They say mountains are alive. You see it in the wild tangle of thorns and trees, the hidden movement of birds, beasts, and insects. No one can deny the mountain's vibrant pulse.

        They say each mountain has its own character. That's easy enough to accept. But to say each mountain has a different character, that's a tougher pill to swallow.

1     Mountains Linked by Memory

        I was a foot soldier during my service. Training exercises took me across the islands: Pulau Tekong, Murai, Mandai. I've seen my share of mountains. But they all blurred into one cold, unwelcoming image. I was eighteen, nineteen then. Always burdened by a heavy pack, a steel helmet pressing down, a rifle heavy in my hands. The scorching sun beat down, sweat pouring from every pore, stinging my eyes, blurring my vision. Even so, I had to push on, stay alert, wary of every mountain. They were jagged, defiant, menacing. Suddenly, the officer would bellow, “The enemy's on the hill, charge!” And we'd scramble up the slopes, bullets spitting at the mountain's chest.

    In the cacophony of gunfire, the shouts, the frantic scrambling, what were we really saying? No one could hear anyone. The shouts were just to break the monotony of the march, to give ourselves courage, to prove we were still alive, to vent the frustration and tension building inside.

          But no matter how many bullets we fired, how wildly we ran, shouted, roared, the mountain, if not silent, simply echoed our cries. It contained us, yet mocked us. It stood unmoved, forcing us to reflect.

         Damn you, cold mountain!

      Thankfully, I've had other encounters with mountains since then, encounters that have kept them from becoming a single, frozen image in my mind.

        For a while, I'd run up the winding paths of Mount Faber every morning. A steep, challenging climb, but with breathtaking views at every turn. It was a constant battle against the urge to give up. Every time you stopped, a chorus of reasons would rise up to encourage you, to tempt you, to lure you away, to soothe your doubts.

        Mount Faber, small but strong, cunning and sly. My morning runs taught me that life demands a relentless drive.

         In my early twenties, brimming with youthful energy, I joined friends on a trek up GunungJerai on the peninsula. A lush, verdant mountain, the path wasn't difficult. But once we entered the forest, the towering trees swallowed the sky. For six or seven hours out of our nine-hour climb, we were shrouded in the dense foliage, lost in a world of twilight. First, we climbed slippery, moss-covered stone steps. Then, we slogged through muddy, treacherous paths. We followed the faint, intermittent footprints of those who had gone before, until there was no path left. We carved our own way, forging ahead.

        We went from eager singing to silent, gasping breaths. The monotonous trek sapped our energy. Our feet moved in a rhythmic, automatic dance, carrying us forward. The chirping of insects and the swirling mist created an atmosphere that made us acutely aware of the tedium and the endlessness.

        But the tedium had a curious effect. It kept us from being distracted. Our minds could focus on a single point.

        And the endlessness allowed for introspection, for deeper contemplation.

          After that, I climbed Mount Kinabalu. A dozen of us, trekking for over ten days. Each day, the mountain presented a new challenge, a test of our endurance, a punishment. It could be the leeches of the rainforest, the jagged, unforgiving rocks and shells lining the riverbeds, the sheer cliffs, the nights spent under the open sky, or the emotional entanglements, disagreements, and communication breakdowns that arose from spending days together.

        Mount Kinabalu taught me the complexities of the world, the intricate tapestry of human relationships.

        It also taught me that a mountain's strength comes from its interconnectedness, its unity. Its height comes from its layers, its accumulation.

2     The Mountain's Silent Pact

        They say we all fall in love with a mountain in our lives.

        Hermits find solace in the mountains of Zhongnan, while emperors and kings pay homage to Mount Tai with elaborate spring sacrifices.

        Is there a mountain that swore brotherhood with me in a past life, a mountain bound to me by a silent pact?

        Where is it?

        In the depths of my being, I hear its insistent call. My search for it stretches out, ever-expanding, ever-reaching.

The mountains of Switzerland, renowned for their ethereal beauty, their joyful, welcoming embrace, draw tourists from around the world.

        The Black Forest of Germany, with its ancient castles perched on mountaintops, invites us into a world of romantic fairy tales, where we wait for dashing heroes, for sleeping beauties, for the awakening of a silent world.

        Mount Olympus, in Greece, is not just home to birds and beasts, to the wandering, solitary songs of the Gypsies. It is the birthplace of the Greek gods, their epic, tumultuous, and intertwined stories echoing through the ages.

        The mountains of the Thai-Burma border, scarred by the brutal “Death Railway” built during the Japanese occupation. The region remains impoverished. At night, on the narrow, unlit roads, speeding trucks, the “death squads,” illegally transport logs, seeking quick profits. This primitive, mysterious region is still shrouded in a suffocating, unsettling miasma.

        Mountains can be geography or history. They can be economics or politics. They can be dreams or reality.

3     The Song of the Stone Mountain

        Middle age has tempered my youthful aggression. I know I can no longer match the mountain's vastness, its enduring power.

        The path of life, like a mountain trail, is a winding, arduous journey, leaving me weary and disillusioned.

        It was during this time that I met a friend who lived on Pulau Ubin. He repeatedly urged me to visit, to see the sea. I couldn't refuse his hospitality. So, one cloudy morning, I boarded his rickety boat, its engine newly installed. We swayed with the waves, the journey a gentle rocking.

      His modest wooden house stood by the shore, a wooden plank extending from the house to the sea, serving as a dock. For a few days, I lived a simple life, swimming, listening to the waves, fishing, catching crabs, netting fish, gathering clams.

    I noticed that near his house, around lunchtime and dinnertime, a deafening roar would shake the earth, a sound that couldn't be ignored. My friend explained: it was the quarry, blasting rocks.

      One evening, after the quarry workers had gone home, I ignored the “Keep Out” signs and climbed over the fence. My usual adherence to rules had only brought me pain. “Danger,” “Avoid”, these words no longer held any meaning.

        A pack of stray dogs saw me and barked instinctively. I ignored them, picking up a dead branch from the undergrowth, using it as a makeshift dog stick.

        The quarry was a cloud of dust. Cranes, bulldozers, and lorries rumbled with their massive, terrifying tires. I didn't retreat. Large and small granite blocks lay scattered on the path. The mountain beckoned me. I started my ascent.

        Within minutes, I reached the summit. Standing on a massive granite boulder, I surveyed the quarry.

        The mountain had been carved open, a valley in its heart, where bulldozers with giant shovels collected the blasted granite. Lorries carried the stones out of the man-made valley, their wheels grinding on the winding paths. Crushers pulverized the large rocks, and the processed stone was then transported by conveyor belts, forming new hillocks.

        The lorries carried the crushed stone to flat-bottomed boats at the shore. The stone, uprooted, was sent far away.

        The stone mountain wasn't green. The quarry's incessant machinery had driven away the birds and animals. But this mountain was unforgettable, a sight that etched itself into my memory. Its honesty, its sincerity, its disregard for convention.

What mountain would willingly sacrifice its vegetation?

        What mountain would dare to expose its heart, its very core?

        What mountain would willingly shed its skin, again and again, to serve others?

          Leaning against the granite, I felt the contours of the stone against my skin. The mountain was breathing!

        Gazing at the towering, sheer cliff face across from me, I thought of my grandfather's wrinkled brow, the rings of a centuries-old tree.

        How many centuries of compression and solidification does it take for sand and clay to become granite?

      How many years does granite slumber, unseen, undiscovered?

   A newborn baby's first cry is a fragile, whimpering sound. Granite, however, chooses a more dramatic, shocking method. It roars its way into existence.

        Is the mountain roaring to release the frustrations of generations? Or is it simply that every action of the mountain is grand? We think it is roaring, but perhaps it is just a sneeze, a sensitive nose reacting to the upheaval of waking up.

4     The Prisoner's Burden

        Looking at the veins of the mountain, its strong, solid chest, I was reminded of Michelangelo's “Prisoner.” The slave, contorted, straining, fighting to break free from the relentless grip of the stone. The stone, cold, unyielding, cruel, clings to the prisoner, refusing his desperate pleas.

        On one side, the struggle for liberation. On the other, the unwavering embrace.

        On one side, the desperate yearning for escape. On the other, the relentless pursuit, the suffocating entanglement.

On one side, the desire for transformation, for rebirth. On the other, the forceful control, the suffocating weight of tradition and patriarchy.

        Many believe Michelangelo's “Prisoner” is unfinished. I disagree. It is in the stalemate between stone and flesh that the work finds its power, its energy, its life.

              My heart opened. To live a life of enduring beauty, a life of richness and vibrancy, we must embrace hardship. Life and hardship are twins, inseparable.

        I lay on the massive granite boulder, enduring the discomfort of its uneven surface. Two eagles soared above, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Sparrows and pigeons wouldn't dare perch on this mountaintop. This stone mountain belonged to the eagles.

        Eagles, I salute you! You have a unique, exquisite sense of beauty.

        Closing my eyes, the sounds of the stone mountain suddenly coalesced into a symphony, a Shostakovich concerto, a blend of harmony and discord. Vast yet delicate, rustic yet wise, profound yet vibrant, rational yet passionate, simple yet complete.

5     The Mountain's Understanding

        They say mountains are alive. Now I understand. Life is inherent, its expression boundless.

        They say mountains have character. Yes, each mountain, with its unique personality, inspires, educates, guides its admirers.

        They say we all fall in love with a mountain in our lives. I'm not sure I believe that. But it has become a driving force, urging me to encounter mountains, to cherish each encounter, to humbly pay homage to their many forms, to understand their many lessons.