A Ticket To An Afghan School: The Mobile Mini-Circus For Children in Kabul

24 December 2011 @ Kabul, Afghanistan

It is a school brimming with activities. Even in the near zero-degree weather in Kabul on a cold Christmas Eve morning – they do not celebrate this festival in Afghanistan by the way – children had already gathered in different groups by the time I walked in at 8.30 a.m, hoping to catch a ‘performance’ by their youths scheduled at 10. Some were on the Merry-go-round. Some were playing football, and others volleyball. Yet there were others in an enclosed glass house juggling tennis balls and spinning diabolos. There was an excitement and anticipation in the air as they awaited for the winter session to begin.

This is the Mobile Mini-Circus For Children (MMCC), an NGO functioning as an enrichment school for children and youths, where engagement in performance arts is their modus operandi. The public school system had closed for the winter, and so MMCC is starting on their winter curriculum, ranging from Quran Studies, to Computers, and from Theatre to Radio Broadcasting. In that expansive space, there was a vibrant energy which was indescribable. I looked at the children’s faces. Some were laughing and giggling, while others were by themselves, playing quietly but freely. There was something unfathomable. There was, I think, an immense sense of freedom. It was a freedom that was deeply connected with the sense of play. And in that playfulness, joy emanated. There was a very simple, pleasurable, innocent quality to that joyfulness.

I took a closer look at the facilities of the school. By Singapore’s standards of safety, MMCC would have failed in risk assessment. In my country, all kindergartens and public playgrounds have soft padded mats to cushion the impact of falls, thus lessening the number of accidents. But these Afghan boys delighted themselves in so-called dangerous games, climbing trees, balancing themselves on wooden beams and wooden stilts, as well as twirling their nimble bodies upside down around fence structures. The sense of play and adventure was obvious. Young children skilfully dribbled tennis balls as if they were soccer players. They picked them up, juggled them in the air, and then moved on to other structures and objects that fascinated them. From my observations, no one fell down. Even if they did, I would imagine that it was part of play, part of their experiential learning, part of their lifeskills – to pick themselves up after each fall without much fuss. Unlike Singaporean children who have been protected from these ‘natural’ activities, the Afghan boys were uninhibited in their world of play.

I stood there, muddied in conflicting thoughts. Singaporean children are well-off, but sheltered even in their imaginative worlds, yet these Afghan boys have everything they needed to feel alive. My eyes glistened. I want to build a school like this in the future too, I told myself.

Built within MMCC’s structures and facilities is an educational philosophy that believed in kinesthetics – a psychomotor, and hand-eye coordination training from the outset – but all done, pedagogically, through fun activities. John Dewey would have been proud of this progressive model of education in Afghanistan.

But more importantly, the role of students as independent, autonomous learners is most impressive. They decide what curriculum package to sign up for – something uncommon in their Afghan way of life. Choices are given to the children and they decide – with or without peer pressure – the classes that interested them. Of course, they might start off with more ‘informative’ classes in accordance with the wishes of their parents, but it is not unusual for them to ‘switch’ modules later. Older youths, or seniors, take on the role of peer mentors. They coach and teach the younger children in lessons of acrobatics, gymnastics and other circus-related skills. Leadership opportunities are given to youths, and with role modelling as a necessary attribute of leadership, the MMCC has created a sustainable model of arts education for children since its genesis in 2002.

For the more talented pool of students, they are given exposure and intense training with theatre practitioners from abroad, culminating in public performances, such as the AFSANA Chimera at the Institut Français d’Afghanistan.

As I walked out of the MMCC premises almost four hours later, some of the children were holding cards. These cards were registration cards that showed which classes they had successfully enrolled themselves into. Unsurprisingly, their faces beamed with joy. It was an unfettered joy that even the harshest political climate could not suppress. After all, it was a ticket to freedom. Freedom of the human spirit through a world of play.

Note: I had only observed the boys in the compound, but the girls were also actively engaged in a different section of the MMCC. I didn't feel 'right' to intrude that space, thus focused my observations and reflections in this gender-biased way.

Permission has been granted by MMCC for blog publishing.

2011 (c) All photographs copyright of Edmund Chow.

My War With Fear and the Fear of War in Afghanistan, and My Encounter with an Afghan's Selfless Love.

Kabul had been a planned destination since the start of my Ph.D semester in Manchester. I had decided to examine drama/theatre as a tool for social change as an alternative intervention to the current military peacekeeping strategies in a war zone, specifically Afghanistan. I had largely been inspired by local Singaporean Dr Wee Teck Young's (@Hakim) work in Bamiyan (see Afghan Youth Peace Volunteers http://www.youthpeacevolunteers.org/ and Our Journey To Smile http://ourjourneytosmile.com/blog/), which made me ponder on my own "calling" when I went into the prison to teach Drama (non-curricular), Lifeskills (curricular), and English (curricular) since 2004, and discovered how meaningful and transformative it had been for me, both as an educator, and as a person. Having gone back to a secondary school to teach for 1.5 years, the itch to answer a greater "applied theatre" call became too strong to ignore. Hence, I applied to research my Ph.D in an area that challenged me -- war, refugees, IDPs, etc.

Within the last two weeks, I had gotten a visa from London for £70 and the tickets to Kabul had been bought. But the recent 6th Dec 2011 tragedy in Kabul, Mazar-e-Sharif and Kandahar threw me offguard. A series of terrorist attacks during a religious festival, Ashura, had killed 80 people and injured more than 160 on the same day in 3 different cities.

The Singapore Embassy had disapproved of my going to Kabul because of the chaos; even the Deputy Director spoke to me on the phone to warn me that should anything happen to me in Afghanistan, help would not be rendered because there are no Singapore missions there. The nearest 24h help centre was in Karachi, Pakistan.

Furthermore, my university did not approve of my going because I have not officially submitted my report to the Ethics Committee. But I didn't feel the need to; after all, I was going as an independent adult on a tourist visa to visit a friend. And during that intended time, I was hoping to talk to NGOs, Universities and other local government agencies that might show interest in collaborating with me, without which, my application to the Ethics Committee would be harder. So I've called it a pre-research visit. I wasn't there to collect data. I wasn't going to interview people. I was hoping to make connections and contacts. That was all.

But that phone call from the Singapore Embassy shook me to my bones. Fear gripped me. I was so paralysed by the ominous fear of death that I cried myself to sleep for a few nights (They called me on Friday 9th Dec, and I was supposed to fly off to Kabul on the 15th). I woke up the next two mornings visibly shaking in my body. I had never felt so much fear in my life. It was a life and death decision which I wasn't sure I had enough courage to make.

It was aggravated by the concern of people who cared for me:

1. "Do you really have to go? Can't you make your connections from the UK?"

-- No, I have tried. Many don't respond via emails. I suspect it's their lack of internet-savvyness, or perhaps the lack of a good internet service provider. Or maybe even the lack of proficiency in English that made communications "inaccessible".

2. "Can't you wait for a better time?"

-- Yes, I guess I could. But I have already made plans with my Afghan friend who is going to be back in Kabul in December for a vacation. Without him, I wouldn't dare go there myself. Besides, he was fluent in English, is a trusted friend (even though I had only met him at Dr Wee Teck Young's talk in NUS 1 month prior to my leaving for the UK), and he was a civil servant. So, the answer is no. Besides, Afghanistan has been at war for years. How long should I wait? My PhD is only 3 years long, and the 2nd year is my research year. So again, it's a no. I can wait, but my friend can't. I can wait, but my PhD can't.

3. "Can you consider another post-war country? Cambodia? Timor-Leste?"

-- Oh my God!!! Are you going to ask me to change my topic? Well, yes, I could consider another country -- but I don't want to. I will only do so if the University gives the red light. But I want to do what I feel "called" to do. How can we create new knowledge if we are not even allowed to go to war zones?

How will I know if I don't try, right? But of course, this "try" is a one-time offer. There can only be 2 knowns - (i) you survive, or (ii) you die. Is the try worth it?

In my fear-ridden world, I never really articulated the above-mentioned answers. I felt like I was Raskolnikov in Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment", so wrought with anguish and delirium that nothing made logical sense. I couldn't think at all. I would be lying if I said I wasn't consumed by the fear of dying.

As days neared, I spoke to a few more chosen friends and shared my fears. I really didn't want to die. It was so real, I won't know how to express it. I felt like crying whenever I saw them. I wanted a hug, a kiss, or whatever to make me feel loved and supported from anyone at all! I was that desperate -- I needed to be understood.

All I know is that the army training I had received never prepared me for a real war. What an irony! Now, I am going in as a civilian/tourist, yet crippled by a fear I had never experienced. I suspected that experience was as close to "post traumatic stress" as I could imagine; this time, I think it's "pre-traumatic stress".

The psychodrama-counsellor side of me said, "Great! You know how to empathise with people suffering from PTSD now!"

There was no therapy to be had. Believe it or not, I psyched myself up, breathing in, and reinforcing good, positive thoughts. I must admit listening to "The Secret" DVD (on the Law of Attraction) which gave me much comfort, amidst some Christian songs I used to sing, notably Bobby Michaels. I soon realised that it's the external voices that trigger crippling thoughts in my mind, and from there, it became an automatic trigger system to the rest of my body. When I shut down those negative voices (of concern and of logic, no less), I was able to think better, and breathe deeper.

Suddenly, email replies came back and the people whom I'd like to connect with in Kabul showed interest in meeting me. That greatly encouraged me. Soon, my decision was made. And here I am, in Kabul, having already won the war waged within me.

Having spent two days in Kabul thus far, and having met another Singaporean woman working in an NGO here (she is only 21 years old, I think!), and speaking to my Afghan buddy on the situation here, it is clear that the media have to justify their presence in Afghanistan -- and any "tragic" event becomes blown out of proportion; tragically, there's all we, in the outside world, ever see or hear about on Afghanistan: suicide bombers walking around the city, or that it is a training school for suicide bombers! It's a stereotype that needs to be broken. By the way, women are also treated with respect here.

The moment I stepped out of Safi Airlines plane and into the customs at Kabul International Airport, their small wooden counters reminded me so much of Batam, Indonesia. Even the dusty roads and buildings resembled those of Batam's. The traffic condition was slightly less chaotic than India's, but the only difference, sadly, is the numerous number of security guards and soldiers at every turn and in front of buildings. They carry rifles. Whenever we stop the car to enter a building, we are frisked and checked. The whole city is like a gigantic army camp. But once you enter through those barricades, behind those high concrete walls and barbed wires are buildings that run "normal" businesses.

Life goes on as normal. Poor children play in the streets. They sell balloons. They wash cars. Not a lovely sight, but it's "normal" -- if you know what I mean. It's not what the world want to see in Afghanistan; they'd rather see it through violent images. Or a romanticised version of children flying kites. But it's true. People here lead rather normal lives, like what I had seen in streets of Batam, or India. In fact, I saw more beggars when I was in Varanasi, India, than here in Kabul. Yes, there is extreme poverty, but I sense a dignity that very few would admit to. A dignity of a people who are resilient, a people who are unafraid, and a people so generous and all-giving -- especially seen through the gestures of my Afghan friend Omar -- that it is a culture, if lost, would mean the loss of a civilised world.

Omar once said that they would protect their guests at the expense of their own lives; he was talking about dying for me. I was speechless.

The Bible verse that I remember states:

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." (John 15:3, KJV)

Regardless of one's faith, I have never come that close to undestanding this verse in today's political context. Omar personified a love for a friend whom he barely knew. As an Afghan, he bespoke more of love, than of war; of compassion, than of hate; of life, than of death. It's a paradox, but it's true. I feel very protected here. He makes sure everything to the smallest detail is well taken care of.

As the saying goes, the only thing to fear is fear itself. For there is no fear in love.


P.S. I have my mom to thank especially, for believing in my work, and relatives and friends who are keeping me in prayers. Your love pushes me on!

Guy Fawkes Day: Gunpowder, Cultural Violence and Dying?

Having recently moved to Manchester, UK, about six weeks ago, I come face-to-face with the first historical event yesterday: the bonfire.

5th November is the day when England throw up fireworks as a spectacular display of colours in the sky. I was told that there would be a bonfire as well. But I didn't quite know what the significance of the event was, even though I could vaguely remember the masked man (starring Hugo Weaving) in the movie, V for Vendetta, blowing up the Parliament.

In 1605, Guy Fawkes had wanted to blow up the Parliament, but his Gunpowder Plot failed. Naturally, King James I and the rest of the city survived the impending tragedy. To celebrate the failure of the Gunpowder Plot, the English now commemorate this day with fireworks and a bonfire.

According to a friend who grew up in Manchester, people used to make effigies of Guy Fawkes and go around asking for donations, "Penny for the Guy?" They would then burn the effigy in the bonfire. But this ritual seems to have trickled off, with Halloween celebrations (1 week earlier) becoming more prevalent.

Some questions I am baffled by:


1. As a theatre practitioner inclined to observe rituals and performances in non-traditional settings, I would have liked to witness the burning of the effigy (Well, I saw the bonfire from a distance). If we are commemorating this day because the English had survived a tragedy, would this annual event then become a modern-day crucifixion? How different would this be to re-creating the hanging of Jesus on the cross, or the burning of witches in Salem and other European cities? This is a symbolic act of torture, not sacrifice. If we delight in the burning of the effigy, what does this tell us about the collective psyche of our humankind? What values are we imparting to our children when they ask, "Why are we burning this man?" "Oh, he's a bad person. Bad people ought to die." By implicature, are we then saying that the death penalty is a legitimate form of punishment because the criminals (all criminals?) are bad?

2. Commemorating an event (usually a human tragedy) usually takes on a solemn and somber mood. But no, this Guy Fawkes Day was celebrated with pomp and circumstance. The fireworks display had gatherings of people in large open spaces all across England. At the Platt Fields Park where I was, there was a funfair bustling with children and adults.

If the English had turned this into a celebration (technically they are, since they had survived the 1605 tragedy), then what they are doing is really immortalising Guy Fawkes. Never mind that he was considered a terrorist of his time, but his revolutionary ideals remained - for lack of a better word - revolutionary. He has become a martyr of our time. If, in theory, he was a "bad guy", then why are we immortalising him to such a status? If he was a good guy with revolutionary values, doesn't this offer us yet another insight into the social constructivist nature of "morality" and "ethics"? What is good in one context may be (mis)construed as evil in another.

3. Yet the irony of it all is that the English are throwing up fireworks into the sky. Isn't it an act of completion, visibly at least for Fawkes' sympathisers? They are symbolically finishing what Guy couldn't finish - and so the act is done.

Staring up at the pitch black sky last night with hundreds of others gathered at Platt Fields Park, I was occasionally charmed by the display of fireworks. But what hit me hardest, emotionally, was not the sense of awe (The children were "oooh-ing and aaaaah-ing" at every blast), but a grounded sense of reality. For the first time in my life, I hear the fiery explosions reverberating directly over my head in such proximity. The sounds were loud enough to give me shudders. The spray of the fireworks was wide enough to envelope and engulf me. The scene was neither commemorative nor celebratory. I felt suddenly transported to my intended site of my doctoral research - Afghanistan.

There, bombs go off (at least that's what the media say). And so, it would probably sound and feel like that in my skin every day if I were there.

This feeling of unease brought me back to the bomb blast experience I had when I was in Varanasi, India, one year ago. It was probably 150 metres away from my hotel when the bomb went off. I remember a sense of panic, and fear of the unknown for that moment. But I soon realised that it's usually the people around me - and the onslaught of police sirens minutes later - who add to the "drama" and commotion, thus adding to my accumulating sense of danger and fear of death. I didn't fear "death" at the outset but I was made to be afraid of death when my senses finally processed the vibrations, sounds, and smells.

I wonder, again, of the term "heroic research" that has come up in some discussions. No, I have no wish of dying or putting myself in danger while researching in a site of conflict. I don't need to be a hero, and neither would I want to be one. But I wonder, who would stand amongst the injured and the wounded to tell their stories? Who could, and would, take the risk to be amongst the traumatised and by so doing, aim for some form of healing and closure?

Really, I don't want to be a martyr. But I do not want to look into the eyes of a war victim and pretend that it's going to be OK. Nor look into the eyes of anyone else living in apparent safety and pretend that it's OK. Either way, it's not OK. Guy Fawkes, for me, represents these irreconciliable tensions.

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

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