To live and be lived now

By Leo Kee Chye

Wednesday, May 14, 2003 

This story was inspired by the drama “Someone, Somewhere” I heard over the BBC radio broadcast.

Tan Meng Song was a 21-year-old boy who suddenly went missing on 18, February, 1990. It would be twelve years later before his parents received any news of him. This tale interweaves extracts from his diary and interviews with his parent, Mr and Mrs Tan, to piece together his life, the events surrounding his disappearance and how his parents coped with their loss.

Diary entry: Sunday, March 17, 1985 – It is the most charming morning, under the finest sky imaginable. The birds take to their wing joyfully; the tree branches dance to the melody of the gentle wind, and I slouching and lazing in my chair, gazing absentmindedly out the window. I could spend the rest of the day basking in the delights of nature. I seem to lost myself in empty thoughts – thinking nothing and feeling nothing – in blissful content.

Mr Tan: He had a habit of keeping diary but I didn’t realise he took it that seriously. I found 12 of his diaries and not a day passed without some sort of jotting. I encouraged him to the idea of diary keeping when he was about nine or ten. Even at an early age, he enjoyed scribbling words, writing poems, and sketching pictures. I thought keeping a diary would help him occupy his time. Looking back, I’m glad I did.

Diary entry: Monday, December 6, 1988 – I couldn’t remember when I first started keeping diaries. The oldest diary I have with me dated 1980, when I was eleven, that is; but I lost some earlier diaries to termites. Those horrible ants! They ate away my pages, my memories, a part of my life.

I have long come to believe that there is something magical about diary. They have this power of reliving memories which otherwise left in the recesses of the mind, forever lost, forever forgotten. Strange but words I jotted down which record a tiny fraction of a particular day could spark off a chain of faintly related events I did not pen down. Are our brains like what neuroscientists claimed – an intricate web of neurons and cells that make us who we are? Everything we have had experience, seen, heard, touched were recorded and tucked away somewhere in our brain. All it takes is a key to unlock them. Diary acts as a sort of key.

None of our experiences is isolated but make up the greater whole that forms the ultimate we. The world in which we live in, I believe, is also an intricate web where everything – human beings, animals, trees, the past and the present – are linked in one way or another. We are a part of the world and every bit of the world, a part of us.

Mrs Tan: After his disappearance, we went through his diaries carefully, hoping to find any clues that might lead us in locating him. As the years passed, hopes of finding him wanned, we took consolation in his writings instead. It is a vast amount of materials – jotting, poems and sketches–

Mr Tan: They are really good stuffs. We enjoy reading them. Curiously, it reveals a side of him we didn’t know despite having stayed together under the same roof for 21 years.

Diary entry: Thursday, June 18, 1986 – I woke up early to a jog in the stadium. The sky was still dark, the air still and everything else quiet. Before I could reach the lift that would lead me to the ground floor, I had to walk through the narrow corridor, passing my neighbours’ apartments. I didn’t know how many neighbours I have nor am I acquainted with them well. But I found them weird; these people keep rows of pot plants along the already narrow corridor for reasons I find absolutely perplexing. First, these plants are not aesthetically pleasing – none of neighbours have any green thumbs – and those damp pots lured blood-sucking mosquitoes to our sanctuary. They also hinder the passage way so much so that I feel the need to hack and slash through a jungle to reach the other side. The morning was early; everyone was sound asleep. I decided to be a Samaritan today and do mankind in my block a service. Armed with a pair of scissors, I pruned off the wayward twigs. For the time being, passers-by need not worry about having their clothes snared by these irritants. Was I being naughty? I don’t know; but I thought it’s kind of fun.

Mrs Tan: He was a taciturn child, often occupied himself with his own thoughts, but perfectly capable of mingling with others. However, given a choice, he preferred to be left alone. From his diaries, we realised he really enjoyed his solitary walk through the woods, the beaches and the parks. Nature affected him in a subliminal yet powerful way.

Diary entry: Sunday, December 6, 1984 – When some of my friends have their bowling sessions on Sunday, others, their soccer matches on Saturday, I have my walks during weekends. Walking the woods, sometimes the parks, has become my kind of sport or hobby which I will not miss for the world except if I am sick or when the weather is nasty. I cannot explain my predilection other than I am not a “group” person. There are something inexplicable about the woods; though most of the time I feel like being the only soul there, the place is actually teeming with lives –everywhere – in the trees, the branches and even on where I step. It’s ALIVE. Today’s walk is particularly exhilarating.

I took my weekly walk in the nearby woods early today. But this time, I went by a different route, taking the less-travelled path to the East, into the succession of descending dense forest and finally into a larger woods about a swamp. I do not remember I have ever been to this part of the woods before. The air seemed stiller; the canopy thicker and the leaves darker. It was already noon when I reached there. My grouching stomach had already sounded off the bell, I managed to find, under a shaded area, a trunk of a fallen tree, quite clean and dry enough to be seated – recently fallen, I guess, without signs of mouldy decay. I sat, took out my lunch box and when I placed it beside me, I realised I was not alone. Two large ants, the one red, the other black but much larger, nearly 3 cm long, were about half-a-metre away from me. They were clearly not seeking shelter or having lunch but in a deadly duel, with locked horns, wrestling and rolling incessantly. I stood up, looking back, and was surprised to find the surrounding forest bed covered black and red with these antagonists. It was not a duel between two ants but a war between two races – the red and the larger black. The war had already begun in earnest for everywhere was strewn with the death and dying Reds and Blacks. Not wanting myself to end up a battlefield, I sought a higher ground as well as getting a vantage point to witness the carnage. Their ferocity, brutality and pertinacity utterly shocked me when I doubt human soldiers ever fought so resolutely and fiercely. Hardly any of the dead was left with a complete carcass; everywhere were torn limbs and feelers, severed heads and butts. These ants, clearly did not contemplate capitulation, were determined in their fight to last ant and to their last breath. I was quickly drawn into their battle, taking sides and cheering on my preferred team. The war got my adrenaline pumping. I felt like one of the Olympian gods on the pantheon in Homer’s Iliad, watching and taking sides in the mortal war between the Greeks and the Trojans. I did not stay to find out who emerged victorious since I surmised the sun would have gone down before their lives went out. I got home before the sky became dark. I never like the woods when it is dark.

Mr Tan: But his love for nature is not sentimental. We saw how he fought to save the life of a kitten. When his effort failed, he took its death in a matter-of-fact or prosaic fashion. He buried it and jotted the whole event into his journal.

Mrs Tan: I was taken by surprise by some of the things he wrote, dealing with subjects like death and life. I never knew that he was such a precocious child, though I had known him to be quiet. Looking back, we do regret not spending more time with him, getting to know him better. There was so much of him we did not know till we read his diaries.

Diary entry: Tuesday, June 17, 1986 – I attended a funeral service for the father of my classmate Kok Beng. Cancer had stolen his dad from him, he told me as I paid my last respect. His dad, lying in a half-open coffin, in a “Dracula” posture with his palms on his chest, looked as if he was asleep except that he was not expected to wake up. His dad struggled for two long years before succumbing to the illness. His prolonged battle was shown on his emaciated face; the thick layer of white makeup made it more obvious. That was the closest I got to a dead person or to the subject of “death”, as far as I could remember.

My grandfather died when I was about three; I could not remember a thing other than the hazy memories of wearing a coarse-like garment in a large grass-field strewn with neatly placed granite-structures little taller than me, surrounded by fleeing ashes and burning papers.

Today, for the first time, the thought of what had happened to Kok Beng might happen to me frightens me. Touch wood. I fear more of dying than of death. Dying often accompanies by prolonged pain and suffering which are both unbearable to the dying and the alive. Death, however, is an eternal departure. A very close friend and neighbour of mine together with her parents emigrated to Canada last year. I saw her off at the airport; I doubted we would ever see or write to each other (none of us enjoys letter writing). Though I knew I would miss her, I was not sad seeing her leave for where she was going might be a better place than here; she might be happier. Would this world be a much better place without dying, only death.

Mrs Tan: He said he would be home on that Friday night — 8, February, 1990. He didn’t, but I wasn’t unduly worry — he could have been busy working on a school project, and stayed the night instead; that was what I thought. The next morning came, and he wasn’t back nor did he called. I was beginning to worry. That evening, I called him on the common phone in the hostel. His hostel-mates said he wasn’t in his room but the lights was on. That evening my husband drove me to the hostel.

Mr Tan: I thought she had over reacted. I mean boys will be boys and sometimes allow fun to go to their head. I was wrong.

Mrs Tan: I had a spared key to his room which I insisted on having if he want to stay in hostel. He relented, though reluctantly. All kinds of thoughts went through my mind as I climbed the stairs to his room on the fourth storey. He might have met a mishap like having slipped in the bathroom or knocked his head onto something, I told myself. I opened the door. He was nowhere to be found. I remember that night was cold and windy; the room windows was left ajar with the curtains billowing. Everything in the room indicated the occupant’s intention of returning shortly from his trip, whatever trip it might be: unfinished homework lying on the desk, cup with coffee half-drank, clean clothes on the bed waiting to be folded.

Mr Tan: We lodged a police report. They came, turned the room but found nothing useful. However, from his diaries, they realised he had a habit of taking solitary long walks. A massive search was conducted the next day and the many weeks to come. Scores of policemen, students, lecturers, volunteers, and ourselves, painstakingly combed the nearby woods as well as the other favourite haunts he wrote about.

Mrs Tan: Nothing! For twelve long years, we found nothing. He seemed to have vanished into the thin air.

Mr Tan: Those years had been really difficult. Unlike parents who lost their children in car accidents or other mishaps, their sufferings, though sharp and painful initially, would gradually subside when they realised they can’t turn back the clock and started “living” again; we were tormented and torn between hopes and despairs for twelve long years. The hopes that he might just be alive and returned to us. The despairs that we would not hear or see him again; not knowing whether he was alive or dead.

Mrs Tan: Time and time again, we fell into the state of self-reproach — thinking we had not done enough. If only we raise the dollar reward more, we would have some news of him. If only we send out more flyers, someone might recall seeing him and inform us. If only we comb the woods more thoroughly, we might stumble upon some useful clues.

Mr Tan: We became paranoid.

Mrs Tan: Yes. I recall whenever the phone rang or the door bell buzzed, we would look at each other for a second or two before he answered it. Most of the time was him because I couldn’t bear doing it myself lest it might be something bad.

Mr Tan: We were also paranoid we might lose each other, after losing Meng Song so easily.

Mrs Tan: I called his office at least three or four times a day and insisted that he called to tell me his whereabouts. I would get panic if he didn’t.

Mr Tan: During that period, whenever I was in a crowd, I would become extremely vigilant, always on a lookout for our son. I remember following this chap, who bored some resemblance to Meng Song, for hours before I was sure he wasn’t our son. I had to be convinced I was wrong.

Mrs Tan: There was a time when I even sought help and comfort in a religious group. I nearly joined them.

Mr Tan: I don’t believe in any of those stuffs. All these while, we don’t practise any religion except we do worship our ancestor, a Chinese practice stemming more from traditional belief than religion. But I wasn’t against her doing that, thinking that it might offer her comfort.

Mrs Tan: You might not believe it but I cried when Meng Song, or whom I thought was Meng Song, spoke to me during one of the religious services. He said he was fine and told us not to worry. I had had never felt so better before.

Mr Tan: Kok Beng would not approve of that if he is still alive. He never believed in those miraculous stuffs.

Mrs Tan: I have no need of that if he IS alive.

Diary entry: Sunday, May 24, 1985 — I went to a Church service today, after much pestering from a lady friend of mine. She belongs to a Christian group which she called Charismatic. I went, I saw, I was nearly convulsed with amusement.

The preachers and believers jumped even higher and wailed even louder than the Chinese Shamans I have seen. Everyone, except me of course, was screaming, moaning in mumbo jumbo, beating their chests, flinging their arms wildly, in a bid to outdo each other in this berserk profusion. It was SPOOKY yet funny. My lady friend, apparently after returning to mother-earth, explained to me those “sacred” acts as “speaking in tongues” and “possession by the holy spirit”.

“Oh, I see,” I said nonchalantly. “You mean like those Chinese Shamans practising spirit mediumship.”

She seemed offended. Quickly, she opened her Bible, chanted a couple of verses to me, and offered to pray for my forgiveness (presumably for uttering such profane remarks).

Mr Tan: For some reasons, Meng Song had always been a cynics when it comes to religious matter. He not only disliked but would be offended if anyone makes an exaggerated show of holiness or moral superiority. And he can be very brunt about it.

Diary entry: Friday, December 24, 1983 — I just returned from a Christmas’ eve party at my aunt Mary’s house. Aunt Mary is a BIG woman — I mean round the waist– with a horse-like face. To be fair, she is a nice lady but it is her sanctimonious air that irks me. Whenever she visited us, she never failed to show her disdain for our practice of ancestral worship, calling it paganism and idolatry. Often, she would become hysterical when seeing me offering incense, warning me such practice only invites evil spirits into my body and even admonished my parents for allowing that. She even remarked disapprovingly those oriental dragon motifs we have on our plates and pillow cases. “Satanic creatures!” she would called them.

My parents did not attend the party. Fortunately, I had my cousins around or the party would have been unbearable. Yes, there were presents but I didn’t covet them for I knew what was it anyway. Hazard a guess? Given my description of Aunt Mary, what first come to your mind is most likely the right answer. You’re correct; it’s a Bible — every year without fail. But after what have happened today, I doubt she will invite me to any of her parties again.

She told me to hang some angel figurines onto the Christmas tree. But I refused. “I can’t touch those things, Aunty,” I explained primly. “You see, I may invite evil spirits into me.” She was speechless.

Mrs Tan: He had a critical and sometimes satirical turn of mind. You may agree or disagree with him but you can’t deny his eye in picking up some of the human ironies.

Diary entry: Monday, July 12, 1988 — Mrs Wong is my class form-teacher, a slim late-thirty woman with a well-scrubbed complexion and a devout Christian of an impeccable character, beyond reproach, at least that was what my friends said. Together with the way she walks, the way she talks and what she says give her a quaint antiseptic air as if her brain has been fully sterilised in an autoclave. She often dangles many cross-like symbols on her: her necklaces, bracelets. Seldom in her lecture you can escape hearing words like spirits, holy, god, mighty — to name a few. A classmate of mine, apparently go to the same church as Mrs Wong, lauded Mrs Wong’s strong and unwavering faith towards her belief. Often I cannot reconcile how overt display of religiosity has any thing to do with having a strong faith. Beliefs which we hold most strongly are often accompanied by practically no feeling at all; no one feels strongly about things he takes for granted. I never pray whenever I take the lift up to my flat on the twelfth storey, hoping that the building will not collapse, burying my family and myself alive. I never pray whenever I take the public transports to and from school that it will not meet any mishap in between. I only pray when I don’t have faith in something. I have Post-it stickers written “No TV; No Playing; Must Study Hard” pasted all over my room during exam seasons. I have no need of these stickers if I have faith in myself.

Mr Tan: About a month back, we received a call from the police, informing us a skull was found in a woods not far from Meng Song’s hostel. From the dental record, they were pretty sure the skull was Meng Song’s, though they insisted on taking our saliva sample for DNA identification.

Mrs Tan: I can’t explain why I didn’t cry when I heard that; instead, I felt a sense of relief as if a stone was taken off us. My husband and I hugged each other for several minutes in silent with a mixture of joy and grief. We later went to the site where the skull was found. A boy, the same age as Meng Song when he left us, discovered the skull in a remote and inaccessible part of the woods which we had overlooked in our previous searches. The boy, apparently, in his attempt to impress his girlfriend, wandered deep in search of a rare breed of flowers his girlfriend coveted. He, perhaps in his anxiety, slipped and fell into a low-lying region of the forest.

Mr Tan: He found the skull; he must have been terrified. It took us quite a while to reach the scene which is inaccessible to vehicles. I remember my wife tripping and falling a couple of times as we hacked and slashed our way through the less-travelled forest.

Mrs Tan: When we finally reached there, it was cordoned off. But, of course, we were allowed in. We were pleasantly surprised to see a bunch of flowers on which they told us the skull was found. It was really kind of the police to think of that.

Mr Tan: The police carefully combed the 600 metres radius from the scene, hoping to find his other remains as well as clues to shed light on the case. But the search turned up empty. After twelve long years, it is no surprised the whatever remains left had been carried off far by animals and whatever clues washed away by mother nature. With so little clues to work with, the police could not establish whether it was a homicide, mishap or suicide. Though, they rule out suicide, nothing in his diary or his behaviour indicated this possibility. They also cannot even establish whether Meng Song met his death on the spot where the skull was found and not moved from somewhere, by animal or human agents.

Mrs Tan: The police have done their best. I am not sure whether I will live to know the circumstances surrounding his death, but I, at least, know that he will not be back anymore. Now, that we are left with his skull, the forensic team have done and finished with him, we are deliberating whether to cremate or bury him.

Mr Tan: Cremating means destroying evidence that may be deemed valuable in the future, given how technology leaps and bounds these days. Today, DNA identification can trace a strand of hair to its rightful owner. You never know what’s more they can squeeze out of a skull. Burial is fine but there is no need of a coffin for a skull.

Mrs Tan: We can get a child coffin instead. Anyway, we will decide later. From now, we have to get on with our lives. Wallowing in despair is the last thing Meng Song would want us to be doing.

Mr Tan: A couple of weeks before his disappearance, he made a journal entry which we think will nicely end his story.

Diary entry: Tuesday, January 3, 1990 — I can’t describe the exhilarating feeling of being well again. It feels so good! For the last couple of days, I have been down with a bout of flu. Those nasty virus sapped my strength, boiled my brain, rendering me incapacitated in bed. I felt life was stolen from me, at least for those few days. There were so many things I had planned to do. Those days were meant to live. I was cheated of my life. Life is to live and be lived now, every moment, every second, not a tick to be wasted.