Flower Lounge (21) -- Freedom

Freedom is a bewitching phantom. Many who defend it with a passion don’t seem to know what it is. If asked, they can’t define or describe its basic features, significance, or potential meaning to our lives. Why is freedom so unconditionally, even blindly, embraced? If a hungry person gets food, he knows what to do with it —- gobble it up. What would an unfree person do if given unlimited freedom? These questions tickled my mind when I stood still to kill time in jail, surrounded by men who had been denied freedom.

Kung fu students Zharm Zhong —- maintaining the same standing pose for up to hours —- to channel mental energy into every muscular fibre, charging it with psychosomatic power. Mind over matter. Mind creates matter. Mind matters. I was too old for that kind of illusion. Zharm Zhong in the playground was merely my ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign when daydreaming among noisy convicts.

A few meters away, young inmates were chasing after a ball, screaming: Here! here! They all wanted it under their feet. A dozen or so See Hings slouched around the picnic tables to watch televised monsters roaring and panting over today’s duel. A few inmates strolled around the pitch, taking in fresh air, shooting the breeze. An uproarious laughter broke out at the pingpong corner, followed by an outburst of vicious but friendly expletives. Xiao Long, the solitary Little Dragon, studied English at a quiet corner, tunneling through strange words, searching for a better tomorrow. In an hour or so, dinner will be served. There’ll be fish, alas. But without force-feeding, it was technically not a torture. Feel free not to eat it, the cats don’t.

Viewed objectively, they were having a peaceful, wholesome, time. Life wasn’t so bad. My post-retirement routine at home wasn’t very different. Why couldn’t we, with the irritating exceptions of Malay and Taiwan, wholeheartedly enjoy life right there and then? Some might have, but would not admit it even to themselves lest they put their own sanity in self-doubt. We were prisoners. Prisoners are supposed to be miserable, adamantly unhappy because they have lost their freedom. The authority has taken it away to punish because freedom is essential and priceless. Only crazy people would be happy without it.

What exactly is freedom, though? I returned to the basic question, trying to fathom a common concept, an unquestionable aspiration, not pretending to be philosophical.

Like most busy people, I had not analysed freedom before. Now that I was yearning for it badly, I suddenly realised I didn’t know what it was. I believed most if not all in the playground didn’t either. Freedom is good by default, categorically desirable, supposedly intuitive. But is it? Unlike food and water, even unlike warm clothing and shelter, freedom is not a basic biological need, and far from being intuitive to me.

The Hungarian poet Petöfi Sándor came to mind. He famously put liberty above love, and love before life.

Freedom and love!

These two I need.

For my love, I will sacrifice

My life,

For freedom, I will sacrifice

My love.

I was once a fan of his defiant verses. Putting freedom over love and love over life struck the right cord with my teenage heart. Unfortunately, as I involuntarily aged, Sándor’s unfeasible preferences became paradoxical rather than romantic. If he was referring to abstract political freedom, it would be metaphorically understandable. On a personal level, however, being absolutely and undefinably free without love could result in an eery, empty existence, the kind which drives some people to commit suicide. And loving without life is existentially ridiculous regardless of poetic merits. Regrettably, Sándor died early in his mid-twenties, and never had the opportunity to test his passionate priorities with life experience.

I didn’t mean to slam liberty. Due to genetic defects, impressionable folks had labelled me a ‘free spirit’ with a sneer before I learnt how to repackage my disposition for social consumption. It’s just that retreating in Tong Fuk Flower Lounge, surrounded by people who had been denied freedom, I was becoming confused by a concept long taken for granted.

Superficially, physical freedom appeared straight forward. If I’m allowed to go anywhere I wish, I would in principle be physically free. But to exercise freedom in the present world, one needs means — i.e. money. No money no freedom is an unquestionable reality unquestioned by fair-minded folks.

Without money, freedom is a chimera. Even when not in jail, most of my See Hings seldom have the freedom to get out of bed whenever they feel like, engage in inspiring activities, choose the company of amicable folks, or get fat on exquisite cuisines. The Tong Fuk life which they vehemently detested wasn’t very different from the ones they usually led. In fact, from what I could gather, life sounded more stable and comfortable inside. Upon regaining freedom, some of them would return to coffin-size rental cages stacked up in the clammy shadows of Mong Kok, clinging onto the fringe of society like worker bees in a swarming hive — agitated, desperate, helpless, definitely not free.

As I thought about bees, one fortuitously landed on my football briefly, then hurried off to find something more palatable. It looked busy. Are you free? I mentally mumbled after the departing insect. 

If bees are free, then what makes them slave over nectar and pollen to feed an overcrowded hive too busy to say thank you? They can fly. To poetic minds, anything that flies is free. Flying and freedom are metaphorical partners. But worker bees contradict this assumption. They can fly from an early age, but grow up to be career slaves. They live only a few weeks in the summer, literally working themselves to premature death from collecting nectar and pollen for others. Why don’t they just take off to enjoy the splendid season and possibly live longer? They’re not tied down by love or family obligation or a duty to procreate anyway. Give me liberty, or give me death obviously doesn’t apply to them. They voluntarily sacrifice liberty for death. Are there nano-chains around their stripy little bellies?

Bees and paupers are not free to exercise freedom even when they aren’t denied it. One is bound by instincts, the other money, or the lack of it.

What about people with means and status? Money can’t buy love, but can it buy freedom?

I imagined the lives of royals, big-shot politicians and mega tycoons from ancient times to the present, and concluded that none of them were remotely free. If the King of England wants to retire and move to Bangladesh, he would not have the freedom to do so. The rich and powerful are in fact less free than prisoners. Inmates think they know what’s imprisoning them. Most kings and tycoons don’t. They can’t even fantasise escape because they have no idea what to escape from and where to escape to.

What about the jolly middle-class? 

They live comfortably above subsistence, and enjoy anonymity. But don’t they rise in the morning to self-administered sirens, according to schedules dictated by latent forces just like convicts do? Dressed in conformance with expectation rather than comfort or common sense, they plunge into the morning crowd and promptly disappear. Another humdrum day lies ahead, mostly, perhaps totally, beyond their control or comprehension. Middle-class ‘freemen’ are always pressed for time — time is money, which can be used to purchase pleasure during their rare and illusive ‘free time’. 

And there’s no free lunch in the outside world. One must work for every grain of rice. At the end of Tong Fuk working hours, prisoners stop, period, whereas self-motivated and ambitious employees continue overtime on their own accord, of their own free will, like bees.

Exhausted professionals without criminal record eventually go home to watch TV, interact reflexively in social media, or chat inconsequentially like cons do. Smoking is allowed anywhere in Tong Fuk, even in bed, but never in health-conscious middle-class homes. There are more of the same to accomplish tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after the day after that. They have to stay healthy. No smoking, anywhere.

Freedom? What freedom?

The more I thought about freedom, the less I understood it. 

Why then do these guys all want out? My mind drifted back to my imprisoned colleagues at the playground momentarily. From overhearing their chitchats, sex is a popular reason, especially among the boys. ‘When out, I’m going to fuck fuck fuck for a whole week, ha ha…’ they say. Unexpectedly, junk food is another often cited reason. They seem to miss junk food unlimited. What a strange world.

What about me? Why do I want out? I asked myself.

My answer was straightforward and immediate. My bed at home was much more comfortable, and I could talk about nearly everything with my family, something which may not be as common as it ought to be.

What about mental and spiritual freedom? Perhaps it’s more significant and less compromisable than physical freedom?

Not really. 

To start with, barring surgical rewiring or chemical manipulation, I can’t imagine how anyone could be denied ‘mental freedom’. Restricting expression is common practice, but that’s superficial, not a meaningful denial of mental freedom. If I keep my mouth shut and let my mind run, it’d be impossible to detect, not to say suppress, my mental freedom. How could anyone stop me thinking freely if I don’t reveal my thoughts, which are none of their business anyway? Plus after having met folks from all over the planet, I have encountered barely a handful of free thinkers. Freedom in the mind is actually irrelevant to the overwhelming majority who’s been told that it’s critically important.

‘Fall in!’ An officer derailed my train of thought just as it was about to emerge from a dark loopy tunnel.

Everyone took their time. Flip flop flip flop. In the old days, jail guards had whistles. Now they had to yell repeatedly like primary school PE teachers. The footballers continued until yet another ball escaped over the fence, then sauntered to the pingpong corner to change back into slippers, leaving behind a steamy pile of thin-soled sneakers.

I did a few forward bends to recover from my mental jailbreak, then joined the line.

Why don’t bees just take off? Why do we all want out? 

I was still toying with the same questions while struggling to swallow the gooey evening bun. It got stuck to the back of my teeth and palate but I couldn’t get water to flush it down just yet. A bodybuilding thug had conscripted both jerrycans of water, lifting them repeatedly — thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…Had he been ordered to do that by the guards, he would have had a legitimate reason to complain. I didn’t want to interrupt his self-punishment.

Next to his gym area, less muscular kids were partying as usual, laughing their heads off over their favourite silly game —- firing squad. They had rock-paper-scissored earlier. The loser now stood with his face against the wall, underpants pulled down to his knees. His pals were shooting paper bullets at his bare bum with elastic bands from five steps away, filling the room with the sound of crispy smacks and occasional ouches. A few beds away, the mainlanders were playing chess. Opposite me, Ah Wah had drifted off to his kung fu wonderland. Nearby, Gollum was thumbing through his worn Bible in search for atonement, or instructions to exorcise his demon. He was due for imminent discharge. Freedom loomed, and he seemed petrified, visibly losing weight.

I pictured someone born and raised in an internment camp.

Throughout his life, older inmates tell him how wonderful the outside world is: ‘There’s freedom. Freedom! imagine, since you’ve never tasted it.’ 

After decades, this person, now in his midlife, is suddenly told that he can leave tomorrow. 

‘Just yourself. Don’t ask why. Remember: Once out, you can’t return.’

Is that good news? After a sleepless night, he might beg to stay. Venturing into the unknown is scary, kind of like death, just like death. Even deeply religious folks who claim they look forward to enjoying everlasting life pray for recovery rather than quick death when fallen ill.

On the other hand, if the camp’s gate is flung wide-open, he’ll rush out with others without hesitation, full of adrenalin. Is that why so many people are scared to death about personal death, but rapturous about the end of the world? This could be turned into an interesting story one day, I made some quick notes.

Smack! Ouch! Smack! Aow! Smack! Aiya!! Dew Lay Lo Mo! Ha ha ha…

The sound of paper bullets hitting their target dead on had become louder and more penetrating. The firing squad had inched closer to their new victim. Ah, Bozo again, of course. Whenever Bozo was the target, the firing squad inched closer. He never turned to check. Perhaps he didn’t want to. How weird. I wondered why. Being stupid was the first answer which came to mind. Besides a lack of intelligence, I also suspected he didn’t want to spoil his unique and popular role of official idiot. Being rejected would have been ten times more painful to poor lonely Bozo than execution.

I know! It’s not freedom that we want. Quite the opposite. We want familiarity, reassuring humdrum! Thank you, Bozo!

Subconsciously, most of us prefer familiarity over freedom, just that it’s cool to insist otherwise. Gangsters put on a defiant look to conform with peer expectations and gangland image, that’s all. Routines, even detestable ones, keep life under control. Why else do billionaires bitch about work, claiming they look forward to retirement while contriving all kinds of excuses to postpone it perpetually?

Maybe our disposition to routine is genetically coded. Only odd mutants can wholeheartedly and truly enjoy total freedom. Societies — be them bureaucracies, churches or Triads — inevitably pressure outliers to get into orbit, or else. Even disobedient kids feel more secure knowing that there are rules around. Imagine a child coming into this strange world, growing up without restrictions and boundaries…It’d be quite eerie psychologically.

The execution had stopped for the night. Bozo lay in bed on his stomach, pretending nothing was hurting. A few boys stood in a circle to repeat to each other the great fucking old days when big mother fucking Fat Dick beat the fucking crap out of the fucking retard from Numbers Gang in TST. 

Remember that? 

Yeah yeah yeah! Ha ha ha! 

I sure fucking did. I’d heard many fucking versions of that same fucking story many fucking times.

Muscle Man was done with the water cans, and had gone to the washroom to wipe his sweaty self down. I poured a mug of water, drank it thirstily, then brushed my teeth. Momentarily, half the lights will be off. Snoring will soon commence, followed by nightmare screams, then the morning siren shortly after the sun has risen from the east. Fishy minnows will be served at the end of the day. Tomorrow is thankfully predictable.

Normal humans don’t want to be slaves. Subconsciously, they don’t want to be truly free either. Real freedom is daunting, scary. 

The phrase zi you zi zai came to mind. It suddenly made more sense than ever. 

In Chinese, freedom — zi you — is often expressed phrasally as zi you zi zai — free and at ease — rather than zi you alone. Yes, someone who can be at ease with his situation is free wherever he may be — in jail, in the office, at home, even when tied up. The trick is to be truly at ease regardless. Not easy.

‘When I get out of this fucking hell hole, I’ll stop at the nearest fucking cafe for a bowl of instant noodles with spam and egg, then go to Mong Kok for a good fuck!’ One of the boys appeared all excited about the future. The approaching freedom reminded him of the familiar scents of industrial noodles and discount intercourse, fun things which he knew well how to enjoy.

Yawn, time to sleep. Be at ease.

* * *

Next Episode: Mirage of Justice

Justice is even more delusive than Freedom, but the desire for it is more genuine

will be uploaded around 5.11.2025

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