My first ever date was with a Vietnamese-American from the same summer program at Brown University during high school. She came up to me at the end of the first day of class, me, frozen, I watching in slow motion. Petite, baby faced, wearing a tight fitting yellow tank-top,...Read More
69 years. Have we learned from the past? I wondered that when, recently, I had an enlightening conversation with an elderly American social worker in Kansas City, my hometown. Talking about traveling in Asia turned into a discussion on the Pacific theater of World War II. And the bomb.
“It’s terrible we had to do it, but, we had no choice,” she told me “Japanese culture is just like that. They would never give up otherwise. That is how they are.”
Kamikazes, imperial spirit, a “love of their homeland” for which they would fight, inch-by-inch, the rhetoric has been flowing non-stop for decades. It was embodied in the racially driven propaganda of the 1940’s, the same propaganda that led to Japanese Internment Camps.
We had to kill 120,000 innocent civilians, mostly women and children. We had no choice. Because they were Japanese.
“You’re too young. You wouldn’t understand,” she said, a look of pity on her face.Read More
Stories have incredible power. Even before there was a written word, tales passed orally, from person to person, generation to generation, connecting people through the long eons of human history. It is narratives, whether it be narratives about lives, or stories about fantastic world ,that exists just beyond reality as we experience it, and help define our very humanity. Life is literature.
These seven books touched me and drove me. They were stories that connected with my life, or exposed me a larger, wider world, one where I could fulfill my desire to make a difference.Read More
There is surprisingly little writing on the Japanese occupation of Southeast Asia, especially if you’re looking for local, creative voices. Yet, few regions of the world suffered as much during World War II. Millions were imprisoned and many perished in resource rich countries like Malaysia and Indonesia, forced into slave labor for the Imperial war effort.
Living in Southeast Asia, I often wonder; who were those millions? Malaysian author Tan Twan Eng weaves, through the mists of fading memories, the story of two sisters whose lives were tragically affected by the war. But what is even more impressive is that the story also includes voices of the oppressors, the Japanese, with the entire story told though the images, visible and hidden, of a Japanese garden.Read More
Last October, news broke that Couchsurfing CEO Tony Espinosa suddenly stepped down, the latest in a long line of setbacks for the newly private company. In this article, originally published in Bootsnall, I explore how an idea with so much promise lost its foundation – its member-build base – leading to its present day downfall.Read More
In most countries, a man getting killed by a bus would be a tragedy, but quickly forgotten after a few days. In Singapore, this exact event resulted in a riot in Singapore’s vibrant, crowded Little India neighborhood, where low-wage South Asian migrant workers gather on Sundays, usually their only day off, to drink and socialize. The riot, first such one in 40 years, shocked the nation and is bringing to the surface thorny issues of migration, assimilation, and social cohesion. Issues which the city-state has been able to, for the most part, avoid.
However, blaming migrants, the Government, or even Singaporeans is missing the point. The reality is that the discontent’s source may come from the other end of the spectrum, far from Little India: high paid, expats who are driving up living costs in this small, island nation of five million and counting.Read More
The following is a letter I sent to my close friends on New Years and I wanted to share it with the world as well. Happy 2014 everyone!
To my friends, scattered all around the world.
New Year’s is supposed to be a time of joy, festivity. But here I am, in Bangkok, Thailand, alone in a hotel room, looking over the city as a new year enters, into the third decade of my life.
For those who know me well, this isn’t a strange scene. I’m a vagabond, a vagrant, someone who doesn’t know my home anymore because, for most of my life, I’ve been moving. As a child, this type of life pained me incredibly, each move a burden as I struggled to make new friends in new cities and lamented as the old ones from across the country never kept in touch. But then, I kept my anger, fears, and pain inside, locked away from the outside world.Read More
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