Inishilee: 1

By Nishi Lee

 

Inishilee gives us a revelatory look into the Rajneesh movement spanning from the 1980's through mid 1990's.  The story places us in an environment that is both uniquely vibrant, dysfunctional and yet advantageously progressive. A remarkable memoir of a child thrown into disciple-hood.  With a mother who defied her call to domesticity, Kim Lee leads us through webs of grief, delights and obstructions as she learns to fearlessly embrace life with imagination and love.  Her story is one of humor and adventure, as she navigates a road paved with existential fright. Kim Lee writes this inspirational true story of survival with blazing honesty.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystic Drops
• Release date: Nov 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215597507

Nishi Lee

Born to German parents in Kuala Lumpur in 1975, Kim Lee is named after the city of her birth.  When Kim is only six weeks old, the family returns to Germany. Infusing the futurity of a nomadic childhood spent between India, United Kingdom, Germany, Spain, The Netherlands and the United States. After her parents separation, Kim grows up along side her mother in the Rajneesh movement inspired by the Indian mystic, Osho. Her passion for writing is born out of a necessity to understand herself.  She considers the assembly of her history as an important tool, giving her not only authority to voice her opinion on the matter, but also an inner reflection that has ignited a healing journey.  Kim began writing when she settled in California in her early twenties. She currently lives in Sebastopol, California with her family.  Inishilee is her first book.”

Book preview

Preface

InishiLee

‘Courage is a love affair with the universe.’

I am a disciple by default, a spiritual by-product of my mothers choices. Most of my childhood was spent at a crossroad of east and west, in a world of weird and wonderful. Becoming a Sannyasin, as we followers of the controversial guru Bhagwan were known, was living a life in devotion to the self, drop it all was the message. Renounce any identification with your past, family, career, conditioning, children or marriage. Embrace a readiness. The readiness; to take a jump into the future while living life in its absolute totality; awareness, meditation, love, laughter, creativity, and celebration being seen as the essence of our devotion.

As a  young child I had an intense love for my mother and often I worried that if something were to happen to me, she would suffer.  I suppose that meant I knew how much my mother loved me. Trauma leaves tears in the delicately woven fabrics of life, these tears, although stitched up, leave permanent scars. Trauma does not know a time, it is an acceptance of time. Trauma has undoubtedly catapulted me into gut-wrenching, self-doubt, leading to an intense longing for love and validation. My actions as a child and teenager were often desperate; my scars left me emotionally hungry. I have spent my life regaining a sense of emotional balance. A lot of that balance came through writing. Writing allowed me to hear my voice dropping into the emotions and simply allowing an in-depth perspective into my narrative, my choices and my parts of the whole. Trauma hangs around, that's where it gets its reputation. To write is to investigate the voice silenced by pain shame and fear.  May the personal become universal, may the voices which inspire light and laughter shine through these pages. The volatile era, at its core, as many such other era’s was an experiment.

The call to action was celebrated as liberation, there was a sense of urgency that drove Sannyasins on a mission to challenge their social and traditional values. Bhagwan’s teachings showcased an eclectic doctrine of Eastern mysticism to the West. He was a professor, a philosopher, a mystic and a teacher. His honest views about the world's institutions, he verbalized fearlessly in his discourses. Bhagwan’s de-constructions were clever, cunning and funny. His teachings were rooted in the here and now, with an emphasis on every moment being an opportunity to revolutionize yourself, and your beloveds. He helped people remember who they were. He borrowed from philosophers like Marx and Maslow, and psychiatrists like Freud and Beckett, covering everything from religion to politics. Bhagwan frequently mocked organized religions; Christianity, Catholicism, Islam or Judaism it didn’t matter. Then, on the other hand, he spoke fondly and with much respect for traditions like Zen, Sufism, Yoga, Taoism and the teachings of Gurdjieff. His voice, hypnotic, he spoke very slow and had a wonderful way of expressing, himself a whisper in the undertone.

Most, if not all of Bhagwan's teachings had an emphasis on meditation, and often madness. Sannyasins were elite spiritual terrorists, infectious people that smiled with their eyes and followed their hearts in bliss. Bhagwan developed an approach that integrated mediation and religion into psychotherapy, encouraging that which was repressed and unconscious to surface. Catharsis everyday Sannyasins; yelled, sweated, shook their bodies, freaked out, fucked, cried, laughed, danced and then sat in silence. Sannyasin’s had a natural way of looking down on the rest of society, they couldn’t help it. Not because they were egotistical, but because they were lunatics, infected by conscious loving. The experience for many was revolutionary, it changed lives, it was a revolution of the heart.  Bhagwan did not encourage people to repress their desires, nor did he allow them to lose touch with their frustrations. Sex was to be explored and enjoyed sexuality; in particular, removing the guilt and challenging the repressed conditionings. When it was suggested that some practices in the Sannyas movement seem to be more inspired by Mr. Hefner of Playboy than a spiritual leader. Bhagwan responded, I am a spiritual playboy, is there something wrong?

Bhagwan was original in his thinking, he was down to earth and always full of surprises. His conclusions were inescapable and often well-reasoned arguments. One such argument, which one could argue was not well reasoned yet very real, was that his Sannyasins were, not to have any more children. That we as a people were not ready, the work, he said laid within ourselves, the work laid in leaving behind traditional values, tubes were tied and vasectomy’s had. As a result,  Sannyas children were raised to live in the moment, to take responsibility and to celebrate life alongside the master. We became Sannyasins and that is how it began. The everyday challenges life presented were responded to with love, awareness, and solutions. The barrage of attention we kids received was overwhelming at times and often misguided, ill-placed.  We referred to the rest of the world as non-Sannyasins. The adult Sannyasins around us supported this theory of superiority. They treated us kids, like we had the road to enlightenment all mapped out. They based this on the fact that we were spared some of the hard conditioning that had been imprinted on them. Ironic, as I have a severe case of Sannyas conditioning. We as children of Bhagwan were to discover the world ourselves, we cultivated a strong sense of spiritual-self direction.  Bhagwan insisted that Sannyasin children should not be taught anything about his or her Sannyasins beliefs. If you really want to give to the child, Bhagwan said:  This is the only gift possible: don’t interfere. It is difficult. Great fear grips the parents-who knows what will happen to the child? Take the risk. Let the child go alone into the unknown, the uncharted.  Bhagwan believed that children needed to live according to themselves in freedom, in danger and in challenge. To my delight I discovered later in my life that the rest of humanity was equally intelligent, intellectual and kind.

Chapter One

Amsterdam

November 10th 1993

On my eighteenth birthday Mother hands me a card, it is purple and has the number 18 stenciled in blue across the front of it. On the bottom in gold the word Jaar shimmers. I search my memory for previous birthday cards from mother, and I find none. We are in a small apartment in the Hague, a holiday rental, a studio that sleeps four. Mother has a glassy look in her eye, the look, it triggers memories of her insane behaviors. Her mental well-being concerns me. I accept her card and smile, only because I do not know how else to react. I look after my mother the way she ought to look after me. I am not even of the opinion that Mother ought to know better.

The apartment is narrow, with a kitchenette in the back and a little balcony facing a garden. Mother sleeps on the fold out couch, all her possessions are tidy, the sheets of her bed are tucked under the mattress to perfection. The red and yellow flower pillows are neatly arranged, on the side table her suitcase, open but not messy. Mother knows how to take care of her things, I am not a thing, not the kind of thing she takes care of. The night of Mothers departure to Sydney, the packer drops the suitcases by. The packer is a friend, but when I lean on him for emotional support, he does not stay long.  At the train station, there is lingering anxiety which I quickly shut down. Mother looks good, like a normal person. She is wearing a casual beige blazer over white loose linen pants, her purse is elegant like the designer suitcases next to her.

I return to Amsterdam, where I am left with a pounding in my head it has to do with time, a painful tick I still have a lot to learn about patience the space in between. The hotel is cheap tucked away along a forgotten canal. Limited channels on the TV a black box no bigger than a small crate, the kind you would put empty milk bottles in is mounted over the hotel room door, slanted on a black metal rack looking down on me like an authority. MTV, repetitive top ten videos, the Dutch news. I need air. Downstairs I toss my key on the counter as the hotel clerk buzzes in another guest, I keep my head down. The streets are deserted, a few drunk tourists are stumbling through puddles the rain left behind.  The women in the shop windows are slouched over chairs while others lean against walls, the straps of their red corsets hanging over their shoulders they wait for customers. They seem to have mastered the art of patience. A fat woman with blond hair and a red face catches my eye, her lonely smile makes me uncomfortable. I retrace my steps and return to the hotel. The clerk buzzes me in, when he hands my room key, he swipes his greasy fingers across my hand. Men have done this before. It is degrading. I ignore the clerk and proceed along the narrow, creaky stairs to my room. The surface anxiety I feel is manageable but, underneath I am guilt-ridden. An avalanche of emotions descends on me as I begin to grasp just how frightened I really am.  The stress in mounting and I pray that is all I can do now, pray for Mother’s safe passage.

I am half asleep when the phone rings. Hey Nishi Mothers voice carries a mixture of relief and excitement. The warmth of Sydney's summer emits through the line. They gave me a room overlooking the harbor, she relays with delight the sky is so blue. I wish you could see it, the people are nice as well. Nishi listen, I don't want you to worry, but my luggage didn't make it. I spoke to the airline, the luggage got left behind they say it is on its way now, they even gave me compensation to buy some clothes, don't worry, I feel this is a good thing.  Mother spoke like this often, with conviction that everything happens for a reason.

Mothers luggage is delivered the next day by an apologetic clerk from Qantas Airlines. The same day I catch a train to Germany, to my sisters house near Frankfurt. I shrug my shoulders and avoid my sisters eyes when asked about Mother’s whereabouts. I feel safe with my sister and wish I didn’t have so many secrets, I wish I could cry in her arms. My sister goes to work, I stay close to the phone, waiting. With the call comes relief, although now more then ever I am filled with fraught, with existential fright.  There is nothing now except to move forward as instructed.  For the next few weeks I wander between Amsterdam and Cologne living in hotels or boarding houses. In due course I become and expert an circumventing questions and don’t stay anywhere more than a day or two.

It is almost midnight, the station in Muenster is empty except for a few homeless people sleeping on folded cardboard in entry ways, wrapped in stillness. I recognize Kabir’s  stride through the night mist, he is carrying two black suitcases. We walk together down the stairs, through the tunnel onto the platform on which my train is waiting. The suitcases are identical to the ones mother flew to Sydney with. I took a trip to Paris a few weeks earlier, specifically to buy them. I was happy then. Looking at him now, in the dull yellow light of the train station, he seems older his face wrinkled. There is no longer a fluttering feeling in my stomach. Kabir helps me on to the train and there is a finality hanging between us.  When the train pulls out I too think with certainty, like Mother, that everything will work out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Three golden stars are proudly displayed in the lobby of yet another Best Western. A smiling receptionist is taking down my passport number. I have a day in Zurich before my flight to Denpasar, my suitcases yet to be filled with belongings, that do not reflect my actual life. A teddy bear from a fine Swiss toy store seems like a brilliant idea, pretending to have a young nephew, I smile at the shopkeeper while he gift-wraps the bear in Christmas paper. Outside, the streets are covered in a thin sheet of snow. Christmas lights illuminate the ally, a man on the corner roasting macaroons. Back at the hotel, I order a taxi with a friendly receptionist for early, the following morning.

My layover in Singapore is six hours. There are signs throughout the airport which drive home the seriousness of narcotics trafficking. I ignore the signs in transit, and do away with the possibility of a life sentence or worse the death penalty. After a noodle soup I fail to eat, I fall asleep at the gate. The dreams in my head turn into nightmares, I had always thought that when I run, my age would protect me, give me a get out of jail free card.  This notion with my birthday just passed had expired.

The Denpasar airport terminal is crowded, a nauseous feeling descends over me. A stream of passengers indicate the way to passport control.  Emotionally numb I turn over my papers and force out an innocent smile, the officer nods at me in approval. Our flight crowds around carousel number two, the noise in the terminal is amplified now, my heart is thundering so much so it infects me with a sense of reliable calm. The belt spits out bags surprisingly quick. Out to the corner of my eye, I notice other passengers lined up alongside low and long metal tables. The line moves fast, now my suitcase is spread wide open by a customs officer. He is dressed in a grey uniform and is much shorter then I am, I get the feeling that he enjoys authority. The customs officer rummages through my belongings, his examination of the teddy bear involves the ripping off the wrapping, he shoots me a sly look of apology and stuffs teddy back in the suitcase and welcomes me to Indonesia.

The shock begins to subside in the taxi, which takes my bear, my suitcases, and myself to the Grand Hyatt. The taxi ride is only twenty minutes. The relief is not ecstatic, I am left with something raw and vulnerable like a disease which has been given the permission to fester in my soul.  The thick curtains of the hotel room provide a cave. In it I proceed to sleep for a whole day and night. Emerging hungry, finding myself showered and perky at Nampu, the Japanese Bar.  It seems the safest of all the choice the Hyatt has to offer. The sake comes before the food. It is not long before that I am sitting with Brad at the bar.  Brad an American tourist, after weeks of loneliness I tolerate and welcome his intense advances. After more sake I am in Brads room.  Something is not right, the uncomfortable prevails over imaginary intimacy.  With sandals in hand I flee the grips of Brad and return to my room. I draw the curtains yet again and allow the tears.

I spend the next two weeks in Bali, waiting for Kabir to contact me. I change hotels from the Grand Hyatt, to a catalog hotel. There I keep to myself and stay in my room, I can’t help but notice that the hotel attracts the Australian middle class. I imagine every other white man I see at the breakfast buffet to be a policeman. With the suitcases still with me, I am uncomfortable. It takes days for Kabir to catch up with me. When he finally does, it is an awkward meeting. I have no expectations, but it is nice to have someone to talk to. We spend the afternoon together, he relieves me of the luggage, and I move into a hut by the beach in which I find myself around those more like minded.  A few days later Kabir  introduces me to his business associates, they are exotic and have a beautiful houses in the hills of Bali with pools overlooking rice patties. I sit by the pool, wondering if I will ever have this sort of illusion of stability. In Bali Kabir  has a home, a wife and a baby.  Unlike myself he is comfortable here, at home. He leaves me with a list of destinations I might find captivating; A bird sanctuary, restaurants in the jungle. I go look at the birds alone. Kabir orders me to keep a low profile no one ought to know that I am in Bali, least of all working. I don't listen and see my friend anyway. We meet at Bar, over drinks. I feel out of place. The barrage of curious questions from my fellow travelers challenges me. I am still on the job and find it terribly difficult to relax. Before I leave for Singapore, I buy a new bag and some clothes downtown Kuta which I check with ease before boarding my flight.

From my hotel in Singapore, I take a train to Citi Bank. My passport allows me to open an account, it is my first. The term run comes from getting it over with, do a run, don’t look back.  After my run I adopt an air of seriousness. I forget how to smile, how to talk to people, especially the ones closest to me. There seems to be no ground beneath my feet. I do not feel held, I do not feel whole my pieces are scattered across the world. I am nervous all the time, my heart flutters for no reason. Mother has drifted further into her own world, she is in Bali getting her diving certificate, she seems happy. I on the other hand, feel isolated, the pledge of silence and the burden of responsibility is crushing me. I have nobody I can confide in. I arrive in Poona India sometime in January of 1994 in the midst of a nervous breakdown.

Real renunciation is not of wealth, but of the ego, the real renunciation is not a question of renouncing what you have, but a question of renouncing that which you are. You can have much, and you can renounce that, but if the ego continues, you remain ordinary, you remain superficial.

‘Bhagwan’

Chapter Two

In the Beginning

Germany 1967

The wedding photo is taken on the steps of a Catholic church in Geisenheim, a small German town on the River Rhine. Mother is wearing a string of pearls, a black Jackie O' dress and ballet flats. Father is beaming at her in a dapper dark suit. Mother is eighteen and unexpectedly rushed into the marriage by the insistence of Roberta, the head nun of the all Catholic girls school mother attends. Even though mothers pregnancy causes a scandal in the small German town, my parents look happy in the photo. A perfect picture of a bright and promising future. Father is twenty-five when they marry. When my oldest sister Krista is two, my parents move to Malaysia.  In Kuala Lumpur father, works for Euroform Plastics as the head engineer, developing injection moulding and plastic solutions. Euroform's influences stretched throughout Southeast Asia. Father is often gone on business in Burma, Bangkok, or Singapore. The vibrant palate of the east with its colors and culture, mother absorbs and infuses into her cooking and decorating. In Malaysia, the shackles of conformism which had been fitted far too tightly, fall away from my parents. When father is at home, they entertain in cocktail outfits, charming businessmen, diplomats and their wives. It is a content time, one that lives only in my imagination. With five years

Reviews for Inishilee

[Jeroen Gijzen · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is a real page turner! After I started reading it, I couldnt put it down anymore.