sonder ; the profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passing in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it.
I used to lie awake at night thinking of all the things old friends could have been. How their personalities played out as time passed. How they were doing.
I think I still do think of them. And I think I still will, for many years to come.
At night I lay still, hands at my side like a cadaver under a suffocating comforter. Ready to be autopsied on a morgue-slab bed. My table strewn with books. The whirring fan blades. The blinding bathroom light seeping through the darkness at my window. I think of the boy whose grandparents told me they prayed for me during a raya visit. I think of old madrasah friends; their forgotten ambitions, the things they wanted to do in university.
My art teacher taught us Gursky. How his works both minimised man, portrayed them to be of utter insignificance in the grand scheme of things. And yet, amplified. Showing such magnitude in life as every person puts up with the sheer responsibilities of being human.
These small units, these are what makes us human. We all live lives. And each life, our very own. Each life, a testament to human existence.
I think I further delved into the concept of “Sonder” when my art teacher talked about Andreas Gursky’s work, “Paris, Montparnasse,” and compared it to works he took at concerts. The former— a large scale photograph morphed into continuous units through digital manipulation. She told my classmates and I how much she loved looking at buildings, at HDB flats. The way one stared at passing houses through streetcar windows, moving too fast. She told us of how she thought about every miniscule detail, every person with their lights turned on. Individual realities. How we all have routines, perks, habits— lives. The intricacies of what makes us, simply, human.
Kawakami writes of sonder in Heaven in the most rhapsodic way possible. Individuals with their own lives, their own experiences, unknowing of what their classmates face. Unknowing of what we all face. Sure, you could have fond friends, classmates you see everyday. And yet, you don’t really know them. You don’t really know what goes on in their lives. Their intricate habits, problems, thoughts, secrets, their favourite fruits, upbringings.
Thus I pose the question: do we really even know anyone?
Written by Aaliyah Maisarah