Chang Chao-Tang 张照堂

“A transformation takes place, in which the images become encoded with metaphors, and with my thoughts,” he wrote. “What grasps me is not a view but a memory, an atmosphere or state that sparks an unexpected thought, a subtle emotion, or a whirl of energy.”

“We may see more now,” he said, “but we may also confuse more.”
Chang Chao-Tang 张照堂

"Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not one bit simpler."
- Albert Einstein

each week passes by the next. i am folded over in joy, relief, hysteria, gratitude, fear, anxiety, guilt, confusion. today i only wanted to fold into myself, to shut the door and reel the blinds down down down, engulf myself in its sub-effective shade in the middle of the day. my clock runs on class timetables, my nights often planned out according to readings for the next day, time in between for all the activities, the talks, the new friends. today i only wanted to fold into myself, to commit to the crucial understanding that everything and its attached anxiety is what i make it to be, that what i do now and the choices that i make will only make a groove on the course of my future... that the future is an overrated preoccupation of the restless subconsciousness.

it is with growing self-awareness that i realise and am therefore appalled by the rate which the mind works. that i cannot remember not thinking, processing, extrapolating, feeling, supposing, and most importantly weighing every little decision that i make on a scale so intrinsically entrenched. is this a good use of my time? is this the intellectual/responsible thing to do? is this my priority? should i do something else first? what is the underlying purpose of my such action? what am i trying to achieve without my own knowledge? how is this going to affect my future? what if tomorrow... what if next week...?

i don't have everything figured out. maybe sometimes it's so much more disappointing because i think i do, every time i grasp on to a flailing vine in the labyrinth of writhing, wet, suffocating jungle. each recovery and thus each day is a white lie then. some self-deceit necessary in believing that one can go on with her life despite the wars waging within her, just because some days the dust kicked up by the heat of the battle clears up and some blue of the sky shows, making it possible to walk the corridors and greet "yes I'm good how about you?" -- but there is no such thing as ceasefire. the blood still pours and covers the earth, seeps into the soil and dyes it deep red or blue-black, or yellow, with time. "life is full of suffering".  a full-stop i place to resist myself for i have rationalised and compartmentalised a thought i have deemed it below standards i have deemed it weak and i engage in self-censorship.

i want the world to go on without me... i want time to merely pass over like water while i take a breath, i just need a couple breaths, i just want to decide when i do what i do because there are so many deadlines and i puncture them into my skin with pushpins they make my heart sag like a grandmother's skin. and i say this and yet i don't do the things pinned by deadlines and what right do i have to complain i complain all i do is complain all i do is weak and all i do is complain.

i put on a show everyday. i am a performer. i don't know what is real, in class they said only the one who tells the lie knows the truth but all i know is lies, how can that be?

i am not empty, though it may feel that way sometimes. things do not carve a hole into me each time, anymore, does not make me lose much, apart from a little faith, but that is only sometimes too. rather, they catch on, attempt erosion, make a few scratches, send tremors of a stinging sensation through the right side of my body. but they do not make me lose... i felt that when i walked past the corridors, read the words, and smiled despite - despite myself. a victory, growing up is not too bad if you learn, and you do. i've learnt, loved; learn, love. things coexist.

with each heave
life leaves
and i rise and relocate
sunken

Teaching English in Halle, Germany

I sit in a cafe in Halle, Saale,  Germany. I'm here on a program where I volunteer to teach English to individuals who come from Syria, Yemen, Palestine to name a few, most of whom came to Germany to flee from the dangerous conditions of their homeland. The system calls them refugees; I have come to treat this term with a little more caution. It shouldn't be so, but it's unfortunately quite inevitable, that the awareness of people called 'refugees' and the conditions they have been exposed to is tied to a lot of sympathy. And it is from personal experience and reflection that I realise such feelings can become quite one-dimensional after a while.

It took a lot of what I imagine as pot-holing; the erosion of the surrounding matter (media's placement of refugees, personal moral expectations, pre-existing social understandings) to come to a far deeper understanding of what a refugee is. And I conclude that what? is not the question, but rather who?
When such institutional and systemic titles are embedded into our mind, it is so incredibly easy to unintentionally generalise and be satisfied with the perception of someone as only the violence and hardship that they have endured, and that yield our pity. I was so readily feeling sympathy, but sympathy is not enough. I viewed the idea or situation as merely conceptual - headlines on a newspaper,  governmental issues, the images that made me shudder or shut my eyes closed so tight, an example we should not follow, an emblem of why-I-should-be-thankful. It was always at most 5 minutes of my day that came and passed.. it was only a sad story.

A concept is not enough.

I came here, engaged, and realised that 'refugee' was a minuscule part of their identity. It is so tiny! And not to mention so inadequate I am guilty that I had subconsciously fit them into so small and limiting a category and genuinely believed that was as big of a part of who they are. God knows what I expected it to be like- for us to shake hands, exchange greetings, for them to sit me down and explain their unfortunate history and for me to feel all the more assured of the need to feel/think everything as detailed above. I had dehumanised them, believing it was humanity.

""The moral law," answered Magis, "forces men who are beasts to live otherwise than beasts, a thine that doubtless puts a constraint upon them, but that also flatters and reassures them; and as they are proud, cowardly, and covetous of pleasure, they willingly submit to restraints that tickle their vanity and on which they found both their present security and the hope of their future happiness."

France's words from "Penguin Island" reverberates in my mind. And I am glad that I have exposed a beastliness of my possession, one that I'll continue to betray and condemn because of the single example of the past few days in Halle.

In African dress and iconic afro, Abodi (pronounced 'Aboodi'). German teacher for the past 4 years, says he has not washed his hair for the past 9 years and 3 days now.

In the far right, Makki (pronounced 'Marky'). Doctor, father of a beautiful daughter named 'Laureen' from the laurel tree, "particularly" hates flies.

Both Abodi and Makki have been friends for 10 years, since before they came to Germany 8 years ago. You can tell they are good friends. Both believe themselves to be the craziest people from Yemen.

Hadid. Moved to Germany 4 years ago if I remember correctly. Doing his masters in Nutrition, does not believe in the BioMarkt, loves Prague, gave away the blanket his mother gave him to some people in a refugee camp in Austria.

love,

elle

There's a feeling within my body, shapeless, nondescript and in the areas you can't quite pinpoint. I wonder if my fatigue has something to do with his, or if it is merely something I've never recognised or wanted to acknowledge before. I don't know what it is, I only theorise, and they all sound about right.