The presence of privilege separates us in the ways we are affected, and on very different levels — but the fact remains that for the most part, we all are one way or the other, affected.

These times are truly unprecedented. We can use our different levels of privilege to lend a helping hand, a listening ear, or simply stay home to help stop the virus in its tracks as per health expert advice. For the most part — I’ve heard extraordinary stories of people helping people. The Barter for Better Fiji page for instance is such a fantastic story about the rise of humanitarians amid a crisis. It is a sheer reminder that you do not have to be “rich” to be a humanitarian, but you can start by helping one person, in one situation, in the smallest ways and make the biggest impact in one person’s life — a value I try to lead my life with.

But most things come in pairs — the good unfortunately comes with the bad.

The bad — petty criticism of health care workers by bystanders, stories of food rations being double dipped, rumour mills churning out ill-informed commentary on the country’s leadership, and most recently, I made the mistake of logging onto my Facebook where hurtful criticism of the media made headlines. Now usually, my timeline is filled with hilarious memes or cute cats — but I couldn’t help but notice a constant bashing of an industry that I am somewhat part of — not directly anymore, but certainly associated with. I would normally ignore it, as every job and job holder, especially those holding roles in the public arena, have opened themselves up for public scrutiny and need to be held accountable. But there is a stark difference between constructive criticism and a hurtful one, one that attacks people and their dignity, other than focusing on the subject of the matter. Hence, I felt the need to offer a perspective as a fellow as a one-off.

I get that there has to be certain standard that every industry, every professional needs to uphold. The media industry has its own challenges that have been tremulous throughout the years, navigating their own voice, trying to be one for the voiceless, and navigating its way through the socio-politics. It is not an excuse for compromised standards — but it is a factor that has slowed the growth of the industry. This standard is not confined to the media, but to all professions and jobs that offer any kind of service — for profit or not. Not while ago in pre-covid days, health care professionals were often bashed online for not being attentive, for not being professional enough. Today they are heroes because they’re out there doing their jobs and putting their lives on the line. Both opinions formed by the public.

Health care workers are indeed doing a fantastic job in trying their best to save lives. Our defence forces are helping enforce decisions that are made to keep the public safe. But comparing both to the job of the media is like “judging a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

We’re calling the media stupid and its personnel idiots, pathetic, and unlearned. We’re constantly indicating that the job of the media is not critical, diminishing the value of a whole industry because one or two people from the industry asked an “idiotic” question, and got a stern, strong, and correct response in return. That’s just how it works. Why is it that we often feel we can do other people’s jobs better than them? Can we, or is the God-complex so internalised that social media is now an avenue to exert that self-proclaimed power?

Saying “Hey, you need to uphold your industry ethics and values so that we can access sound information” is a better approach than “Hey, you dumb idiot, you and your whole industry suck balls.”

Most of the time, it really is about how you say it, and not what you say. Constructive criticism enables a healthy discussion and a non-constructive one evokes conflict, and unwarranted blame that achieves nothing.

Social media is a whole new different world, which sometimes blurs the good in it because the bad takes the spotlight. We all have choices we make every day. Choices to live a little kinder — I know the word has become fashionable to use and the act grossly outdated, but maybe it is time to bring it back. I strongly believe that there are far more greater ways we can make ourselves useful to be an ally to each other in times of crisis.

Share informed news, check up on your loved ones, help a stranger, take care of yourself, stay home if you have the privilege to do so — sounds like great starters.

In the end, it is to each his own and no amount of debate will change minds unless we’re open to learning and more importantly… unlearning.

Stay safe.

So, when Facebook decided to remind me of my Honiara adventures from last year, apart from the hectic schedules, and the evening tequila shots to forget the hectic schedules, I was taken back to a moment that I will probably never be able to erase.

Behind our conference center, a few makeshift handicraft booths were set up for participants to indulge in during breaks. Two weeks in, and I had not stepped out of the center to explore the booths. So, on the last day, I ventured out, literally 5 average steps away, and into the handicraft booths.

An old man kept offering me discount for this beautifully embroidered purse. I also noticed that not a lot of people were buying from his booth. It did not give me any pleasure believe me, but I kept telling him no because it wasn’t something that I would use. But because I made the mistake of looking straight into this man’s eyes…okay, so we have to get into THIS. Don’t ever look into someone’s eyes. It’s a direct pathway to their heart and soul. They don’t lie when they say “Eyes are windows to the soul.” That is real. And I made the mistake of doing exactly that. I glanced at this 70-something old man’s goddamn eyes and instantly bought two purses I did not need. But then suddenly, I decided to ask him if he had daughters. Yes, I can do small talk when I want to. Except, this lead me to insist that he take my recent purchase home and give it to his girls instead.

Glad that that transaction was over, I walked five average steps back, sat on a bench and munched on some fruits, checking tasks off my calendar as I was pretty much done for the day.

The old man suddenly reappeared, finding his way to me through the crowded corridor and handed me a hand-carved wooden dolphin. I looked up to him, asking how much and he goes “it’s my gift to you.”

Gift? I ask, confused.

“Because you helped my family.”

It’s that look that I will not forget. That gratitude. I still don’t fully understand how I helped him because that dolphin probably cost more than the purse I bought. But perhaps his gesture was a reaction to that feeling you feel when you realize it’s the little things that count.

The cost of living in the Solomon Islands is REALLY high. I was perplexed when I saw that a can of baked beans cost $545 fucking dollars. I am really hoping that was a misprint, but I triple checked…So maybe buying something worth 200 Solomon dollars meant something to him. In Fijian dollars, that would be around 40 bucks. So meanwhile, I wondered if I should have paid more.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that sometimes, people who sell things don’t often have the luxury to use those things themselves. Like those who walk door to door selling food, but on an empty stomach. So, if there’s anything I’ve learnt, it’s if you can afford to buy it and gift it back to the person, do it. It’s the easiest, random act of kindness you could ever do.

Maybe it really is true, no act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.

“The best way to measure how much you’ve grown isn’t by inches or the number of laps you can now run around the track, or even your grade point average — though those things are important, to be sure. It’s what you’ve done with your time, how you’ve chosen to spend your days, and whom you’ve touched this year. That, to me, is the greatest measure of success.”
― R.J. Palacio, Wonder

I don’t know. What I do know is that this is the first time in this year something hurt this bad. First time this year I’ve cried my heart out.

I write this with full realization of the fact that it must feel a thousand times worse when someone loses someone. But even with that comprehension, I still “feel” sad — without my consent. Something tells me it’s OK to feel this way. Something else tells me it’s not.

Hayhay was given to me by a friend. This was during Christmas last year, and so HayHay was my precious Christmas gift. I think the last time I owned one was back in primary school. So it was a tad difficult to raise a kitten after such a long time. After a lot of back and forth, I finally managed to adjust having a pet around the house. It was not long until the magic of this beautiful animal mesmerized every other member of my home. Everyone grew fond of him and he became “ours” than just mine.

Fed whenever he asked to be fed, he was the laziest and cruel cat on this planet. Why torture a mouse without eating or killing it? Leave that to Hayhay to figure out. Every time we went to my sister’s house, we took him along. Birthdays, holidays, family functions — he was part of every single occasion.

Every morning he would come meowing to wake me up, and then give up by snuggling in and sleeping. Then follow me to the loo and sit outside (still meowing) until I would peep out the door and tell him to stop making so much noise early in the morning and wait. And so he’d wait — this time quietly until I came out. The meowing would start again and I’d feed him. Being the selfish cat that he was, he would go about his own business when he was full. But most of the time, he would just lazily make his way to my bed and sleep while I got ready for work. He was really not of help in choosing my outfit for the day, and I usually ended up having cat hair spread all across my outfit. But somehow, having him there felt special. Then he’d follow me out the door to see me off to work, and every single day, I would pick him up, hand him over to mum as she locked the grills. In the evenings, he’d be there to welcome me back from work — I don’t know how he knew, but he’d be the first one to approach me as soon as I entered the compound — not even the door, the compound! During the weekends, we’d just hang — I’d watch a movie or read and he’d be sleeping somewhere near. We were just the best of friends.

This December, we were going to celebrate his birthday.

Being empathetic to a fault has bestowed upon me the greatest strengths of all time. It has made me resilient, but that still doesn’t shield me from feeling— emotions, have always had its way with me. Acknowledging suffering and loss, mine and that of others cut through me like broken glass. I feel things a notch up higher and deal with it differently than most people. I have come to terms with it and perhaps control over it at some level. I know the intensity of this loss will pass, I just need to brace myself as it makes itself heard.

I got out of the shower today, glancing out the door hoping to see HayHay sitting there, waiting for me as usual. My heart felt the heaviest at that moment. They say cats have nine lives — I truly wish he goes on to his next and finds another home where he is loved as much as the love he gave while he was with us.

So long, my friend.

A head full of dreams

A draft excerpt from a book I’m currently writing

I sometimes think my head would explode if I dreamt one more dream. My head is so full of it really!

Do you ever just sit and drift in your own world? Somewhere far, somewhere safe, somewhere — just not here? I do it all too often. In my head, it’s a whole new different world. In my head, it’s my utopia. In my head, I can be who I want to be and do what I want to do. But in my waking life, those dreams feel larger than life. In my waking life, destiny has carved a path entirely different. And these days, I’m not too sure where it leads. And the dreams I dream feels miles away, making me question whether I have it in me to make them come true.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m quite stable in life right now. In fact, this year has been rewarding both personally and professionally. I have never been this calm since the year 2007. The space between 2007 and recent years is pretty much a blur. All I remember is being anxious. Anxious to get things done, to get it right, to do it well. Chasing ideals was my goal. Mistakes would make me feel like a total failure and failure had no place in my life (except if it was math, who cares?). I mean, it still does, but not in a way it used to. So I am not completely dissing the fact that I am in a fairly good space right now. But it’s still not where I want to be — and the problem is, I don’t know where I want to be. I used to have it figured out — until dear destiny took my plans and threw it out the window. Somehow, I completely understand that’s a good thing. I just don’t know when the “good” part will show itself. Do we make our own destinies then?

The truth is, I don’t know where exactly to go from here. See it’s much easier to follow a set of goals pre-determined for you prior to birth. In primary school, I knew high school was waiting for me. In high school, I knew I had to make it through to university. And now that I have graduated and started working, what do I do? Work, eat, sleep, repeat. Whilst chasing ideals, I realize the things I’ve been chasing are not the things that make me happy. The things that society asks of me are not the things that make me want to get up in the mornings anymore.

The things that do make me want to open my eyes are the little things. Listening to music in traffic instead of posting how difficult it is to sit through it, having the time to read a good book whilst sipping on green tea, I want to write, write and write, spend hours pouring my heart out on a piece of paper. And to make ideas come to life. In my dreams, I wake up and work — not only for a comfortable life but for something that simultaneously creates a meaningful difference. I want to make life easier and happier for the people I love. I want to make something out of myself other than being a puppet of society, to feel accomplished and not just successful. I want to strive to be authentic at all times, to break down walls, and that ceiling while I’m at it. And I want to bring Maya Angelou’s words to life and live my own with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.

The road between my dreams and reality is treacherous. But this time, I don’t want to settle. This time I’m thinking, I’m following my dreams, even if I have to carve a new path.

City of stars, are you shining just for me?

But when they asked me how the ocean inspired me, I couldn’t help but think. And feel. Inspired to write. Yes! More and more about you. You were the ocean, ferocious, wild and free. And I was this ship, almost wrecked, but still sailing to find a shore. Our shore.We sailed together when you were calm, I felt safe amid the serenity in which you flowed, flawlessly, endlessly. See I had a map that would lead us to our shore. But you. You were unpredictable, constantly moving, flowing into directions that I couldn’t foresee. And before I could turn my ship around, I had already sailed in too deep.

That day I remember the night was dark, the moon was up and the land seemed far. My ship, it swayed from left to right in your tremulous water , trying to find the balance and escape the sharks that swam beneath as I held on to dear life. But you were no longer my ocean of love, but a rough sea of troubles, roaring as your waves savagely turned me upside down. I was no longer me.

The ship wrecked. I was now the shore.

Line.

But without you.

And every day, when the tides would turn, your waves would come crashing into me, filling me in with the love I craved, as I waited.

I am swept by your love, my sand under your waves, your waves feel like arms wrapped around me. I feel safe.

Your waves, seem like parts of you running away from you, searching for the shoreline. Searching for me. I try to hold on, but the tides turn again, and you leave.

Sands.

Washing away, you take away parts of me I needed, as your sea demons drench you in. And once again, I am left deserted, and alone, but with hope. That soon, the tides would turn and bring you back.

They asked me again, “but how does the ocean inspire you?” I lay there, sunkissed.

Sometimes, from the shoreline, I see your waves rise higher to the sky, fighting, roaring, wanting to find an escape. From you to me. And every single day, your waves find a way to me, crashing into me, like a fervent lover, longing to love and stay, and protect and love some more. But I was the shoreline and you were the sea. And although our paths met every single day, I finally realized you would never stay.

Could.

Never stay.

Yet I waited, along the shorelines, with a shipwrecked of smiles, each and every day. You were still my ocean of love. Inspiring me to love. And live, and hope. Regardless.

That brings me to this brand new blog. I’ve been craving to write, to create. But then it dawned on me that in order to do that, I would need to log into my previous account. And that thought itself was daunting. I created my previous account with so much enthusiasm in my second year of university and vowed that I would keep it going. I did, and not because of the promise I made to myself, but because I genuinely found solace in writing. Writing, whether it’s a light-hearted piece on fashion and food, a personal journey of love and loss, or an opinionated piece on politics, it has an element of healing in it, something that has the power to sooth your heart, calm your mind, or give you that extra boost you desperately need. (Gosh, that’s quite a long sentence, innit? Who cares! It’s my blog!!)

So then, when life took a drastic turn, my writing got darker, and my emotions over-spilled. I expressed difficult events in my life in harrowing ways. It was almost as if the excruciating pain I felt back then had literally ripped through my tender heart, damaging every living cell in my body. Every word I wrote reeked of nothing but the labyrinth of my suffering. So for months, I contemplated whether I should continue writing on that same platform and delete my previous posts, or whether I should change the privacy setting for the posts, so that no one else could read through it. Sounds very silly, but in reality, every time I logged in, a feeling of negative aura surrounded me. Why was I so put off by my own work, I couldn’t understand. Perhaps my previous account had too many reminders of things that did not matter to me anymore. They simply sit there, cluttering my positive space, draining my energy, and pulling me back each time I try to push forward. It was imperative for me to find a way to keep it saved for future reference, but start fresh. Typical writers!

So I unpublished that son of a negative beast and that’s how this — my brand new writing partner was born. ​

Decluttering, I’ve learned requires you to distance yourself from anything and anyone who adds to the clutter. Get rid friends who are really foes, get rid of negative people who think they know more about you than you know about your own self, get rid of your own unrealistic expectations of yourself, and most importantly, expectations of other people.

In the words of Louise Armstrong, I can now see skies of blue, and clouds of white. The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night. I see colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky, and also on the faces, of people going by. I see friends shaking hands, and saying “How do you do?” they are really saying ‘I love you” and I think to myself…. what a wonderful world.

Originally published at beingpriyachand.weebly.com.