Another Awakening: The Realities of Brazil's Lost Children

As the cachaça swirls in the palette in between sips of caipirinha cocktails amidst pounding sounds from the waves along Copacabana, I realise I have slipped into a very different world. The beach atmosphere and the fitness culture demonstrated by hordes of bikini-clad men and women surfing, sun-tanning, playing volleyball, rollerblading and jogging just across rows of hotels is testimony of an eclectic rural-urban feel in Rio de Janeiro. The bucolic, rustic charm of the countryside interweaves with the city skyscrapers. The mountains and knolls in which favelas are tucked away contrast with the fine, white sands on which more economically-sufficient classes of people, including tourists, rendezvous.

Sandwiched between buildings on street corners – especially within the same block of Copacabana Rio Hotel where I was staying – squats a boy of probably eight years of age. His oversized T-shirt is pulled to the ankles. He drops his head through the neckline. What remains seems like a stump of fabric stuck on the ground, a scene not uncommon to the streets of Brazil. Not far from this immobile, passive beggar-boy sleeps another one, in front of Senzo Peli, a well-decorated business office. One man walks up to this boy, and jerks him up by his T-shirt. Instinctively, the boy, now violently awakened, retaliates and tries to fight off his aggressor, but resists after seeing a much taller person. Man leaves. Boy stands aimlessly, helplessly. He loiters for a few more seconds before a pair of hands reaches out from the glass doors he was standing in front of, with a cup of water. Boy drinks.

Then disappears.

The only remembrance I had of him is the crushed plastic cup on the pavement, turned upside down. Such is the sorrowful, but realistic, splice of life of poverty-stricken Brazil.

Lapa is no different. On the steps near Arcos da Lapa – the aqueduct – teenage boys sit around, talking and gesticulating loudly. If one aims a camera at the murals near where they congregate, they come charging after you. Street life is antagonistic – to us as outsiders, to them insiders. The have’s and the have-not’s. The rich and the poor. When poverty hits them to the core, they could rob and turn violent. But on usual days, their daily sustenance is glue, not food. It has been reported (http://www.re-solv.org/international.asp) that sniffing a tube of glue can last two to three days, a better replacement than rice and beans.

Tourists and local Brazilians fall prey to muggings and killings everyday. As such, I have been warned to avoid and ignore these dangerous people. Even within the Harlem neighbourhood in New York where I live, these encounters are also not unfamiliar. But is it moral to turn a blind eye to the needy? Is it ethical to deny and dismiss one’s human existence based on social conditions that had put the boys at an economic disadvantage?

Paulo Freire, in his Pedagogy of the Oppressed, writes that ‘human existence cannot be silent’ (Freire 1970/2006, p. 88). Have I, in the pursuit of protecting my own welfare and safety, silenced another human being? In doing so, am I propagating the oppressive structures that we, as Boalian practitioners, proudly claim to overthrow? Freire adds:

[N]or can it [i.e., human existence] be nourished by false words, but only by true words, with which men and women transform the world. To exist, humanly, is to name the world, to change it. (ibid.)

He maintains that saying the word is not a privilege of some persons, but the right of everyone. How can I, then, as educator believing in emancipatory practices, validate their existence and simultaneously allow this real community an access to their rights? Is education their only hope for the future?

This cultural awakening stirs in me mixed emotions. Helplessness. Sadness. Anger. Fear. What is my role as an educator in Singapore? How will this translate to the work I do with disenfranchised communities? Why do I continue to do this work, or should I not? I may have my doubts, but I cannot lose my hope. Experiencing and confronting this other ‘culture’ of Brazil has now cemented Augusto Boal’s command even more for me:

We cannot float above the World we live in, in seeking to understand everyone’s reasons cosmically and trying to justify all, both those who exploit and those who are exploited, masters and slaves. Our taking of a theoretical position and our concrete actions should not arise from the fact that we are artists, but because we are human beings. We may be vets, dentists, masons, philosophers, dancers, teachers, football players, judo fighters – but, whatever our profession, we have the citizen’s obligation to place ourselves on the side of the downcast and the injured. (Boal 2006, pp. 106-7)

A Political Awakening in Belfast, Northern Ireland

The brief bus tour along Shankill Road in Belfast revealed walls and walls of paintings, murals in memory of The Troubles in Northern Ireland. One such mural had the following inscriptions: ‘COLLUSION was not only an ILLUSION. It was the whole goddamn INSTITUTION’. Beside the picture are abbreviations of UDA, UDR, RUC, BRITS scrawled all over, representing the Ulster Defence Association, Ulster Defence Regiment, Royal Ulster Constabulary, and the British respectively.

Another mural had a portrait of Bobby Sands – IRA’s best known icon – as the first hunger striker to die. Scribbled on that wall were the following words:

Everyone, Republican Or Otherwise, Has Their Own Particular Role To Play…
Our Revenge Will Be The Laughter Of Our Children.

Despite the lectures and readings we had been given, I found myself framed by a reality I could not understand historically, socially, culturally and politically. Out on the streets of Belfast stands these walls, containers of painful memories, and boundaries of disparate communities. This is testimony to the willingness of the many peoples to fight, kill, and die to preserve their national identity and way of life. In the Preface to Northern Ireland: A Very Short Introduction, Marc Mulholland (2002) maintains that ‘Northern Ireland’s tragedy is that its people have not been able to agree upon a common identity. Rather than stand by each other, they compete. Being so alike – in language, appearance and broad culture – they cling tenaciously to that which marks them out.’

Since identity is a process, what we have is ‘a field of discourses, matrices of meanings, narratives of self and others, and the configuration of memories which, once in circulation, provide a basis for identification’ (Atvar Brah, cited in Helen Nicholson's "Applied Drama", p. 65). With the colourful murals invading the concrete spaces between buildings, I believe this form of artistic expression is a way for communal healing through a collective remembrance of past memories and vision for utopia.

As we engage with the past, we re-create a vision for the future.

A Mythic Journey to Dublin, Ireland

In the Mythical Land of leprechauns and banshees sits Trinity College in the heart of Dublin. Founded in 1592, this university boasts of a culture rooted in a rich history.

As I partake of my breakfast one Saturday morning in the Dining Hall that resembles the dining hall in Harry Potter's Hogwart, I am suddenly amazed by a stallion trotting right in front of me.

I am not an equestrain, have never ridden a horse, but I can surely tell a fine steed from a pony or a colt. Its body shimmers in the sunlight, boasting of a firm and strong conformation. The mane is smooth and white, with a dash of dark brown on his points. I do not know how many hands tall it is, but its firm sturdy structure makes him a tall and proud horse, ready to be mounted and ridden into the winds. I would be like a knight in shining armour, and he, my valiant and heroic counterpart in a journey towards the unknown.

We made initial contact, but man-horse language can never be coherent. My gestures seem so weak and mild, and as I follow alongside this stallion on the cobbled-stone road, I can only admire the way it canters, trots and gallops, of course, to my dismay as I have a rather short, human torso with dangly legs.

It is of no wonder that I become mesmerised, entranced and transfixed by this Beauty. I remember reading about Black Beauty, and to some extent, this version is White/Brown. Unfortunately, man and beast can never be -- and soon, I find myself estranged and lonely, lonelier than ever before.

How can there be a connection between man and beast, I wonder.

But emotions are hard to describe. It is almost as if a child sees a puppy by the window and tells Mommy that that is his! I feel the same way. I want it so badly, but reality sinks in as the stallion gallops away, free-spirited as it came.

I am told later that among the Irish Mythology consists of a creature called the dullahan, a spectacular wild and black-robed horseman riding a dark and snorting steed. Did I witness a dullahan? Or did it exist only in the imagination, in the realm of fairy tales of which I embrace?

I know not. But the journey to Dublin surely ignites the imagination.

Will I see a leprechaun next? I am not surprised, I tell myself, as I walk into an Irish Pub for a pint of Heineken.

All About Danielle

Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be...

(Lyrics from 'The Greatest Love of All' by Whitney Houston)

With her mischievously charming smile, she reminds me of my niece, Anthea -- another Princess of mine!

A Grand Affair -- An Odyssey to England

I was greeted by pleasantries under the overcast skies on the day I arrived, in the Kingdom far, far away. The summer climate was exceptionally cool. It was below 20 degrees Celsius, if I predicted correctly -- a refreshing change from the ferocious humidity of the City some 3016 nautical miles away.

The year was 1882. The year I left the New World in search of the Old World. In search of the Royal Family.

The time was perhaps 9:00pm when I got out of Clapham South Station. The journey had been long and arduous, but very pleasant, indeed. As I surveyed the land, I was amused by the visual juxtapositions. On my right resembled rows of public housing of the old Tiong Bahru era, characterised by red bricks, green window panes and potted plants on dark, narrow -- and perhaps dank -- corridors. On the left were neat rows of houses of a different architecture boasting of a somewhat luxurious lifestyle. The paintwork was crisp and white, windows tall and clear, and cars smartly lined the sidewalk.







Queen Sylvia was already waiting at Hazelbourne for me, looking as glamorous as before. In less than a minute, I was already ushered into the palace with Princess Danielle in her dreamworld, and King Dennis out attending to administrative matters. It was a charming residence, and throughout my stay, I was constantly given red carpet treatment and royal hospitality, something I was not used to, especially in the New World where a futon was my bed, and the living room of a tiny Harlem apartment my private space.

I was surprised to hear that another royal family had gone to the New World during the same period that I was there, but their affair hit the newsstands.





While some celebrities and royalties crave for public attention, my royal friends remained modest, and avoided the paparazzi at all cost. Their lifestyle was admirable, and I do take my hat off them, especially with Queen Sylvia taking on many hats to look after Princess Danielle, bringing her up in the way she believed was the best, being involved in her education and social events, preparing nutritious meals for King Dennis, and still looking chirpily energetic to entertain me, their guest and longstanding friend.

Two things made my stay highly memorable. One, developing a friendship with Princess Danielle. She is a bright and highly intelligent young lady, destined for greatness. Her pure London accent is music to my ears. I remember our roller-coaster drive through the streets of London into the Chinatown area, keeping her entertained. She laughed hard, and her joy was immensely beautiful and innocent. I suddenly miss my nephews, Jevan and Nigel. By the time I return home, I would have missed out on most of their childhood, sadly.

Instead of an afternoon English tea, Queen Syl treated me to the most delicious, frothy coffee. Princess Danielle had her Baby Chino instead.




The next best thing was the rekindling of friendship between Dennis, Syl and I. We had an intimate evening sharing about ourselves, reminiscing good old days, problematising dreams and goals, and engaging in some idle chatter about a certain friend of ours we all loved dearly. A heart-to-heart conversation always nourishes the soul, and impassions the spirit.

Though the time was short-lived in London, the memories would stay forever. It was the beginning of my two-month odyssey into different parts of the world, and meeting up with my friends was -- and still is -- the most beautiful experience I had encountered so far. It felt 'home' to me. I had given my friends honesty amidst some inconvenience, but they had given me their love and acceptance, warmth and hospitality -- and that, to me, was an affair of royalty and grandeur.


To: Dennis, Syl and Danielle
Thank you very much from the bottom of my heart.

Love,
Ed