The MicroEarth Initiative

The problem with us these days is not that we miss the forest for the trees, but that we miss the trees for the forest.

You would no doubt have come across the shrinking earth theory during your travels through the cyberspace, and would've likely balked at its geological inaccuracy. Everyone knows that mountains don't occur spontaneously due to the contraction of the earth's surface; they were devilishly constructed to incite frustration and cuss words from unfortunate soldiers on overseas exercises, of course. No matter, most would agree that the shrinking earth theory still holds metaphorical significance in the increasingly modern world that we live in now.

The improvement of transportation infrastructure around the globe--high-speed railway lines in China, easy flights to pretty much anywhere around the globe (except maybe North Korea), more cars than people in Brunei, an MRT system so complex that they're about to run out of rainbow-spectrum colours in Singapore--all contribute to making a trip around the world in 80 days an unnecessary anachronism. With easy access to almost any where which strikes your fancy, travel has become exceedingly commonplace in the everyman's life itinerary.

You'd only need to pay a visit to the swarms of people at travel fairs or flip to the last half of the classifieds section in the straits times to realize that you won't be the only ones at that Exclusive Island Getaway For $3,999 that you'd wanted to retreat to.

And thus begins the bemoaning of the well-traveled individual who believes that he has indeed seen all that there is tosee. But he is not alone, for there exist those who wish that they too could travel beyond the shores of their little island, but simply lack the means to do so.

The MicroEarth Initiative exists for these very people.

_________________________________________________________

All things begin with stories, and this is no different. It was a quiet, lazy day, and I sat around the house (no yo mama jokes, please) with my laptop, intent on completing the insurmountable task of The ORD Quiz. Which also happens to be an euphemism for A Prolonged Period Of Torture. Having failed the segment on IPPT for the third time, I knew that it was a sign. Picking up my running shoes, I left the house, pace quick, strides full, and destination unknown. There are days where you run to travel a certain distance, or to clock a particular timing, but this wasn't one of those days.

Outside the house, an upslope was the appetizer for the day, uninteresting in its familiarity. Curving around residences, schools, crossing traffic lights, dodging pedestrians, maintaining running posture, regulating breaths, the world sped by as the focus on running showed no sway. Across the road, a quick left turn changed things. I was now in unfamiliar territory. The location itself was hardly new, but being present, being able to stand amidst the architecture, being able to pace down walkways which one would more likely drive by, made all the difference. The pace of the run slowed to a slow cadence, as one quick left segued into a series of turns and manoeuvres around the estate. As I neared the fringe of the cluster of buildings, I spotted a trail which I decided to follow.

For a gazetted park connector, its popularity was surprisingly poor, and few others were seen along its winding path. But what surprises this trail hid, tucked away under the awning created by the highway which ran alongside it. Under its concrete canopy a mountain biking course presented itself, a piece of boutique effort by the community committee. The bike tracks scarring its floor belied its apparent underuse, while the array of wooden boards and carefully contrived obstacles stood, in valiant defiance of the effects of time. A muddied track leads up to the expressway, where one can stand but inches away from the rushing of oncoming traffic, it in itself a profound juxtaposition of abandon and bustle.

Further down the running trail I discovered yet another gem, tucked away under the protection of concrete that supported the vehicles above. While gleaming metal flashed along the highway overhead, a solitary man tinkers with his model cars. Amidst an array of wooden chairs and workbenches, he carefully pieces together his vehicle of choice. Taking out a remote control the size of the car itself, he flicks a switch and turns a knob, and the car jumps to life, darting about the constructed dirt track like a metal mouse on amphetamines. The little replica speeds around the circuit, hitting bumps, overturning, drifting, crashing, revving and reviving, the man all the while in complete control.

Not two hundred meters away, a man stands inside a storm drain, completely oblivious or in willful ignorance of agovernmental warning of the dangers of his activity. He stoops to pick up his assortment of plastic containers, which he uses to collect water flowing out from one of the drain's tributaries, for what alchemistic purposes I dared not hazard a guess.

As I traveled further down the trail, I arrived at a little grassy incline, which I decided to scale. The view at its crest would take the breath out of any wind. An expanse of green stretched out to the boundaries of the buildings in the distance, with but three individuals dotting its surface. The three individuals knew nothing of each other, for they were engaged intently with flying their own pieces of coloured cloth. Tugging on glittering white strings, the decorated strips of fabric danced across the sky, buffeted by the afternoon wind. It was some time before I left the peace of that field and headed back the way I came.

If only I'd brought a camera along with me to capture these scenes. And then again, the word 'capture' itself brings with it such negative connotations that might have marred the sanctity of it all. If anything, such adventures make you realize that amidst all that rush and bustle, we might be missing out on the little details that make up the richness of our world. It's probably something like how you get that depressing, bleak vibes from all the city scenes in any of the Matrix movies, no matter how populated they are. Or how you can marvel at the intricate details of the landscapes in any of the Assassin Creed series, but you still don't feel like the cities are truly alive.

Maybe it's about finding the essence of our world, our countries, our cities. Maybe it's about the within, not the without. Maybe to broaden our worldview, what we really need is to narrow our field of vision.

It's a small world, after all.

The Call Of Existence

To look into the screen of a phone which stares blankly back at you with an almost mockingly deadpan "Insert SIM card" is to look into the eyes of Death itself. I know so because I have gazed into the eyes of Death myself, in a five ton vehicle traveling down a rocky road on an island which has less reception than a badly organized company function.

It plays out almost like a real-to-life adaptation of Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief.

First comes the Denial.

Your rub your eyes in attempt to awaken your consciousness, and perhaps realign your retinas in such a way as to read the dreaded text as something more favorable. This can't be happening to me, 7-11 is obviously the most reputable proprietor of phones! You then proceed to remove and reinsert your SIM card and battery repeatedly, while making a considerable racket tapping and smacking your phone; because we all know that if an electronic appliance fails to work, the best thing to do is to give it a few hard knocks to "shake the machinery into place".

Next comes the Anger.

How could this happen to me! It's not fair, I've been such a responsible text messenger, never using abbreviations and alternating caps locks! You then escalate the phone-tapping and phone-smacking into something which approaches the eventual evisceration of your phone, all the while hurling abuse at the maternal parent of nobody in particular.

Then comes Bargaining.

Oh please let me phone work, I promise I'll stop wasting money on pithy one-liners to the mainland. If you start working, I promise I won't swap you for a htc snap the moment I get back!

Depression then sets in.

You leave your phone in particularly precarious positions, just to watch it clatter to the ground, a twisted, macabre sort of punishment for refusing to work for you. Your head hangs heavy and you reply to questions of "How's your phone?" with guttural grumbles. You make obvious signs of resignation, and retreat into the gloomy swing of a pendulum neck.

In time, you arrive at Acceptance.

You keep your phone in a permanent powered-off state and cease even attempting to detect signs of life from the fallen appliance. Your thoughts get redirected at more pressing concerns, such as the state of the weather and the flight trajectories of wounded butterflies. You eventually accept that your phone is indeed indisputably, irrevocably, very much dead.

But whatever rosy connotations might germinate from acceptance at this stage are but half-truths, for true acceptance only comes about much later. One must first contend with something much more existential in nature: what happens to someone who loses his primary means of communication with the world.

To know that we exist, we merely need to wonder about whether we do, for that, as Descartes maintains, is proof enough. To feel our existence though, is a totally different matter altogether. For to feel that we exist, we need in the least two things.

To feel that we are a member of the club that is our world, we would first be required to absorb its essence, to know its innermost parts. We would need to consume data, collect information and map out its realities. We would need to understand the lay of the land and its residents, so as to be understood in turn. We pore through newspapers and magazines, our senses ever-receptive to the signs of our time, our airwaves always open for the sentiment of the masses. We know that to belong, you have criteria to which you have to conform. To gain membership, to be a part of the whole, you must be acceptable. To be acceptable, you must adapt. To adapt, you must do your research.

Secondly, we need observable signs, roadside indicators which tell us that our presence on this earth has indeed had some sort of effect on the world which would not have happened had we not first occurred. The outward rippling of influence, with ourselves being the epicenter, is one of the most fundamental for feeling as if we exist. That is why we as humans are all obsessed with cause and effect. That is why self-confessed artists decorate trains with coats of color. That is why children build toy towers, only to knock them down moments after. That is why deluded souls send the apexes of aviation nose-first into the crowning glories of construction. We crave the extension of ourselves. We desire the sense of power that gives us. But more importantly, we require that others know we exist.

Interestingly, a close metaphor of our desire to feel existence as humans is the processes of the human body itself. The body first consumes food and drink as sustenance to survive. The nutrients provide it with the means to survive. The waste of the body is then passed out as excrement, a biological catharsis if you will, leaving a distinct, lingering, presence. The creatures of the animal kingdom know this well, and in what is curiously crudely symbolic of the innate desire to make one's presence felt, urinate to mark their territory. And to think we insist our superiority over 'lesser' mammals, when we ourselves carry as base a habit, only now translated into some modern form of social convention.

It really distills down to this dictum:

To feel existence, is to seek to know and be known.

With the loss of the enabler that is your phone, you lose that capability--what more, when you're stuck on an island off the mainland. You lose that connection to the life you had back there. You lose the updates of the state of the going-ons, and the going-ons of the state. You forfeit your influence on that world, and you fear that in your absence, hearts might not grow fonder, but rather, cold as they forget the slowly fading shadow of your presence.

At this juncture, you might perhaps dismiss this as exaggerated romanticism of a purely material issue, where the loss of a phone simply implies the loss of convenience and a tool of efficiency. There is some truth in that. And yet, one cannot deny that chill down your spine you get when you realize that your phone is not on your person.

Steve Jobs is a smart man, for he knows how extremely difficult it is for us to divorce the 'i' from the 'phone'. Consider it an abstract extension of ourselves, where connection with any society is made easy (as Facebook would have it), and where posting our opinions and the minutiae of our day is twit-easy (or, Tweet, as some would spell it).

Somehow or rather, we all possess the ineffable desire to feel our existence.

In the final analysis,

it really distills down to this dictum:

To feel existence, is to seek to know and be known.

Clearing The Air

The act of declaring 'reading' as one of your hobbies is not very unlike that of a crazed Spaniard running through a particularly long stretch of bovine pastures with a sheet of red c loth. For what better way is there to attract criticism and condescension than by acting the unwitting charlatan? To make the declaration is to invite questions as to the texts you have read that led to your current literary sentiment. And more often than not, the people behind these questions belong to something of a group of self-professed literary critics, high and haughty in their towers of esotericism. A community which huddles in hushed tones around titles with terms more unpronounceable than the names of certain volcanoes. Whispers of 'post-colonialism', 'deconstructivist' ideas and 'canonical texts' float around like thick London fog, and each utterance is followed by such sense of satisfaction and pomp that you could all but feel the words vibrating in their italics. It is at the perimeters of this fog that your literary likes are trialed and tested, their acceptance and legitimacy hanging in the air as they are buffeted back and forth by gusts of smoke from within the fog. Your penchant for novels involving teenage nocturnals is met with toothy grins and mocking smirks, while your tales of wands and wizards are swept away by the very brooms that they floated in on. One by one they drift to the ground in a state of broken defeat.

You harbor silent resentment as you sift silently through the pieces and the density of your disillusionment. And yet, as you stoop to pick up the fragments, you notice a certain clarity in the air. A clear, unobstructed view presents itself, both beneath and around the thickness of the fog, and the irony of exclusivity never seemed as apparent. Those within the fog reveal themselves to be ultimately myopic, their cloud of condescension not simply excluding those deemed unfit for entry, but also excluding themselves from the vastness of knowledge the world outside provides. Vision into the far horizon is rendered impossible as they prove themselves unable to see beyond the very gates that they have built to restrict access. When it comes down to the appreciation of the written word, it really is for us to decide if we will let the fog obscure our vision.

The time has come to open our eyes.

The time has come to clear the air.

Stirred, But Not Shaken

Rejection is a painful affair.

Larger Fires

When we find in ourselves attributes which we feel incompatible with the vision which we have for ourselves, we develop a little bitter taste. What tends to follow is a nagging sense of insecurity, and the sense that the attribute in question inevitably pulls us down and holds us back from reaching the potential which we see ourselves otherwise being able to attain. But we humans are adaptable creatures, and, over time, we develop some form of a self-defence mechanism in the denial of our failings.

At best, even if we are not in denial, we construct an alternative remedy through focusing on our merits, all the while purposefully and conveniently ignoring our failings. A curious irony follows; in avoiding our insecurities and playing on our strengths, we inadvertently develop little kingdoms of pride. Saplings of complacency begin to emerge, not in place of our insecurities, but as an alternative which overshadows. Like deviant foresters we ignite our own roaring inferno, extinguishing the burning house by drawing on the oxygen it feeds on. The result is but a pyrrhic victory; we succeed in concealing our weakness, but we unwittingly fetter ourselves with the heavy manacles of pride.

As much as we’d like to believe in the far-reaching nature of our self-awareness, such conceit usually remains hidden under the radar of our self-critique. Its advantage is innocuous, and stems largely from how conveniently justifiable it is. We tend to believe that it stands to reason that, ultimately, our primary motive was the extinguishing of the burning house, and that the larger fire we started was merely means to an end. Our line of thought might travel as such:

“How can I be considered arrogant, if I admit so readily to my deficiencies and failings? Surely my humility is displayed in the concern I have for these negative aspects of myself!”

In using insecurity as a form of justification for a proud spirit, we believe, rather erroneously, that we have somehow come up with a clever little way of escaping weakness, while yet making a good show of strength. Consider it akin to a balloon gorilla. The balloon gorilla thumps its chest with much bravado, in a very visible display of his might, all the while completely unaware that what lies within is but a giant cavern of air, a hollow emptiness housing a sorry lack of substance. Interestingly, not only does the balloon gorilla fail to address his failings, but he also loses credibility in the areas he professes his capability in.

Confidence as a means of distraction and misdirection is easily shaken, for ultimately, we are not at peace with our whole person; we have not come to terms with our weaknesses. We all know of the well-worn phrase ‘fighting fire with fire’, and perhaps the time has finally come for us to radically rethink the real value of just that.

Close For Comfort

Continuity. A vast river which, while unceasing in its flow, exists indefinitely as geography does; constantly in motion, and yet never moving, an entity which embodies all of what was, is, and is to come. But before blue hippie aliens start to rejoice in what appears to be some form of new-age neo-pagan eco-worship, let us shelve such titanic thoughts for later reference--this is but the tip of today's iceberg.

Every day, a PC user somewhere contemplates the meaning of life. Whilst doing so, he also contemplates whether he should really be using a Mac instead. His likely subsequent decision to remain of the Windows persuasion could probably be attributed less to his aversion to fruit (and perhaps, original sin), and more to his idiosyncratic resistance to change. Yet, let us hesitate to condemn this PC user to the luddite pile. Instead, let us celebrate his sterling defence of consistency, for much comfort can be found in consistency.

After all, some form of pleasure could be derived from the knowledge that you can head home every day to a house that actually doesn't look like it had been thrown into a geological blender while you were out. In a similar manner, the toddler carts around his favourite soft toy wherever he goes--a piece of portable stability if you will--for the child knows that while the people around him have moods which can swing to any colour of the spectrum, he has his teddy. A physical, holdable, huggable reminder that amidst a world of newness, randomness and chaos, some things don't change.

As we grow older however, we'd also like to imagine that we have, in some way or another, grown more sophisticated. (As quirky as you might think it be to bring teddy along for your board room meetings, your bosses might not quite appreciate that comedic character allusion which you'd thought yourself rather original for) And what could possibly get more sophisticated than abstract ideas! Ideas and concepts such as the bulwark of Tradition float up, like wisps of smoke curling away from sticks of incense lit for the elders.

It is in the stage of Tradition's conception that we find beliefs, superstitions, habits, and practices--tiny individual actions which, when operating in tandem, create an immutable, timeless form.

Tradition provides an easy fall-back, a common ground for the masses to agree on. If something has been so, it must have had its reasons for being so, and thus should continue to stay as such.

No doubt, one could say that the Shepherdsons and Grangerfords were foolish in their feudalistic struggles, but we are equally led to realize the bond that each of these families shared within their clans, and the sense of internal stability that it brought. A state of being at peace with going to war perhaps. (Oh, the irony!) And yet, in this irony lies a testament to the grounding effect of Tradition--the overwhelming calm that comes with being anchored to an idea as the world gets tossed about the storms of reality.

Is it any wonder then that we so earnestly seek consistency and the continuity that it creates? One who is able to hold his ground and maintain his state of mind as the squall rages is deemed to possess a certain amount of control. You might not be able to harness the storm, but as long as you have your constants, you are safe. You might grow taller, you might grow older, your house might shift, your friends might change; but your teddy is your teddy, and that fact never will change. That shiny red packet will always pocket dollar notes, and that pine tree will always bear the fruit of gifts.

Like kids on a carousel we carefully pick our mounts, as we await the ride of our lives. The machinery kicks in, and we lurch forward. Our world begins to spin, slowly, at first, then gradually picks up in pace. Soon all will be a blur, as lights flash and faces whiz by. Confident of our steeds we whoop and yell.

On and on we go, galloping powerfully in inevitable circles

Constantly in motion, and yet never moving

Thinking Soldiers Think

It is only in recent times that the phrase ‘thinking soldier’ has ceased to be an oxymoron. The entire idea of soldiering evokes images of medieval men in tin helmets rushing mindlessly into storms of arrows. Taken even from a somewhat more modern context, one cannot help but picture battalions of cannon fodder charging forth in wave after wave of green/grey, only to end in a shocking shade of maroon. The First World War itself is a prime example of the prevalent military philosophy of the time—a time when using a bigger hammer was the solution for all strategic conundrums. The characteristic wars of attrition are but testament to a mindset of massing, where quantity was king, and where critical assessment and thought of the average foot soldier was abandoned in favor of unswerving loyalty, dogged determination, and sheer brute force.

The structure of a military organization is built in such a way that the twin towers of discipline and obedience form its very foundation. The concept of having ranks, commanders and superiors was formed on the basis of creating order, and as a result, improve the efficiency and effectiveness of the organization as a whole. All this thus enables the issuing of orders and the subsequent execution of these orders in double-quick time, theoretically resulting in optimum efficacy. Behind every order and command comes the underlying assumption that the commander has himself given a great deal of thought to his course of action and all possible contingencies. In other words, the commander has himself negated the need for the foot soldier to consider the situation himself—“many intelligent and experienced people up the ranks have already given it sufficient thought, so this must be the best course of action”, was probably a common sentiment at the time. And even if it were not, deviant thought was suppressed as being disobedient and hence, going against the values of the organization as a whole. In such an organization which flourishes on its efficiency at getting things done, where then, is the need for the soldier to examine and assess his orders? Orders are, after all, orders.

However, in the conflicts of late, such a mindset has begun to reveal leaks in its plumbing, and the cracks are becoming more and more evident. 9/11, the Bali bombings and the like aren’t evidence of an enemy who fights with drunken fists. In the face of a thinking enemy, how can we not position ourselves as a thinking army? And if that is true, what better way to mould the military is there than to reach out to its soldiers? The face of battle is changing, and so must we. In order to go about doing this however, we must first establish the characteristics and makings of a thinking soldier. A thinking soldier is one who receives his orders, then puts it upon himself to carry out his orders in the utmost professional manner, and in a manner most suited to the circumstances he is in. He is the multiplier, he is the catalyst. With him, a relationship is formed between him and the commander. A relationship in the sense that the commander is able to trust that the orders he has given will be carried out by the soldier in a manner most suited to the mission. The thinking leader, together with the thinking soldier represent a new age of cooperation, of communication. In these times, efficacy requires more than just speed and blind execution; it requires both critical thinking and shared understanding. The thinking soldier takes what he has been given, and makes it better.

There is a fear, nevertheless, that the rise of the thinking soldier brings with him an age of deviancy. The once utterly revered concept of rank is now seemingly under assault. What if the new-age thinking soldier contests his orders? What if disobedience and ill discipline run rampant, as soldiers ‘critically assess’ their commanders and find them wanting? These are the concerns which surround the issue of producing thinking soldiers, and they are very much valid ones. If such anarchy were to erupt, the entire purpose of creating greater efficiency in the military organization would have been defeated.

It is thus imperative that we approach the development of thinking soldiers and leaders with special care. We are not out to create a culture of contention. Rather, increased cooperation is what we should seek. The thinking soldier thinks and assesses not to challenge out of audacity, but to augment the process and outcome of his mission. It has once been said that we think, and therefore we are. In light of that, and in the hopes of creating an ever more effective army, let us do just that.

________________________________________

NB: Written for some reflection thing we were asked to write. (Gasp, the army actually requires essays!)

More NB: You might have been somewhat distressed by the sorely out-of-contexted Descartes quote there. Or if you are a normal, sane human being with even a semblance of what they call 'a life', maybe not. Nevertheless, for the sake of clarification and the appeasing of my obsessive-compulsive virus, here goes. Cogito ergo sum ("I think, therefore I am") refers to the existentialist idea where one 'proves' that he exists through questioning his own existence. And there we have it, the not-so-very-fun fact of the day.