FREEDOM

Freedom is a precious thing – an expensive, never valued enough commodity.

Once lost, the effort to win it back consumed my soul. After years of disease, torture, malnourishment and emptiness— nothing seemed more important, more life saving to me than freedom—which by then was far out of reach.

When the war ended in 1945, we travelled to Medan, the capital of Sumatra, and I found no freedom there. After almost four years in concentration camps we expected to find normalacy. Yet, in the cities, around the homes, and throughout the streets roamed angry and violent young men yielding clubs, whips and threatening faces. “Stay indoors” we were advised. It was dangerous.

I was not free.

Leaving Indonesia and arriving in the Netherlands, our own fatherland, we were once again not welcome. We were confronted with sarcastic, snide and accusitory remarks along with the advice to go back where we came from. No freedom to choose; no freedom of opinion or speech; no freedom of expectation or rights. We were considered ballast.

I was not free.

When my parents needed to return to Indonesia to continue the work my father had started, there was no room for me in among the Dutch families. There was however, room for me in a boarding school, run by Franciscan nuns. High walls surrounded the building and the students were controlled by strict rules. Each day was always the same routine and only the nuns made the decisions. We simply had to obey. My only highlight was our weekly walk through the village on Sunday  – long rows of three students, carefully watched by nuns.

I was not free.

I did not feel free for a very long time.

Since then much in my world has changed. Looking back on the years after the war and my feelings of loneliness and yearning I almost feel ashamed for the rebellion of my strong state of mind.

Because now, in this time of living, I realize how precious freedom actually is.

Freedom. How many people have been slaughtered because of it; continue to be slaughtered. Countless children, murdered in the name of freedom.

Freedom is the luxury of time and planning.

Freedom is care and giving.

Freedom is hope and future.

Freedom is life itself.

Freedom is everything!

2015 has begun — we are wealthy beyond our wildest imagination because we have freedom.

And now, I am free!

Happy New Year

Happy New Year to all my followers; and all those hoping for that second book—a book in which I would I continue my story and share what happens after dad didn’t recognize me. Could this be my gift to you this year?

Happy New Year to all who are happy and healthy, to all who are young and vibrant and have a future. To all who are old and satisfied when they look back on a life of success. To all who have a future and the power to control it.

Can this be a year of less war, less fear, less terror and less dying?

Happy New Year to all parents with sons and daughters in combat.

Happy New Year to all men and women, working or fighting in countries where evil and torture remain a part of every day living.

Happy New to parents with school children walking alone long distances to schools, clubs, playgrounds and grocery stores.

Happy New Year to all who face their ‘end of life’ struggle, or try to come to terms with a future that has no hope; to those who have never tasted the sweetness of freedom, commitment, love and fulfillment.

Happy New Year to all who are desperate or depressed, to all without hope, without love, without anything.

And Happy New Year to all who have not heard this wish: “Happy New Year!” Not even once.

May 2015 bring you hope, peace, love and a future. A future without war, fear, terror, and with peaceful dying.

May 2015 be a year of gifts and giving.

CHRISTMAS MESSAGE

Christmas is only a few days away. Preparations for that celebration are everywhere: hurried people trying to find and buy their last-minute presents; long line-ups of women in the stores buying and preparing for the guests they welcome Christmas Eve; bright lights twinkling in the night, nestled among snowy pine trees; teasing peeks of decorated living rooms seen through windows; and the sounds of Christmas songs, so familiar, that we don’t even notice them anymore.

Yet each year I feel something missing. I ask myself what that is?

What is the true meaning of Christmas? The true meaning of Christmas is the celebration of an incredible act of love. The true meaning of Christmas is proof of the eternal yearning of God for the surrender of mankind.

Despite knowing Jesus was not born on December 25, we continue to celebrate his birth. Our joy is the essence of his arrival – the Son of God, the savior of all who truly believe in Him, whatever you conceive Him to be. For without his birth and the sacrifice of his tortured death we would still be lost.

Jesus is real. His birth is the soul of the Christmas message. With every celebration of his birth, no matter the date, we are inspired to help, to give, to love, to forgive and to act. To make right what was wrong and repair what is broken.

To recognize the true meaning of Christmas with incredible gifts of love.

HAVE A BLESSED, WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS!

 

Opinions & Endorsements

After a presentation I make an effort to answer as many questions as I can. When there is no limit to time my answers and explanations could be in itself a presentation. Which I don’t mind.

One frequently asked questions is: “Do you speak in the schools about this history”.

The answer is “yes”. I have been in numerous schools during the past years; spoken to students and teachers and answered many interesting questions. One of the history teachers added “The Remains of War” to his curriculum which made me feel really honored.

Another question is: “How do people react after they have read your book?”

Believe it or not, that is a more difficult question to answer. So instead of answering it I have added some of my favourite endorsements with you. Truly, I could devote more than a page or even ten with the incredible feedback readers have shared with me.

“In this book, G. Pauline Kok-Schurgers courageously recounts the heartbreaking experience of a young family torn apart by the ravages of world War II while imprisoned in a Japanese concentration Camp. Told with remarkable clarity and sincerity, this book is a powerful depiction of how war forever robs one’s childhood…thank you for allowing me to read the book. It is beautiful and painful and I applaud you for writing it.” –  Radio: Rosie Fernandez, CBC

“This book is an unforgettable account of a dark page in world history which has been mostly neglected. Mrs. Kok-Schurgers has provided a very powerful voice to the children who suffered so much cruelty and hardships at the hands of their captors and whose stories remain untold.” – Dr. Ulrich Frisse, LL.M, Publisher — Transatlantic Publishing

“This is a must read for this and future generations. Through the eyes and heart of a child, Pauline Kok-Schurgers has captured in detail another dark era of men’s inhumanity to men, women and children. A time that never must be erased from history. Pauline is a courageous, true survivor who has put her experiences and inner heart to pen. – Rev. Robert Beer, Director: Paladin International.

“I completed this book this weekend and enjoyed it thoroughly although I’m not sure that ‘enjoyed’ is the proper term. The book was well written and well expressed, giving words to the feelings of a young girl. It was a tragedy. It took great courage to put her experiences into words and thankfully her story has been told. It is a testament to those who lost their lives and to the amazing feats of survival that she was a part of. I deeply felt the loss of her childhood. The change in family dynamics, her relationships with others, and the roles she was forced to assume would reshape the woman that Sofia was becoming.” – Karen Mallet – Registered Nurses

The Ontario Women’s Club in London

Time has passed; and the presentation I gave for the Women’s Club of Ontario has also passed.

It was quite an experience.It started funny; and just wrong.

We left Cambridge without delay with the books in the trunk and the laptop on the back seat. We went east to pick up our granddaughter Savannah in Kitchener, and then on westward to Innerkip to pick up my daughter Stella and my grandson Hunter. Whether it was to help me with the powerpoint presentation or sell a book or two, each had an important role to play, for we were pre-warned the Club had 800 members.

We transferred the books from one trunk to another and all piled into one vehicle. The drive would be approximately one hour. We were very much in time and the mood in the car was perky and cheerful, till my daughter, the power point organizer (and driver), turned around and casually asked if we were sure we had moved everything successfully over from one car to the other.

Already half way there, my memory flew over the past events seeing in my mind the grandkids unloading and loading the boxes filled with “Remains Of War” copies. A feeling of dread rose slowly inside me as I turned to my granddaughter and asked: “Savannah, did we transfer the laptop that sat next to you on the way to Innerkip?” Instantly we all realized that we had left the most important item back in the first car. O Boy!

The car stopped, we checked just to make certain and sure enough the laptop was missing and we turned around. What a pain!

The drive back was twice as fast as the initial one, but luckily we had planned to arrive early. The rest went easily enough despite a slightly faster speed, and we arrived in London just in time.

There, traffic was horrendous. The intersections were numerous with a red light at almost every one. The GPS ended up having two of the same addresses – one north and one south. We were in the north end so we followed the directions to that one first and eventually found Centennial Hall in, yes, you guessed it, the south end. O Boy!-O Boy!

Despite this, we managed to arrive 15 minutes before our expected time of arrival. Only problem was none of the employees knew what we were there for or where we should go!

I thought to myself “so much has gone wrong so far, the rest should be a cake walk”.

And that it was.

Elaine, the lady we were to meet came at noon and helped us unload the books and showed us where we could set everything up. In the process I was late to meet members of the Ontario Women’s Club for a lunch in my honour and after Stella whisked Jake and I away for a scrumptious meal, the kids took care of the rest. Everything fell into place after that.

I returned to find Stella had prepared the powerpoint now set up and ready to go; the two grandkids had organized my books and already sold a few of my signed copies; and members of the Club streaming into the hall awaiting my presentation.

On stage singing O Canada with the chair of the Club I saw that very few seats were vacant. I am still in awe that despite the number of people in the audience, Jake told me later that not a sound was made – you could have heard a pin drop – while I told my story. The power points was impressive and showed the pictures in perfect clarity and I sold more than sixty books that day.

As always those days are exhausting and difficult as once again I walk through the doorway to relive the childhood war had stripped away from me.

But I left triumphant – the struggles of the morning were well worth the success of the day.

The Two Wars of World War II

I was present the day the retired Lieutenant-General Romeo Dallaire arrived to accept an Award presented to him by Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic High School. People walked slowly into the large gymnasium, magically transformed into an impressive reception hall, as one by one each seat was filled until eventually there was standing room only. The audience consisted of mostly students, but also veterans, teachers, police representatives, Kitchener-Waterloo council members, and Ontario members of Parliament.

Before he arrived I searched the crowd for veterans looking for those old enough to know what I know about the war in the South Pacific. I even went to a few men I thought qualified yet none of the veterans present had taken part in the fight against the Japanese Imperial Army. Later when I shared my disappointment with an executive of the Royal Canadian Legion, he explained to me that Canadian soldiers never went to the South Pacific and therefore were not well informed about the events that occurred in that part of the world. The Canadian soldiers, he explained, fought in Europe concentrating on Hitler and the German Army. This is why the Holocaust and the horrors surrounding it are so well known in Canada. It was the American Army that focused intensively on the South Pacific – after the bombing of Pearl Harbour. I spoke with this well-informed gentleman for a long time and afterwards told him what he never knew about that war. I wish to thank him for providing the missing piece to something that has puzzled me for so long – why are Canadians always so surprised to hear about my story – why did they not know?

This is genuinely the first time I realized that W.W. II was actually the accumulation of two wars – two gruesome, bitter and sadistic combination of wars – and never the two shall meet. Leaving a path of unforgettable experiences and memories – so much longer than the war itself.

Somehow this insight brought a strange comfort.

Dallaire arrived by plane, was driven to the Lady of Lourdes High School and walked to the podium accompanied by the loud unique tunes of a Great Highland Bagpipe. I had done my research on Dallaire. I already know a lot about him. I know about the time that a teenage soldier pressed a loaded gun in his face as he endured this ‘close to death’ experience in silence and fear. But he shared with us something I didn’t know. His speech was not long and with no notes to guide him.  He spoke easy, with passion and conviction as he bravely told us that one of his Army friends, who stood beside him within the genocide experience in Rwanda, committed suicide 4 years ago – after 16 years of suffering under the weight of memories he couldn’t escape.

I forgot to breath a moment and experienced the silence which surrounded Dallaire. I have to admit I didn’t hear much more after that. I so understood Dallaire’s friend and the choices in front of him; and I understood why he chose to end it all.

Dallaire had found the courage to speak about his tortured friend without ever mentioning his own unforgettable anguish. Yet his life has become complicated. Those memories, the same memories as the friend who committed suicide, will remain ingrained in the books he writes.

Dallaire is a courageous man.

Between Dallaire’s speech and my newfound insight I have come to a decision I have been contemplating for quite sometime.

Maybe I can start that second book so many have asked for.

If Dallaire had the courage to come forward and share this personal tragedy – why can’t I have the courage to continue my story? Book two to The Remains of War.

Romeo Dallaire

On Monday I meet Romeo Dallaire.

He is the retired Lieutenant General who in 1994 witnessed the killing of almost 800,000 people in Rwanda after receiving orders to stand back and do nothing. For many Canadians the story of this genocide, horrible as it was, seemed to have sunk away into vague memories. During the past months when I mentioned to friends and acquaintances this planned encounter, I saw the effort on their faces as they tried to recall who is Dallaire?

Twenty years is not that long ago, and we speak often enough about remembered experiences of events past those twenty years.

Retired Major Philip Lancaster was a military assistant to Romeo Dallaire during the genocide in Rwanda. In April of this year Lancaster wrote about how people just don’t think about the genocide anymore and very few remember Dallaire’s name. http://www.theglobeandmail.com/globe-debate/twenty-years-after-rwanda-the-world-has-learned-nothing/article17852085/. Although Lancaster mentions the many books written about the genocidal terror and killings, the learning from what happened, seemed absent. “Learning from it is absent” he states, as he pounds his fist in frustration.

I know only too well that the memories of what happened, will now and forever remain alive and wandering through the minds of all those witnesses – for the rest of their lives. As time passes, minutes turn into hours, turn into days, they will be there, ignited by a present that they cannot escape for it will be with them always. Survivors of brutality and terror, the ones still alive, still remembering, will forever be haunted by it’s visions.

I will see Romeo Dallaire on Monday – see him receive yet another reward – one of many and I can’t help but wonder what this means to him. One thing I will know: Romeo Dallaire will never forget Rwanda and will suffer from this genocide for the rest of his life.

Next week I speak to the Ontario Women’s Club in London and I will share with them my story of survival. I will never forget what happened in the South Pacific during WW II; for I will never forget Indonesia. Like Dallaire, I will carry that part of my past with me for the rest of my life.

BlueInk Best Book Award

Yesterday brought the most amazing surprise. It came to me in the form of an email.

I looked at it for a long time before I could actually believe it.

I couldn’t sleep and got up to convince myself that it wasn’t a dream. Out of pure pleasure I kept on reading this e-mail, so unexpected, so surprising, so exciting and so incredibly welcoming.

Instead of talking and explaining my surprise — I’ve decided to share instead:

“Dear Pauline,     

I am thrilled to tell you that we have selected your memoir, The Remains of War, as the recipient of our BlueInk Best Book Award! This award goes to books that we feel are exceptional and merit widespread attention. Only those titles that have earned Starred Reviews are eligible, and we are highly selective. In the past 3-and a half year, this is only the third time we have awarded a book the BlueInk Best Book Reward.

 With your permission, we plan to feature the book prominently on our landing page and promote it to those in the industry.

 Congratulations! I hope you are as exited about this as we are. We found your story utterly compelling and would love for others to discover it, as we did.”

And what does a BlueInk Best Book signify? Well, I couldn’t find the words, so I used theirs: 

“That means we can’t — and we won’t — put our stamp of approval on just anything. We promise that, whether it be a breathless thriller, an elegantly written literary piece, a fascinating look at history, politics and other nonfiction, a BlueInk Best Book Award winner will always be a title of uncommon merit. Each book will go through a vetting process and will be debated thoroughly before earining the designation.

First, the chosen book must have earned a Starred Review. A book earns a Starred Review from an individual reviewer only when it is a standout of the highest quality, a title its reviewer feels is especially worthy of reader attention.

All books that receive Starred Reviews are then considered a second time to determine whether they also will be named a BlueInk Best Book. In determining a BlueInk Best Book Award winner, our Review Board considers many factors, bringing our extensive industry experience to bear on the decision.

We will consider some of the same issues a publishing house would debate, such as:

1. The audience for the book (is it large enough for the book to merit wide attention?)
2. Competition for the subject matter on bookshelves 
3. The freshness and appeal of the writing style.

Because we want these awards to be meaningful, we will not set a deadline on finding a BlueInk Best Book. We commit,  only when we find a book worthy of the honor.

Yes, my surprise kept me up at night, and I couldn’t wait to share the news with you. Thank you for allowing me to rattle on as this realization hits me – the fact that this story is noticed; is validated; is considered worthy of yet another award. I am humbled by this recognition, this honor. Thank you.

Self Evaluation

I was asked to describe my personality. It seemed to be important to the person “evaluating” me after she read my book The Remains of War. She needed to find out if my book (and I) could be considered for the NICC Magazine (for the Dutch/Indonesian community).

I find this very difficult and don’t like the question, because I don’t like to talk about myself. So I started out with an endorsement of my book: “my book is a memoir to read for all generations and never to forget. A witness’s sober portrayal of immense evil against endless suffering and true courage. Experiences, which continue to haunt till this day”.

She smiled and stopped me: “I first want to hear about yourself”.

All right then… here we go: “I think I am a consistent person, more serious than flippant or superficial. People call me assertive. I think I like to help; I’m crazy about children and very intent on finding solutions for problems and emotions. I’m a good listener and focused on what is not said behind expressions and conversations.”

I don’t feel comfortable with this lady. She is constantly looking at me, although her eyes are smiling.

She expected more.

“I find it difficult to talk about myself; I am actually a shy person among people I don’t know. Over the last period of my life I have focused more on the meaning of God in my life and know with certainty, that I would not have been able to write this book without His grace.”

That was obviously enough. I watched her pick up her handbag.

“No more self talk”, I think gratefully. She seemed to have made a decision.

“I would be very happy,” she said, “if you could speak to our members in various cities. I will let you know which dates would be available. I am very impressed with your book. You will be able to open a door for us, one that was unknown and closed. You are a unique person and life has kept you humble”.

I remained where I was, long after she had left, and the fading sound of her footsteps had disappeared. I felt like I won a reward.

I looked forward to seeing her again.

Holland

Travelling to Holland was not a problem, but seeing Emma-M was difficult. The last time I saw her was in 2002 when it was she who travelled to Canada to visit me and my family.

It was a lovely visit.

We cried a little and laughed a lot.

Last week, I saw her again.

We cried a lot and laughed a little.

On the day I left her for the very last time I suddenly recalled the Dutch physician as he entered our prison camp in Indonesia to examine and possibly help us. It was the first time we saw a true doctor; one who didn’t speak a foreign language. He became physically ill by the visions before him and when he returned to his own camp, he spoke about what he had seen: “Women with edema, never seen before, even reaching their bellies and breasts. Children so emaciated and thin that I was afraid to lift them, in case I would hurt them. Festering, tropical ulcers. Dysentery and unstoppable diarrhea, advanced lung tuberculosis, women suffering from hysteria, depression and suicidal feelings”.

Emma-M looked tired and much older than her seventy-two years. Instantly it brought me back; as seeing her reminded me of the women who suffered more than three years in those Japanese concentration camps. As I write this I think back to the last sentence of the last blog. For Emma-M I would change that to: “I recognized her in the image of the haunting pallets of autumn – the colours of unity, love and peace”. Emma-M had finally discovered peace within her self. She loved seeing me and as always never complained.

In the end it was a bittersweet visit. Emma-M and I said “good-bye” as we did not expect to see each other again. Her last words to me were: “I’ll see you in heaven”.

All in all I have enjoyed the last visit to my homeland. I was surprised with the welcome I received from my brothers and sisters. We spoke briefly about my book: The Remains of War, which has been translated into the Dutch language under the title: The Forgotten Camp. In a way it was a one-sided conversation, since the two little girls were too young to remember, and my brother has chosen to block those bitter years out of his memory.

But I remember them – as they were long ago, when everything was so desperate; and as they are now, aged in time. I am left with only a sense of gratefulness, that we could be together, once more in unity, love and peace.