THE WHISPERS OF OUR SOUL
BY SIYUAN AW
It is early evening in Singapore, and the sun is beginning to set. I lay the first brushstrokes to a new canvas in my makeshift studio. The quiet is broken by the uncanny flutter of wings. I close my eyes, and my mind takes flight. In my vision, a golden eagle soars. Emerging from the deep, dreamlike hues are the beginnings of two small figures — a boy and a horse — set against the soft contours of a mountain range under the night sky. As my mind merges with the stars above, I am reminded of my mother’s voice: “I am everywhere.” Eyes closed, heart opened, I am transported back to a journey that helped me hear the heart speak.
SEARCH FOR SILENCE
The year was 2018. My world was getting louder, noisier. Screens were screaming for attention. My phone was a prison with golden edges. I lived inside it — small, pixelated, trapped. Everyone seemed to have something to say about everything. Yet, the more I listened, the more I felt lost. I couldn’t hear my heart speak. Even my paintings — my quiet refuge — could not escape the clamour. In those moments, I found myself haunted by a question George Lucas once posed: “Why are we living in cages, with the door wide open?”
The quick death of my mother from lung cancer had marked a profound rupture inside me. Despite my profession as a brand strategist, I never successfully strategised myself out of my grief. The loss of my mum had been a silent burden I carried in my heart throughout my working years in London and Shanghai. Eventually, exhaustion set in, and I was burnt out. It reached a critical juncture — I needed silence and renewal.
On one hand, my phone was luring me deeper into the dopamine-driven world of doom-scrolling distractions. On the other hand, my mind was taking flight — I ‘saw’ mountains rising above the clouds. I decided to leave the high-octane city of Shanghai and head towards the high-altitude wilderness of West Mongolia. Not for escape. But to listen again. To remember the language of silence.
A WORDLESS BOND
Arriving in the Altai Mountains, I heard the drum of the sun. “Come,” it said, speaking directly into my heart. There, at the edge of the world, I met the eagle hunters who lived in harmony with the ancient rhythms of the wild. Their language wasn’t just spoken in words — it was woven from the wind, the mountains, and the sky. Their relationship with nature was not a thing of domination, but of a deep, spiritual communion.
In the rugged beauty of the Mongolian wilderness, I met Bekku who was 17 at the time. Standing atop his family’s hut, phone raised skywards, trying to catch the choppy phone signal to call his sister. But when he called his eagle, it responded unfailingly — emerging from the clouds, and landing on his arm. Although he didn’t have many friends, he was closely bonded with his golden eagle. I was mesmerized by the boundless, wordless bond between them.
When he was about 7, his father brought home the golden eagle, telling him: “She shall be your guardian, your teacher, your best friend.” The eagle opened up a new world for Bekku, imparting the skills and strength as a hunter. Together, they explored the magic of the mountains and discovered the mystery of the sky.
A NEW FRIENDSHIP
My first interactions with Bekku were initially awkward. But he was intrigued by my Canon 5D camera, and we slowly bonded over photography. He enjoyed showing off his hunting skills and taking me on adventures with his eagle.
His knowledge of the land and wildlife was deep and instinctive. He is deeply attuned to the language of the sky. He told me: “My eagle guides me everywhere I go. When I call my eagle, I connect with her spirit. When we fly in the sky, we fly as one.” Through our adventures in the wild, I witnessed their boundless, unbreakable bond.
Over time, we became companions of the wild. Chasers of twilight. Dreamers on rooftops. We would lie beneath the clouds, and let our imagination run free. We would chase sunsets not to catch them, but to remember they existed. And when they dissolved into the horizon, we felt wholeness. A feeling that we, too, were part of that fading light. In those moments—sky, wind, boy, eagle, and I—we were not separate, we were in oneness.
Although Bekku was a young boy, he would casually impart ‘wild wisdoms’ in conversations such as this:
Siyuan: “Why do you close your eyes when you’re connecting with your eagle in the sky?”
Bekku: “Because the language of our heart needs silence.”
Siyuan: “I see.”
Bekku: “When we close our eyes, we amplify the inaudible whispers of our soul.”
SIGN IN THE SKY
One morning, Bekku spotted the eagle making a sign in the sky that coincided with a distinct pattern in the clouds. The sign was clear. It was time. Time to return her back into nature. Bekku said nothing at first. Only reached for my camera. “A photo,” he said. “Just one. For remembering.”
His steps grew heavier, as if gravity itself had learned of his sorrow. It was a dreadful day. His father, understanding Bekku’s sadness, gently reminded him:“The eagle does not belong to you, she does not belong to me. She belongs to the sky.” He added that, “We are eagle hunters. But even the strongest eagle hunters must find the strength to let go.”
As the evening sun began to set, Bekku and the eagle ascend to the mountain’s peak. Low-hanging clouds seemed to blur the boundaries between heaven and earth. For one last time, they spread their ‘wings’ to feel their oneness in the wind. It felt like time stood still for them. In that instant, I caught that tender moment on camera.
Just before the sun disappeared into the horizon, the eagle gently took off. Not with fanfare. Not with farewell. But with grace. With silence. With heaven’s timing. Bekku whispered his farewell, and offered a prayer as he saw his eagle merged into the sky. “Goodbye, my dear one,” he said. “Thank you, and have a great journey.” There was no ceremony. Only a boy, standing still. Eyes locked on the emptiness she left behind.
SPEAKING WITH THE STARS
Soon, the last rays of sunlight vanished. Bekku went home on his horse, while I stayed on at the mountain top. In that darkness, there was nothing but silence. I tried calling out a little “hello”. But my voice, fugitive within the mountains, echoed back, and back, and back… until it died in the distance. In that moment, I felt the weight of my own grief set in. Our stories of loss intertwined.
Then, out of nowhere, a gentle breeze touched my forehead. It beckoned me to look up into the sky. Stars emerged. Scattered at first. But as it got darker, more stars merged to form a shape. Soon, a large pair of wings appeared in the form of constellations. From within, I heard a familiar voice. It’s the voice of my mother: “I’m everywhere. Even if you can’t see me now, know that I’m always with you. In your heart.”
It was like a precious cosmic phone call, dialed across galaxies. The kind that bypasses logic and travels straight to the soul. I told her things I never got the chance to. The sky, once a dome of absence, was full of presence. And I began to understand: that separation is never the end of the story. That the voices of our loved ones, long after their departure, continue to linger within us, echoing the chapters yet to be written. Later, I told Bekku what I experienced. He listened without blinking. And he nodded. Just once. “That helps,” he said. And with that, he teared.
* * *
My eyes blink open. The smell of turpentine in my studio awakens my senses. Paint drips like time. I layer the night sky. Not black, never black. Indigo, violet, secrets. A guidance whisper through my wrist. It pulsed with mystery. And then Bekku’s eagle emerged on the canvas. Not perched, not flying, but becoming — a constellation unfurling its wings across the cosmos.“Let him see this,” I thought. “Let Bekku see what I saw.” But then — there’s another sound, softer than paint. My mother’s voice. “I’m everywhere. I’m always with you.” Every time I pressed colour to canvas, she answered. Together, we turned darkness into light, turmoil into tenderness. One painting becomes many. Years pass, and I decided to turn the paintings into a book. Not just for Bekku. For anyone who has wandered through the long night of loss, and needed a little light. And to hold the names of their lost loved ones in their hearts, like the everlasting stars in the sky.
SIYUAN AW once lived where plans made sense — Shanghai, London, Singapore. Then he wandered under the boundless, wordless sky of Western Mongolia. The map folded away. Today, he writes and draws picture books. Oneness With Your Wings, a picture book by Siyuan from Les Éditions du Pacifique, gently comforts children facing loss. In his world, nothing disappears. It transforms — like a feather carried softly by the wind, a quiet oneness that stays. Find out more about Siyuan’s paintings and books at www.onenesswithwings.co.