Another laughable gimmick

Recently, the top Malaysian Islamic body issued a fatwa against yoga, arguing that its practice contains elements of Hinduism and might corrupt Islamic faith. It added that while yoga as a pure element of physical exercise might not be against Islamic beliefs, Muslims should avoid practising it because "doing one part of yoga would lead to another."

The chairman of the fatwa council advocated, “There are many other forms of exercise that Muslims can partake in, especially when the religion promotes healthy living and lifestyle. Performing prayers, for example, is a good form of exercise." Perhaps soon the council will unveil a new method of praying, which involves strapping weight belts around the worshippers' waists and arms while they stoop back and forth during their shalat.

The only glimmer of hope I have is that more and more people, including Muslims, will find that this religion is slowly choking their lifestyle and will finally form their own voice and make a stand against these dictatorial religious bodies.

Note: More recently, MUI declared that it is considering following the footsteps of their Malaysian counterpart. How original.

Don't break my heart unless you have to

There's nothing more sobering than a break-up, when somebody breaks up with you, that is. It immediately signals a failure, and at first impression, your failure to live up to someone's expectation, though after given some time to mourn and reflect, one might find that the failure actually belongs to the person who breaks up with you.

I've had a number of break-ups throughout the years, one no easier than the one before. My most recent one was in June this year, when my boyfriend of some six months decided that it would be best for us him that we just be friends. Boo. Thankfully, he went overseas shortly afterwards on vacation, and with that it was proven to me convincingly that out of sight is indeed out of mind - if, ironically, you really put your mind to it.

Still, the ten days between the breakup and his departure was difficult and decorated with tears. Somehow, because we agreed that we would still be good friends, I expected that he would still drop by now and then every two days and hang out with me after work. Indeed, I'm one of those girlfriends who love spending a lot of time with their boyfriends. A lot, meaning as much time as is physically possible. I'm rather embarrassed to admit it, really, because we all know that that isn't cool.

True to our words, we are still good friends now. We only see each other maybe once every two weeks nowadays, but that's actually quite special because that's even more than the frequency with which I see my other friends. The other night we went out for a drink and it was amazing sitting there remembering that I once thought that this guy was the one. How wrong can our feeling be and how clouded can our judgment turn out as a result. And it's not at all because he's a bad person. It's just that he's bad boyfriend for me.

I guess all I'm trying to say is this: a break-up is always good.

More chatter

Right now… I’m dreaming of a bowl of Bakmi Gajah Mada. Oh man, just thinking about it makes me happy. Of course, the reality is quite different. Dinner tonight was (canned) cream of chicken. No bread (too lazy).

I had a nice Saturday, though. Woke up not too late, just in time to go to McCord Museum, which admits visitors free of charge between 10 to 12 on the first Saturday of each month. I only had the energy (and patience) to see one exhibition ‘Reveal or Conceal’ which traces the evolution of women’s clothing from the 19th century until the present time. Specifically, its relation to modesty and eroticism. Noted two interesting things:1. A ‘full dress’ actually means a dress that reveals the shoulders, arms and even cleavage. It was the dress code for elite women in the late 19th century (don’t quote me on the exact period though, it could’ve been early 20th century) when attending balls. At one such occasion, the invited women were instructed to wear a full dress where failing to do so required them to submit a medical letter saying why they could not wear one! Crazee…
2. Of course, an exhibition named ‘Reveal or Conceal’ has to mention veiled women, right? One woman’s comment on why she loves the veil so much is because “after wearing the veil all day outside, when you come home, take it off and see yourself in the mirror, you’ll find yourself even more beautiful [than you think].” Also, “I love wearing beautiful and soft fabrics. Wearing the veil just gives me the excuse to wear these nice things everyday.” I knew that thing has nothing to do with modesty! The other comments defend the veil because the veil gives the wearer self respect. Ay ay ay… I don’t buy that crap. You don’t need a piece of cloth covering your head in order for others to respect you. There are things like being smart, being friendly or being generous.

Moving on... I then went the Salvation Army shop to look for clothes I can wear to work. Didn't find any decent looking tops, but I did find two really nice skirts (one even bears a Polo Ralph Lauren label, though authenticity is in doubt) at $4 each! Woohoo.

The rest of the afternoon was spent walking around the city which, thanks to the rain, is no longer a smog factory. I love this city full stop.

And tonight , we learnt that Canadian TV journalist, Melissa Fung, who was kidnapped last month in Afghanistan has been released. Great news, of course, but it does remind us that, while we go to our warm beds tonight, fearing nothing but the alarm clock that might strike at any moment to remind us that we have jobs to go to, many, many people around the world live in captivity. Held by political enemies or, even scarier, by people close to them. Remember earlier this year the story about this guy who held his own daughter in the basement for 25 years and had children with her? It's stories like this that sometimes makes me think - despite the obvious invasion of privacy - that we all have to be electronically chipped.

Remembering a Saturday

It feels like yesterday. I can still feel the warm late spring wind blowing in my face, with fatigue starting to take hold of my body, as I was biking back to Parc Laurier, where we were supposed to meet. With every minute that passed, I grew more and more anxious and started cursing my own inability to bike faster. After all, it had been almost one hour since we were supposed to meet. I turned right on Laurier Ave, hoping that it would be a shortcut, but not knowing that it would eventually prolong the trip as the street took on a zigzagging path, with hilly ways that seemed to be plotting together to slow me down.

When finally the bike ‘ordeal’ came to an end, I carelessly locked my bike to the first pole I saw and raced towards the soccer field. Not again, I thought to myself, would I be so cheap as to prefer to bike than to pay $4 to catch public transport. I seriously overestimated my fitness that day and as I would soon find out, it would cost me very dearly.

I saw Eric and some of the French girls at the soccer field, went over and said hello. My eyes wandered from left to right and then right to left. There was no you. Maybe you went to sit down under the tree or something, away from them. I know you aren’t the social butterfly type, especially around people you hardly know. I excused myself to find a public telephone, which happened to be on the other side of the park. Really, everything seemed to be so out of reach that afternoon. I dialled your phone number and grew more desperate as your phone kept ringing, unanswered. Then your recorded voice came on the line. “Bonjour, vous êtes bien chez Emmanuel, laissez votre message and je vous appelerai.” or something to that effect. I love your voice there. You sound so warm and welcoming. But at that moment, it was the last thing I wanted to hear. With a heavy heart, I left you a message, letting you know that I would be going home and if you wanted, we could meet there instead.

I could have looked for you around the park once more and then tried to call again, but you know what, I was exhausted and I had no more coins. So I went home and as soon as I got there, reached for the phone and dialled your number again.

This time, you answered the phone. You sounded so different from your recorded voice. You sounded so.. cold and distant. You already left the park and were on your way home, which at the time, was far, far away from where I lived. My hope of seeing you again that day was dashed. “Sorry Karina, I’m very tired. I’m going home and rest.” Reluctantly, almost to the point of wanting to scream, “No! You can’t do that to me! You were supposed to wait for me!”, I hung up. I went to my room, put my overexercised feet on the desk and was suddenly enveloped by an overwhelming need to cry. What a shitty Saturday afternoon. And I sobbed, and sobbed, not knowing what I was really sobbing for.

I heard the door open and the sound of my roommate’s rollerblades filled the apartment. I spent the rest of the early evening with my roommate, talking and watching hockey on TV. It was during the Stanley Cup and of course, the Canadiens were playing, but I really can’t remember now who they were playing against. I cared very little about hockey then. After awhile, I was so tired that I fell asleep right there and only woke up when my roommate – the same one – came back into the apartment clutching his poutine dinner. I didn’t even hear him go out!

Feeling a little better, I turned on my laptop. You were online and you said hello. I wasn’t sure what to say, but you started apologizing for not waiting for me earlier. You said you were really feeling unwell, but “that’s not an excuse. I should’ve waited for you. I’m sorry Karina.” You asked me what I was doing. I said I was just semi-watching hockey on TV, but really, I said half-jokingly, I’d rather be hanging out in the suburbs tonight. I was referring to Riviere-des-Prairies, of course, your little quiet suburb. To my surprise, yes back then I wasn’t really good at reading what you were really thinking, you invited me to come over. I looked at the clock. It was almost 8.30pm. I said I wasn’t really sure which bus to take and even if I did, I didn’t know where to get off! You quickly gave me the directions, which confused the hell out of me.

When I got home that afternoon, I really did not imagine that I would be doing another long trip. And yet, there I was, waiting for the metro to take me to almost the end of the orange line, to where I would catch a bus that would take me to almost the end of the island. It was madness from my part. To think that at the time, I always told you stubbornly, “I just want us to be friends.”

I brought my iPod and a book. Still, the ride seemed to outlast the two put together. The whole trip was new to me though, so from that point of view, it wasn’t that horribly boring, though the rain outside made the bus windows foggy and I had to wipe the one next to me now and then so I could stay on top of your directions. God forbid I should miss my stop that night. It was raining, I didn’t know where I was, and I didn’t have a mobile phone.

I virtually ran as soon as I got out of the humid bus. It was after 10pm then and it was getting cold. As soon as I saw you standing there outside your apartment, though, I said to myself, "it's going to be alright."

I'm turning all the lights on

First night alone in a long, long time. So far, no problem. But then again, it's not bed time yet. As much as I claim myself to be an independent, modern woman, I actually hate living by myself. I do enjoy my own company when I have a good book and a glass of ice cold chocolate soy milk, but I won't last very long that way. Once my eyes are tired from reading, I would want the company of another person nearby.

I have not been separated from my boyfriend for more than 24 hours since July 1st, 2008. This afternoon, however, he flew to Europe to attend his beloved grandmother's funeral on Friday and won't be back until Sunday. What the hell am I going to do with myself? Yes, thank Goodness, there is cable TV and for the next 4 days, I can watch whatever I want there without being interrupted by hockey matches, football matches, rugby matches and the rest of them. I can finally have french language channels on at all times, in the hope that, unconsciously, my brain will pick up new words here and there. Wishful thinking, I know.

I don't even know where the hell am I going with this journal entry. I guess I just feel like talking, but there's no one here I can talk to because I'm not a telephone person and because it's a weeknight and I don't feel like going out anywhere. Plus, I'm starting to get a cold again. My throat is feeling scratchy.

AGGGGGGGGHHH.

Don't worry, it's actually not so bad :) I'm just whingeing because well, I'm just so not used to being in this apartment by myself :)

By the way, my boyfriend's grandmother died last weekend. She died at 1am Belgium time, which would have been 8pm here. Here's the funny thing. Earlier that evening, we had a nap, but I woke up at around 6.30 while he continued sleeping. At 8pm, however, and I remember this because I just read a little clip on lapresse.com saying that the Canadiens were down 1-2 after a 20-minute period and Saturday night games normally start at 7.30, my boyfriend screamed out of his sleep. He said that he dreamed that the Canadiens scored. Over there in Belgium, though, his grandmother died at that same time. Isn't that so freaky?

The freakiness doesn't end there. Later that evening, we went out for dinner and, I can't remember what led to that topic, we started talking about our dead relatives. I think he first mentioned about All Souls day and he then explained to me what it was about. He said that on All Souls day, he used to go to his grandparents' graves (the ones from his dad's side) and put fresh flowers there. I then talked about how I, too, used to go to my grandfather's grave in Jakarta (in freaky Joglo cemetery yg becek banget kalo abis ujan) with my parents, aunts, uncles and cousins, and we used to put cakes, oranges and the like around the grave for my grandfather to "savour". From there we talked about our other relatives who had died.

It was the morning after that he learned from his mother that his "mamie" had died. It's heartbreaking to see a grown man cry. I hope I'll never have to see him like that ever again.

What saddened me also was that, I realized that I wasn't there for my parents when their parents died. My sister told me that my mother and her younger sister were crying the hardest at my grandmother's funeral. I know my mum often dreams about her and I know that sometimes she cries in her sleep - a mix of sleeptalking and whimpering.

AGGGHHHHH. Excuse me, but I'll have to continue this another time. It's such a depressing topic!