Depression a Stepping-stone towards Bliss
Original Title: Depressie, een Opstap naar Geluk ©
Modita van Zummeren
© 2019 Uitgeverij Aspekt
Amersfoortsestraat 27, 3769 AD Soesterberg, The Nederlands
info@uitgeverijaspekt.nl www.uitgeverijaspekt.nl

Translation: Modita van Zummeren & Bodhigita Jane Marshall
Cover Design: Mark Heuveling, Snezhina Uzunova
Editing and Production: Mark Heuveling

Texts from Osho with permission from Osho International Foundation, www.osho.com/copyrights.
OSHO® is a registered Trademark of Osho International Foundation, www.osho.com/trademarks

ISBN: 978946338575
ISBN papaerback: 9789463385152
NUR: 130

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

I dedicate this book to

my beloved source of inspiration Meera Hashimoto

&

Poem: the steppe will flower 11

The dead man will live.

The dead man will hear: live now.

Gone to the very end and buried under stones:

dead man, dead man, get up,

the light of the morning.

A hand will beckon us,

a voice will call us: “I open

heaven and earth and abyss”

and we will hear

and they will get up

and laugh and cheer and live.

Huub Oosterhuis*

______________

1 Translated from www.gedichtensite.nl

INTRODUCTION

This book contains some keys to come out of depression with consciousness and without medicines.

These keys I didn’t learn in my medical education. As a doctor of medicine you are trained in the DSM handbook, in which psychic disorders are categorised by a couple of prescribed criteria. You learn which antidepressant to prescribe for which clinical picture, not knowing that - except in severe depressions - these medicines don’t work at all and that they are mainly put on the market by the pharmaceutical industry to make a lot of money. Medical doctors are not educated in the importance of healthy food, the influence of the heart on the balance of the nervous system or the message of the soul in psychic diseases. Nor is the influence of the family system taken into consideration.

The working method in conventional medicine is still too much focused on the fight against symptoms and not enough on the re-establishment of a healthy balance of body and mind.

My depressions put me on to a search for a way to heal myself through consciousness and this search brought me via gestalt-therapy and Zen meditation to India, where I became inspired by the Indian mystic Osho. He brought me into contact with my being and from there into connection with the whole life of which I am part.

He has given me insight to myself and his Active Meditations have made it possible for me to transform my negativity into a ‘yes’ to life.

As well as this, I discovered through Family Constellations in Art Therapy Training with Meera Hashimoto that my depression was rooted in unsolved issues belonging to my family system.

This book is addressed to everyone who is depressed and who wants to go beyond depression by raising his or her consciousness. If one is ready to face and to struggle through the dark parts inside him/herself, then depression can become a stepping-stone towards bliss.

This book is also for family members, friends, doctors and therapists close to the person who is depressed; to widen the point of view around depression and to enhance understanding for the passage through which a depressed person is going; a passage which is not easy, but which, when it has been struggled through, gives a bliss that is bigger than has ever been known before.

The keys which I give in this book are keys to unlock the heart, the soul and the being. The approaches from the different chapters reinforce each other.

The causes of the depression have mostly developed over many, many years. Patience, love and compassion are needed to investigate, pass through and finally transform the depression.

This can only happen from an attitude of acceptance of the depression. That’s what the first chapter is about.

I dedicate this book to my master, the Indian mystic Osho, who has shown me the way to follow myself and the way to an attitude of a full ‘yes’ towards both life and death. In his presence I feel the highest potential of the human being: celebrating existence from moment to moment, resting in oneself and being connected with the whole universe.

I also dedicate this book to Meera Hashimoto, Japanese artist and artist of life, who developed Osho Art Therapy, through which she has connected many people throughout the world with their creativity, with meditation and with their own life-energy. In February 2017 she left her body. Her work is continued by her students.

1 ACCEPTING DEPRESSION

Many depressive people remain stuck in their depression because they try to avoid reaching the deepest point of the ditch. Unfortunately there is no way to really be cured without going through the deepest part of the valley.*

Willem van de Sanden

The first thing I did when a depression arose was: I fought. I did my utmost to prevent this emotional assassin from putting me down this time. Each time I failed in this, my discouragement got bigger.

To overcome depression it is first of all necessary to accept it. For this courage and trust are needed.

If you are depressed, so be depressed

Osho says about this:

“Remember this: whenever you are depressed, wait for the moment that the depression goes. Nothing lasts forever: the depression will go. When the depression leaves you, wait - be aware and alert - because after the depression, after this night, there will be a dawn, the sun will rise. If you can be alert in that moment, you will be happy that you were depressed. You will be grateful that you were depressed because only through that depression, this possibility; only through that depression, this moment of happiness.

But what do we do? - we move in an infinite regression. We get depressed because of the depression: a second depression follows. If you are depressed, that’s okay, nothing is wrong in it. It is beautiful because through it you will learn and mature. But then you feel badly: ‘Why do I get depressed? I should not get depressed.’ Then you start fighting with the depression. The real depression is good, but the second depression is unreal - and this unreal depression will cloud your mind. You will miss the moment that would have followed the real depression.

“When depressed, be depressed. Don’t get depressed about your depression. When depressed, simply be depressed. Don’t fight it, don’t create any diversion; don’t force it to go. Just allow it to happen, it will go by itself. Life is a flux, nothing remains. You are not needed: the river moves by itself, you are not to push it. If you are trying to push it, you are simply foolish. The river flows by itself - allow it to flow.

“When there is a depression, allow it to be. Don’t get depressed about it. If you want to remove it sooner, you will get depressed. If you fight it, you will create a secondary depression, which is dangerous. The first depression is beautiful, God-given. The second depression is your own. It is not God-given, it is mental. Then you will move in mental grooves - they are infinite.

“If you get depressed, be happy that you are depressed and allow the depression to be. Then, suddenly the depression will disappear and there will be a breakthrough. There will be no clouds and the sky will be clear. For a single moment, heaven opens for you. If you are not depressed about your depression you can contact, you can commune, you can enter this heavenly gate. And once you know it, you have learned one of the ultimate laws of life: life uses the opposite as a teacher, as a background.”*

If you are depressed, allow the depression to be

Pamela Kribbe is a Dutch graduate philosopher and also a medium. In her book Nacht van de Ziel [Night of the Soul] she describes how the way to make your soul shine in your life is to go first towards the darkness in yourself, which longs to be resolved:

“In the depression we meet our dark sides in a very confrontational way. What we have to do is to face this darkness in the first instance. Only then can it resolve and you can experience your light in all its fullness.

“If it is difficult for you to accept and bless negative energies that torment you, then let them appear to you as a child that is searching for help. If you struggle with fear, if you ask yourself if life on this earth is meaningful at all, let those voices take the form of a desperate child. See the heaviest emotion before you as the face of a child, which exactly expresses what you are feeling. Then feel your own strength and stretch out your hand to the child. Bless it. Feel who you are. You are the parent and guide of the child. That is the true relation between you and your heaviest emotions. The night of your soul invites you to take the hand of the child in you, who carries the heaviest emotions. It needs your help. Accompany it, console it and encourage it, but don’t forget who you are. You are the loving parent, the wise guide, who sees farther than the child, across the threshold.” *

The Night of your Soul invites you to take the child in you, who carries the heaviest emotions, by the hand

Depression is often a Mourning Process

Darian Leader, British psychoanalyst, sees with his patients that much of what we call depression nowadays is in fact mourning; the reaction to a loss. Loss of a beloved for example or a job or the place where you used to live. In his book The New Black he pleads in favour of dropping the whole idea of depression and of looking at how we can deal with our losses. Often we want to overcome them, but when something that we loved has been lost, it will always remain a part of us. It is then rather a question of integrating the loss into our life.

Depressed = Deep rest

Jeff Foster, who experienced depression himself, gives a beautiful interview on YouTube about depression:

“We can view depression not as a mental illness, but on a deeper level as a profound and very misunderstood state of deep rest, which we enter when we are completely exhausted by the weight of our own false story of ourselves.

“There is a truth to depression and this truth we often miss in our urge to quickly cure depression; you are sad and quickly you make yourself happy or get back to work.

“Actually we can so quickly end up missing the deeper truth of depression, which is: this isn’t your life to hold up; this story of me and my life. This isn’t who you really are. This person, that you are pretending to be, this character that you are pretending to be, this facade that you are living in the world, it’s not really who you are. You have been pretending to be something that you are not.

“So this is going to crush you. Pretending to be something that you are not. Pretending to be this image. Pretending to be the-story-of-me is eventually going to become exhausting for everyone. And in the case of clinical depression it can even become totally exhausting and crushing. But the point is that it is not about holding up your life in the first place. This story is not who you are. It’s not who you really are. So that’s the deeper truth of depression.

“So perhaps depression is not a sickness or an illness. Perhaps it’s an invitation. I often say: life is a constant invitation to awaken or an invitation to discover who you really are.”*

Depression is an invitation to discover who you really are

In the next five chapters I will describe my personal experience of depression.

______________

* Willem van de Sanden, psychologist and psychotherapist - Author of the Dutch book Depressie actief overwinnen [Active Overcoming Depression]

* Osho -The New Alchemy: To Turn You On #8

* Pamela Kribbe - Dark Night of the Soul

* Jeff Foster, Youtube: From ‘De-pressed’ to ‘Deep Rest’

Part 1

My Experience of Depression

2 HOW MY DEPRESSION DEVELOPED

“Many people, highly sensitive persons for sure, ask themselves what their vocation is. Next they start thinking about what it could be. But in that thinking lurks a big pitfall. Namely, your vocation is found in a deeper layer of yourself: your soul. And that will not easily be addressed by thinking. Your soul will be especially addressed by intuition, by feeling. So you have to discover intuitively what your vocation is.”*

Anonymous

The story of my depression starts even before I am born. I lose my twin sister in the womb. My mother tells me only once when I am a child that when she is pregnant with me, the family doctor hears two little hearts beating. She tells how she immediately starts knitting: two small sweaters, four small socks. And then, weeks afterwards, only one heart can be heard: mine. My twin sister has died. It is the loss of the one with whom I have had the most tender connection before my birth.

I come into the world with a feeling of guilt: I am alive, but my twin sister is not. Until my final depression I keep searching for her from deep inside me and I want to be where my twin sister is. And that is not on this earth.

I want to be where my twin sister is and that is not on this earth

I am born from a strong woman, who carries a lot of pain. She is born in Indonesia, where she grows up in an abundant Nature with gaudy green rice fields and high mountains. She is always outside; her house doesn’t even have windows and with dexterous hands she plays at knucklebones with her friends, brothers and sisters.

Then a drastic change happens: the war breaks out - the Japanese have invaded. The whole family is allowed to take with them only one small suitcase before they enter the overloaded train, heading for the concentration camp. The family cannot stay together; her father has to go to Burma, to work there under the watchful eye of the Japanese on the railways, from where almost nobody returns alive. Many of his comrades die there. He himself survives. He manages not to die from exhaustion during the devastating long marches by taking care to start the walk at the front and to finish at the end of the line. When the war is over, he is not on the list of survivors that reaches my mother’s camp. But later, neither does he appear to be on the list of the dead men.

Then, a man who comes back from Burma visits the camp of my mother and her sisters, and tells them about a man with a long beard who can stand on one hand. They immediately know that this is their father and they go by boat to Bangkok to pick him up.

However, at the beginning of the war, the rest of the family is transported by armoured train to one of the concentration camps. My mother’s eldest brother has to go to the boys’ camp, because he is more than ten years old. Her mother, youngest brother and four sisters all stay together. Her mother remains most of the time in the sick-bay of the camp due to severe intestinal infections. One day, when she is close to death, she is saved by a syringe with medicines somehow obtained by her doctor.

Every day the dead bodies of the children, with whom my mother was playing just a short time before - and who have died because of malnutrition - are loaded on a wooden cart and driven out of the camp. My mother describes how sad it is for her when a baby, which she used to love very much, dies and is carried away in a shoe box.

Almost everybody has worm infections. My mother hates it when the long eel-worms pass out of her anus.

In the camp they live in one house with other families. My mother’s family lives in the kitchen and my mother sleeps in a small kitchen-cupboard, because of lack of space.

In the morning she is given a tasteless paste. The rest of the day some rice; less than fills the centre of the palm of the hand. She is always hungry. If I say as a child that I am hungry, my mother says that I don’t know what that means. Even today I hardly dare to say that I am hungry. In this way I lose the trust in the signals that my body gives me.

I have lost the trust in the signals that my body gives

My mother’s youngest sister always has a small cushion bound around her buttocks, because her sitting bones are almost sticking through her skin and this allows her still to be able to sit.

Sometimes my mother finds a frog, which she eats alive. If the Japanese were to see this she would be caned, so if they approach she quickly digs a little hole in the ground with her foot, drops the frog in, then closes the hole with her foot quick as lightning. High barbed wire surrounds the camp. When the children do something wrong, their mother is punished by the Japanese: she has to sit then in the burning sun for hours with a stick clamped between the hollows of the knees. Many mothers die because of this or are terribly burnt by the sun. So the children are always on their guard.

Every day there is the parade: for hours they are lined up in rows, so that the Japanese can see if everybody is present. When the Japanese pass by, they have to bow down, which they experience as very humiliating. In the daytime they work hard in the fields. The girls are in danger of being raped by the Japanese. For her whole life my mother is afraid of bodily contact.

The whole family survives the war. My mother’s eldest brother joins his mother and sisters again. Together they go by boat to Thailand to pick up their father. When they have found him they sail on to the Netherlands, where their parents come from originally.

They are not received there with a warm welcome. The Second World War is just over and everybody thinks that the colonists simply had a wonderful time over there in Indonesia. They could not get support from anyone for their traumas. They store everything that has happened somewhere deep in their brain and lock it away as firmly as possible. Later, when I work in an asylum-seeker-centre as a medical doctor, a psychiatrist there says that this is the best thing they could have done: to screw the lid of the cesspool down as strongly as they could and then build up a life - a house, a family, work - so that they had a foundation on which they could bear living.

My mother survives by not feeling anything

When my mother arrives in the Netherlands she is fifteen years old. Everything she has experienced separates her from her peers as they hit puberty and she has no common point to connect her with them. So she keeps quiet.

In 2013 I go with my sisters to the documentary Buitenkampers Boekan Main by Hetty Naaijkens- Retel Helmrich. It tells the story of the Dutch Indonesians who lived outside the camps during the Japanese occupation. Hetty, a second generation war victim like me, describes how the first generation war victims suppress all emotion in order to survive, and do not feel. The second generation (to which I belong) carries all these emotions and is tasked with having to process them at some point.

Because their house in the Netherlands has yet to be built, my mother and her sisters are sent to a boarding school run by nuns. Her father sets off to Indonesia again for four years in order to qualify for his pension.

The boarding school is even worse for my mother than the concentration camp. The nuns see to it that my mother and her sisters are separated from each other. She has to shower under a plastic cape to hide her body, letters from her mother are intercepted and she and her sisters are called thieves, because the nuns have heard that they have stolen food from the Japanese in the camp. (My mother had scraped, together with her eldest sister, food scraps from the cooking pots of the Japanese - which were put outside the kitchen - to share with the rest of the family).

My mother has missed the whole of High School in the camp. Her dream is to become a primary school teacher and she starts teacher training school. With tremendous perseverance she continues studying at night. Because the nuns have forbidden study in the evening, she has to do it secretly with a torch under her blanket.

Her dream to become a primary school teacher gives her strength

Her second dream is to have a family and children. She puts a contact advertisement in the school magazine and in this way meets my father, who is also working as a teacher. She is deliriously happy when first I and later also my three sisters are born. They call me Marijke, which soon becomes Marij. Later, in the Osho Meditation Centre I receive the name Modita.

I grow up in Bergeijk, a small village near the Belgian border, and live in a double world: a visible and an invisible one. The visible world is the fairytale world my mother creates, with beautiful stories and fairy tales which she tells me before going to sleep: goblin houses which we build in the sandpit with small paths, and on which we find a chocolate bar the next morning, ‘from the goblins’. On Saint Nicholas morning our dolls are dressed with clothes knitted by my mother, their hair is combed beautifully and the presents are all displayed on one of the chairs of the lounge suite.

The invisible world is underneath. That is woven out of my mother’s stories from the camp: stories about hunger and death, the humiliation by the Japanese and the imprisonment behind the barbed wire.

My living environment looks safe but in the background I feel that there is something horrific.

Deep inside I feel that the world is unsafe

When I am nine years old my trust in adults reaches a breaking point. In the Netherlands, children are told that Saint Nicholas comes on a boat from Spain every year in November to leave presents for children on the fifth of December: but my school teacher says that Saint Nicholas doesn’t exist. My fairy tale world breaks down. I go home and tell my mother that the teacher has told us the date when Saint Nicholas died. My mother says that Saint Nicholas was such a good person that he could return from Heaven to Earth. From that moment on I am split between my mother and the teacher. I choose my mother. I feel how important it is for her that the fairy tale world remains and until I am twelve I pretend still to believe in Saint Nicholas.

My mother tells me that everyone receives a vocation in his or her life. For her it was that of primary school teacher. From eleven onwards I worry if I will ever hear my vocation. When I walk to school, I listen with my head tilted towards the sky. But it remains silent.

As the end of my primary school period comes closer I become more and more afraid of what will come next. My mother entered the concentration camp when she was eleven years old. Something in me senses that she doesn’t know how life should look beyond that age in a situation without war. In my head circles: ‘after Primary School my life will be finished’.

I think that my life will be finished after Primary School

It is a mammoth undertaking for me to go to high school. Because my mother considers it very bad that children there don’t play anymore, I keep on playing, to support her and to prove that it is possible. I am laughed at. Fiercely I throw myself upon my homework then; that gives me a good excuse to withdraw from social life. Where I had friends in primary school, now very soon I find myself socially isolated.

When I am sixteen years old, my family doctor notices a strange-looking scar on my mother’s arm. A previous family doctor had simply burned away a mole there without investigating it further. The new doctor finds it necessary to get the scar - and a big area around it - removed. Investigation of the removed tissue shows that it is indeed a melanoma: cancer of a mole. This diagnosis is not communicated to my mother. She discovers it later by herself when she asks for the report of the analysis.

The melanoma is black and the skin is a contact-organ. I think that her cancer has to do with the fact that the Japanese wore black gloves to avoid infection when they touched the Dutch, and with the fact that she was standing in the burning sun for such a long time during the daily parade in the Japanese concentration camp.

That same year my parents have started renovating our house. The kitchen changes into a desert of sand with shelves to cross it; goodbye, feelings of cosiness. At the same time I am maturing as an adolescent and in the changing room of the gymnasium at the high school someone makes a derogatory remark about my slightly growing belly. I ask my mother, who is slim - and therefore an example for me - how she is able to remain so slender. She hesitates before answering. She says that she never eats many desserts. From that moment on I drop all sweet things and also start economising on other nutrition. I am proud of myself; it’s astonishingly quick to lose weight, and proudly I tell my mother a few weeks later that I have already lost four kilos. She looks worried. I continue losing weight without sharing anymore with my mother. My days have a purpose now: avoiding calories and losing weight. Soon I reach a body weight of forty kilos. I don’t lose more than this because I feel it could cost my life. I don’t have feelings anymore; everything is uniform, grey, and emotionless. It is greyish and safe at the same time; I don’t have to feel any longer the pain which has always invisibly been around me. The connection with my mother consists of a daily struggle around food. It is upsetting to feel how much pain she has because of it. I smuggle away that feeling. My hormonal growth stands still. I am happy about that, because I don’t want to have an adult female body. My mother has told me once that she did not have menstruation any more in the concentration camp because of underfeeding and that seems to me a positive side effect of eating very little

By eating hardly anything I do not have to feel any more

In drawings, which I leave openly on my study table, I scream for help: I paint myself in a public square with high walls with small watch-windows, stretching out my arms to the people who are free outside those walls and who are running speedily away from me.

One day my mother silently enters my room and gives me a book: ‘The Golden Cage’.* I read it and cry in recognition. Now I know that what I have is called ‘anorexia’ and I also know now that my mother knows.

My father is a very loving, conscientious man. His handicap concerns his eyes; he has almost all the possible eye diseases which you can have and he suffers mainly from the fact that reading is difficult for him. When he is eighteen years old he goes to Brazil to study to be a priest. Because of the rapid worsening of his eyesight he has to return to the Netherlands after three years, where he first becomes a primary school teacher and after that a teacher of mathematics. He comes from a family of ‘don’t air your dirty laundry in public’ and although I feel blessed by his love, I miss him emotionally. In the many fights at the table between my mother and me, my father seems to be absent. From the expression on his face I see how heavily he takes it to heart, but he remains quiet and goes cycling. He minds a lot that everyone can see from my thinness that something is wrong with us at home.

Also my father remains quiet about his emotions

When I get my diploma at the end of the high school, I am not happy. I realise that every top mark I have got has a high cost; that of having studied far too much without really living.

I don’t know what further education I will enter. Text books sicken me after so much time spent on them, and they do not provide what I long for – something beyond the mere mechanical explanation of the world, which misses the mystery. In this last school year there has been one moment which transcends this mechanical world. It is when my teacher of Biology says, after describing the fusion of the egg with the sperm cell: ‘and then there is the mystery’. A silence drops in the class at that, and I feel wonder at the mystery; I wonder about something which is more than what you can see with the naked eye; this is what I want to be connected with. At that moment I want to study biology, but I reflect on the fact that I cannot earn money that way. I choose then to study medicine with the question in my head: ‘I wonder how they will make me a medical doctor within eight years’. I see a doctor as a kind of magician, who recognises the diagnosis as soon as his patient enters his consulting room. But deep inside I don’t know what I want. I have often since had the feeling that my choice to be a doctor has had to do with something from a past life; with something that I have to do which lies at the foundation of health: first, healing purulent wounds. Does it have to do with the concentration camp in which my mother was? Does it have to do with what I learn later: that my mother had wanted to become a doctor, but was not allowed to do so because there was no money? First I am not selected as a student. The whole summer I sit soullessly on the sofa, not knowing what to do. Because of my high marks I am allowed to draw lots once again for Medicine and I am admitted.

The first day of College I am sitting with three hundred other students in a wooden lecture theatre, where the circular benches reach to the ceiling. It is dark, so that one can see the electrical lights that are moving over a giant model of a heart. In this way one can see how the electric impulses are spread over the organ. I feel very miserable with the mechanical view of the human body. There is no psychology, philosophy or ethics in my curriculum. Because I still hardly eat, I don’t have many feelings or emotions. On top of all this an image of the human is added now, reduced to a collection of bones, muscles and chemical structures. Nevertheless I throw myself, just like in high school, into doing nothing apart from studying, and my social isolation carries on in the city of Utrecht.

My social isolation carries on in the city of Utrecht

I don’t dare to stop my studies, because I don’t know what I would do then, so I continue. In the second and third year I am fascinated by the miracle of the human body that is built so ingeniously, but mostly I am very sombre.

One day my mother sits down next to me at the kitchen table and asks me how I feel. This is the first time she asks me about my feelings; it is a question which does not have to do with food. I feel seen, touched and very close to her. It is scary also. What should I say? How can I explain it? But most of all: what do I actually feel? What is really mine? Stammering, I utter some sentences which I do not remember any more.

Immediately after this one of my sisters gets anorexia. I feel that I have set the wrong example and feel guilty. At the same time I am angry too, because she outstrips me in being thin.

She gets all the attention now. She goes to the hospital and is seen as sick, whereas I used to be called a stubborn donkey.

Out of joint, I start eating blindly. Or more accurately to gorge; I eat everything I come across, without tasting it. In the supermarket I snatch the granola straight from the packet even before I have reached the check-out. In my student room I spread every slice of a whole loaf of bread with a thick layer of butter, dredge it with sugar and get all the slices down one by one. Next is a packet of chocolate cookies. Wherever I go, the first thing I look for is if there is something to eat. And on Sunday, when all the shops are closed, the shop at the petrol station is still available. I try to fill an insatiable hole. For a moment, when just after the binge eating my belly almost bursts from the multitude of food, this seems to be possible. But two hours later the hole is there again and I regret the gorging, which contributes to my quickly fattening body.

One day my father tells me that he and my mother can’t help me anymore; that I have to look for help somewhere else, and that it is better if I don’t come home for a while at the weekends because my eating problem is too much of a burden for my mother.

My parents can’t help me any more

Feeling empty I go to Utrecht and sign myself up at the secretariat of the psychiatry department of the academic hospital. I am afraid that, without help, my weight will increase way above one hundred kilos.

To my consternation there is a waiting period of three months. They become three very long months. At the weekends I do nothing else but study.

The psychiatrist I get is quite a corpulent middle-aged woman. In the first meeting she measures my weight and finds it too low; as a result my emotions are so much on the back burner that she cannot work with me. I have to gain five kilos.