Owa Jawa, Film Dokumenter, dan Ide-ide Pelestari Sumber Air Minum

Bisa dimengerti jika suara tetesan air dari keran yang tak tertutup sempurna—bagi sebagian orang bisa terdengar seperti denting musik. Ia menciptakan efek kecipak yang indah, meski sebenarnya ia lahir dari gema yang di dalamnya tidak selalu menyanyikan keindahan. Bahwa ia terbuang dalam kesia-siaan, tanpa sempat termanfaatkan sebagai air yang bisa dimasak untuk minum, untuk mandi, dan untuk memenuhi beragam kebutuhan manusia untuk kehidupan yang layak. 

Saya mendengar gema itu dari kamar mandi saya sendiri. Kebetulan keran air di dalam kamar mandi saya rusak, dan saya belum ada waktu untuk memperbaikinya. Entah sejak kapan keran air itu tidak bisa menutup sempurna, saya tak begitu memperhatikan. Mungkin sudah lebih dari tiga bulan. Yang jelas, di waktu-waktu yang hening—seperti ketika menjelang tidur di waktu malam, suara tetesannya terdengar jernih, dan air menetes terus dari keran, sepanjang malam, sepanjang hari. 

“Suara tetesannya terdengar tak berbahaya, bahkan kadang merdu dan ritmik. Tes…. Tes… tes…”

Di Papua, harga air bersih sangat mahal, seperti halnya bahan bakar. Seorang blogger Kompasiana menyebut, air termasuk barang eksklusif di Papua. Sebagian menyebut, air adalah karunia Tuhan. Di Papua, sampai saat ini air sungai banyak yang belum bisa dimanfaatkan untuk mandi karena keruh dan biayanya mahal bila hendak disaring dan dibuat bening. Hal yang bisa mereka lakukan adalah melakukan penghematan dalam penggunaan air agar setiap keluarga tidak kekurangan air bersih. 

Hujan gerimis turun di Kawasan Kuningan Jakarta Selatan. Meski Jakarta mulai memasuki musim hujan, banyak daerah lain di Indonesia yang terus  berada di dalam kondisi kekeringan dan mengalami krisis air bersih. 

Di kota-kota besar di Indonesia, permasalahan dengan air sedang berproses untuk menemukan solusinya sendiri. Setidaknya penduduk tidak perlu membawa jerigen berpuluh kilometer untuk mengambil air seperti yang dilakukan oleh penduduk di Nusa Tenggara. Unicef menyebutkan warga di kepulauan Alor, NTT tidak memiliki banyak pilihan untuk mengatasi krisis air bersih yang mereka alami. Hujan adalah sumber air minum utama disana, namun hujan ternyata hanya turun selama 4 bulan, membawa mereka dalam deretan tantangan hidup yang lain. Ketika waktu produktif penduduk dirampok beberapa jam setiap harinya untuk berjalan kaki sejauh lima kilometer dengan membawa jerigen berkapasitas 20 liter. Meski kadang-kadang, penduduk (yang memiliki uang) bisa membeli air dari truk tangki yang berkeliling di pulau tersebut.

“Di Jakarta, jika hujan, penduduk berdiam diri di dalam rumah, menghindari basah kuyup kehujanan. Di Alor, hujan bukan waktu untuk mencari kehangatan di dalam rumah. Ketika hujan, mereka semua sibuk, menampung air dalam bak. Sebab, mereka tidak tahu kapan hujan akan turun lagi.”

Melestarikan Sumber Air Bisa Dimulai dari Kamar Mandi!

Setelah sekian lama, barulah saya sadar untuk meletakkan ember di bawah keran yang tak tertutup sempurna di kamar mandi saya, untuk menampung air yang menetes tersia-sia. Ukuran ember itu kecil saja, sehingga dalam beberapa jam, air yang menetes terkumpul, mengisi ember bahkan luber dan akhirnya terbuang tak termanfaatkan.  Jika dalam sehari bisa terbuang lebih dari 1 ember kecil, berapa liter air terbuang dalam satu minggu, dalam satu bulan, satu tahun? Bagaimana kalau ternyata banyak keran-keran rusak lain di kamar mandi-kamar mandi lainnya? Pertanyaan-pertanyaan ini membuat saya teringat artikel-artikel surat kabar dan tayangan-tayangan televisi yang diproduksi untuk menyebarkan pesan untuk sudah waktunya berbuat sesuatu demi kelestarian sumber air bersih. 

Memang kadang sukar untuk membayangkan suatu permasalahan jika ia tidak berada di depan mata sendiri. Orang bilang believing is seeing. Tinggal di Jakarta, akses kehidupan yang layak hanyalah dibatasi sumber daya yang kita miliki. Air minum mudah didapatkan, cepat dan tersedia di mana-mana. Jika kita bekerja di perkantoran, tidak ada anjuran atau panduan untuk bagaimana memanfaatkan air di kamar mandinya. Air seperti sesuatu yang niscaya, untuk tidak mengatakannya sebagai sesuatu yang hampir tak berharga. 

“Kapan kita terakhir kali menemukan semacam anjuran di kamar mandi perkantoran untuk lebih bijaksana menggunakan air? Barangkali semacam stiker sederhana bertuliskan kata-kata bijak singkat yang ditempelkan di cermin di dekat wastafel sehingga semua orang bisa membacanya?”

Penduduk kota metropolitan seperti Jakarta juga telah terbiasa dengan fasilitas umum lain seperti mal dimana air kamar mandinya dipergunakan secara bebas. Para member pusat kebugaran juga tidak pernah dianjurkan untuk lebih bijaksana menggunakan air ketika mandi setelah berolahraga. Mereka bisa mandi berkali-kali seolah-olah sedang menikmati fasilitas spa atau tempat pemandian umum air panas di pegunungan. Tidak pernah ada larangan-larangan, bahkan sebuah mekanisme sederhana untuk mengingatkan bahwa ketika menggosok gigi, jangan lupa untuk mematikan keran air. Barangkali membiasakan sistem dual flush juga perlu, agar sistem pembilasan bisa dipilih sesuai kebutuhan: buang air besar, atau buang air kecil.

“Kelihatannya masih rendah sekali level clean water conscious pada sebagian besar masyarakat. Tapi, jika kita tidak melihat dan merasakan masalah ini, apakah ini menjadi jaminan bahwa kita tidak akan mengalaminya? Bahwa permasalahan tersebut benar-benar ada dan mengintai kita?”

Waktunya Untuk Berbuat Sesuatu!

Ketika kita minum segelas air, kita memasukkan sesuatu dari perut bumi ke dalam tubuh kita. Sumber mata air yang ideal untuk tubuh kita tentu saja yang berada di pegunungan, dari dalam perut bumi tersebut. Mata air di pegunungan pada umumnya memiliki kualitas yang baik, karena mengandung mineral yang diperlukan tubuh sekaligus tidak mengandung unsur pencemar yang berbahaya.

Namun, tidak semua orang bisa memiliki akses yang  mendukung untuk mengkonsumsi air minum yang berasal dari mata air pegunungan. Populasi perkotaan yang padat membuat letak sumur yang airnya dipergunakan untuk kebutuhan sehari-hari, terlalu dekat dengan sumber pencemaran, misalnya tempat sampah, buangan limbah industri, atau septic tank.  Hal ini patut diwaspadai karena jika tidak diolah dengan baik sebelum dikonsumsi, air bisa mengancam kesehatan orang yang mengkonsumsinya. 

Meski demikian, seperti air yang terus mengalir secara filosofis, riset untuk meningkatkan kualitas air minum juga terus berkembang. Ada usaha-usaha agar kita bisa mengkonsumsi air yang layak minum di tengah keterbatasan akses terhadap sumber mata air yang ideal. Unilever menjawab tantangan ini dengan menciptakan Pureit, teknologi pemurni air revolusioner yang bisa digunakan rumah tangga, tanpa menggunakan gas dan listrik. Sebuah water purifier. 

Pureit memberikan donasi ke sebuah sekolah dasar untuk menyediakan air yang aman dan terlindungi dari kuman berbahaya penyebab penyakit.

Pureit membawa isu penyediaan air layak minum ke dalam sebuah harapan baru, bahwa sebuah perusahaan—dalam hal ini Unilever, bisa berkontribusi untuk menciptakan kehidupan masyarakat yang lebih berkelanjutan, sekaligus meningkatkan kualitas hidup mereka. Pureit mampu menyediakan air layak minum setelah melalui empat tahap yang masing-masing bertujuan untuk menghilangkan semua kotoran yang terlihat, menghilangkan pestisida dan parasit berbahaya, menghilangkan bakteri dan virus berbahaya dalam air, dan menghasilkan air yang jernih, tidak berbau, dengan rasa yang alami. 

“Kini, ibu rumah tangga tidak perlu memasak air dari ledeng hanya untuk membunuh kuman. Tidak perlu menunggu air yang panas sampai turun suhunya untuk bisa diminum, karena Pureit sudah menghemat banyak proses yang dilalui untuk mengkonsumsi air layak minum. “

Kehidupan telah berjalan dengan mekanisme tertentu untuk mendukung keberlanjutannya sendiri. Hutan—yang didalamnya tumbuhan hidup, menyiapkan air tanah yang terus mengalir tanpa kita lihat, sampai ke daerah-daerah yang kita tidak banyak melihat pepohonan tumbuh: pemukiman, perkantoran, mal. Air sangat krusial untuk hidup yang terus berlanjut dan di bawah tanah di dalam gedung-gedung tersebut, terdapat air tanah, disedot terus menerus untuk kepentingan manusia, meski kadang hanya untuk dihambur-hamburkan. Air itu berasal dari hutan di tempat yang  jauh, yang kadang kita tidak ketahui dan pedulikan. Saat ini, berapa banyak dari kita yang memikirkan hutan, khususnya hutan Indonesia yang terus menerus berkurang, karena illegal logging, atau oleh sebab-sebab apapun? 

"Hutan di bumi sedang terus menderita. Di dalam segelas air yang kita minum, semestinya kita mampu melihat itu terpancar, sebab air jernih juga bisa menjadi cermin."

Secangkir Kopi yang Tak Sama Lagi!

Beberapa bulan yang lalu saya mendapat tugas dari kantor untuk membuat naskah sebuah iklan layanan masyarakat yang diproduksi bersama sebuah yayasan. Dalam pengerjaannya, saya kemudian menemukan sebuah video dari World Widlife Fund (WWF) yang menjadi salah satu inspirasi. Durasi video ini hanya 1 menit 31 detik, namun memiliki pesan yang kuat dan tidak mudah untuk dilaksanakan, sebab video ini mengajak kita untuk berubah. Semua orang akan setuju kalau berubah itu tidak akan mudah. 

Ini videonya: 

"Untuk membuat secangkir kopi latte, berapa liter air yang dibutuhkan? 400 cc?  seperempat liter air?"

Sebelum saya melihat video ini, saya tidak pernah menyangka bahwa ternyata dibutuhkan 200 liter air hanya untuk membuat secangkir kopi latte--200 liter air itu setara dengan 5 galon air, sekali lagi hanya untuk membuat secangkir kopi latte. Mungkin ini terjadi karena saya termasuk orang yang hanya melihat dari permukaan, dan belum berpikir mendalam bahwa bersamaan dengan air dalam secangkir kopi yang saya lihat  banyak hal-hal lain dalam secangkir kopi latte itu yang juga menggunakan air dalam pembuatannya. 

Air juga dibutuhkan dalam proses untuk membuat cangkir kopi, sedotan, gula, susu, dan untuk perkebunan kopi itu sendiri! Pemenuhan kebutuhan air untuk orang-orang di seluruh dunia yang butuh minum kopi latte saja tanpa bisa dihindari akan membuat bumi tertekan. 

"Jadi, haruskah kita berhenti minum kopi, untuk berpartisipasi dalam melestarikan sumber air minum?"

Kampanye WWF tersebut ternyata tidak mendorong kita untuk berhenti minum kopi. Satu-satunya yang perlu kita ubah adalah cara kita melihat sesuatu sesuai peran masing-masing. Petani kopi bisa mulai melihat kembali cara menghasilkan kopi dengan menggunakan lebih sedikit air sebagaimana kita sendiri, para peminum kopi yang perlu lebih bijak untuk tidak menghambur-hamburkan air. Perubahan juga bisa dilakukan di level pebisnis yang pasti membutuhkan air untuk beroperasi. Bahkan tidak ada pihak manapun yang tidak berkelindan dengan air dalam kehidupannya masing-masing. Pesannya adalah, kita bisa melakukan lebih justru dengan berusaha mengurangi.

Owa Jawa dan Regenerasi Air Tawar di Jawa

Owa Jawa (Hylobates moloch) adalah salah satu primata paling langka di dunia, dan hanya hidup di Indonesia, tepatnya di Pulau Jawa. Sejak tahun 1986, International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN) memasukkan Owa Jawa dalam red list, sebuah daftar berisi flora dan fauna di seluruh dunia yang berada di ambang kepunahan (endangered). Yang memprihatinkan, status endangered Owa Jawa meningkat menjadi “Critically Endangered” sejak tahun 1996, dan catatan terakhir menyebut populasi Owa Jawa tersisa sebanyak 2500 ekor saja, dan terus berkurang karena perusakan habitat aslinya. 

Owa Jawa termasuk hewan arboreal, yang menghabiskan sebagian besar hidupnya di pepohonan, seperti halnya koala dan sloth. Owa Jawa hidup di hutan-hutan tropis, dengan ketergantungan yang begitu tinggi terhadap pohon tempatnya hidup.  Namun, hidup mereka terus terancam seiring laju pengurangan luas hutan yang semakin nyata terjadi di Pulau Jawa!

Owa Jawa, yang terancam punah akibat deforestasi besar-besaran di Pulau Jawa. (foto: www.silvery.org.au)

Yang lebih memprihatinkan, deforestasi di Pulau Jawa terjadi secara dramatis dalam dua puluh tahun terakhir, bahkan Owa Jawa telah kehilangan 96% habitatnya. Kini, Owa Jawa hidup semakin terfragmentasi, terpojok oleh ratusan juta penduduk Pulau Jawa yang semakin bertambah saja setiap tahunnya. Jakarta Post menyebut laju deforestasi berada pada rentang 2,500 ha pertahun atau sejumlah total 0,2 persen dari seluruh luas hutan Indonesia yang harus kehilangan 1,17 juta ha hutan pertahunnya. 

Seolah belum cukup untuk membuat Owa Jawa berada semakin dekat ke arah kepunahan, ada pula praktek perburuan yang dilakukan orang tak bertanggungjawab untuk membunuhi induk Owa Jawa untuk mengambil anaknya. Di hutan, Owa Jawa jantan yang ditinggalkan kemudian akan mengganggu ketenangan keluarga Owa Jawa yang lain, ketika berusaha mencari pasangannya yang baru.

“Owa Jawa termasuk binatang yang setia hanya kepada satu pasangan saja. Seperti burung merpati.”

Laporan IUCN menyebutkan eksistensi Owa Jawa adalah salah satu indikator kesehatan hutan. Owa Jawa juga dapat membantu memperluas areal hutan dengan menyebarluaskan biji-biji tanaman hutan yang mereka makan. Hutan yang semakin berkurang ini, dipastikan akan mengancam keberlangsungan hidup semua mahkluk termasuk manusia, karena jika hutan berkurang, berkurang pulalah ketersediaan air tawar di dalam tanah.

“Bayangkan hidup tanpa air bersih?”

Namun, selalu lebih baik menyalakan lilin, daripada sekadar mengutuk kegelapan. Jika tergerak kita bisa berpartisipasi mencegah hal ini terjadi dengan mengadopsi Owa Jawa. 

The “NatGeo” Dream

Saya tidak sabar menunggu datangnya tahun 2013. ^_^

Pada 4 Januari 2013, rekan saya akan bertemu dengan tim dari National Geographic di Singapura untuk membicarakan kerjasama pembuatan film dokumenter bertemakan Green Building di Indonesia. Persiapan berupa pengembangan cerita sudah kami lakukan sejak dua bulan yang lalu, bahkan rekan saya sudah mengambil beberapa footage dari site pembangunan sebuah komplek perkantoran  di Jl. TB Simatupang, Jakarta Selatan. 

Komplek perkantoran di Jl. TB Simatupang ini memang kami jadikan sentral cerita karena mengklaim diri sebagai gedung perkantoran komersial pertama di Indonesia dengan konsep 100% green. Saya pribadi merasa sangat kagum karena masih ada pihak developer yang idealis dan berani mendesain sebuah gedung perkantoran dengan konsep hijau yang berkelanjutan, dan tidak hanya menggunakannya sebagai sekadar gimmick. Sebab, gedung perkantoran, apalagi di lokasi strategis seperti di Jl. TB. Simatupang pasti akan cepat diminati dan lalu mudah terjual, meski tanpa embel-embel “green”. Oleh karenanya, ada motivasi dan hikmah yang perlu diungkap, dan film adalah medium yang tepat untuk mengungkapkannya, apalagi ide ini lahir di tengah kekisruhan Jakarta, sebuah big durian, yang tajam dan berbau menyengat, namun toh tetap memiliki magnet tersendiri. 

Tak lama lagi, Jakarta akan memiliki gedung komersial pertama dengan konsep 100% green, dengan konsep pengelolaan air yang lebih baik. 

Untuk mendapatkan sertifikasi sebagai green building, setidaknya ada 10 point yang harus dipenuhi.  Dua diantara point tersebut adalah rainwater retention scheme, dan water consumption. Saya membayangkan jika berkantor di gedung yang rencananya akan selesai dibangun pertengahan tahun depan ini, saya bisa minum air dari keran di wastafel kamar mandi. Seperti ketika kita pergi ke Singapura dan minum air langsung dari keran, dan tidak merasa sakit perut sesudahnya. Well, it’s about the time for this country to have such this building. ^-^

Perkantoran di Jakarta adalah penyedot air tanah paling rakus. Pakar Lingkungan Universitas Indonesia, Moh. Hasroel Thayib  menyebut adanya kaitan antara pembangunan antara gedung bertingkat dengan kekeringan yang kerap melanda Jakarta ketika musim kemarau. “Saat ini kawasan terbuka hijau hanya tinggal 8 persen, yang lainnya kemana?” kata Thayib seperti dikutip dari Antaranews.com.

Pertemuan rekan saya dengan tim National Geographic adalah langkah untuk mewujudkan mimpi bagi saya dan teman saya, bahwa suatu saat kami sangat ingin film yang kami buat bisa ditayangkan di jaringan TV tersebut. Selain itu, melalui dua film dokumenter yang pernah kami buat sebelumnya, saya mulai memahami bahwa film bisa digunakan sebagai medium untuk menyampaikan pesan. Kini, dunia perlu tahu bahwa di tengah semrawut kota Jakarta, tetap ada pihak-pihak yang berusaha memberikan kontribusi demi pelestarian lingkungan, dan pada akhirnya mengarah pada usaha pelestarian sumber air minum. 

“Ada yang berusaha menyebarkan gagasan melalui secangkir kopi, ada yang mengajak untuk mengadopsi Owa Jawa, ada yang membangun gedung, ada yang memasarkan water purifier. Semuanya baik. Sebab mereka tidak diam saja dan benar-benar melakukan tindakan nyata.”

Jadi demikianlah. Saya tidak ahli membetulkan barang-barang yang rusak, dan akhirnya saya memanggil tukang untuk membetulkan keran air yang rusak di dalam kamar mandi saya. Kini, saya bisa meninggalkan rumah dengan perasaan tenang. Bahwa tidak ada setetes airpun keluar dari keran saat saya pergi. 

Storytellers, Mo Yan's Speech at Nobel Award Banquet

Distinguished members of the Swedish Academy, Ladies and Gentlemen:

Through the mediums of television and the Internet, I imagine that everyone here has at least a nodding acquaintance with far-off Northeast Gaomi Township. You may have seen my ninety-year-old father, as well as my brothers, my sister, my wife and my daughter, even my granddaughter, now a year and four months old. But the person who is most on my mind at this moment, my mother, is someone you will never see. Many people have shared in the honor of winning this prize, everyone but her.

My mother was born in 1922 and died in 1994. We buried her in a peach orchard east of the village. Last year we were forced to move her grave farther away from the village in order to make room for a proposed rail line. When we dug up the grave, we saw that the coffin had rotted away and that her body had merged with the damp earth around it. So we dug up some of that soil, a symbolic act, and took it to the new gravesite. That was when I grasped the knowledge that my mother had become part of the earth, and that when I spoke to mother earth, I was really speaking to my mother.

I was my mother’s youngest child.

My earliest memory was of taking our only vacuum bottle to the public canteen for drinking water. Weakened by hunger, I dropped the bottle and broke it. Scared witless, I hid all that day in a haystack. Toward evening, I heard my mother calling my childhood name, so I crawled out of my hiding place, prepared to receive a beating or a scolding. But Mother didn’t hit me, didn’t even scold me. She just rubbed my head and heaved a sigh.

My most painful memory involved going out in the collective’s field with Mother to glean ears of wheat. The gleaners scattered when they spotted the watchman. But Mother, who had bound feet, could not run; she was caught and slapped so hard by the watchman, a hulk of a man, that she fell to the ground. The watchman confiscated the wheat we’d gleaned and walked off whistling. As she sat on the ground, her lip bleeding, Mother wore a look of hopelessness I’ll never forget. Years later, when I encountered the watchman, now a gray-haired old man, in the marketplace, Mother had to stop me from going up to avenge her.

“Son,” she said evenly, “the man who hit me and this man are not the same person.”

My clearest memory is of a Moon Festival day, at noontime, one of those rare occasions when we ate jiaozi at home, one bowl apiece. An aging beggar came to our door while we were at the table, and when I tried to send him away with half a bowlful of dried sweet potatoes, he reacted angrily: “I’m an old man,” he said. “You people are eating jiaozi, but want to feed me sweet potatoes. How heartless can you be?” I reacted just as angrily: “We’re lucky if we eat jiaozi a couple of times a year, one small bowlful apiece, barely enough to get a taste! You should be thankful we’re giving you sweet potatoes, and if you don’t want them, you can get the hell out of here!” After (dressing me down) reprimanding me, Mother dumped her half bowlful of jiaozi into the old man’s bowl.

My most remorseful memory involves helping Mother sell cabbages at market, and me overcharging an old villager one jiao – intentionally or not, I can’t recall – before heading off to school. When I came home that afternoon, I saw that Mother was crying, something she rarely did. Instead of scolding me, she merely said softly, “Son, you embarrassed your mother today.”

Mother contracted a serious lung disease when I was still in my teens. Hunger, disease, and too much work made things extremely hard on our family. The road ahead looked especially bleak, and I had a bad feeling about the future, worried that Mother might take her own life. Every day, the first thing I did when I walked in the door after a day of hard labor was call out for Mother. Hearing her voice was like giving my heart a new lease on life. But not hearing her threw me into a panic. I’d go looking for her in the side building and in the mill. One day, after searching everywhere and not finding her, I sat down in the yard and cried like a baby. That is how she found me when she walked into the yard carrying a bundle of firewood on her back. She was very unhappy with me, but I could not tell her what I was afraid of. She knew anyway. “Son,” she said, “don’t worry, there may be no joy in my life, but I won’t leave you till the God of the Underworld calls me.”

I was born ugly. Villagers often laughed in my face, and school bullies sometimes beat me up because of it. I’d run home crying, where my mother would say, “You’re not ugly, Son. You’ve got a nose and two eyes, and there’s nothing wrong with your arms and legs, so how could you be ugly? If you have a good heart and always do the right thing, what is considered ugly becomes beautiful.” Later on, when I moved to the city, there were educated people who laughed at me behind my back, some even to my face; but when I recalled what Mother had said, I just calmly offered my apologies.

My illiterate mother held people who could read in high regard. We were so poor we often did not know where our next meal was coming from, yet she never denied my request to buy a book or something to write with. By nature hard working, she had no use for lazy children, yet I could skip my chores as long as I had my nose in a book.

A storyteller once came to the marketplace, and I sneaked off to listen to him. She was unhappy with me for forgetting my chores. But that night, while she was stitching padded clothes for us under the weak light of a kerosene lamp, I couldn’t keep from retelling stories I’d heard that day. She listened impatiently at first, since in her eyes professional storytellers were smooth-talking men in a dubious profession. Nothing good ever came out of their mouths. But slowly she was dragged into my retold stories, and from that day on, she never gave me chores on market day, unspoken permission to go to the marketplace and listen to new stories. As repayment for Mother’s kindness and a way to demonstrate my memory, I’d retell the stories for her in vivid detail.

It did not take long to find retelling someone else’s stories unsatisfying, so I began embellishing my narration. I’d say things I knew would please Mother, even changed the ending once in a while. And she wasn’t the only member of my audience, which later included my older sisters, my aunts, even my maternal grandmother. Sometimes, after my mother had listened to one of my stories, she’d ask in a care-laden voice, almost as if to herself: “What will you be like when you grow up, son? Might you wind up prattling for a living one day?”

I knew why she was worried. Talkative kids are not well thought of in our village, for they can bring trouble to themselves and to their families. There is a bit of a young me in the talkative boy who falls afoul of villagers in my story “Bulls.” Mother habitually cautioned me not to talk so much, wanting me to be a taciturn, smooth and steady youngster. Instead I was possessed of a dangerous combination – remarkable speaking skills and the powerful desire that went with them. My ability to tell stories brought her joy, but that created a dilemma for her.

A popular saying goes “It is easier to change the course of a river than a person’s nature.” Despite my parents’ tireless guidance, my natural desire to talk never went away, and that is what makes my name – Mo Yan, or “don’t speak” – an ironic expression of self-mockery.

After dropping out of elementary school, I was too small for heavy labor, so I became a cattle- and sheep-herder on a nearby grassy riverbank. The sight of my former schoolmates playing in the schoolyard when I drove my animals past the gate always saddened me and made me aware of how tough it is for anyone – even a child – to leave the group.

I turned the animals loose on the riverbank to graze beneath a sky as blue as the ocean and grass-carpeted land as far as the eye could see – not another person in sight, no human sounds, nothing but bird calls above me. I was all by myself and terribly lonely; my heart felt empty. Sometimes I lay in the grass and watched clouds float lazily by, which gave rise to all sorts of fanciful images. That part of the country is known for its tales of foxes in the form of beautiful young women, and I would fantasize a fox-turned-beautiful girl coming to tend animals with me. She never did come. Once, however, a fiery red fox bounded out of the brush in front of me, scaring my legs right out from under me. I was still sitting there trembling long after the fox had vanished. Sometimes I’d crouch down beside the cows and gaze into their deep blue eyes, eyes that captured my reflection. At times I’d have a dialogue with birds in the sky, mimicking their cries, while at other times I’d divulge my hopes and desires to a tree. But the birds ignored me, and so did the trees. Years later, after I’d become a novelist, I wrote some of those fantasies into my novels and stories. People frequently bombard me with compliments on my vivid imagination, and lovers of literature often ask me to divulge my secret to developing a rich imagination. My only response is a wan smile.

Our Taoist master Laozi said it best: “Fortune depends on misfortune.

Misfortune is hidden in fortune.” I left school as a child, often went hungry, was constantly lonely, and had no books to read. But for those reasons, like the writer of a previous generation, Shen Congwen, I had an early start on reading the great book of life. My experience of going to the marketplace to listen to a storyteller was but one page of that book.

After leaving school, I was thrown uncomfortably into the world of adults, where I embarked on the long journey of learning through listening. Two hundred years ago, one of the great storytellers of all time – Pu Songling – lived near where I grew up, and where many people, me included, carried on the tradition he had perfected. Wherever I happened to be – working the fields with the collective, in production team cowsheds or stables, on my grandparents’ heated kang, even on oxcarts bouncing and swaying down the road, my ears filled with tales of the supernatural, historical romances, and strange and captivating stories, all tied to the natural environment and clan histories, and all of which created a powerful reality in my mind.

Even in my wildest dreams, I could not have envisioned a day when all this would be the stuff of my own fiction, for I was just a boy who loved stories, who was infatuated with the tales people around me were telling. Back then I was, without a doubt, a theist, believing that all living creatures were endowed with souls. I’d stop and pay my respects to a towering old tree; if I saw a bird, I was sure it could become human any time it wanted; and I suspected every stranger I met of being a transformed beast. At night, terrible fears accompanied me on my way home after my work points were tallied, so I’d sing at the top of my lungs as I ran to build up a bit of courage. My voice, which was changing at the time, produced scratchy, squeaky songs that grated on the ears of any villager who heard me.

I spent my first twenty-one years in that village, never traveling farther from home than to Qingdao, by train, where I nearly got lost amid the giant stacks of wood in a lumber mill. When my mother asked me what I’d seen in Qingdao, I reported sadly that all I’d seen were stacks of lumber. But that trip to Qingdao planted in me a powerful desire to leave my village and see the world.

In February 1976 I was recruited into the army and walked out of the Northeast Gaomi Township village I both loved and hated, entering a critical phase of my life, carrying in my backpack the four-volume Brief History of China my mother had bought by selling her wedding jewelry. Thus began the most important period of my life. I must admit that were it not for the thirty-odd years of tremendous development and progress in Chinese society, and the subsequent national reform and opening of her doors to the outside, I would not be a writer today.

In the midst of mind-numbing military life, I welcomed the ideological emancipation and literary fervor of the nineteen-eighties, and evolved from a boy who listened to stories and passed them on by word of mouth into someone who experimented with writing them down. It was a rocky road at first, a time when I had not yet discovered how rich a source of literary material my two decades of village life could be. I thought that literature was all about good people doing good things, stories of heroic deeds and model citizens, so that the few pieces of mine that were published had little literary value.

In the fall of 1984 I was accepted into the Literature Department of the PLA Art Academy, where, under the guidance of my revered mentor, the renowned writer Xu Huaizhong, I wrote a series of stories and novellas, including: “Autumn Floods,” “Dry River,” “The Transparent Carrot,” and “Red Sorghum.” Northeast Gaomi Township made its first appearance in “Autumn Floods,” and from that moment on, like a wandering peasant who finds his own piece of land, this literary vagabond found a place he could call his own. I must say that in the course of creating my literary domain, Northeast Gaomi Township, I was greatly inspired by the American novelist William Faulkner and the Columbian Gabriel García Márquez. I had not read either of them extensively, but was encouraged by the bold, unrestrained way they created new territory in writing, and learned from them that a writer must have a place that belongs to him alone. Humility and compromise are ideal in one’s daily life, but in literary creation, supreme self-confidence and the need to follow one’s own instincts are essential. For two years I followed in the footsteps of these two masters before realizing that I had to escape their influence; this is how I characterized that decision in an essay: They were a pair of blazing furnaces, I was a block of ice. If I got too close to them, I would dissolve into a cloud of steam. In my understanding, one writer influences another when they enjoy a profound spiritual kinship, what is often referred to as “hearts beating in unison.” That explains why, though I had read little of their work, a few pages were sufficient for me to comprehend what they were doing and how they were doing it, which led to my understanding of what I should do and how I should do it.

What I should do was simplicity itself: Write my own stories in my own way. My way was that of the marketplace storyteller, with which I was so familiar, the way my grandfather and my grandmother and other village old-timers told stories. In all candor, I never gave a thought to audience when I was telling my stories; perhaps my audience was made up of people like my mother, and perhaps it was only me. The early stories were narrations of my personal experience: the boy who received a whipping in “Dry River,” for instance, or the boy who never spoke in “The Transparent Carrot.” I had actually done something bad enough to receive a whipping from my father, and I had actually worked the bellows for a blacksmith on a bridge site. Naturally, personal experience cannot be turned into fiction exactly as it happened, no matter how unique that might be. Fiction has to be fictional, has to be imaginative. To many of my friends, “The Transparent Carrot” is my very best story; I have no opinion one way or the other. What I can say is, “The Transparent Carrot” is more symbolic and more profoundly meaningful than any other story I’ve written. That dark-skinned boy with the superhuman ability to suffer and a superhuman degree of sensitivity represents the soul of my entire fictional output. Not one of all the fictional characters I’ve created since then is as close to my soul as he is. Or put a different way, among all the characters a writer creates, there is always one that stands above all the others. For me, that laconic boy is the one. Though he says nothing, he leads the way for all the others, in all their variety, performing freely on the Northeast Gaomi Township stage.

A person can experience only so much, and once you have exhausted your own stories, you must tell the stories of others. And so, out of the depths of my memories, like conscripted soldiers, rose stories of family members, of fellow villagers, and of long-dead ancestors I learned of from the mouths of old-timers. They waited expectantly for me to tell their stories. My grandfather and grandmother, my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles, my wife and my daughter have all appeared in my stories. Even unrelated residents of Northeast Gaomi Township have made cameo appearances. Of course they have undergone literary modification to transform them into larger-than-life fictional characters.

An aunt of mine is the central character of my latest novel, Frogs. The announcement of the Nobel Prize sent journalists swarming to her home with interview requests. At first, she was patiently accommodating, but she soon had to escape their attentions by fleeing to her son’s home in the provincial capital. I don’t deny that she was my model in writing Frogs, but the differences between her and the fictional aunt are extensive. The fictional aunt is arrogant and domineering, in places virtually thuggish, while my real aunt is kind and gentle, the classic caring wife and loving mother. My real aunt’s golden years have been happy and fulfilling; her fictional counterpart suffers insomnia in her late years as a result of spiritual torment, and walks the nights like a specter, wearing a dark robe. I am grateful to my real aunt for not being angry with me for how I changed her in the novel. I also greatly respect her wisdom in comprehending the complex relationship between fictional characters and real people.

After my mother died, in the midst of almost crippling grief, I decided to write a novel for her. Big Breasts and Wide Hips is that novel. Once my plan took shape, I was burning with such emotion that I completed a draft of half a million words in only eighty-three days.

In Big Breasts and Wide Hips I shamelessly used material associated with my mother’s actual experience, but the fictional mother’s emotional state is either a total fabrication or a composite of many of Northeast Gaomi Township’s mothers. Though I wrote “To the spirit of my mother” on the dedication page, the novel was really written for all mothers everywhere, evidence, perhaps, of my overweening ambition, in much the same way as I hope to make tiny Northeast Gaomi Township a microcosm of China, even of the whole world.

The process of creation is unique to every writer. Each of my novels differs from the others in terms of plot and guiding inspiration. Some, such as “The Transparent Carrot,” were born in dreams, while others, like The Garlic Ballads have their origin in actual events. Whether the source of a work is a dream or real life, only if it is integrated with individual experience can it be imbued with individuality, be populated with typical characters molded by lively detail, employ richly evocative language, and boast a well crafted structure. Here I must point out that in The Garlic Ballads I introduced a real-life storyteller and singer in one of the novel’s most important roles. I wish I hadn’t used his real name, though his words and actions were made up. This is a recurring phenomenon with me. I’ll start out using characters’ real names in order to achieve a sense of intimacy, and after the work is finished, it will seem too late to change those names. This has led to people who see their names in my novels going to my father to vent their displeasure. He always apologizes in my place, but then urges them not to take such things so seriously. He’ll say: “The first sentence in Red Sorghum, ‘My father, a bandit’s offspring,’ didn’t upset me, so why should you be unhappy?”

My greatest challenges come with writing novels that deal with social realities, such as The Garlic Ballads, not because I’m afraid of being openly critical of the darker aspects of society, but because heated emotions and anger allow politics to suppress literature and transform a novel into reportage of a social event. As a member of society, a novelist is entitled to his own stance and viewpoint; but when he is writing he must take a humanistic stance, and write accordingly. Only then can literature not just originate in events, but transcend them, not just show concern for politics but be greater than politics.

Possibly because I’ve lived so much of my life in difficult circumstances, I think I have a more profound understanding of life. I know what real courage is, and I understand true compassion. I know that nebulous terrain exists in the hearts and minds of every person, terrain that cannot be adequately characterized in simple terms of right and wrong or good and bad, and this vast territory is where a writer gives free rein to his talent. So long as the work correctly and vividly describes this nebulous, massively contradictory terrain, it will inevitably transcend politics and be endowed with literary excellence.

Prattling on and on about my own work must be annoying, but my life and works are inextricably linked, so if I don’t talk about my work, I don’t know what else to say. I hope you are in a forgiving mood.

I was a modern-day storyteller who hid in the background of his early work; but with the novel Sandalwood Death I jumped out of the shadows. My early work can be characterized as a series of soliloquies, with no reader in mind; starting with this novel, however, I visualized myself standing in a public square spiritedly telling my story to a crowd of listeners. This tradition is a worldwide phenomenon in fiction, but is especially so in China. At one time, I was a diligent student of Western modernist fiction, and I experimented with all sorts of narrative styles. But in the end I came back to my traditions. To be sure, this return was not without its modifications. Sandalwood Death and the novels that followed are inheritors of the Chinese classical novel tradition but enhanced by Western literary techniques. What is known as innovative fiction is, for the most part, a result of this mixture, which is not limited to domestic traditions with foreign techniques, but can include mixing fiction with art from other realms. Sandalwood Death, for instance, mixes fiction with local opera, while some of my early work was partly nurtured by fine art, music, even acrobatics.

Finally, I ask your indulgence to talk about my novel Life and Death Are Wearing Me Out. The Chinese title comes from Buddhist scripture, and I’ve been told that my translators have had fits trying to render it into their languages. I am not especially well versed in Buddhist scripture and have but a superficial understanding of the religion. I chose this title because I believe that the basic tenets of the Buddhist faith represent universal knowledge, and that mankind’s many disputes are utterly without meaning in the Buddhist realm. In that lofty view of the universe, the world of man is to be pitied. My novel is not a religious tract; in it I wrote of man’s fate and human emotions, of man’s limitations and human generosity, and of people’s search for happiness and the lengths to which they will go, the sacrifices they will make, to uphold their beliefs. Lan Lian, a character who takes a stand against contemporary trends, is, in my view, a true hero. A peasant in a neighboring village was the model for this character. As a youngster I often saw him pass by our door pushing a creaky, wooden-wheeled cart, with a lame donkey up front, led by his bound-foot wife. Given the collective nature of society back then, this strange labor group presented a bizarre sight that kept them out of step with the times. In the eyes of us children, they were clowns marching against historical trends, provoking in us such indignation that we threw stones at them as they passed us on the street. Years later, after I had begun writing, that peasant and the tableau he presented floated into my mind, and I knew that one day I would write a novel about him, that sooner or later I would tell his story to the world. But it wasn’t until the year 2005, when I viewed the Buddhist mural “The Six Stages of Samsara” on a temple wall that I knew exactly how to go about telling his story.

The announcement of my Nobel Prize has led to controversy. At first I thought I was the target of the disputes, but over time I’ve come to realize that the real target was a person who had nothing to do with me. Like someone watching a play in a theater, I observed the performances around me. I saw the winner of the prize both garlanded with flowers and besieged by stone-throwers and mudslingers. I was afraid he would succumb to the assault, but he emerged from the garlands of flowers and the stones, a smile on his face; he wiped away mud and grime, stood calmly off to the side, and said to the crowd:

For a writer, the best way to speak is by writing. You will find everything I need to say in my works. Speech is carried off by the wind; the written word can never be obliterated. I would like you to find the patience to read my books. I cannot force you to do that, and even if you do, I do not expect your opinion of me to change. No writer has yet appeared, anywhere in the world, who is liked by all his readers; that is especially true during times like these.

Even though I would prefer to say nothing, since it is something I must do on this occasion, let me just say this:

I am a storyteller, so I am going to tell you some stories.

When I was a third-grade student in the 1960s, my school organized a field trip to an exhibit of suffering, where, under the direction of our teacher, we cried bitter tears. I let my tears stay on my cheeks for the benefit of our teacher, and watched as some of my classmates spat in their hands and rubbed it on their faces as pretend tears. I saw one student among all those wailing children – some real, some phony – whose face was dry and who remained silent without covering his face with his hands. He just looked at us, eyes wide open in an expression of surprise or confusion. After the visit I reported him to the teacher, and he was given a disciplinary warning. Years later, when I expressed my remorse over informing on the boy, the teacher said that at least ten students had done what I did. The boy himself had died a decade or more earlier, and my conscience was deeply troubled when I thought of him. But I learned something important from this incident, and that is: When everyone around you is crying, you deserve to be allowed not to cry, and when the tears are all for show, your right not to cry is greater still.

Here is another story: More than thirty years ago, when I was in the army, I was in my office reading one evening when an elderly officer opened the door and came in. He glanced down at the seat in front of me and muttered, “Hm, where is everyone?” I stood up and said in a loud voice, “Are you saying I’m no one?” The old fellow’s ears turned red from embarrassment, and he walked out. For a long time after that I was proud about what I consider a gutsy performance. Years later, that pride turned to intense qualms of conscience.

Bear with me, please, for one last story, one my grandfather told me many years ago: A group of eight out-of-town bricklayers took refuge from a storm in a rundown temple. Thunder rumbled outside, sending fireballs their way. They even heard what sounded like dragon shrieks. The men were terrified, their faces ashen. “Among the eight of us,” one of them said, “is someone who must have offended the heavens with a terrible deed. The guilty person ought to volunteer to step outside to accept his punishment and spare the innocent from suffering. Naturally, there were no volunteers. So one of the others came up with a proposal: Since no one is willing to go outside, let’s all fling our straw hats toward the door. Whoever’s hat flies out through the temple door is the guilty party, and we’ll ask him to go out and accept his punishment.” So they flung their hats toward the door. Seven hats were blown back inside; one went out the door. They pressured the eighth man to go out and accept his punishment, and when he balked, they picked him up and flung him out the door. I’ll bet you all know how the story ends: They had no sooner flung him out the door than the temple collapsed around them.

I am a storyteller.

Telling stories earned me the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Many interesting things have happened to me in the wake of winning the prize, and they have convinced me that truth and justice are alive and well.

So I will continue telling my stories in the days to come.

Thank you all.

Hotel M (The Natgeo Dream eps. 2)

Sunday, 14 October 2012, i finished reading Ayu Utami latest book: Lalita. 

As always, it was a very interesting, exploring spiritualism and at the same time Ayu always gives the readers: mystery, complexity and a hit right after the last word. 

At friday, 12 October 2012, i met my friend K, and we were developing story for out latest documentary. We had meeting with T, who's been appointed as the creative advisor for this project. We interviewed T no. 2, an expert in green building, founder of Green Building Council Indonesia. 

The meeting was held at Hotel M, at Kota. T no. 2 had a workshop there, and we met him there. I came late, at the time when T no.  1 was having interview with him. T no 1 who's been living in Belgium for the last few years is a very punctual person. 

K told me that he was a very high definition person. What's is "high defintion" definition? He said it's a kind of person who is very commit on what he will do once he had deal to do it. And he have a deal with us. Sounds like good signs! ^^

So we interviewed T no. 2 for more than 1 hour in the lobby of Hotel M. He gave us enlightenment of such a very niche topic such as certification, green audit, rating, green building category, etc. 

At this point we discusssed about technical aspect of green building. Next, we are going to elaborate more about the motivation. Those are very important aspect of movie making, because it is human aspect that will make a movie far more interesting, the irony, the power of context and localism, etc.

For my readers ^^, this is second part of my writing The Natgeo Dream. Will our dream come true?

I will keep you posted, in the journey to make our dream come true. 

Have a great life to all of you! 

The Dying Horse

Last week I watched a documentary titled "Buddha's Lost Children" and there was a scene where some child monks helped a dying horse. So I thought, the dying horse would be a very nice title for my writing in this blog after long period of abandonment. 

However, would this writing about the dying horse? I don't think so, because I knew nothing about horses. :)

So, last week I also met my friend K, in Citos. We planned to make a documentary about green building in Indonesia, and K was so motivated to produce and/or broadcast the movie in cooperation with The National Geographic or Discovery Channel. 

I was like, are you kidding me? It's not gonna easy  to do that! But K act like he didn't care, and he encouraged me a lot that we can do this as much as we successfully produced our previous movie. 

He always talked about Natgeo whenever we met. Natgeo this, Natgeo that. When will we could finish this movie? He said at least next year. And I was like Lol! 

This is "A Natgeo Dream". Will we achieve this dream? What should we do to achieve our dream? Was it as simple as believe and make it happens? 


The Meeting - When "shadow of doubts" gradually revealed

I've got contact from someone. She recommended me to contact a person: in this story I will only mention his initial, T.

T is an ex editor in chief of a well known magazine who is now live in Belgium. I got his name and googling it and less than in hour I got my email replied with his phone number. Such a miracle. 
So me and K met him at Citos. But K came late (He is from northern Jakarta, and by the time he reached Pondok Indah, he texted me: I"ll be there in 5 minutes. Me: yeah right)

Luckily, T shared a lot to me. It was one of enlightening moment I love and he could give practical solution of every topic we discussed. 

We discussed about transportation in Jakarta and the unsolved mystery of Jakarta hell of traffic. I liked his logical, and I can't figure why there's nobody think about it before. The solution he offered for Jakarta sounded simple for me. 

After the meeting was over, I told K that our discussion with T is an expensive one. He gave us revelation of the story we were starting to develop. 

He gave us human touch and the power of context which are two important element of documentary. 
Now that the shadow of doubts was gradually revealed. I start to believe that we do have story. :)

Today,  Wednesday 3 October 2012, K and T will meet at the site. I really wish I could join them! 

Will keep you update, readers! *Like I have readers :)

Will I make another milestone with this documentary? 

Asian Film Awards 2012

Pada gelarannya yang ke-6 tahun ini, film "Nader and Simin, A Separation" berhasil meraih gelar film terbaik. Namun  film Iran pemenang Best Foreign Country Oscar 2012 ini juga meraih sederet penghargaan di kategori bergengsi lainnya, termasuk Best Screenwriter.

Sementara itu, Indonesia berhasil menorehkan prestasi setelah aktor Donny Damara dinobatkan sebagai Aktor Terbaik dalam film "Lovely Man" garapan Teddy Soeriaatmadja yang juga dinominasikan sebagai Best Director, namun harus kalah dari Asghar Faradi, sutradara "Nader and Simin, A Separation". 

Berikut ini daftar lengkapnya. (Pemenang dalam highlite hijau)

Best Film

・The Flowers of War [China]

・The Flying Swords of Dragon Gate [Hong Kong/China]

・Post Card [Japan]

・A Separation [Iran] 

・Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale [Taiwan]

・Zindagi na milegi dobara [India]

Best Director

・Asghar FARHADI for A Separation [Iran]

・Teddy SOERIAATMADJA for Lovely Man [Indonesia]

・SONO Sion 園子温 for Guilty of Romance 恋の罪 [Japan]

・TSUI Hark 徐克 for The Flying Swords of Dragon Gate [Hong Kong/China]

・WEI Te-sheng 魏德聖 for Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale [Taiwan]

Best Actor

・Aloys CHEN 陳坤 for The Flying Swords of Dragon Gate [Hong Kong/China]

・Donny DAMARA for Lovely Man [Indonesia]

・Andy LAU 劉德華 for A Simple Life [Hong Kong/China]

・PARK Hae-il 박해일 | 朴海日 for War of the Arrows 최종병기 활 [South Korea]

・YAKUSHO Koji 役所広司 for Chronicle of My Mother わが母の記 [Japan]

Best Actress

・Vidya BALAN for The Dirty Picture [India]

・Michelle CHEN 陳妍希 for You Are the Apple of My Eye 那些年，我們一起追的女孩。 [Taiwan]

・Eugene DOMINGO for The Woman in the Septic Tank [Philippines]

・Leila HATAMI for A Separation [Iran]

・Deanie IP 葉德嫻 for A Simple Life [Hong Kong/China]

Best Newcomer

・KO Chen-tung 柯震東 for You Are the Apple of My Eye [Taiwan]

・Eric LIN 林暉閔 for Starry Starry Night 星空 [Taiwan/China/Hong Kong]

・MAEDA Oshiro 前田旺志郎 for I Wish 奇跡 [Japan]

・NI Ni 倪妮 for The Flowers of War [China]

・Gita NOVALISTA for The Mirror Never Lies Laut bercermin [Indonesia]

Best Supporting Actor

・Mark MA 馬志翔 (aka "Umin Boya") for Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale [Taiwan]

・Lawrence KO 柯宇綸 for Jump Ashin! 翻滾吧！阿信 [Taiwan]

・LEE Je-hun 이제훈 for The Front Line [South Korea]

・Mario MAURER มาริโอ้ เมาเร่อ for The Outrage อุโมงค์ผาเมือง [Thailand]

Best Supporting Actress

・Sharmaine BUENCAMINO for Niño [Philippines]

・GWEI Lun-mei 桂綸鎂 for The Flying Swords of Dragon Gate [Hong Kong/China]

・Sirin "Cris" HORWANG ศิริน หอวัง for Headshot ฝนตกขึ้นฟ้า [Thailand]

・YAN Ni 閆妮 for 11 Flowers 我１１ [China/France/Hong Kong]

Best Screenwriter

・Asghar FARHADI for A Separation [Iran]

・SHINDO Kaneto 新藤兼人 for Post Card [Japan]

・LIU Heng 劉恆 & YAN Geling 嚴歌苓 for The Flowers of War [China]

・Alan MAK 麥兆輝 & Felix CHONG 莊文強 for Overheard 2 竊聽風雲２ [Hong Kong/China]

・Chris MARTINEZ for The Woman in the Septic Tank [Philippines]

Best Cinematographer

・CHIN Ting-chang 秦鼎昌 for Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale [Taiwan]

・Vishvajith KARUNARATHNA for Flying Fish [Sri Lanka]

・KIM Wu-hyung 김우형 for The Front Line [South Korea]

・Jake POLLOCK & LAI Yiu-fai 黎耀輝 for Wu Xia [China]

・Rahmat SYAIFUL for The Mirror Never Lies [Indonesia]

Best Production Designer

・Suzanne CAPLAN MERWANJI for Zindagi na milegi dobara [India]

・RYU Seong-hee 류성희 for The Front Line (South Korea)

・TANEDA Yohei 種田陽平 for Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale [Taiwan]

・YEE Chung-man 奚仲文 & Ben LAU 劉敏雄 for The Flying Swords of Dragon Gate [Hong Kong/China]

・YEE Chung-man & SUN Li 孫立 for Wu Xia [China]

Best Composer

・Comfort CHAN 陳光榮, Peter KAM 金培達 & Chatchai PONGPRAPAPHAN ชาติชาย พงษ์ประภาพันธ์ for Wu Xia [China]・CHEN Qigang 陳其鋼 for The Flowers of War [China]

・Ricky HO 何國杰 for Warriors of the Rainbow: Seediq Bale [Taiwan]

・Rahat Fateh Ali KHAN, A.R. RAHMAN & Neeraj SHRIDHAR for Rockstar [India]

・SAKAMOTO Ryuichi 坂本龍一 for Hara-kiri: Death of a Samurai 一命 [Japan]

Best Editor

・Curran PANG 彭正熙 for Overheard 2 [Hong Kong/China]

・Nelly QUETTIER for 11 Flowers [China/France/Hong Kong]

・Hayedeh SAFIYARI for A Separation [Iran]

・Anand SUBAYA for Zindagi na milegi dobara [India]

・TANG Man-to 鄧文滔 for White Vengeance 鴻門宴傳奇 [Hong Kong/China]

Best Visual Effects

・Ritesh AGGARWAL for Ra.One [India]

・KAMIYA Makoto 神谷誠 for Gantz ＧＡＮＴＺ (2010) [Japan]

・Wook KIM, Josh COLE & Frankie CHUNG 鍾健強 for The Flying Swords of Dragon Gate [Hong Kong/China]

・XIAO Yang, CHANG Song, A LAW, LEE Ming-hsung & LI Jinhui for Starry Starry Night [Taiwan/China/Hong Kong]

・YUNG Kwok-yin & Andy KANG for Wu Xia [Hong Kong/China]

Best Costume Designer

・AMANO Kyoko & EMURA Kouichi for Milocrorze: A Love Story ミロクローゼ [Japan]

・William CHANG 張叔平 for The Flowers of War [China]

・MOK Kwan-kit 莫君傑 for White Vengeance [Hong Kong/China]

・Noppadol TECHO for The Outrage [Thailand]

・YEE Chung-man for The Flying Swords of Dragon Gate [Hong Kong/China]