You leave them laughing when you go

9am, and I’m running on a little under 3 hours of sleep. Cauliflower and pea soup is threatening to come back out the same way it came in, and it’s cold outside.

Several fellow bloggers – fellow, in the sense that like me, they never really ascribed to a particular niche other than that of observing student, the careful outsider to reality; not too far that we cannot see the irony and not too near that we cannot tell the truth – have temporarily quit the scene in the name of honour. To quote one of them, “The economy is crumbling; Malaysian politics have taken a turn for the worse, and you still ask, ‘what’s wrong?’”

Not having placed a definite label on their thoughts and words (tags don’t count) means that they find it irrelevant, almost not their place to speak about the current situation. Bigger things are happening at a terrifying speed, and they’ll be darned if they miss it while they muse over the new iPhone 3G’s compatibility with a PC user.

As for myself, I have nothing much to say over the current Malaysian political stew – like so many of our local dishes, extra hot, definitely spicy from mix of factors, and leaves you with a sourish aftertaste. We all saw this coming, really, that fine Sunday morning after the elections; we, the generation that learnt what ‘sodomy’ really meant through the media (and our flustered Asian parents), and saw parties split and take sides and dragging members of our families with them. It is my generation that is equally familiar with the Special Branch as is completely ignorant of it. It is my generation that takes to the streets in defiance of legal thuggery as is apt to surrender to mindless support in the guise of ‘liberalism’ (and epistemology will be another lesson).

For what else is there to be said? It reeks of a bad joke; repeated once too often to have as much of an impact, and far too weak from the start to have any credence to it. When I first saw it on the news, I laughed out loud, before I realized it was serious. And then I laughed some more out of sheer incredulity.

It isn’t that I don’t have any sympathy for DSAI and his family. God knows what awful times they must be going through right now. But as an outsider to the family and for the life of me, I really don’t see how the people making/supporting the sodomy claim can expect themselves to be taken seriously. It’s all stupid, stupid politics. Sheer dumbfoolery, and one can’t help but feel this urge to say to the collective rakyat, ‘Tahniah atas undian anda’ regardless of who they voted for. We all saw change coming. I guess we neglected to counter in the drama we Malaysians are too ready to nosedive into.

That said, despite having DSAI on my Facebook friends list (like so many of my friends who suddenly grew a political neuron as the headlines flowed fast and heavy- congratulations and welcome, by the way), I am not his biggest fan. I’m not going to advocate his chase for the top seat, nor his calls for members of the coalition to sway allegiances. I don’t deny his ability to win the votes needed for a Parliament majority, but I do feel his efforts are wasted if that is all he’s focused on. That, plus the new allegations that bring to mind memories of 1998 and semen-stained mattresses (circled here, there and… there), threaten to overpower real efforts to fulfil promises made to the electorate. The major newspapers were busy coming up with new staple alternatives to rice, which was fast running out (although eating potatoes everyday might scar those from the WW2 era), and then a pretty boy comes forward with claims that seem to have been suspended allegations from 10 years ago.

But my words don’t do justice to the actual politics surrounding the spectacle. One might want to read this article, Why Anwar is faltering, which expresses my own views better than I can.

But I suppose Bukhari and Lutfi have it right. It does seem menial and petty to talk about one’s own emotional-spiritual digressions in lieu of everything that’s going on. Nobody wants to sound like an Australian newspaper. Nobody outside of Australian journalism, that is.

Candlelight what –?

Vigil. A candlelight vigil.

For everyone who has dared to say the truth despite those who disagree.

I came back from a whole afternoon of mind-bending. First was the lecture by Prof Hassan Riaz (which brought to mind this Yes, Prime Minister clip when he presented his studies), followed by lunch with the newly-imported former La Trobeans and friends, and then dinner at Tiba’s, where we discussed further the idea of surrendering to the ‘white mentality’ and letting it dictate our paradigm for action/reaction.

And I came home mentally exhausted. Prof Martin and his explanation of the differences between the genetics of sex determination and sex development was put on hold when I.. fell asleep.

But then I got hold of Raja Petra Kamaruddin’s article, the one that bestowed upon him charges under the Sedition Act and three nights in jail (he finally agreed to bail but four hours ago).

So I dedicate this post to all those who vie to speak their minds, regardless of how much it hurts.

I’ve said this before; let me say it again:

‘Not scared’. Let’s put that on a t-shirt.

*Updated: RPK is now out and back in business. Check him out here.

‘Broken parts that litter the night sky like stars’

I really, really, really should be studying. I know I should.

And yet here I am, googling the web for proof that Nike still belongs to my boycotting category, because I think I’ve fallen for a pair of Converse All-Stars. As if I didn’t bring enough shoes back with me this year, and as if that was all it took for me to feel better about myself, or even ace through this semester. Talking about high-ended principles are much easier than living them, believe me.

As I was googling with the keywords, ‘nike, zionist boycott’, I came across my old Blogspot blog. It was an entry from long ago, back in 2006, when I was idealistic as never before, and before reality hit me smack in the face. I felt like laughing. I felt like crying. I would attribute both to my cramps, but hey. Truth be told, there is something about reading your diary from years ago that pulls you into a time warp and threatens to cloud you over. There’s something else about reading public statements from yesteryear. It makes me fear for the fate of my blog in the years to come, really. It might be too much for the future me to behold.

Oh, the angst. The righteous fever of the young and utterly jaded and virtuous with conviction. Not that virtue is a bad thing – I mean, it is virtue after all. Only despite how righteous and daring it seemed back then, it seems like nothing more than naivete now.

Not that I don’t still believe in the boycott, although there are times I wish I still did with the same level of conviction. It’s just that the fever from before seems to have subsided, and I’d be suprised if no one else has noticed. I’m the last person who realizes anything that’s changed within me. It’s always my darling housemates and their alternately blunt/intuitive statements, along with some crude observations by acquaintances, because my closest friends are too blinded by love to care. I know I used to rant about compromising one’s principles with such vitriol as scared and bemused as many people, I am sure, but I find myself doing it all the time now. It takes people reminding me, and yet I wonder if I still believe in the same sort of things in the same sort of way anymore.

I was reminded of it throughout the six-day Seniors Camp ’08, organized by Young Muslims of Australia’s (YMA) Futuwwah. It was an awesome experience, which started out a little daunting with all the noise of the younger kids, all familiar with each other but alien to me; but soon enough we learned to live together and create a little microcommunity, right there in the deeps of the Yarra Valley. Six days flew by and before I knew it, we were on our way back to the rackish bustle of the city, and back to cars and smoke and restless hearts.

Ustadh Mahmud Kurkcu was splendid, masyaAllah, in his undeterring focus on us regaining our spiritual bearings and embracing our Islamic identity wholeheartedly and unapologetically. Rather than the spirited, almost agitated talks one pretty much expects to hear by Muslim scholars from non-Muslim communities, Ustadh Mahmud was quiet and meditative; stern and loving. He joked and poked fun at us and disciplined us throughout, but always, he kept on driving point after point into our hearts.

For the first time in the longest time – for the longest time since coming here – I truly and honestly began to cry again, for reasons other than me.

Now that I am back, I seem to be stuck at a crossroads between action and decision, and principle and conviction, and of logic and nafs. I re-learned so many old things that I’m stuttering to start; I had so many epiphanies I could only struggle to try and explain. Too many words for too many dreams, and not enough being done to claim heart to. I’m just, as always, as always have been, looking for my way (which is not necessarily THE way), I suppose.

I’ll let you know when I get there. But for now, one step at a time, insyaAllah, insyaAllah. And may we all find our home right where we are.

‘She said, that she would prefer a broken neck to another broken heart/I said “Remember, even the beauty of birth leaves it’s own scars/And know that you will find your home right where you are”‘

-Amir Sulaiman, She Said, I Prefer a Broken Neck…

(Not) In the mood.

Oh please.

Of all the things. Of all the things in this huge, bleeding (and I mean that literally), overcrowded, overshuffled, overterrorised world. Of all the remarkable things in the world to ponder, to investigate, to marvel at. I had THIS.

I make no qualms about my political affiliations, although, only having recently been considered legal in my country – speaking of which, Government, don’t you think it’s a bit ancient an age to take someone seriously? – my word hasn’t accounted for much but a lot of vented anger. And it worries me, yes, that I seem to be a perpetual rebel, be it culturally or politically. It’s worrisome for when the side I wing for wins.

But that aside. I mean, REALLY. If there is no other reason to vote for the other side, people, let’s just do it because THIS one thinks we’re all brainless dolts, and they apparently plan to keep us that way. All the better for them to dictate with.

We are not Cuba. We are not Zimbabwe. We are not Australia (oh, they had their elections in oh-seven) and no, ma’am, we are NOT the US of A. Let’s not even mention their respectable level of democracy, because oh no, the only thing we can see is their secularism and their East-bashing and their bigotry and their Islamophobia and their inherent need to force their own rules down the whole planet’s throat and that they’re the darned closest this century has to colonialism.

Oh no.

But I will not overrule that we could, possibly, maybe, sort of be Kenya. Because hey, where I come from, people can lose in every other district and still win the electoral seat.

BIG hint.

Sigh. Forgive the Aaron Sorkin-esque narrative. But I’ve been watching Studio 60, and he DOES do peeved very, very well. And, well, I like watching peeved people. Reminds me I’m not quite alone, you know?

So. Call this retaliatory. Call this revenge. I have read enough politics to know that in a land where cyber-laws are barely even considered (unless they have racked their balding heads trying to steal the headline – but with the scandals and the murders and the kidnappings and the espionage-turned-homicides, it’s pretty hard to compete when all you do is cheat and steal on a daily basis) that when there is scant jurisdiction, there will be no verdict. Especially when there are no names, and for all you know, the link could’ve been a copy-and-paste accident.

Oops.

‘Not scared.’ Let’s put that on a t-shirt.

Shivering in the chilly spring.

Assalamualaikum wrh. wbt.

I am shivering.

I don’t think it’s completely due to the chilly wind breezing through my open window. It’s the first pleasantly cold day in nearly a week. I am very thankful, alhamdulillah.

I think I am scared.

I asked the naqibahs of my QC once. And I’ve asked PNut. And I’ve asked Ummu Faiqah, over green apples at the kitchen counter. And I’ve read about it in another ukhti’s blog.

And we’re all carrying about the same worry in the depths of our memories. Maybe in different amounts. But mostly the same concerns.

Maybe we’re all somewhat scared.

I still remember, a little, of what it felt like, those few weeks before I left home. LITW home. That part of me I really long for, but am wary of at the same time. I thought that since I had felt confused and listless back home before, I would be able to deal with it when I flew back there during summer.

A trip to a friend’s room a fortnight back proved me wrong, as only Allah ever can.

It was surprising to feel so suffocated and so lost, being the only one with that mindset in that particular house, at that particular moment. It felt like I was floating alone, and like I had no one on my side. Luckily, my heart drew me to the prayer mat, and I spent a few long minutes there, praying hard. I hope that my intentions were sincere, because Allah knew I nearly felt like my physical heart would take. I felt like I was near drowning, and the moments after I shut the door behind me and rushed down the corridor felt like huge gasps of painful fresh air, filling my lungs and nourishing my soul.

I know it all sound fairly dramatic, but that’s how it felt like. It’s just my nature to express myself with such superfluous adjectives, is all. But here’s the honest question:

How do you swim with your head above water?

I thought that since I had learned so many new things from the people around me, and from my parents, through the endless phone calls, I thought that I would be able to handle going back to LITW, and back into that inferno of confusion and lost souls searching. I thought that I would be able to swim upright, my head held high.

Now I’m not so sure.

And the mood music (OPick’s Buka Mata Buka Hati) is not helping much.
But an introspective on the lyrics is easing the worry a little.

‘Tak mungkin bisa ku sempurna
MencintaiMu seperti keMaha-anMu
Dini yang hina berlumur noda
Hanya bersimpuh memohon belas kasihMu

Beribu dosa tlah terjadi
Mewarnai langkahku
Hitam diri
Hitamlah hari yang lalu

Bila tanpa cahayaMu
Gelap seluruh hidupku
Tak berdaya
Tak bererti
Sia-sia

Buka mataku
Buka hatiku
Allah, terangilah hidupku
Dengan sinarmu.’

I guess, there isn’t much in me to do, except to mujahadah. I really have to work at it, I know. Because I can see myself actually longing to do the things I used to, nearly a year ago (masyaAllah, time flies), when in fact, I know I shouldn’t. I’m still struggling with my physical jahiliyah, and I know I’ve only just begun on my inner jahiliyah. I have far still to go.

I must admit, it will be hard to think differently.
To act differently.
To have stronger principles, and insyaAllah, live up to them.
To have a different scale of judgement.
To dress differently, even, considering the environment I will be surrounded by.
A few semi-funny, semi-revealing anecdotes by Ummu Lo’lo’ brought to light this point.

Ah, alhamdulillah, she will be so near by.

But after eight months of falling into pattern, it will be hard, being thrust into another environment. Despite my social inanity, I will definitely miss the bi’ah that surrounded me so thus far. We will be spread out all over LITW, come November and December.

If the 2nd-years feel the weight of the burden, I wonder how us 1st-years will fare?

May Allah give us all the strength of will and stoicity of faith that it will take for us to pull through. Ilaa mardhatillah, insyaAllah.

Wassalamualaikum.