0	1	Trying, help, homeless, Part, III, Singapore, asia, news,

 

This is a continuation of Part I and Part II

=========================

30^th January. Saturday. Evening. Tiong Bahru FSC

After being injured, Mike became frustrated. Angry at life and happenstance.

I wanted to get him to the FSC to plot out the next course of action. We took a taxi to the FSC due to his injury. Mike insisted for me to call his sister.

“Tell her that I am suffering”

He insisted with force, so I was not left with much choice, except to repeat his ridiculous demand.

“Mike wants you to know that he is suffering”

The sister went silent before asking me who I am. Once I had the opportunity to get out of the taxi, I walked away from Mike and immediately asked her if she could house Mike till the 4^th, and explained to her that Mike has an IMH appointment on that day, and as long as he goes to the program, he can recover. She said that her husband will call me later. The call never came.

And at the FSC, the social worker we met yesterday was not around, so another one was assigned to us. She assessed the situation and said that it was good to get him to SGH. If he can be hospitalized there, it will also solve the problem of short term housing till the 4^th. She told us to look for the social worker in the hospital.

She gave us 20 dollars for our transport fare, and so we took a taxi to SGH.

30^th January. Saturday. Evening. Singapore General Hospital

We entered the A&E. At the triage station, my friend saw the confidential remarks in the computer file of Mike – “Whines frequently when doctors and nurses come near”. I told the nurse that I met Mike and he said that he was suicidal. I requested the aid of the social worker in the hospital. She told us to wait. We never saw the social worker.

At the doctor, the doctor grilled Mike in the same manner that the pastor did. In a tone that betrays disbelief and skepticism. Later, the doctor told us that Mike was a regular and hence the treatment.

As the doctor was reviewing Mike’s medical history, Mike said that he has hepatitis C. I thanked God that I threw away the razor blade which I lent Mike.

Since Mike said that he was suicidal, arrangements were made to transport Mike to IMH A&E using an ambulance. The doctor told us to wait while the arrangements were made and Mike gets a preliminary examination. We left him our contacts and asked him to call when the ambulance was ready. We had not eaten lunch and dinner so we went to eat.

After returning from our meal, a nurse saw us and told us that Mike has already left for IMH in the ambulance. We asked for the doctor and the doctor said that he will call IMH and try to get IMH to call us to update us on whether Mike is successfully admitted in or not.

Thinking that our job is done, that Mike will be admitted into IMH for treatment for both being suicidal and alcoholic, we left for church exhausted. It was 7pm.

30^th January. Saturday. Night. Church.

As we travelled to the church, the doctor called me. I didn’t really get what he was saying, but he told me to call IMH around half an hour later and I heard him say the phrase “Patient Confidentiality”.  Later, I will understand that he meant that IMH cannot update me on the status of his admission due to patient confidentiality.

At 7.30, I called IMH during the church service. IMH told me that I had to go to IMH myself since they cannot divulge anything over the phone due to patient confidentiality.

We headed off to IMH.

30^th January. Saturday. Night. IMH.

We took the MRT from Redhill to Hougang. After getting off at Hougang, I realized that it was wise to call up IMH to get them to prevent Mike from leaving in case he was discharged.

“If [Mike’s real name] is discharged from A&E, can you prevent him from leaving?”

“He left long ago”

“At what time?”

“7.30”

“How can you let him out? He is on a wheelchair, he cannot move. He is homeless, he has nowhere to go.”

“He walked out. He was not on a wheelchair. He was given an appointment by the doctor.”

Ashen and in disbelief, I reeled once more. I did not believe how someone admitted for being suicidal and judged not suicidal enough can be allowed to walk out of IMH just like that. Or how Mike was not given accommodation of any sorts and released back onto the streets with nowhere to go. Especially considering the fact that IMH was right next to Pelangi Village where the vagrant houses were.

We rushed to IMH, and wanted to speak to the doctor. But the doctor was busy, and we decided that there was no time to waste. It was still possible to look for Mike in the vicinity; we reasoned that since his leg was still injured, he could not have gotten far. We checked with the security guards who said that they don’t recall seeing someone of Mike’s description walk out of IMH. So we wandered about IMH a bit, hanging on to the hopes of a miracle. When that failed, we went to look around some neighboring void decks.

Sensing the futility of the task, we went to make a missing person report at Hougang Police station. And we stopped the search.

The Days After

Currently, Mike is still missing, missing to me. I called up the CNB officer whom Mike is supposed to report to every Tuesday. She said that Mike did not report, but he has to miss three urine tests before he is charged.

Mike did not show up at the FSC on the 4^th, the day of his IMH appointment either. He promised me that he will. He given up on himself.

He never called me either, though he has a scrap of paper with my handphone number scrawled on it.

Efforts to reach Mike and return his NRIC have failed. I have no idea how to locate him, and no energy to. I told Johnny to tell me should he see Mike. And I returned Mike’s NRIC to the social workers at Tanjong Pagar FSC.

The social worker told me that should Mike decide once again to help himself he will return. And that I need not worry for Mike, for he is skilled in living on the streets, and the emotional strength of someone who been in and out of prison for over thirty years is far beyond our own. Maybe his claim that he was suicidal when he first met me was a ruse. Maybe the psychiatrist at IMH was right in judging that Mike was not suicidal enough.

She said that it is not in our time to decide when Mike wants to help himself again. But Mike’s time.

Until then, Mike is out there somewhere drinking himself to his death. A fate he gotten into after failing himself, and failed by the system.

====================

I will be blogging about what I percieve as the wrongs of the system once I am allowed to book-out from National Service. Please check back until then.

	0	1	Homelessness, Singapore

This is a continuation of Part I

================================

January 30. Saturday. Morning. Tiong Bahru.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs scholarship tea session was on that day, and I was invited. Dressed in my best shirt and leather shoes, I left home.

On the MRT to Raffles, I realized that Mike had not yet called me. I called Johnny, the friend who was supposed to house Mike for the night, and he said that Mike called him while he was working and he could not answer the call during his work. Mike was not housed at Johnny’s home.

Realizing that the arrangement had collapsed I called up Tanjong Pagar FSC and they said that Mike was not there, I decided to search for Mike instead.  I got off at Tiong Bahru and searched around the void deck where Mike slept, reasoning to myself that he could not have gotten far since he was lugging along that heavy bag of rations.

My friend joined me in my search. And since she was familiar with the area, we went to search an area that is concentrated with other alcoholics, or maybe strangely purposeless people, lazing about. A flurry of text messages between me and Johnny  and he suggested to me more areas to look. As we were looking, I suddenly realized the obvious – it was weird for Mike to have called Johnny since Mike has no handphone. I asked Johnny which number Mike used to call him, and moments later, Johnny got me into contact with the number that Mike used to call, which belongs to a man called Hussein. I called the number, and Mike was at the other end of the line…

… we walked over to that void deck he was in and we found Mike, smoking and drinking and surrounded by his friends. He cried, telling me how hard it was not to drink, and how his bones ached from not drinking. Realizing to myself that Mike cannot quit alcohol outside of a proper rehabilitation program, I cursed at my stupidity for failing to predict the situation. I'd been had when the social worker had asked Mike how long he can go without alcohol and Mike replied confidently a week. I under-estimated the addiction.

“Why did you look for me, I did not call you. I wanted to call you but I have no 10 cent coins.”

A lie. A blatant lie considering that his friend with the handphone has been beside him all this while. He had decided to return to his addiction while I was away.

“When I see you, I want to change. I follow you. I want to change. Look here.”

And he held the sticks of Beedis and closing his fist, scrunched them up into a ball and threw it onto the ground. His lighter skidded across the floor next. Déjà vu.

Because I wanted to make sure that this resolution was backed by a gesture more complete. I asked him for his NRIC. He gave it to me.

“Help my friends, they need help too.”

He gestured to an old lady who is also an addict of sorts. And my friend went off to buy her food. But that was the limits of our help.

“You will help them yourself after you recover, Mike.”

Mike was a bit drunk at this point from the beer, so he started rambling incoherently. He took out a police order from CNB which stated that he has to report for urine tests every Tuesday. And he insisted that we call his CNB officer for no good reason. My friend made the call.

“I did not take drugs, but they said that I did.”

Mike had told me earlier that the last time he took heroin was over 20 years ago. Now I don’t know whether to believe in his stories.

Hussein then took me aside.

“I don’t want to talk about this in front of the girl [my friend], but can you lend me 50 dollars? I am getting my pay next Tuesday, and I can return you the money at this spot next Tuesday. Promise”

I declined. He smiled sinisterly.

January 30. Saturday. Afternoon. Tiong Bahru.

I wanted to bring Mike to the FSC for I did not want to think of a solution while being surrounded by his drinking and smoking friends that had provided him his sin. But first Mike insisted on visiting his friends and wanted us to pray for them. We obliged.

He took us into a block of rental flats. Up a few stoeys, and once Mike stepped out of the lift, he fell. A yellow noxious-smelling cleaning agent was on the floor, and Mike fell completely on his back.

“Water! Water!”

Amidst the sudden confusion sprang on us, the cleaner and I dragged Mike away from the cleaning agent. Mike groaned and the cleaner frantically tried to get water from the residents in the flats. My friend and I rushed to a nearby flat and knocked. A mother answered our call and meandered to get a glass of water for us. We poured the water on Mike’s leg, the cleaner was extremely serious about making sure that the agent was washed away from Mike.

Brown skinned children wearing nothing but diapers stumbled out from the flats to gaze wide-eyed at the pandemonium. The whole scene looks like that of a third world country.

Mike, whom we helped up onto a chair along the corridor groaned in pain, complaining of an acute pain in his leg as we tried to get the stuff off him.

Never in my life had I seen such a cleaning agent used before, or cleaning done without a conspicuous sign warning people of its dangers. I could hardly breathe around the agent for its sharpness penetrated the nose and stifled the lungs. It is as though the cleaning agent was reserved only for another world, a world for the poor kept secret from the other worlds that Singapore is made of.

After recovering from the shock of the fall, Mike continued to insist that we visit his friend. He knocked at a door, and a woman opened it.

“I gave her my rations. She is retarded. She knows nothing. Pray for her.”

And my friend laid her hands on her and prayed. The woman cried without saying anything. A bare-chested man soon appeared and closed the door.

===========

Continuation of the journey tomorrow

	0		Trying, help, homeless

When I met Mike, a homeless, suicidal, alcoholic, I approached his problem with a certain sense of naiveté. A naiveté which makes me cringe as I write this now. For the next few days, I went about Singapore attempting to help what I thought was a simple problem, but unearthed instead individual and systemic failings. In this post, I will be chronicling the first part of the three-day journey that I went through trying to help him. In another post later will I point out what had failed in the system and what ought to have been done better.

January 29. Friday. Morning. Church.

After waking up and passing Mike a bun, I took Mike to church to figure out what to do. I reasoned that since I cannot be the first to seek help from the church, they will be able to provide advice. At this point of time, I was hoping that the church will provide Mike with a dormitory of sorts.

Stepping into the church, however, I realized that the church has pre-school children running all over the place and the security guard has already been regarding Mike with a doubtful glance. As Mike spoke to me, his breath still thick with the smell of alcohol, I realized that the issue of housing had no prospects of being solved there.

The pastor arrived and after I explained to him that I was seeking help for Mike, he started grilling Mike. He was skeptical of Mike’s story, especially of the fact that Mike carried only a photocopy of his IC, and said that his real IC is being kept with a friend. The pastor took me aside privately and cautioned me about how dangerous it was to let Mike enter my home. He also told me about how Mike could be seeking short-term gains from us. Initially I was disgusted about his skepticism, which I saw as cynicism, but on retrospect, he was right in many ways.

The Pastor eventually gave me a crash course on the organizations to which I can approach to obtain help. He gave me directions to Helping Hand Halfway home. Though Mike was an Indian Muslim, he did not want to enter Pertapis halfway house for fear of seeing his “friends” there. 

“When I see them, how can I change? I know the people there.”

The Pastor gave me 20 dollars for transport and other expenses, and I was about to start on the journey from Jurong East to Kovan, where Helping Hand Halfway house was.

January 29. Friday. Afternoon. Clementi.

The seeds of doubt planted in my mind by the pastor, I got suspicious when Mike said that he needed to go Clementi first to collect his IC from his friends. The pastor had warned me that should Mike make up excuses to avoid entering the halfway house, it might mean that he does not want to help himself and is just trying to exploit my help. Nonetheless, since he needs his IC to enter a halfway house, I accompanied him on his detour to Clementi.

After we arrived, Mike ushered me to a block of one/two room flats while pointing out drug addicts and alcoholics that he knows along the way. Who could have thought that seemingly normal old folks are drug addicts? Eventually we arrived at his friend’s house, where to my relief, his friend took out the IC from her purse. Mike was not lying. For this.

At his friend’s house, Mike declared that he was not going to drink anymore and he gave away the three cans of beer he had in his bag to his friends. Beer is a prized commodity to alcoholics, for obvious reasons. But the significance of giving away proper beer is greater – dirt poor alcoholics drink mainly rice wine that is used for cooking since it only costs two dollars. The rice wine causes them extremely serious health problems and hence proper beer is a luxury to them.

“Help my friend. Look at him. His leg is swollen from drinking rice wine. The doctor said that he will die if he continues drinking”

“ Mike, you will be the one helping him after you come out of the halfway house. After you come out, you can get him in”

After collecting Mike’s IC, and seeing him give away his cans of beer, declaring to everyone that he was going to a halfway house and how he will help them after he is cured of alcoholism, I went off with Mike towards Kovan. With my naiveté restored and intact.

29^th January. Friday. Afternoon. Kovan.

Upon reaching Kovan, and thinking that my job is near completion, I took Mike to a coffee shop first to treat him to his “last meal” before entering an institutionalized life. Mike said that he cannot eat more than the bread I gave him in the morning since his addicted body will reject food, so I treated him to soya bean instead.

It was at the coffee shop that Mike told me about how people prey on him while he sleeps, and how tough living on the streets is. I gave him a motivation talk about how he will be able to recover at the halfway home, and how he does not need to lead a life on the streets anymore. I promised that I will visit him at the house. Empty talk which I wish I could take back.

As we walked to the halfway house, Mike took out his cigarettes to smoke. They are not the typical kind that cost around ten dollars, but traditional Indian ones called Beedis which sell for only $2.80. I remarked to him that he won’t be able to smoke those in his new life at the halfway house and that his new life, free from the bondage of any addiction, will begin soon. Reflecting upon my words, he threw his Beedis and lighter into a rubbish bin.

“I don’t want to smoke anymore. When I see you, I want to change.”

Then, we walked into the halfway house, thinking that the matter was settled. Sitting at the stone table outside, waiting for the director of the house to come down, I was looking at the teak furniture that the inhabitants made. A van marked “Cheapest teak furniture in Singapore” rolled out, and I was glad that Mike will be able to lead a more meaningful life there.

As we waited, I saw Mike’s face become apprehensive. So I remarked.

“Well, I don’t see any reason at all why they will not take you in”.  

Words of hurting irony.

In a few moments, I was reeling. The director had just explained that to first gain acceptance into a halfway house, one must go first to IMH for addiction treatment. And to get into IMH, one must first get a referral from a poly clinic to certify addiction. And short-term housing in a halfway house was impossible. They don’t have the medical facilities to keep Mike safe from his withdrawal symptoms.

The director told me to call a Family Services Center (FSC). I called Redhill FSC. They said that according to Mike’s address on his IC, I had to call Tanjong Pagar FSC. I cursed to myself, cursing the absurdity of basing jurisdiction on the basis of the address of a flat that has since been repossessed by HDB. I called Tanjong Pagar FSC. Robovoice. I cursed while being put on hold. Eventually, I managed to speak to a human, and the human said to come over to the FSC physically to see what can be done. Mike was in low spirits by now, and told me that he will go IMH tomorrow. I sensed that he has already given up and was about to return to his past life.

“I am tired, I will go to IMH tomorrow.”

For all the disappointment my motivation talk had on him.

January 29. Friday. Evening. Tiong Bahru.

I dragged Mike to the FSC, despite his low spirits that sunk lower than mine. My mood was dark and despondent, and I cursed at the Gerrymandering that caused Tanjong Pagar FSC to be right beside Tiong Bahru MRT.

Entering the FSC, I was relieved to find out that it is at least air-conditioned and comfortable. I sank into the sofas while waiting for a social worker to arrive. I was dog tired from running about Singapore since 9am.

Soon a social worker came, and her confidence helped me feel as though the situation was back under control again. After hearing our story and a private interview with Mike, she made a few calls. Since Mike had entered an alcohol detoxification program at IMH before, we did not have to go to a polyclinic. She managed to get Mike an appointment at the IMH on February 4. I did not want Mike to remain on the streets till then so I asked her if any short term housing was available. None was. Unless Mike wanted to enter a vagrant home at Pelangi village. He didn’t, for he will lose freedom.

I worked out an arrangement with Mike. From then till the 4^th, he was going to go to the FSC during the day and spend the time there. He will be calling me once a day till then. At night, Mike said that he could stay at a friend’s house near the FSC. He provided me with his friend (Johnny)’s number. The social worker gave us a bag of rations which I thought was rather generous. It weighed at least a kilogram and contained various foodstuffs. 

“I didn’t know that the government was that generous”
“These are from the Boys’ Brigade”

I left the FSC, relived that everything was alright. Mike’s previous flat was near the area so he went to a void deck he was familiar with and said that he will sleep there till his friend came back at 9 plus from working. Watching him pull his blanket over him, I left, my tired brain not catching the ominous sign which hinted that things are not so simple. Or perhaps I fooled myself into thinking that everything was going to work out according to the arrangement for I was too tired to continue further.

I left.

======

Part II will be out tomorrow

	0	2	Deconstructing, PM Lee, Chinese New Year, Singapore

What better way to mark an occasion so steeped in superstition than a message filled with mythology? In PM Lee’s Chinese New Year Message 2010, enough falsehoods have been weaved into a few hundred words that can rival two thousand years of Chinese civilization. Let us de-construct some juicy bits below:

We are at a turning point in our economic development. We cannot continue importing foreign workers as liberally as before, because we will run up against space constraints. This means our total workforce will expand more slowly, which by itself would imply slower economic growth. To make up for this, and achieve the 3-5% growth target, we must raise productivity much faster, and do more with the resources that we have.

Space Constraints? What a euphemism; a term that grossly glosses over all the controversies of our liberal immigration policy; two words that make it sound like the only objection we have to foreigners is their uncanny ability to occupy space. What of the dilution of our culture, of second class citizenship, of sports medals won but lost forever, of the implied superiority of foreign talents, of a lost sense of entitlement, of pink ICs doled out freely, of the insulting depiction of the new hard-working migrant pitted against now-lazy Singaporeans with their thick hides un-spurred? Two words. Space Constraints. What a judicious economy of words, what un-paralleled summarizing skills.

Upgrading productivity is therefore a vital task. We must not fail, otherwise our economy will stagnate, our city will become less vibrant and our children will enjoy fewer opportunities.

If this line of narration is continued further, I am sure that the next line will be that our women will become maids in foreign countries. Yet another threat appears in the radar for impending national crises. Yet another monster to defeat. Singapore seems to be the setting for a Godzilla movie with so many threats always surfacing. I am sick of running on an adrenaline rush ever since I came out of my womb. Code red is always turned on in Singapore. Always.

Some Chinese couples prefer not to have children during the Year of the Tiger. In each of the last three Tiger years (1998, 1986 and 1974), the number of births dipped by 7%. It is one thing to encourage ourselves with the traditional attributes of the zodiac animals. But it is another to cling on to superstitions against children born in the Year of the Tiger, who are really no different from children born under other animal signs.

And guess who is the first to pat you on the back for being superstitious and having a baby in the Year of the Dragon? As with everything else - values, ideals, principles – what is not useful to the narrative of the ruling party is callously discarded, and what is useful, zealously promoted.

The family is the basic unit of our society. During this Chinese New Year period, Chinese families will gather for their reunion dinners, and over the next few days visit relatives and friends all over the island.

The old lie that the family is the basic unit of society is repeated again and again to the benefit of the ruling party. Repeat after me children. The family is the basic unit of our Confucian society.  The family is the basic unit of our Confucian society.  The family is the basic unit of our Confucian society. A Singapore with its patriarchal Father figure watching over us unruly children is the natural result that is thus justified.

A second lie can be inferred from the phrase “The family is the basic unit of our society”. The offending word is “our”. It presents an Asian-centric view bias that proudly defends the primal role of a family in an Asian culture but denies the equally important role of a family in Western cultures. The subtext is that the family is an Asian invention and by contrast, Westerners and other people are street urchins born and bred in the streets without knowing the warmth of a family.  And hence Asian values are continued to be trumpeted and our one party-state justified.

As a closing thought, don’t you think that it is rather insidious that so many truisms have been packaged into even simple addresses like this?

=========================

Gently persuaded by several legal instruments, I am proudly protecting my nation in two years of forced conscription. As a result, blog posts will regrettably be slow. For those waiting for news of Mike, I am still in the middle of writing out my three days account with him. Please check back within the week. Have a very happy Chinese New Year, it has been really great having all you guys and girls as readers.

	3	2	Are, the, Homeless, Singapore, being, raped?

Being deprived of a house does not just mean that one lacks a shelter from the storm, an abode of peace and a place to return to every night. A house does not just afford protection of items, of the self, of the physical. Rather, a house can be the very bedrock, upon which our dignity can be securely founded on.

I met Mike a few days ago. He is homeless and alcoholic. As I went around Singapore with him in the pursuit of governmental help for him (a journey which I am going to document later), he told me a few things about himself.

Being male, filthy and unshaven, I was taken aback by the incredulity of his story. Yet, it is a simple and straightforward one – when he sleeps, men unzip his trousers and perform oral sex on him. Perhaps, as he wondered, their throats feel “itchy” and they need his semen to soothe the itch.

If he wakes up to the act, the men offer to buy him a beer or two. If they do not make such an offer, Mike will initiate and ask them for some money, for want of support for his alcohol addiction. When he does so, he sometimes has to be the perfomer, and he told me that his knees hurt since some of the men want it fast... What takes place is a commercial transaction in which sexual pleasure and human dignity are traded, bartered and cheapened.

Did Mike have a choice? If he had a choice can this still be called rape? It might seem as though he has a choice since he could change rape into a commercial transaction. Perhaps what happens might be more accurately described as prostitution. But as I watched his eyes water, I doubt that he had a choice… merely the illusion of it. He was going to be raped anyway. Being drunk has enfeebled him, and he could have thought that he might as well gain something from it. Neither does the urges of his addiction help matters – dignity to him came to be valued less than a can of beer. In effect, Mike was not presented with choices, merely options. Cruel, cruel options.

I doubted his story at first, still being in disbelief that such a thing could happen to Singapore, and that the homeless could be regarded as sexually desirable. I changed this view only when both of us arrived at Clementi Mrt. Both of us went into the toilet. Mike stayed at the taps and I proceeded to use the urinals. When we came out, Mike mentioned to me that he recognized two people in the toilet just now. Then I recalled that one of the uncles beside me was looking at my direction, downwards, but I had dismissed it as accidental. I realised that those are the people who had solicited sex from him in the past; the people too poor to purchase the services of a male prostitute; the people exploiting the vulnerability of the homeless and addicted.

After I became convinced that Mike was telling the truth, I thought to myself: If a girl was raped, the Straits Times will be more than willing to cover the story.  If a male, filthy, homeless, disregarded, disremembered and discounted for is raped, will the Straits Times cover the story? Will society be able to look at one of its members that it regards as its eyesore? Will the government finally be able to recognize that a flat is not just a roof, but so much, so much more?

	0	3	brought, homeless, back, home

His name is Mike.

I met him at Redhill Mrt station, and before long we were on my sofa in my living room and he was hugging me and kissing my neck and cheeks.

While he was hugging me, I looked at his pants (or rather the pants I gave him) and realized:

"Gosh no, he has a bloody erection".

I am not kidding. It really happened. I am no gay literature writer.

Att first, at 11pm, I was sitting down at the Redhill Mrt Station, then Mike came to sit behind me. After some time elapsed, he asked me for some money. I obliged and gave him three dollars, thinking that he needed transport fare. Suddenly he mentioned that he was homeless, nobody helped him, and that he was suicidal.

Because it was too late at night for me to contact a social worker i know, I told him to sleep at a playground near my home and help him the next morning. I was also planning to bring him to my church to see if they could help too, since he is a converted Indian (he furnished a tattoo of Mother Mary on his right arm). At first he was reluctant because he was going to find a friend at Clementi. When I asked him if his friend could help him, he said no. His friend could only give him alcohol. Mike is an alcoholic.

So I offered to help him. I will let him into my home, bathe, shave and give him a change of clothes. Then he will go downstairs to sleep at the playground, since my parents are at home sleeping. He agreed, though he was really skeptical of me. Throughout the whole trip to my home, he kept telling me not to cheat him and that he is not trying to cheat me either. I promised him with a solemn shake of hands that I won't. And I had to touch his hands many times to assure him of my best intentions. At that point, he was filthy, and just touching his hands and shoulders gave him acceptance that society had denied. He asked for a hug, I hugged him and the tickle of his beard made me laugh and forget about his filth. His faith in humanity renewed, he told me more details of his life:

Mike was in jail for 28 years for doing drugs, violence, and an array of crimes. He was released on April 22 (I think 2009, he didn't say which year), and he has been homeless and drunk since at the age of 46.

Mike wants to live. He does not want to be drunk anymore. When I offered him a bath, he asked me if he could shave. He wants to change, and the first thing to do will be to groom. And it does make sense. Unkempt with the stench of alcohol, he cannot possibly be confident in himself, or inspire confidence in others as well. Having a bath and shave will mean so much to him.

Mike said that he wanted to work and that he didn't mind doing any job, even those paying around $500. His physical condition was good too; his grip was stronger than I expected.

Mike apparently did not have any sex in 6 years or so; a point he made when telling me that at least he did not have sex and drank instead, and that it was pointless to have a woman sexually without being able to provide for her. Strangely enough, the math means that he had sex in prison, but I did not want to pursue the matter further.

Anyway, having brought Mike home at this point, I left him to use the amenities of my toilet and passed him my change of clothes. After having bathed and completely clean, he came to me. I wanted to chat with him for a bit, so I brought him to the living room. He sat down on the sofa uninvited, and asked me if he could watch the television. At midnight.

Needless to say, out of the fear of waking my parents up, I said no. He insisted; I refused. A feeling in me told me that if I gave in, he will have stranger demands, which unfortunately, were soon to come.

Having declared that my decision was resolute, he accepted the fact that the television will not be turned on. But, the first strange request came. He touched my hands, remarking that they were really rough, and he rubbed them all over. I told him that its because I trained in Judo, and he got interested. Then he asked to see my body. I said no. I am not comfortable to take off my shirt in front of a stranger. He got a bit aggressive, and insisted, but backed down after I insisted with a greater intensity.

Suddenly he asked to hug me. I obliged. It was after all natural for him to want to hug, a gesture of love he never had for… over 30 years. However, it soon got uncomfortable. He started to kiss me on my cheeks, and I was thinking “its okay Norvin, Westerners do it too”. Then I pushed him away and wanted to talk to him to find out more. He asked for another hug. I obliged once more. Then when hugging me, he kissed me again on the cheeks, then he licked my left cheek.

Needless to say, I freaked out. And by this point, I noticed that he had an erection, and I suddenly realized that something has gone wrong. I pushed him away, and told him that I was feeling really uncomfortable and that I need my own personal space. But apparently, homelessness and institutionalized life had deprived him of normalcy and all understandings of human norms. He couldn’t really understand and felt sad that he was rejected.

He asked to lie down on my lap for five minutes, thinking that it was a compromise. Much as I wanted to assure him of my love for him and that being destitute has not deprived him of love, I couldn’t do so. All barriers of my personal space have been violated by him, and I cannot find the heart in me to trust a man with an erection.

I felt that this must end. I realized that he is straight, but the sudden physical intimacy he experienced has in some way generated lust within him or perhaps triggered the natural instincts of his lower half. Not wishing to change his sexual orientation, I told him that he was going to the playground really soon, and I will help him again tomorrow, at 7am. With breakfast.

He continued to insist for hugs. I allowed him to, minus the kissing. Then he asked for me to look at him. His hand went behind my head and I could feel the strength of his hand. Had I not been a Judoka, I will have been unable to resist. My personal analysis is that he has finally found someone who was willing to look at him in the eye - someone which an eyesore of the disgust-adverse society can hardly find. Through the gaze of another, he has finally found proof of his existence; to be beheld is existence itself. But not wishing to accommodate any of his requests anymore, I decided to stop the whole thing and told him that he was going to the playground now.

His erection having died down, he became more practical. When I was near the door, he asked me if I could give him a portable radio. I said no. He pointed to the antique radio I had at home and asked me if he could have it. It was my dead uncle’s. Disgust displaced some compassion at this request. I diplomatically disagreed and told him that a bath, shave, change of clothes and a day which I will dedicate to helping him is all I will do. And I brought him down to the void deck.

There, he cried, and thanked me for everything, all the love I showed and the fact that no-one has ever bothered to help him to this extent before. Despite the situation verging on homoerotism, and the occasional commerical request, I still felt a lot of love for him. Because I felt that he really loved me. Though he was a little aggressive in physcial contact with me, his eyes showed... that he really lacked such love, and therefore he could only demand more for a love he never knew.

Let us not judge him. His behavior is caused by society. By us.

(Update soon on helping him find shelter)