The Fragile Life.

Life, is a long, long road.

On the road, life can be lonely. And because of what is on the road, life is infinitely fragile.

Many times when I think of the missionaries in Nepal or elsewhere, who uprooted themselves from well-to-do families, to a far poorer place to look after orphans, widows or the destitute, I wondered if I could do they same too. Just as I was packing for my medical attachment to a mission hospital situated in a jungle in Kalimantan, a loved one asked, albeit jokingly, “I wonder why you can’t be happy just living a safe, normal life as a doctor here. Why missions? You always choose dangerous places… But I love you Jia. Someday you’ll do missionary work, I know, and it’ll be good. I’m proud of you.”

On the outside it seems like such a brave thing to do- but nobody knows that before every trip, there is always fear, doubt and transient dread.

Many times, when I reserved another plane ticket to a developing country or got on my bike to roadcycle in the wee hours of the morning, I would ask myself the same question. Why risk it? Why risk Life for others, for recreation, for something so seemingly unimportant?

 

 

Just like laying down one’s creature comforts to do long-term humanitarian work, cycling on the road can be dangerous. In Singapore, drivers often show no respect for a man on 2 wheels. Many years back, my father was hospitalised for a month for getting hit on a motorbike. He nearly died.

I am quite the coward. I failed my driving test 4 years ago and never took it up again. Images of crushed vehicles and mangled bodies and too many memories of surgeries witnessed in operating theatre flood my mind too often, and I cannot imagine myself bearing those consequences.

One day, it occurred to me, that I feared driving and feared cycling for so many years that I only learnt how to ride on 2 wheels just before my 22nd birthday because I feared death. And it was not right. It was not right not to live life to the full because of one’s fear of death.

After all, why should one fear death if that is where Home is?

If one fears death, where shall one find the courage to live with the poor, the desperate, the selfish and the hungry? If one fears death, how shall one ever overcome self-preservation and transcend into selflessness? If one fears death, why should one ever leave one’s doorstep? A month ago, as I wheeled my bike out for my usual Saturday morning ride beneath my block, I heard a shattering of glass and an entire glass panel fell into smitherines, right behind where I had walked. The couple upstairs was fighting, and they smashed their own glass window.

I suppose, one may die even in the most measured of circumstances.

Life, is a dangerous, dangerous road, with cars and lorries and drunk drivers. But life goes on. It must.

So I wake up at four in the morning to cycle, and ride in a group, to minimise the danger. Still, it is there-the danger of going off balance, of crashing, of getting hit, especially at speeds up to 35kmph… is always there. So I try to do research on the place I visit before I book a plane ticket, but the danger of getting diarrhea, getting groped, getting stopped by a political party on strike is still there. Every time I ride, I am fearful. Every time I leave for a trip to a developing country, I am fearful. I fear falling ill, getting mugged, gaining an experience that may put me off mission work for good. On the road, and in a foreign land, one feels infinitely fragile.

Life, can make one feel infinitely fragile.

Not that we choose to admit it. For we armour ourselves with an armordillo’s pride and defense, choosing to live life the safe, closed, hardened way, making ourselves invulnerable to attacks. We choose to ignore that gap between life and death, and seal it with busyness, conservatism or a safe life, so we may destroy that uncertain and tenuous feeling called fear.

Yet, how we begin to open up and accept our ourselves when we accept death. How beautifully we begin to see our weaknesses and embrace them and make progress when we accept our ephemeral existence. Fung, the handcyclist who rides with us using his hands because he nearly lost his life when a mugger shot him many times a few years ago, taught me about accepting death. Mdm H, the patient who adamantly kept her baby whom the doctors had brought up the suggestion to abort because it may not survive or may grow up to be abnormal, taught me about accepting death. Going through my forensic medicine module, and witnessing how brutally one’s body can be torn apart and mutilated after death at the mortuary for post-mortem examinations taught me about accepting death. The friends whom I have met in my cycling group, who look out for others and for me always, have taught me about accepting death.

And on that road when we, people from all walks of life, are riding together, it is in that quiet acknowledgement of that possibility of death and courage still to continue living that our hearts are open and that barrier between hearts is sealed. We share, we talk, bonding in a way words will hardly do justice to. The fundamental frailty of life is exposed when we are on the road. Not just literally, but metaphorically as well.

Because of the obvious dangers in humanitarian work, the poor are touched beyond words by one’s compassion and commitment- it is there, in overcoming the fear of death and recognising the frailty of life, that the gap between the jealousy of the poor and the pride of the rich is bridged; It is there, on the road with lorries and cars and motorcycles, where I have found so many serious sportspeople, who were once strangers but broken, sharing with me, an amateur, their struggles and hurts, even though we only met not too long ago. Some ask me about church, one now attends it regularly; As I ride with handcyclists with disabilities, I accept death more and more, and see how it is in accepting that, that we learn to embrace the weak, the disabled, the fallen, and become a society that is inclusive, united and true.

It is in accepting that space between life and death that the gap between rich and poor, weak and strong, proud and humble is bridged. But it takes an overcoming of fear. It always begins with that.

 

 

And in doing so, we accept ourselves, too.

Whether we admit it or not, we are all on the same road, fearing death, and searching for a piece of haven deep inside.

There is a closeness with God I feel on a deeply intimate level when I travel to visit the poor- knowing that someday, helping them could be a daily reality. It is among the poor and needy, who recognise and humbly express their need for community, where holiness and purity are found. I keep travelling, keep planning the next mission trip, because not going would be out of fear.

I ride, I keep riding, only because I know, my not riding is because of fear, too. Cycling then teaches me about faith, and trust. On the road when we are all riding together, our two legs pedalling on nothing more than a thin aluminium frame on a wide road with other vehicles, there is a common understanding, a closeness between us all, in accepting our fragility, our possible… death… and in that gap between a car and myself, bridges are built between us, and I, too, find a bridge with God.

I know it sounds absurd. Incredulous, melodramatic. Call it whatever you want.

But perhaps, it is always in the place of accepting death, that gaps cease to exist and hearts are knit together.

So that is why, even though I am coward, I know I must travel to the jungle hospital in Kalimantan this time, even though there has been a great deal of inertia. It has been too long since I’ve been on a trip to visit the needy. That is why, even though I fear death, I know I will continue to ride, even if it means waking up at 4 in the morning.

And perhaps, that is why we live, precisely because we fear death, so we can give ourselves the chance to bridge that gap between the empty and full, the proud and the humble, the weak and strong, to find a piece of heaven, to replace that space called fear.