"Wish You Were Here"
"What does it mean to be successful in this life? To own it all? To walk on the good side of the Lord? Or to carry the blessings of everyone you meet?"
— Journal Entry, Belantik
These are the questions I ask myself, and the answers still elude me. Some people have more than they need to live comfortably; others barely make it through the day.
Not a month ago, I was living among families in the Lintang and Belantik areas of Kedah—people who couldn’t afford to buy their children school uniforms. And yet they worked hard. Their devotion to God was unwavering. They were poor, but happy, and I felt that happiness in them. I stayed longer than I planned, drawn by something peaceful, grounded, and real.
Sometimes we ate only salted fish and plain rice for dinner, because there was nothing else. Other times, it was a few packets of Maggi Mee shared among us. Still, it was delicious. Everything was shared with sincerity. And maybe that's part of the answer I'm looking for.
When I think of my twin brother and how determined he is to make his cattle farm succeed, I wonder—is it worth it? I know things aren't going smoothly. He’s lost livestock to theft. There’s not enough manpower to maintain the land. Yet he pushes on.
I would rather see him diving off Pulau Redang or Kapas, or swinging golf clubs, or having a good time in Indonesia somewhere, not breaking his back over cattle.
He’s a great painter, too, but he doesn't pursue it. He has a collection of fishing rods, but he no longer fishes. Instead, he stays tethered to that farm, fighting what seems like a losing battle, unless he somehow secures major investment and a full-time workforce.
Money. That elusive answer to so many questions.
Maybe, like me, he seeks a quiet, solitary life—far from the noise of the world. Perhaps in caring for his animals, despite the challenges, he finds a kind of peace. There, on that land, he is still the boss.
When I stood close beside him in the field, I could feel it—his labored breath, the tension on his face. He has a heart problem. I wanted to tell him to let it go, that it’s not safe to be out there alone. If he had an attack, who would help him? The Indonesian maid can’t drive. But I said nothing. I knew better. My good intention would only recoil and strike me in the face.
Yeah. I know! He drives a Mercedes, and my Kancil!
Who am I to tell my brother to slow down when I am running on fumes?
I used to work in a meat-packing plant in Green Bay, Wisconsin. I boned out about a hundred cattle a day for three and a half years. Don’t look at me like I know nothing about cows. And don’t give me that look—I didn’t put you there! He did! Ha! Ha! That was how my twin and I got along.
I was a thorn in his side. And for that, all I can say now is: I’m truly sorry.
I wish my brother could meet and speak with the Major in Lintang—maybe consider transforming his land into something new, like an organic farm. There’s potential, if only he could see it.
I regret that we never saw eye to eye. Our whole lives, we’ve been like the cosmic symbol of yin and yang—opposites, yet part of one whole. Our paths are different, but we are bonded in essence.
One thing we still share, though:
We both love Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here.
A quiet field in Kedah, the sun dipping low behind the hills. Somewhere out there, my brother tends his cattle, and I carry this wish across the wind: that we both find peace in the life we chose.
No comments:
Post a Comment