An Anthology of Psychosocial Reflections 『Ami Turinganの心理社会的な思考選集』 英語版

About the Author Ami Turingan (legal name: Hans Andres) is an aspiring novelist who spends their free time writing psychological fiction at their desk. Though originally invested in writing mystery thrillers, Ami Turingan is also curious about other themes like surrealism and social realism. Regardless of genre, what matters to him is the elements that emphasise the profound internal characterisation of his novel’ s characters. His first discovery of writing fiction manuscripts was when he was a fifth grader. In his late father ’ s computer, he wrote about things he fantasised about –– like the euphoria one may feel when with their so-called ‘favourite person ’. To this day, he is yet to recover those drafts. Seven years later, initially only being able to converse in English, Filipino and Japanese, Ami Turingan started learning Korean in 2020, during the COVID-19 pandemic –– which eventually led to him becoming fluent in the language, alongside his newfound interest in Korean literature. He is now taking his writing style and ideas from two influential South Korean female writers, namely, Han Kang and Bae Soo-ah –– both whose novels trigger deep emotion and send shivers down the spine. Currently, Ami Turingan is a student of Humanities in upper secondary school at San Beda University and hopes to take up any bachelor ’ s programme related to creative writing or liberal arts at Waseda University (Japan) or Yonsei University (South Korea). His ultimate dream is to translate novels to and from all four languages he communicates in.

Table of Contents Page 4: White Marbled Floor Page 5-6: Hateful Lovers Page 7: ქსანდრინი (Xandrina) Page 8-10: Lucid Nightmare

White Marbled Floor On a particular day in July, in the severe, windy Mediterranean weather of this Portuguese city, I flatly bond my handsand close my eyes, as my feet lie underneath my jandals standing on the white, marbled floor. The white and marbled floor was as hot as Inferno ’ s excruciating lava. But that cannot compare the pain I’ ve felt upon confronting the death of my baby brother. Luke, my baby brother, died three hours after birth. The midwife told Mother that my baby brother was lucky to endure three hours of living. Until he couldn ’t. Memories of him continue to haunt me –– even if I moved to the westernmost point of Portugal decades later. My hands still bonded to each other, and my eyes closed, I pray for the presence of Luke –– hoping for white light to cross my vision. But nothing had come. But the crisp and sharp wind blowing from the Atlantic and dust resembling the grey, unpurified ashes of my dead brother. And suddenly, I remembered: He died on white, marbled floor like the one I am standing on now.

I find myself in this sombre, golden Orthodox church In front are hieromonks wearing pitch-black robes and a kalimavkionon their heads Suddenly someone starts playing the piano thunderously and everyone starts chanting My eyes close shut My senses go dark like the black hole And then, I go into autopilot mode Bringing solace and mercy, the ear-splitting chant penetrates the ears –– making its way to the mind and heart Holding onto my black, woollen, soft prayer rope with my left hand, I recite ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me ’ I pray that my sensitive and sickly partner in this forbidden love affair to be free from illness. Han, for you have suffered this much, and for you have made me suffer too, I will let you go. As much as Han was vulnerable, I was too. And I’ ve never felt this way This is what true, forbidden love is He gets inside me,he opensmy heart and ruins me Nevertheless, my loud soul still wants him Because we are hateful lovers Hateful Lovers

It has not been two years since I’ ve lived in this faraway city at the extremes between Europe and Asia. The city ’ s blue, colour-washed, and dull façade all seems unfamiliar. This city enchants me with its romantic yet unfamiliar vibe. Caused mainly by unfamiliarity and lack of international exposure, I am perplexed by this country ’ s language. Its alphabet resembles Egyptian hieroglyphs – although I’ ve learnt how to read and write them, they still don ’t come into memory. Speaking it didn ’t help either since I could hardly pronounce the consonant-heavy words of the language, and I ended up sounding like an idiot eating my own words. I know I’ ve got to leave right away since I couldn ’t survive not communicating in the language well. One day, I went to a small supermarket –– looking for juice. I went to a store employee, asking, ‘Where ’ s the juice aisle?’ in plain, familiar English. No intelligible response. I tried saying it in the local language, ‘ts ’ vens vedzeb’ (I’ m looking for juice). I get stared at ominously. Suddenly, a tall, androgynous-looking man empathetically came to my assistance. He wasn ’t a local –– instead, he was a foreigner like me. But still, he spoke the language much better than I did. From the moment we met, my life has changed. He changed my life. I’ m not going to say his name, but during the early stage of our relationship, he offered to become my language teacher on days my work shift didn ’t touch. He was an effective teacher, to say the least. I was able to learn the language without the pressure of having to memorise too many details. Though buying bread and eggs or telling the taxi driver where my destination was much doable, my relationship with him became too intimate that it became inappropriate for him to continue being my language teacher. And then, we became lovers. My understanding of him became more profound, and I’ ve been in too deep his heart. We were inseparable by promise. But after some time, we had a big argument, and he decided to cheat on me with my boss at work. He went knocking on my door, begging me to open it for him. I did not answer. I did not want to talk to him again. He cannot stand another chance to break my heart after creating so much damage. I simply left this hell of a city –– and have never returned since that day. ქსანდრინი (Xandrina)

Tiredly and moistly, my sweat seeps through the stockings on my feet. I feel soaked –– like wearing tights that didn ’t dry from yesterday ’ s laundry. Waking up at 6 o ’ clock, taking public transport to the opposite stretch of Metro Manila from the impoverished and squalid neighbourhood I live in and working at my minimum wage job as a department store saleslady from 10 AM to 9 PM feels like hell. Today was mundane. I go to work, show my ID card to security, and they inspect my things. Then, my boss, as usual, castigates me about how teared up my stockings are. ‘Hoy iha, punit-punit nanaman ‘yang stockings mo! Ayoko makikitan yang pangit mong stockings! Bwiset! Lumayas ka nga dito. Sinisira mo nanaman araw ko! (Hey, your stockings are torn again! I don ’t want to see your hideous stockings! Jeez, get the hell out of here! You piss me off!)’ , my boss said. Obviously, I don ’t have money to buy new pairs of it. The company I work for refuses to pay for it, and my salary is barely enough to feed my family of six. I simply pacified my boss by saying, ‘Sa susunod, papalitan ko na po stockings ko. (I’ll get my stockings replaced next time –– I promise.)’ I was supposed to go to my aisle and wait for customers to assist. But, I had to run back to the staff room to look for my red, leather pouch with my name engraved on it and apply some makeup. ‘Hoy sexy! Sa ’ yo ba ‘tong red na pouch? Melanie pangalan mo ‘diba?’ (Hey sexy, is this red pouch yours? Your name ’ s Melanie, innit?), a dark man, seemingly in his 40s said. ‘Oo, sakin nga yan. Ano po kailangan nila, ser?’ (Yeah, that’ s mine. What do you need, sir?) ‘Ano kasi, naghahanap ako ng bag para sa anak kong papasok na sa school’ (Uhm… I’ m looking for a bag for my child’ s first day of school.) As he said that, I felt a foul sensation in the lower half of my body. It’ s like someone ’ s hand was firmly stroking it. And apparently, my suspicions were correct. The customer was rubbing my behind. Lucid Nightmare

‘Ser, wag po. (Sir, please don ’t.)’ , I muffled. He kept continuing what he was doing –– with no regard for what I’ ve said. ‘Sori na, sexy! Ang ganda mo kasi. (Sorry, sexy lady! You ’ re just too pretty)’ , he whispered. ‘Ser, maawa ka. Nagpapakain lang ako sa pamilya naming anim. (Sir, please don ’t. I’ m just trying to feed my family of six.)’ , I pleaded. His stroking started to become more aggressive; it was as if he was scratching my skin. And that left me no choice but to pinch him in self-defence –– triggering excruciating pain. ‘Ouch!’ he screams in soreness. ‘Sabi ko kasi tumigil ka! (I told you to stop!)’ , I exclaimed. While he continued to scream, my boss, bewildered, came to resolve matters between the middle-aged man who groped me and me. ‘What happened here? Ano ang ginawa mo, Melanie? Sinaktan mo ba s ’ ya? (What did you do, Melanie? Did you hurt him?), my boss asked. ‘H… hinawakan n ’ ya ako (H… he touched me)’ , I stuttered. ‘Come to my office, now!’ the boss exclaimed. The moment I entered my boss ’ office, all I heard was his brassy shouting –– reprimanding me for defending myself from a creep. ‘The customer is always right! You have no right to hurt the customer.’ ‘Really? I can ’t defend myself even if he groped my butt?’ ‘Oo! Ang simple lang kasi ng gagawin mo. Magbebenta ka lang ng school bag at tutulungan yung mga customers sa pag hanap ng gamit nila! (Yes! You had one job. All you had to do was sell school bags and help customers look for what they need!)’ ‘Seryoso ka? Ganyan lang tingin mo saming mga saleslady? Mga babaeng sunudsunuran sa mga lalaking maitim ang budhi? (Are you serious? You only think of us salesladies like that? You only think of us as submissive women to men with evil consciences?) ‘Shut up.’ ‘Wala ka nga ginawa kundi pansinin yung stockings kong punit-punit! Wala kang pakikiramay sa mga trabahador dito! (All you did was pick on my torn stockings! You don ’t care about the workers here!)’ ‘I said, shut up! Eto sweldo mo, saksak mo sa baga mo! (Here ’ s your pay, go shove it into your lungs!)’ , my boss screamed, throwing money that was supposedly my salary into my face.

I’ ve had enough. This is it. I’ ve had enough of this crappy workplace. I’ m 100% determined to leave with a vengeance. ‘Hindi pa tayo tapos! (We ’ re not done yet!)’ , I exclaimed. I left that department store. Now, I’ ve got no place to go but home. And while passing by a general store, I saw a gun. Nobody was surrounding the area, and the weapon seemed to belong to no one. So, I got it and placed it in a safe compartment of my bag, not crammed in with other things so that it won ’t fire. Fortunately, no one saw. I secretly entered my house –– to the surprise of my mother. ‘Hoy, bakit andito ka? Diba dapat nasa trabaho ka? Asan na yung pera, yung sweldo mo? Pang tongits ko yan nila Aling Marites. (Why are you here? Aren ’t you supposed to be at work? Where ’ s the money you ’ ve earned. I’ll use that to play tongits with Marites.’ At this point, I was ready to explode in anger. I’ ve got no mercy in this hopeless society now. I became so mad that I pointed a gun at my mother, who did nothing but gamble the money that was supposed to feed her and my five other siblings. Having this gun made me feel powerful. I feel like I’ ve got the power to dictate how I am deservingly treated. I wanted to be an ordinary human treated with minimum respect. But I guess I’ ve got to earn that respect the brutal and bloody way. I went back to the department store and did a shooting spree. I was happy to see the bloody face of my assailant and my boss. I just hysterically laughed at their dying figure. The police may come at any moment, but I feel so pleased by my acts of honour. ‘Brrring!’ , my phone alarm rang. I woke up bewildered, questioning if everything had really happened. Little did I realise; it was nothing but a lucid nightmare. My mother was still alive, and I still had my job as a saleslady. I continued with my day –– like what I’ ve dreamed of never happened. Because none of them happened. It was merely a lucid nightmare.

81 3 1234-5678 © 2022 Ami Turingan This version is published in English. 'An Anthology of Psychosocial Reflections' 『Ami Turinganの心理社会的な思考選集』 英語版 著者: Ami Turingan 日本限定販売です。 本印刷物の全部または一部の使用のための無断販 売、配布、取引、または貸与は固く禁止されています。

ISBN978-6-6905-3936-5 C0097 ￥ 1850 税抜