Where the lights don't go

What constitutes being a human? Surely, opposition to nocturnality must be one of the fundamental elements. We are children of the light who thrive beneath the sun. The dark age at the beginning of humanity marked a time of chaos, of violence, and of primordial fear of the unknown. Then fire came, guiding us through the darkness, providing us with power, enlightenment, and hope. We are indulged in its grace, and we thrive, evading all dangers of the night. 

But sometimes my mind would take me back to that fateful night. It makes me doubtful of the comfort that these lights have offered us, and lures me closer to the tender of the darkness.

It was a July night of last year, 2019, in the Eastern city of Saigon, Vietnam. 

I was just another typical high school boy back then, who would frequently hang out late at night regardless of what parents would say, finding enjoyment in time spent with friends. 

The city, previously called Thu Duc, is the home of many amusing things. One of them is the ambience that it gives at nights during my nightly strolls. Imagine if you please, the night air, soaked in yellow peaceful gleams by the street lights and veiled by a thin layer of invigorating coolness; to your left, rows of large blackboard tree with their sugary, pleasing scent; to your right, night coffee places, submerged in the jazz music they play, inviting you to have a taste of their art. Under the light of the streets, artists gather to create their shimmering proses or heart-warming music, while couples hold hands and friends talk. I have never been to Paris, but I reckon that it would be bold to say Paris is more charming than this little city. 

The other thing, aside from the beauty on the streets, that attracted my attention was the local tale of an unknown malevolence. They say that nighttime like this is the playground of a large, looming man, whose sole desire is the extinguishment of safety in the hearts of the people, as well as the termination to the modern world of electrical lighting. They say that he does it by manipulating the power grid so effectively that he is able to control the lighting in the city at his own will, usually at the expense of other vulnerable people.  In his presence, there would be nothing joyous. He would shut down the power: no more of the romantic yellow beams of light, no more jazz music. There would only be overwhelming darkness. The lights would go out suddenly, leaving the people of the city defenceless. In the dark, kids would scream for their parents, not knowing that adult minds can also be overflowing with terror. Several hours like this would pass before the break of dawn. 

 My father was an officer of the law so he was understandably troubled by this preposterous violation, worsened by the fact that misdeeds are more easily committed in these blackouts. Petty crimes, robbery, murders, etc. Chaos, just like the dark age of the past. I took after him in my way of thinking and became more contemptuous of whatever this perpetrator might be. 

In Vietnamese, there is a proverb that goes: “whatever you hate will soon be granted to you”. 

That would apply neatly for this situation. 

The story progression was in alignment with the rumours, on that July night on the streets. The air was soft as always, teasing my skin gently. My friends left early to run some errands so I walked down the streets by myself, in my own serenity.

That was when I saw him. I could not make out any other detail except for that he was clearly tampering with one of the important utility poles of the neighbourhood. Pardon me for the lack of information here. However, in my own defence, I was not someone with the knowledge to tell you what exactly he was attempting to do. There were a lot of wires on that pole, and he was there, close enough to intrigue my curiosity but far enough to be safe from it.

My body approached him, burdened by the pile of prudence in my head, whereas my mind began to race recklessly through the endless list of possibilities for the presence of this suspicious man.

A good hunter must master the art of concealment when near his prey. I was not that sort of hunter. The man noticed me. Although briefly startled, he quickly regained the strength needed for an escape. I caught a glimpse of him. Somehow I just knew it: this is the man that everyone has been speaking of.  

With all the vigour I had left, I dashed in the direction of him, without even knowing why. In retrospect, I would blame it on the exuberance of youth, alongside with the boldness of someone who had been trained in martial art and fighting. At that moment I only thought that it was concerning how he could have such agility as if he learned this chase by heart long before it could have even commenced. 

We were oblivious of our destination, but both were certain of the goals. I was to make him pay for the vandalism he committed, while he was to dodge his responsibility. The street lights shone our ways as if they too seek vengeance, and they too knew this would be the day this man is brought to justice for the misfortune he caused. 

In spite of all this intensity, what followed would not be anywhere as glorious as I had expected it to be.

The running figure quickly exhausted himself, slowing down each turn we took. The opportunity was difficult for me to miss. A flying kick and two minutes were all it took to bring him to his knees. Yes, to his knees. 

My excitement was quickly replaced by guilt after I saw whom I attacked. He was a man in his 30s at best. In spite of his scale, the whole body seemed unkempt, with an unpleasant odour of sweat, dirt and fear emitting from his tattered clothes to my nostrils. His eyes were overflowing with fatigue and wariness. It was not, before my eyes, an embodiment of terror, but rather a personification of misery. I believed my hesitation to follow through with my strike was obvious. 

It was a hassle comforting him before I, at last, managed to make him confide in me enough to have a conversation. I imagined the man to have a fortitude comparable with an impregnable fortress. Upon closer inspection, it more resembled a house of cards. He was much like the rest of us in town, preferring resistance over comprehension. 

“Big brother, you are good at running” - said he, after we sat down, our backs facing the walls of a small house. “Big brother” is how common Vietnamese people address men in their 20s or more. 

“I demand an explanation for what you did, or else” - I responded, secured in the knowledge that an escape for him now was even less viable than before.

“Calm big brother, oh I would tell you right away, I have no choice, you would tear me out if I don’t, or worse, take me to the police, you seem angry and strong” - the man continued, with that common working-class accent still. 

The man’s name was Hao. Hao was educated to be a powerline worker a long time ago, which explained how he descended those poles with such expertise. He then served a few years in prison on charges of petty theft. His release on parole was last year. Freed from the restraints of discipline, he made himself an urban legend by sabotaging the powerlines of the city in order to glide away more easily when he steals. A notion which would certainly invoke dissatisfaction. 

But he said it with a vacant gaze, slightly tarnished by helplessness - the type of helplessness you wish not to find in moments of such honest confession.  

“Brother, you may tryna leave the past behind, but it will’ follow you soon. I have no job after prison, people are afraid of the fact I might steal, people need to keep their property, brother. There are other people like me who just cannot find a job in life, too. If we don’t do this, soon we’ll starve. We would prefer going back to prison than starving” - he paused a little and chuckled - “They have nice chicken there”. 

I was following some certain moral principles, but that did not mean I have no sympathy.

We parted ways a few minutes later. I did try to remind him I hope his shenanigans would be promptly terminated the next time someone catches him, to which he replied, “then the prison will feed me, that should be less troublesome for both of us, brother”

 the fate of those who stained their names in a moment of recklessness is unforgiving, even if they used to be a righteous powerline worker. 

After the incident, I find myself no longer at ease around the lights. Turning my attention away from them, I realized one thing few other humans care about. 

With every light we cast, we always leave a gigantic, cruel shadow.