning Behind 'Get Out'.


Source: Google Images



1) Foreshadowing 

At the beginning of the film, we see Andre Hayworth being lost in a white suburb in the middle of the night. He describes this to his friend over the phone that he sticks out like a sore thumb in this area. This is not only how our hero, Chris will feel later in the movie, but how most black people feel when they are the only black person among white people. It also comes as no surprise that his abductor is a white man in a black mask kidnapping black people in a white car.

Later on, when we see Chris in his apartment, we see an enlarged photo on his wall of a white girl wearing a black mask. This foreshadows the desire of the white people in the story wanting to be black. This is also shown when the Armitage's guests wear predominantly white clothes and drive black cars.

Source: Google Images


2) Rose Armitage's True Nature

Although we get a sense of what her family is up to throughout the movie, it is only towards the final act that we learn that Rose is just as evil as them. For instance, when the police officer demands Chris show him his ID, Rose appears to be sticking up for her man by telling him this is unfair since Chris was not driving the car. This scene is particularly brilliant because it goes to show what many black people have to go through in America when faced with the police. However, it is really just Rose trying to avoid a paper trail to avoid being implicated in his eventual disappearance. 

Notice the unusual way in which Rose eats her cereal. She keeps them separated from the milk, which she drinks off a glass with a black straw. This could be read as a metaphor for segregation, where whites and nonwhites should never integrate.

Jordon Peel has really engineered each detail in each scene with such intricacy. For example, check out the picture below of Rose with Chris. Don't they resemble the American flag? Genius!

Source: Google Images



3) The Deer Metaphor

Throughout the movie, Chris has flashbacks about having killed the deer. It could be because his own mother died in a hit-and-run. However, the deer functions as a metaphor for black people throughout the movie. When we first meet Dean Armitage, he explains how much he dislikes the deer species which he claims are destroying the ecosystem. He talks about eradicating them, almost like they are a people. A male deer is called a buck. It comes as no coincidence that "black buck" was a racist slur in the past for black African-American men who refused to subject themselves to white authority. Fittingly, Dean dies in the end after being stabbed with a buck's antlers.


Source: Google Images



4) Grandpa Armitage 

The entire order known as The Order of The Coagula was founded by Rose's grandfather. At the end of the movie, it is revealed that he is still alive and resides in Walter's body. This explains all the running he does because he is a runner who lost to Jesse Owens, who then went on to represent America in the 1936 Berlin Olympics.

Speaking of the family name "Armitage", the name appears to be inspired from the protagonist in 20th-century horror writer H.P.Lovecraft's story, The Dunwich Horror. In Lovecraft's story, evil New England families have ties to the occult and transfer souls from one body to another. 

Source: Google Images



5) Grandma Armitage

A couple of times throughout the movie, Chris sees Georgina fixing her bangs and admiring her own beauty through her reflection. She is probably covering her lobotomy scars, just like how Walter a.k.a Grandpa Armitage is never seen without his hat. Also, there is a saying that black doesn't crack to show how black people age slowly. As an old white woman, Grandma Armitage would have wanted to stay young, which is why she wanted to be a beautiful black woman.

About the same time we discover Grandpa Armitage lives in Walter's body, we also learn Gradnma Armitage resides in Georgina's. The first time we meet Georgina is when Dean is showing Chris around the house and they come to the kitchen where she is standing. Dean describes it as his mother's favourite part of the house and that he likes to keep a piece of her there. 

Also, Dean explains, "We hired Georgina and Walter to help care for my parents. When they died, I couldn't bear to let them go." Although the pronoun 'them' might appear to refer to Georgina and Walter, we later find out that Dean's parents are still alive and it was them whom he was referring to when he said he could not bear to let them go.

Source: Google Images



6) Modern Slavery

The white people in the film are not racists. In fact, they literally want to be black. However, this has obsession of theirs has created a new form of slavery. The bingo game is eerily similar to slave auctions from back in the day. Also, notice how Chris has to escape his captive by putting stuffing into his ears to avoid being hypnotized. He was literally forced to "pick cotton."

Rose's mother, Missy Armitage controls people through the use of a silver spoon. This is synonymous with privilege, so much so that there is an idiom about it. In the Middle Ages, it was important for artisans and farmers who worked hard and looked dirty to distinguish themselves from escaped slaves. Silver spoons served as some kind of identifier or cultural marker to function as proof of who they are.

Source: Google Images



7) The White Guests

If there is anything creepier than the Armitage family, it is their house guests who are the literal opposite of racists. Although they are all dressed in predominantly black, they are wearing some for of red too. Chris stands out here because he is wearing blue denim, although he already stands out because of the colour of his skin. Perhaps these colours symbolize the two American political parties. 

Later in the party, Chris meets the blind art dealer, who himself describes himself as an irony. But what is really ironic about him is how he is a metaphor for the white liberal elite's attitude towards the African-American experience. They might act like they know everything about an black people, symbolized by art here. However, they will never actually understand it, let alone experience it for themselves. In other words, they are just like the art dealer; blind towards the real truth. 

Source: Google Images



8) That One Asian Guest

What was that Asian guy doing among these low-key evil white people? Apart from Chris and the black servants, the only other person of color is this elderly Japanese man, Notice the questions each guest asks Chris. One old white man who used to play gold asks if Chris can play. A middle-aged white lady asks if sex is better with a black man while her elderly white husband looks on. But that one Asian guest asks, “Is the African-American experience an advantage or disadvantage?” He was probably wondering would it be better to stay Asian or become black. 

There are many theories behind this. One is that Asians, despite being a smaller minority in America than black people, also were involved in slavery. Also, being Asians ourselves, Asians have always regarded whites as being more superior to us while looking down on blacks. Speaking English and practicing western culture has always been deemed respectable in our society. Even being lighter skinned is seen as being more attractive. This could be some of the reasons why the filmmakers aligned the one Asian character with white people instead of the black people. 

Source: Google Images



9) The Sunken Place

Whenever Chris is hypnotized, his mind is transported into a deep, dark, never-ending void. No matter how loudly he shouts, his voice is inaudible. Director Jordan Peele Tweeted, "The Sunken Place means we're marginalized. No matter how hard we scream, the system silences us."

Then, before he is being hypnotized for the last time in the basement, the video on the TV repeats, "A mind is a terrible thing to waste." This is actually the slogan for the United Negro College Fund.

Source: Google Images



10) The Ending

At the end of the film, when Chris is strangling Rose, what seems to be a police patrol car arrives. Chris raises his hands to surrender silently, even though he has not done anything wrong. By now, the audience would assume things are bad for him since he is black and the authorities would never believe him. However, it turns out to be Chris's TSA buddy who saves him. 

Just like in The Night of The Living Dead, this movie plays around with the troops of the horror genre by having the hero, who is black, survive at the end of the movie. However, there is an alternate ending where Chris gets arrested by the police officer who demanded for his ID in the movie's beginning. He is then imprisoned for murdering Rose, her family and their servants. However, following the series of real-life violent encounters involving African-American and the police, Jordon Peel felt his audience deserves a happier ending.

Source: Google Images