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圖片說明 Caption:
塗鴉，西營盤，2016年，攝影：約翰百德。
Graffiti, Sai Ying Pun, 2016. Photo: John Batten.



 (Please scroll down for English version.)

「不得越過」的警察封鎖線、路上的綠色防水帆布、兩位站在附近的警察，當我走近時，兩人都望向上空，看著閃亮大廈的天台。

我在香港住了很多年，從來沒有看過這樣的一幕。「從高處墮下」可能是警方對類似自殺事件的官方說法。我問大廈保安員發生了什麼事，「只是一宗意外」，回答的速度未免太快。

「只是」。這個詞語也太無情、太拒人於千里，太結局性。

那夜晚一點的時候，我再次經過那個地方。幾塊磚面標示了著地的確實位置。水滴正在乾涸。地上有些灑下的米粒，路邊圍欄還竪起了即製的紙卡屏障。我想，大廈內窗明几淨的大堂中，應該沒有人看到警察、救護車、死者家屬到場、燃點香燭，又或他們的悲傷、無奈與淚水。

那夜與我一同目睹這些的，還有一隻沿路邊溝渠行走的小老鼠。我真心希望牠感興趣的只是散落地上的米粒。隨著我步近，牠也趕忙走開了。

第二天，所有悲劇的痕跡，還有這位在大廈工作清潔工的失落，都一概消失了。

同一個星期，我正在閱讀韓國作家韓江的得獎小說《素食者》。故事的主人翁是生性安靜、安守本份的已婚婦人永惠，她突然宣佈戒吃肉類。小說分為三部份，以丈夫、妹夫與妹妹的視角紀錄了永惠墮進精神錯亂的可怕經歷。這些獨立的敘述帶出了每位講述者現在與永惠的互動和想法，也對比了他們以往對永惠的感覺。小說大部份都是這些間接觀察，永惠的精神狀態在這部份內容下是一個不太可以解釋的謎。

如果問她為什麼突然不吃肉，永惠只會說：「我做了一個夢。」永惠神智清醒和精神平衡，在她與家人與醫生之間的互動時起伏不定，作者巧妙地只透過永惠的夢境，讓讀者窺見永惠的想法（原著中也以斜體表示）：「…但那種恐懼。我的衣服仍被鮮血染濕。躲吧，躲到樹後面。蹲下，別讓任何人看見。我染血的雙手。我染血的嘴巴。在那穀倉內，我做了些什麼？把那紅色的一塊推進我嘴裡，感受他在我牙齦、口腔頂之間被咬碎， 滲出出鮮紅色的血……」

永惠的故事有很多令人揪心的時刻，而且情況每況愈下。例如永惠在精神病院接受治療，妹妹仁惠到探望她時，永惠倒立起來。被問及為什麼要這樣做時，永惠說自己是棵樹，根從雙手和頭部長出。身為素食者，她不會傷害動物，但如果她是一棵樹，她便不會傷害任何生物了。她拒絕進食，只要喝水：她的素食主義結果變成了拒絕生存。

醫生診斷永惠患上了精神性厭食症。仁惠對於永惠被迫餵食滿心疑惑 ，她記得在不久前和很久以前的事，還有讓姐姐被送進醫院的決定。結果會不一樣嗎？仁惠憶述姐姐小時候和她們倆的童年時，我們差不多來到故事的重點。我們知道身為家中老二的永惠，如何承受著父親的暴戾。遠在那時，姐姐已經感到孤立無助：她記得永惠想要離家出走，逃避一切。

對於曾親身經歷或身邊親友有類似抑鬱的讀者，這故事會有似曾相識的感覺。經歷之中會令人感到生命無助、即將失控，通常會出現濫藥、酗酒或自毀的暴力行為。

適逢父親日，我剛讀過的一份調查（湯姆森路透社數據流2013）加深了我對《素食者 》的理解。報導指南韓父親每天平均花五分鐘與孩子玩耍，五分鐘照顧他們。與此對比，德國父親每天有近40分鐘和孩子互動，而美國父親每天則約有近80分鐘和孩子遊戲或親身照顧他們。

「只有」10分鐘！香港表現又如何？


原文刊於《明報周刊》，2016年7月2日。



Down and down

John Batten


The ‘do not cross’ police line tape, green tarpaulin on the road, two cops standing nearby, and as I walked closer they both looked high into the sky towards the shiny building’s roofline.

In my years living in Hong Kong I had never seen this scene. “Fallen from height,” is probably the official police terminology for a suicide like this. When I asked the building’s security guard what happened, “it’s only an accident” was the too quick reply.

 “Only.” That word is too unfeeling, too dismissive; too final.

Later that night, I passed the spot again. A few bricks marked the exact place of landing. There were drying dribbles of water. The ground had a sprinkling of rice and makeshift cardboard barriers had been erected on the roadside fence so, I suppose, anyone inside the building’s pristine lobby did not see the police, ambulance, the arrival of family, incense lit, sadness, despair, and tears.

My other witness at the scene late that night was a small rat edging itself along the road’s gutter; I hopefully imagined it was only interested in the stray grains of rice. It scurried away with my approaching steps.

Next day, all traces of the tragedy and the despair of the man who jumped, a cleaner in the building, had disappeared.

In that same week, I had been reading Korean writer Han Kang award winning’s novel The Vegetarian. It is the story of a quiet, insular young married woman, Yeong-hye, who suddenly announces that she will no longer eat meat. Comprising three sections, the novel tracks Yeong-hye’s awful spiral into psychosis from the point-of-view of her husband, brother-in-law and sister. These individual narratives introduce the social interactions and thoughts that each has and previously felt for Yeong-hye. Through these second-hand observations, Yeong-hye’s mental state is a not-quite-explainable mystery for much of the novel.

Asked why she refused to eat meat, Yeong-hye simply says, “I had a dream.” Yeong-hye’s lucidity and mental balance wavers through interactions with her family and doctors, and the author skillfully only allows the reader a glimpse of Yeong-hye’s mind with a brief recall from her dreams (also italicized in the book): “…But the fear. My clothes still wet with blood. Hide, hide behind the trees. Crouch down, don’t let anybody see. My bloody hands. My bloody mouth. In that barn, what had I done? Pushed that red raw mass into my mouth, felt it squish against my gums, the roof of my mouth, slick with crimson blood….”

Young-hye’s story has many heart-wrenching moments and further unfolds when her sister, In-hye, visits her in the psychiatric hospital where she is being treated to find her doing a headstand. Asked to explain, Yeong-hye simply says she is a tree whose roots sprout from her hands and head. As a vegetarian, she hurts no animal - and as a tree she harms nothing living at all. She refuses to eat, wanting only water: her vegetarianism had critically become a refusal to stay alive.

Yeong-hye is clinically assessed by the hospital doctor as suffering from anorexia nervosa. In-hye, amidst great doubts about Young-hye being force-fed, remembers the recent and distant past and decisions that lead to her sister being in hospital. Would the outcome be different? We are near the crux of the story as In-Hye recalls her sister as a small girl and their childhood, and how Yeong-hye, as the middle sibling, bore the brunt of their father’s terrible anger and violence. Even then, her sister was in despair: she remembered Yeong-hye wanting to run away from home, to run away from it all.

This will be familiar territory for anyone that has suffered similar depression or supported a friend or relative whose life has reached such despair to spin out of control, often with the use of drugs, alcohol or self-violent behaviour.

Adding a layer of understanding to The Vegetarian and coinciding with Father’s Day, I read a survey (Thomson Reuters Datastream, 2013) that South Korean fathers spent an average of five minutes playing and five minutes physically caring for their children every day. In comparison, German fathers spent nearly 40 minutes and American fathers spent nearly 80 minutes a day playing and physically caring for their children.

 “Only” ten minutes a day! How do we compare?


This article was first published in Ming Pao Weekly, 2 July 2016.