Where is the help?

I had avoided him from the start because I knew he was drunk. Every Saturday for the past month that I  have been there, he would be staring at me with his yellow jaundiced eyes, lost in a drunken stupor. I had tried talking to him once, but trying to reason with a drunk is no use, plus it's a complete waste of (my) time. Today he reached out a grimy hand as I walked past him; out of a sense of  'dutiful' compassion, I shook it briefly, but quickly wrested my own hand out of his grip when he held on. Then he picked a fight with a fella opposite him by (apparently) insulting the guy's mother. After that he fell down twice from his chair. The first time people around him picked him up and  tried to steady him. The second time people veered away from him. No one likes a drunk. No one cares about a drunk. Besides I guess everyone there at the street-feeding alley have got problems of their own to grapple with,  other than keep picking up drunks  who can't stay put on their chairs.

.

I saw he was bleeding a little from the cut  on his forehead and palm where he had hit the hard ground. Sand was in his hair and nostrils and he stank. He was such an ugly, filthy sight. I instinctively didn't want to touch him. But I couldn't ignore the blood, so I grabbed some tissue from the medical station to wipe it off.  Now as I stared down at this mess of fallen humanity, my heart was torn. I looked around, everyone was busy doing something else. The feeding was over, many had already walked off into another day of their own troubles. Those who remained were hanging around, waiting for free medical treatment. The unconscious drunkard was too heavy to move by myself but thankfully,  2 of the workers there sort-of pulled and carried him to one side of the alley, where they put him to lean back on some rubbish bags.His eyes were closed. I was wondering if he was simply knocked out cold or dying in the throes of some alcoholic spasm. He looked that bad. The doctor hadn't arrived. So I started praying out loud;  it was the only thing I knew to do.

I prayed for God's mercy upon this soul. The more I prayed, the angrier I felt. I felt anger at how a human being can be reduced to such a sorry state. What is it that drives a man to destroy his own self through drink, or drugs or whatever? What possesses people to leave the comforts of home, cut off all ties with family in exchange for a meaningless life on the streets for  years on end, surviving on hand-outs of free food supplied by charity? Whatever happened to their self-worth and dignity? What went wrong? Many would simply conclude that such  people are sick, weak, loony, or just plain dumb to make the wrong choices in life. And so they are. But they are also human beings. And they don't deserve to be condemned, judged, rejected or simply written off as losers. No one deserves to be labelled as 'unhelpable'. The only problem is who can help. 

5 years volunteering at a street-feeding programme has made me realize the pathetic limitations of man' s help. We can save a man' s body by feeding him food, we can prescribe medication for his physical and even mental illness, we can psycho-analyze, explain and counsel till the cows come home, but we can't save his soul. When the soul has 'gone' so far off  into the pit of self-destruction, doubt, despair or desperation, only the loving arms of an Almighty God can reach in and pull it out. And so it was with this drunkard, I knew the only thing I could do was call on the One who can help him. 

So there I was praying that Jesus would save this wretched soul somehow.  And then I saw something that shook me up. The man's eyes were shut, he was barely breathing. But out of the blue he seemed to have regained consciousness, for I saw a tear roll down the corner of one eye, followed by another    and another. He was crying. Something deep inside the recesses of this hardened heart and muddled  
brain had responded somehow, as I kept calling out the name of Jesus. He opened his eyes and tried  to tell me something in his mother-tongue which I couldn't understand. Eyes which a moment ago   had been fogged over by the poison within now cleared and stared at me. He looked so sad, I choked   back my own tears, as he repeated the name of Jesus I had prayed in and then he simply fell into a   deep sleep. As I left him, I sensed that at least for the moment, his private demons had left him in   peace, and he was at rest....who says God doesn't answer prayer or work miracles.... Though the  logical-minded cynic would decry, "Nothing to do with God...so happened he got all emo out of   drink-induced guilt and cried a little tear, no big deal, it won't last....." But my faith knows better that  nothing in life 'so happens'; I believe, I know and I have seen God  in the business of saving,  restoring, healing and freeing people all the time, over and way beyond all the best efforts of man. So  what if next week the drunk is drunk again? ...so what,  God isn't like me, giving up after  1 try. God simply starts the process all over again, till that fallen  creature gets 'it' finally,  that there is a God who loves him and can help him, and one of these days,  mayhap, he will grap hold of God's  hand and never let go again. Then he can stop falling off chairs.
                        
Thinking over the entire episode back in the comfort of my own home, I am ashamed of myself .  I was behaving exactly like the priest and the Levite in the Bible parable who simply ignored and walked past a badly-wounded man in their way. I who claim to love God chose initially not to bother about a fellow human being who needed help, becoz I knew I couldn't help, and couldn't see any good coming out of it. Thank God He never gives up on anyone, no matter how far 'gone' they are from Him. If He can reach out to an incorrigible drunk, there is hope for anyone and everyone, no matter which wilderness they are wandering in out there. Perhaps that is the very reason the drunkard fell twice, for God to remind me what loving Him and loving others is all about, even when it doesn't seem worthwhile.

"I lift up my eyes to the hills--where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth" ..... Psalm 121:1-2

Of Significant Moments

(Above photos taken from online blogs)
Why on earth would thousands of people come out of their homes to join thousands of other strangers on the streets, risking possible arrest in an assembly declared illegal? Why would many still dress up in yellow, knowing full well this would immediately ‘mark’ them out as easy targets amongst the crowd, should provocation break out ? I am talking about the ordinary Malays, Chinese, Indians and others, some coming from out-of-state, who spilled over Dataran Merdeka and its surrounding areas on Aug 30, 2012, from 10 pm onwards. There was no colorful parade to cheer, no fiery VIP ‘leaders’ making ‘ra-ra-ra’ rousing speeches, no big-time performance to be entertained by, and hey, no free food!  No one paid them anything to come. Many probably had to battle after-work traffic jams to turn up. Many, like us, would also have suffered the darn inconvenience of having to go on a merry-go-round chase, rushing to catch the last LRT home after the event (we were told  as we tried to board at Pasar Seni that only Masjid Jamek was open).  Heck, I didn’t even get to hear any poetry recited. All I  heard was the cacophony of that noisy thing called vuvuzela continuously blasting the night air.

            It was such a motley crowd. Beside me sitting on the kerb was a Pakcik. Behind me a whole family, with baby in pram. Parents were towing kids carrying balloons and flashy plastic swords. Youngsters cruised by me, sporting colorful Mohawk wigs (the teacher in me was so tempted to get a handful for my kindergarten children!) Police personnel were calmly walking around in the midst of the crowd, the officers looking smart in their uniforms, whilst the rank-n-file were conspicuous in their very bright yellow overalls (what an ironic touch!) . The only inkling that someone ‘special’ had arrived was when people would suddenly surge towards a particular area now and then, like bees attracted to honey, cameras raised in the air. But I wasn’t there for the politicians or the politics.

            I was there for the first time in my 52 years of life to celebrate my nation’s independence day. What took me so long to haul myself off my comfy chair at home and sweat it out for some 4 hours, just to mill around aimlessly in the middle of a tar road? Surely I can find better, more productive things to do with my time. Of course I can, so can the thousands of Malaysians who chose to be at Dataran Merdeka on Aug 30, 2012. Actually I have never thought much about what it means to call myself a Malaysian, until these last couple of years,  when so many events happening have forced me to take a good hard look at the things I have oft taken for granted. I have started questioning, and what I see in my beloved land saddens me.

            That’s the only reason I chose to come out as a member of the Malaysian public this Merdeka day. I suspect there are many others who feel like me; and that’s why they took the trouble to be present. Amidst what should be a time for joyous celebration, there seems to be an under-current of silent unease floating around. We smile at each other, recognizing in each other’s eyes a certain ‘look’ that says, “Yea, I know too, so I am with you on this one.”  No words are necessary really. We don’t need anyone to shout  about unity, justice, peace or national reconciliation (or the lack of it), we don’t need to carry bold banners or mouth nice-sounding slogans, but we do need to take a personal stand for it. Me, I just want to be able to say before I die, I stood up for freedom for the land I was born in, raised up in and would probably be buried in, even if it’s just this once. There are times when we don’t get a second chance to be counted for, and 30.8.12 is a date I want recorded in my life history.

            I don’t know how long I was sitting on the kerb. But when I finally got up, what I saw gave me new hope for better Merdeka days to come. The group of us had arrived on the grounds early, there wasn’t much of a crowd then. But by the time I stood up to stretch my legs (which was about 11 pm), I saw people packing the area around Jalan Raja Laut/Jalan TAR. So many many  it looked like a flowing, moving stream. Against the backdrop of bright neon-lit trees along the road, it was a beautiful sight. It struck me as what I would term as one of those ‘significant moments’ in life, when you realize you are looking at something seemingly ordinary but so profound in meaning, that it will remain forever etched in the mind. I ‘saw’ the  true 1Malaysian people, moving towards a tomorrow that holds hope for each one to live in, where all can enjoy the richness and abundance of this land we call our own.

            More than any other rally (and I have attended all the other Bersih-organized ones), I think Himpunan Janji Bersih 2012 speaks volumes about the maturity of Malaysians. Nothing happened - that may a disappointment for some – yet to me, that’s the greatest thing that can happen, for when thousands upon thousands can gather without ‘anything’ happening, it means people can ‘shout’ a message just by turning up.    

God bless Malaysia.