Like many thinking human beings living in the world today, Ross and I have become increasingly concerned about where our food comes from and the environmental and economic costs (both hidden and obvious) of producing it, packaging it, and getting it to us. The more we learn, of course, the less it seems we can eat without feeling the oppressive guilt that accompanies being in America and having to feed ourselves.

So Ross, in particular, was excited when we noticed for the first time a little community garden very close to our house. We may not become vegetarian or give up corn or raise our own hens, but we figure that if nothing else we can try growing a few herbs and vegetables this spring, get our hands dirty, and spend a short time each week surrounded by beautiful things.

I don’t want to get into the details, because they’re complicated and involve people whose real names I’d rather not say and don’t actually know, but today someone I respect a great deal thanked me for standing up for “logic and All That is Good.” It made me smile a big smile, even though basically all I did was:

1) say what I thought in a contentious discussion, without

2) calling anyone a stupidhead.

I guess that’s an accomplishment. ;-)

In honor of the day, I’ve decided to give you a picture of a real superhero who rather looks the part: Heather, the volunteer coordinator at the Women’s Center I volunteered at 5 years ago. She was getting her M.Ed at Harvard last I heard from her, so presumably she’s off saving some kids as we speak.

I know. I know. I know it is utterly and horribly wrong to be sadder about this than about anything else I’ve read or heard on the news in the last two weeks, but I am. I love David Grossman. I remember feeling overwhelmed with that wonderful feeling of powerful strangeness, that sublime disorientation that accompanies the best and most original literature, when I first read an excerpt from See Under: Love for a college class (and the spooky wonder I felt was doubled because I was decoding the words in Hebrew). And everything of his that I’ve read since then has whispered like a friend in my ear, and it is terrible, terrible, that he has lost his son in this war. It is terrible that anyone has lost a son, or a daughter, or a lover, or a parent, in this war — but I am only human, and I only have one heart to grieve with, and tragedy upon tragedy piles up too far away from its throbbing chambers to touch me. I know there is nothing right but that I should feel this ache, this awful pity and fear, for every lost son — still I can only tell you that until today sharp tears haven’t tugged at my loving heart, only torn thoughts at my uncomprehending brain. It is difficult to love without particulars, darlings, isn’t it? Who can tell what kind of connection a person needs to catch a glimpse of a wider compassion? Thinking of my dear Avi shuttling in his car between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, miles from blackened hillsides, and no tears. Thinking of sweet Adona, whom I haven’t talked to in years, watching her country burn, and no tears. And here Uri Grossman is killed, two days before the start of this wary ceasefire — who is Uri Grossman to me? — and I spill over with sorrow.

Lots of you have asked me about the political system in Singapore: the Wikipedia exposition is fairly good and fairly accurate, although it’s not particularly thrilling reading and not quite as neutral as an actual encyclopedia article would be. I’m pointing you there because for the first time in the history of my queer little country, there are enough opposition candidates running in a general election that should they all win, the People’s Action Party — which has ruled Singapore from yea the very beginning of time — would not hold the majority of the seats in our Parliament. Folks, that is pretty damned interesting. Here are the manifestos of all the parties that have candidates running, plus additional commentary, in case anyone besides me is interested.

Today (Singapore time) is election day; I am unable to vote because:

a) I have not resided in Singapore for a total of 2 years during the past 5 years, and
b) I am not any of the following:

(i) a member of the Singapore Armed Forces on full-time training or service outside Singapore;

(vi) the spouse or a parent, child or dependant of any person referred to in sub-paragraph (i), (ii), (iii), (iv) or (v) and is living with that person,

Which I think is a very, very raw deal, and frankly extremely troublesome from an ethical point of view, but I won’t get into that now. I just wanted to commemorate the occasion, and wish my Mum, sister, and brother-in-law wisdom with their votes (my Dad happens to be travelling in Manila today, and therefore also cannot cast a vote).

Is it wrong for me to say that if I could, I might?

Probably.

When people ask me where I’m from, and I tell them, I’m never sure what kind of response I’m going to get. Some people compliment me enthusiastically on the quality of my English, since it doesn’t occur to them that I might have been taught it at school — let alone spoken it at home from my very first word. Others puzzle over the fact that knowing where I’m from doesn’t help them figure out what my ethnic background is. Wheels turn noisily in their heads. Some people nod coolly and move on to inquiring about what I do; many immediately launch into a series of political questions. About 70% will end up making a Michael Fay or chewing gum reference at some point in the conversation. A few tell me they’ve been there, and how pretty and clean it is. A certain kind of person will take pains to let me know they know where my country is, and that they know it is not in fact part of China. No matter how people respond, I’m never offended. I understand that my knowledge of other geographies and cultures is woefully limited, and that I am never far from demonstrating my own ignorance about, for instance, Liberia. Or Lithuania. Or the state of Delaware.

When people ask me where I’m from, the other thing I’m never sure about is how I’m going to feel when I answer. Sometimes I’m embarrassed, mostly because it can sound so exotic to people, and I feel like a fraud because to me Singapore seems like about the least exotic place on the planet. Sometimes I feel confused and ashamed because part of me thinks my eyes ought to start misting over with longing for my home, which I’ve been away from for over seven years now, and instead I’m thinking about how much I prefer living here. Part of me yearns to feel homesick. Sometimes I’m frustrated because I don’t have the words to explain what things are really like. Sometimes I find myself feeling weirdly proud of how bizarre the place I come from is. I start to describe the people, or my school days, or how taxi drivers talk about the government, and everything is so absurd and familiar that my heart softens. Often, these days, I am filled with a gentle affection that has been hard-won. I cling to old habits — no shoes in the house, condensed milk in tea.

But lately whenever I think about my country I am feeling some new things. I am feeling angry. I am feeling terribly sad. I am feeling helpless. I am feeling more and more like the kind of thinking that supports certain policies in my country isn’t just different — it’s dangerous.

If you’ve ever traveled to or through Singapore, you’ve seen the immigration cards that the air stewards hand you before you land. On the top of those cards you’ll have read the words, in red, “DEATH TO DRUG TRAFFICKERS.” I never really thought about the death penalty in Singapore all that much, mostly because I didn’t think it got enforced very much. People would ask me how often people actually got sentenced to death, and I would say, “Oh, I don’t know. Not very often, I think. I’ve never heard of a case in my life, in fact.” Now I realize that the reason I’d never heard of a case in my life was because the media chooses not to make it into big news. It’s not that newspapers never report on hangings (oh, yeah. They’re hangings.), it’s just that they don’t report on them very often. If they did, the death penalty would be in the news twice a month or so.

According to Amnesty International, about 400 people have been sentenced to death in my country in the last 15 years. That gives Singapore, with a population of less than four and a half million people, the dubious honor of having the highest per-capita execution rate in the entire world.

In a few hours time we’ll be adding to that number when we hang 25 year old Nguyen Tuong Van, an Australian caught with 14 ounces of heroin on him in 2002. Australia has been begging the Singapore government to reconsider, but multiple statements have been released to the effect that drug traffickers deserve to die and that Nguyen’s death will serve as a warning to others. A small but passionate local movement has been working against the death penalty in Singapore, mostly organizing on the internet. Their efforts have so far gone unremarked on by the government.

I don’t want to discuss the death penalty — which I’m against in all its forms. I don’t want to discuss the effectiveness of the death penalty as a deterrent — which I don’t believe in. I don’t want to discuss the particulars of this case. I just want to say that more than anything else I am ashamed of, and chilled by, the absolute steely righteous self-assurance of my government on this matter — and by the notion that capital punishment is something that can and should be enforced in this way — without reflection, without regret.

For more news, analysis, and commentary on the death penalty in Singapore and the Nguyen case in particular, I suggest you go here and search for “death.”

(Or, if you are interested in the fascinating story of our lone hangman, who was let go by the government a couple of weeks ago after his identity was revealed by an Australian newspaper, you can put in “hangman” and “sacked.”)

Ross and I were talking this evening about ways the internet can be used for good, and I was reminded of Poverty Fighters, a wonderful site that uses corporate sponsorship to give micro-loans to people in various developing countries. It’s an incredibly easy way to give (twice a day, you can click a single button on their website and up to 25 cents* goes to a microcredit charity), and yet I haven’t clicked a click since I was at Brandeis and there was a Collegiate “Click-Drive” running.

So I decided that I’d put a button on my blog (look over there on the right!), and now every time I log in I can click through to donate. Every time you come to read an entry, you can click through to donate. If you check my blog every day, that could come to about 180 dollars a year*, and it won’t cost you a dime. If you only check my blog once a week, that’s still about 26 dollars a year that otherwise wouldn’t go to charity.

(Ross and I also came up with a brilliant scheme for saving the world through a pretty website. We’ll keep you posted on that one.)

*Because loans are involved, a single donation “recycles” several times, generating a total donation of up to 25 or 30 cents per click. Read the FAQ on the site for more info.