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Kina 2015年末消失的原因
亚洲巡演的故事~
PART 1：
I disappeared for a few months at the end of last year—perhaps you noticed. I re-emerged in January, and while I wasn’t ready to share my story then, I promised that when I was ready, I would. But, I needed time. Time to be at home with my family and friends; to just exist without having to explain or understand or analyze what had happened. Or perhaps I needed to do just that, but from the privacy of my own home, inside my own brain; to try to make some sense of it all before I was ready to talk about it out in the open. So I’ve taken my time, slowly reacquainting myself with my life and my music and my work and the online world. I’ve started feeling like myself again. However, with life finally inching its way back to normalcy, the thought of reliving the experience just as it’s starting to loosen its grip on me hasn’t felt entirely appealing. I’ve debated quietly moving on and putting it behind me, but as much as part of me has felt compelled to do just that, there is another, bigger part of me that feels like in order to really move past it, I need to share it first. Maybe because I feel like there is something to be learned here. Or maybe because I hope that with sharing it will come some healing, too. Maybe I’m afraid that if I just let it fade away as if it never happened, it will all have been for nothing—as if I’d simply been robbed of those months of my life. In any case, I’m ready to share my story now, or at least the parts of it I'm comfortable disclosing at this time. So here it is, the Cliff’s Notes version of my 100 days in Jakarta.
亚洲巡演的故事~
PART 1：
I disappeared for a few months at the end of last year—perhaps you noticed. I re-emerged in January, and while I wasn’t ready to share my story then, I promised that when I was ready, I would. But, I needed time. Time to be at home with my family and friends; to just exist without having to explain or understand or analyze what had happened. Or perhaps I needed to do just that, but from the privacy of my own home, inside my own brain; to try to make some sense of it all before I was ready to talk about it out in the open. So I’ve taken my time, slowly reacquainting myself with my life and my music and my work and the online world. I’ve started feeling like myself again. However, with life finally inching its way back to normalcy, the thought of reliving the experience just as it’s starting to loosen its grip on me hasn’t felt entirely appealing. I’ve debated quietly moving on and putting it behind me, but as much as part of me has felt compelled to do just that, there is another, bigger part of me that feels like in order to really move past it, I need to share it first. Maybe because I feel like there is something to be learned here. Or maybe because I hope that with sharing it will come some healing, too. Maybe I’m afraid that if I just let it fade away as if it never happened, it will all have been for nothing—as if I’d simply been robbed of those months of my life. In any case, I’m ready to share my story now, or at least the parts of it I'm comfortable disclosing at this time. So here it is, the Cliff’s Notes version of my 100 days in Jakarta.
PART2:
En route to the hotel after arriving in Jakarta
On September 14th, 2015, my band and I head to Jakarta, Indonesia to kick off a 6-city tour in Southeast Asia. I’ve been trying to will this tour into reality for quite a while, and now it’s finally happening. I’m excited. It’s especially meaningful because it’s the last leg of my Elements World Tour. It’s been an incredible run and we’re ending things on a high note.
The Jakarta show is great. I meet lots of lovely people at the meet and greet afterwards. I’m feeling good. Then, out of nowhere, a group of Immigration officials walk onto the stage and confiscate our passports. They send us back to our hotel, no explanation given.
We manage a troubled sleep that night, with no idea what’s going on. The next day, the tour promoters (the people that invited us out to Asia and are in charge of the tour) assure us that the issue is nearly resolved and that we’ll be flying out to our next stop in Taiwan that night. But that night passes, and so does the next, and the next.
After a few excruciating days of waiting, we’re brought in to the Immigration Office for one-on-one questioning. During my interrogation, I learn that our tour promoters failed to get us work visas, and that as a result of playing our concert we have committed visa fraud — a crime, they inform me, that is punishable by a $35,000 fine per person and 5 years in prison. These are shocking words to hear, but since this alleged crime had been committed with neither intent nor any knowledge of it on our part, it seems too outlandish to be an actual threat, and I am convinced once I've cleared up this misunderstanding everything will be okay. I explain that our tour promoters had ensured us we did have the correct visas, and in the event that was not true, our contract with them clearly states it was their responsibility to secure the visas--not ours. The officials don't seem to care. Our names are on the documents, so they are holding us accountable. They lock away our passports and open a criminal investigation.
En route to the hotel after arriving in JakartaOn September 14th, 2015, my band and I head to Jakarta, Indonesia to kick off a 6-city tour in Southeast Asia. I’ve been trying to will this tour into reality for quite a while, and now it’s finally happening. I’m excited. It’s especially meaningful because it’s the last leg of my Elements World Tour. It’s been an incredible run and we’re ending things on a high note.
The Jakarta show is great. I meet lots of lovely people at the meet and greet afterwards. I’m feeling good. Then, out of nowhere, a group of Immigration officials walk onto the stage and confiscate our passports. They send us back to our hotel, no explanation given.
We manage a troubled sleep that night, with no idea what’s going on. The next day, the tour promoters (the people that invited us out to Asia and are in charge of the tour) assure us that the issue is nearly resolved and that we’ll be flying out to our next stop in Taiwan that night. But that night passes, and so does the next, and the next.
After a few excruciating days of waiting, we’re brought in to the Immigration Office for one-on-one questioning. During my interrogation, I learn that our tour promoters failed to get us work visas, and that as a result of playing our concert we have committed visa fraud — a crime, they inform me, that is punishable by a $35,000 fine per person and 5 years in prison. These are shocking words to hear, but since this alleged crime had been committed with neither intent nor any knowledge of it on our part, it seems too outlandish to be an actual threat, and I am convinced once I've cleared up this misunderstanding everything will be okay. I explain that our tour promoters had ensured us we did have the correct visas, and in the event that was not true, our contract with them clearly states it was their responsibility to secure the visas--not ours. The officials don't seem to care. Our names are on the documents, so they are holding us accountable. They lock away our passports and open a criminal investigation.
PART 3:
Waiting at the Immigration Office
We leave the Immigration Office and the tour promoters again reassure us that everything will be fine. “Things are being resolved. We’ll be flying out soon.” Day after day we are told to pack our bags, and day after day our freshly inflated hopes are crushed beneath the weight of another sunset. One day we’re told we’ll be flying out between 4 and 7am, they’ll call our room when our passports are delivered, get sleep while we can. When I wake up at 9am to no news I am shattered. Another day we wait with our luggage in the hotel lobby for our passports to arrive, but they never come. The heartbreaking realization that I need to start canceling tour dates sets in. As the days pass, I announce the cancellation of my shows one by one, each time hoping it will be the last. Eventually the entire tour is scrapped. I am completely devastated. Not only because the tour has ended before it’s begun, robbing me of the joy of sharing my music with the people who have made my career possible, but also because I am letting people down. I hear about fans who have bought flights from Australia and Japan to come see the shows and are frustrated and confused by the sudden and unexplained cancellation. I feel sick and scared and powerless.
More time passes and the panic has transitioned from threat level orange to very, very red. We’ve gone to the US Embassy. We’ve hired lawyers. No one can help. They don’t understand why we haven’t simply been deported. They say it doesn't make sense. Every day we’re faced with impossible decisions that could impact the rest of our lives, and the only people who can make them are the five of us. We feel overwhelmed and under-qualified. I desperately want to reach out and tell the world what has happened and seek help from the masses, but our lawyers tell us not to go public or reach out to the press. They say that if people get worked up and the story spreads around the Internet, we risk worsening an already precarious situation and putting ourselves in danger. They say that since we are now suspects in a criminal case, the government could detain us and place us in jail at any moment. They inform us that if our case goes to court, which is seeming more likely by the day, the process could take up to 9 months and, despite the seeming impossibility of it all, could actually end with us being convicted and imprisoned.
We’re told we can’t engage in work of any kind, as that would be a further breach of the law and could get us detained. Unable to make money and unsure how long this will last, we start to feel a financial strain, with growing legal fees and bills back home still needing to be paid. It’s also getting increasingly harder to handle the stress, and our emotions often get the better of us. I write in my journal that if we don’t go home soon I’m not sure I’ll ever feel happy again. That I’m scared I might have a mental breakdown if it goes on much longer. It feels insane and unjust and no one here seems to grasp the weight of our situation. We came to play one show and now we are facing possible jail time, unable to work, unable to leave. How is this possible? “How?” is a question we eventually learn to stop asking.
Waiting at the Immigration OfficeWe leave the Immigration Office and the tour promoters again reassure us that everything will be fine. “Things are being resolved. We’ll be flying out soon.” Day after day we are told to pack our bags, and day after day our freshly inflated hopes are crushed beneath the weight of another sunset. One day we’re told we’ll be flying out between 4 and 7am, they’ll call our room when our passports are delivered, get sleep while we can. When I wake up at 9am to no news I am shattered. Another day we wait with our luggage in the hotel lobby for our passports to arrive, but they never come. The heartbreaking realization that I need to start canceling tour dates sets in. As the days pass, I announce the cancellation of my shows one by one, each time hoping it will be the last. Eventually the entire tour is scrapped. I am completely devastated. Not only because the tour has ended before it’s begun, robbing me of the joy of sharing my music with the people who have made my career possible, but also because I am letting people down. I hear about fans who have bought flights from Australia and Japan to come see the shows and are frustrated and confused by the sudden and unexplained cancellation. I feel sick and scared and powerless.
More time passes and the panic has transitioned from threat level orange to very, very red. We’ve gone to the US Embassy. We’ve hired lawyers. No one can help. They don’t understand why we haven’t simply been deported. They say it doesn't make sense. Every day we’re faced with impossible decisions that could impact the rest of our lives, and the only people who can make them are the five of us. We feel overwhelmed and under-qualified. I desperately want to reach out and tell the world what has happened and seek help from the masses, but our lawyers tell us not to go public or reach out to the press. They say that if people get worked up and the story spreads around the Internet, we risk worsening an already precarious situation and putting ourselves in danger. They say that since we are now suspects in a criminal case, the government could detain us and place us in jail at any moment. They inform us that if our case goes to court, which is seeming more likely by the day, the process could take up to 9 months and, despite the seeming impossibility of it all, could actually end with us being convicted and imprisoned.
We’re told we can’t engage in work of any kind, as that would be a further breach of the law and could get us detained. Unable to make money and unsure how long this will last, we start to feel a financial strain, with growing legal fees and bills back home still needing to be paid. It’s also getting increasingly harder to handle the stress, and our emotions often get the better of us. I write in my journal that if we don’t go home soon I’m not sure I’ll ever feel happy again. That I’m scared I might have a mental breakdown if it goes on much longer. It feels insane and unjust and no one here seems to grasp the weight of our situation. We came to play one show and now we are facing possible jail time, unable to work, unable to leave. How is this possible? “How?” is a question we eventually learn to stop asking.
