…With my heart hanging out.

This post is dedicated to Bukhari Ramli (who hates this kind of return-to-blog-after-unannounced-hiatus post, but demanded I come back anyway) and to Lubnaa Belwael (who’s reminded me that before, I used to write to find myself, and I should stop doing things the other way around because it’s. not. working). You’ve both waited long enough.

Hello.

So.

Where have I been these past eight months?

[Hiding.]

I remember coming home in high spirits. I remember being proud of coming home with barely any tears. I remember getting into an argument with my brother, my first car ride home from the airport, as if reminding myself that things never change.

And then I got a hissy fit for the next eight months, precisely because things never change.

I came home riding on the wings of macho, because no tears at the airport, see, and everybody who’s watched Love Actually KNOWS that it’s an almost improbable feat. I came home thinking that I would glide over the humidity with the secure awesomeness of knowing who I am, finally, after years of living away from family and gaining more independence than I’d ever had, all my years in Malaysia.

First of all, let me tell you, the heat nearly killed me the first two weeks I was back. Crossing timezones and climate patterns in the middle of Ramadhan is insanity. My bones ache all the time, and I feel faint pretty easily, and I’ve had a flu that turned into a bronchial congestion, almost three weeks now.

I should meet Sarah Palin and other climate change-naysayers, because I’m proof.

And secondly, I spent three months being a bum, stalking my Melbourne friends on Facebook and silently resenting how they’ve moved on so quickly after I left. They were still in their certain routines of going to classes and sitting for midterms and finals and having little student soirees, while I was stuck here, no other Melbourne-leaver with me, and trying to figure out whether I was going to study or work.

(As it turned out, I’m now doing both. But that’s another story.)

And after that, I spent about another four months secretly resenting that I’m not doing what I really want to – that I’m getting used to a new job, and trying to fit in my studies at the same time, and making new friends, and trying to figure out what a social life means, because boy is it a whole lot different than when you’re all students and bumming together, as opposed to people you only see around 8.5 hours a day.

I spent most of that time being envious of other people, and how easy they had it.

I’m not going to overdramatise my situation and say that it’s hard. In fact, I suppose part of the resentment lies in the fact that it’s relatively easy – maybe not the most convenient, but hardly worthy of a reality TV series. My job is easy enough and pays well, and its flexible hours give me time for night classes at University Malaya. My classes in Philosophy of Science are finally something I’m enjoying (and getting).

Maybe it’s the heat that got me. Got me bad.

Or maybe it’s the way Malaysia has disappointed me in so many ways. Maybe also the way Malaysians have surprised me since I’ve returned.

But perhaps the most telling Maybe is the fact that in my thoughts, I saw myself in a singular category, and every other Malaysian in the other.

Judgemental? Yes. Unhealthy? Also yes.

Good thing I have parents who don’t take bull and who are consistent in the kicking it out of their kids.

So here I am, eight months gone, one semester over and four paychecks in, and only now beginning to seek out the rest of the world. Because you can’t venture across the universe if you don’t know where home is.

And I think I’m starting to figure it out.

P.S:- But seriously, and I know that we’re a merry Jom-Heboh pesta-pesta cuti lot and all, but what is WITH all the fireworks? Don’t you need an excuse for explosives, even the non-destructive kind? Aiyoo.

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.

Thoughts from a continent away

In the spur of the moment, not an hour ago, I called Lubna on her mobile.

I still find it insane how much we’ve bonded, despite never having met. This is only our third phone call (I count that first time as TWO, because I had to call you again, Lubs) and it’s so rare to find someone so easy to talk to. And I guess it shows that we both keep blogs, because our coversation had a theme.

Lubna was asking me to go back home. Malaysia, home. Because I had a duty to my people, and because we both knew that there were far too many things to be righted back there.

But it’s funny, how despite my greater loves (family and food) being there, that I should still be so reluctant to return. Almost as if I no longer regard it as home but in name. And sometimes not even then. Whenever we mention the word ‘home’, Aisha gives me a funny look when I seek to clarify what she meant.

‘Of course, Malaysia. What did you think I meant?’

Because I live here. I may have spent 18 years of my life in the suburban comforts of Subang Jaya, and laid claim to my mother’s village in Kelantan, and love the island I was born in like no other place, but I did not GROW there. And I may feel like a stranger many a time, still, in this continent with it’s bemusing culture and odd vocabulary, but I know this city more than I knew my own hometown.

‘Don’t be a kacang lupakan kulit,’ she told me, using that famous proverb. ‘You have so much to DO here.’

I seriously feel torn. My heart shared between two continents, drawn across an ocean, all 6454 kilometres. That place is still mine. I don’t deny that. But I have a life here.

I know my reasons are purely selfish. Just because I felt more of a stranger in my homeland does not validate my intention to remain where I am. It’s also selfish in the way that my dear friends threaten to marry me off to a ‘nice Turkish bloke’ just so they can keep me here. It takes me some convincing them that they need not go to such extents, because they are enough to make me want to stay.

Yet when I read stories like this, I wonder if I should look for any excuse to remain here.

The fact that someone out there is living a life that I can’t imagine, yet which I can possibly fix, just undoes me.

I suppose. I might have to go back somehow.

*Slapping palm to forehead*

Assalamu’alaikum all.

Until I get proper broadband access, the overworked uni comp lab is all I’ve got. And the chocolate mocha lying near my feet (untouched, due to the ‘no consumption’ rule) makes me feel guilty for hanging around too long.

And so, feeling like the awful blogger that I am, I have decided to share a few interesting links:

a) This was just pathetic, man.

b) This feels a bit personal, thanks to current living situations (BTW, yes, I have moved in, but the unpacking will take a while).

c) This is going to freak Ijjie out, and make Raiyan upset.

d) This is just so sad, on so many different levels.

Sigh. O, my First-World-country-wannabe homeland. When I am far away, I miss you. But when I am near you, you give me a headache beyond all expectations.

Ummu Wafa’, may Allah give you strength to face all that you will.

Wassalam.

Traveller’s Guide to Living.

I am a loner, I just thought you should know.

I prefer to be alone sometimes, and I only seek company when I desire it. I am so used to having a license to surrender in self-pity, that now when I no longer am forced to do so, I still retain the habit of keeping to myself.

I read a book sometime ago, where the young intrepid heroine claims that her entire machismo act is just a cover for her ardent shyness. I remember thinking, ‘she got it in words’ when I read that paragraph to myself.

And although I call it a habit rather than a negative attribute that I am so selfish, I have found that as a result, I am seldom aware of my surroundings.

So I guess it makes sense that my two favourite places are the cities I’ve visited nearly every year since I was born. I hope that they count, despite the fact that they are both my parents’ hometowns, respectively.

During the recent Eid celebrations, my family and I travelled to these two spots, and after years away from both, I rekindled my love for Pasir Mas and Penang.

Pasir Mas has always existed in my memory. The first realization I had that every year, I was going back to Kelantan, came when my mother announced to a friend over the phone that she was from Kelantan. I was six, and this discovery was something of a surprise to me.

“But Ma,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “I thought we went back to Johor every year.”

When I told her recently, she claimed that she wasn’t surprised, considering the state of the organization of my mind now, that I was so clueless, even as a child.

My grandmother’s mostly-wooden house was built from the highest quality wood (I forgot what kind) by my grandfather, who saw to it that it would last generations. Every year, on the way to my kampung, I fall asleep in the car, anticipating the solid thumps of the wooden panels as my young cousins, in the tens, run around indoors, either making barricades out of pillows and playing fort, or simply catapulting themselves from the window and onto the pebbly underside of the house. Much to the fear of their parents.

I look forward to the scent of mosquito coil smoke, staying put to our clothes and hair until days after we arrived back home.

I look forward to watching as old men work their trishaws past our house, or listening out for the tinkle of the homemade ice cream man on his bicycle, with wafer cones and tinny hot dog buns for ice cream sandwiches.

I look forward to watching wooden homes, each uniquely designed and painted, dotting vast spaces in between green bushes or yellowing paddy fields. In my mind, I would compare them to the ugly, bland uniformity of the housing areas back home, and relish the sights.

I look forward to slipping past my mother and her sisters and their respective husbands, as they flit through the kitchen, each bustling with getting kinder for the outdoor grill (which is still the best way to get anything cooked) or coconut leaves for the nasi impit, or peeling the onion and skinning the ginger. This year was notable for my being assigned kitchen duty. Dang.

This year was different. The house was coloured different, it was a different Eid, there were fewer people than I was used to, and my grandmother didn’t really favour the rich smell of the mosquito repellent coils anymore. But then again, I had not visited in years, no thanks to the awful timing of my exams. And I had been out of the country, so maybe everything seemed different, regardless.

This year was also different, in that I finally had a digital camera of my own, and as the competitive streak in me searched for bright, attractive photos for my Flickr page, I found my usually fleeting and random thoughts actually find some sort of continuity as they moved through my head, feeding me with comprehension.

I finally understand what I feel about my Malay heritage.

I guess it was also different because I was too old to camp out in the living room anymore. And also, my grandmother, Mek, could no longer afford to foresee the entire cooking operations down in the tiled kitchen. Her feet have been giving her some serious pain, and now she only moved from her room, to the telephone table overlooking the indoor kitchen, and if she could bear it, to the front.

It hurt me, to see her life so different from how I remembered it. I imagined having to change as much as she had. Looking back, I should have sat down more hours with her, and give mind to the guilty pang I felt every time I passed her by.

But I didn’t really, and before I knew it, it was time to kiss farewell to everyone, and make our way to Penang.

I have always had a particular fondness of that island-city. I was born there. I guess that’s reason enough.

But it’s more than that. It’s about how I’ve always known that when I entered Penang, I was entering another city, another state. There is a different charge in the atmosphere, a different vibe. It’s a land the rest of time forgot, until recently. I have never seen another city where everything took its own time to age and grown old. Penang really managed to age gracefully.

You know when a city is proud of itself. I see it in my Penang, where the current generation still live in the old houses they grew up in, even though they drive around in the latest Mercedez models. New businesses open up in abandoned Edwardian mansions. The same couple my parents used to visit for desserts still work where they left them, nearly two decades ago. And according to my parents, they look as young as ever.

The same ocean front, Gurney Drive, remains a famous dating spot, and an outdoors lounge for families at night. Not even the tsunami, which brushed up against it, could change anything much. Every time we leave the Evergreen Laurel, which overlooks the ocean, my mother glances up at her dream home: an apartment at Number One, Gurney Drive.

I cannot pinpoint my most vivid memory of Penang, but one of the stronger ones would have to be driving along the Penang Bridge, the third-longest in the world, with the windows rolled down and our heads jutting out, just so we could feel the face-whipping breeze past through our mouths, never mind that we whiffed more exhaust than ocean breeze.

Line Clear, the nasi kandar stall which operates in an actual alley, still makes the best stuff in the world. Near it would be the Indian clothing boutique, where I bought my most favourite peasant blouses. We would always pass the gorgeous Eastern & Oriental Hotel, and on cue, my parents would repeat stories of haunted elevators, and how Anna Leonowen’s husband was buried in the nearby cemetery. This year we didn’t visit Komtar, which used to be a modern landmark before I was born, mainly because nothing’s changed. At all.

I’ve always had the feeling that I, the directionally challenged, would actually succeed at driving in Penang, because I’d end up in the same familiar circles, going through streets with British names, and always passing the same girls’ school or kopitiam.

It is a small, cosy island, the soil I was born to. Now, I realize that the only fitting thing would be to visit the hospital I was born in, as I reach my twentieth birthday in eight days. It would be a trip I would go alone, because nobody else would understand. Also because I wouldn’t stand the company.

I guess now, compared to my primary school years, I am a loner by choice.

In any case, just like in Melbourne, I wouldn’t mind wandering the streets of Pasir Mas or Penang alone, safety reasons aside. I can just imagine it: Me, walking through the streets, snapping up photos of nearly everything and imagining what Helen would comment about them, and thinking –

– as easy as God has given this to me, He can take it all away.

Life is a celebration; a gift from God. Treat it with respect and dignity. And treasure it.

‘Do they not travel through the land, so that their hearts (and minds) may thus learn wisdom and their ears may thus learn to hear? Truly it is not their eyes that are blind, but their hearts which are in their breasts.’

[Al-Hajj, 22:46]

Burst your bubble.

Assalamualaikum wrh. wbt.

On the flight back, I was accosted by images of the Malaysian ideal — a place for leisure; for shopping, for dawdling at odd angles in the sun, for eating, for bright sunny days and taking in the delights of the tropical rainforests.

And it scared me.
I was frightened.

Because the Malaysian ideal is becoming less and less Malaysian by the second.

Has it ever struck you that the standard and gauge we use to analyse the world is becoming less Malaysian, and more Western? Now, I’m not trying to segregate different schools of thought here, but it is very striking how much the way we evaluate something is becoming less of our own, and more to the ideals presented to us by the media, which is made up by, in turn, the ideals of a society hiding behind the facade of awe-inspiring glamour (read: Hollywood) — a society which, in trying to figure out its own culture and ideals, seeks to enrapture others in their own way of thinking.

Just today, in one of the free tabloid dailies that arrive at my doorstep every morning, was a column dedicated to ‘the voice of the youth’. Both were diatribes of the most trivial kind: the young woman went on and on about how age is nothing but a number, and the young man indulged in a self-justifying essay (which Mark Tredinnick would scorn for sure, for its lack of substance) about why he was only sticking around, ‘shaking leg’ in Malaysia, fulfilling his filial duty (towards his parents which he is ‘not very fond of’), waiting for a transfer overseas to fall from the sky.

Both were topics that have been exhausted within an inch of their lives. Both were stale, and did not at all interest me. Both were rants of the most selfish kind — superficial, and unpersuasive.

So tell me, is this the voice of Malaysian youth today?

My lawyer friend and neighbour had a chat with me the other day about the difference between the Australian youth and the Malaysian youth. We both observed that the youth in this country of ours had their opinions and their thoughts beaten into submission.

The Malaysian youth — which I shall from this point onwards refer to as ‘remaja’, for want of a shorter phrase — have evolved into self-centered, hedonistic young adults who can’t care less beyond what affects them and transcends generations.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my country. Or else, with all the livability of Melbourne, I wouldn’t think of coming back home. I love my homeland — the only country I’ve grew up in — so much so that this slacktitude hurts me. It makes me sad. It also gives me a headache when I think about it for too long.

We are the people this country relies on to bring it forward. Instead, we’re too concerned with petty relationships, our appearances and having a good time to care much about the state the world is in.

I don’t blame the youth of Malaysia. Well, not completely. It’s easy to get sucked into a mind-vaping environment. I’ve only been a week back, and I’ve gone from channel-surfing with disdain at the utter lack of substance of the shows screened here, to actually getting stuck in front of the idiot box for nearly hours at a time (admittedly, in front of the Disney Channel, which is the only channel whose shows seem to contain any semblance of a message, other than CNN and Al-Jazeera in English, which is simply awesome, man).

The thing I wonder is, isn’t the generation before us, i.e. our parents, concerned by our lack of empathy?

Again, I don’t fully blame them. They had lived through years of evolution of minds. Maybe they find this lack of action to their liking. Maybe they’ve decided that the revolutions of the youth have had more than their fair share of say.

Sadly, as a result, the remaja seem to be hurtling into a heads-on collision of self-destruction and disrepair.

Rempits, prostitution, porn, fornication, child-murder, rape. Those are just a few of the tragedies that seem to have become the norm in today’s world. And Malaysia is no less prevalent.

I guess my point is that the remaja — the crux of the future of Malaysia — have to wake up and burst this little bubble they’ve enclosed themselves in. We have to realize that we hold the fate of our nation in our hands. We are the ones who will inherit this land, whether we like it or not, and sooner or later, we’re going to have to lead and govern it. We’re going to shape the way of things to come. For a start, we’ve got to realize that having original thought is not a crime, despite what others might say.

And while we’re at it, let’s stop caring so much what other people think, and start thinking more about the benefits, rather than the popularity of our actions.

Let’s stop indulging in ‘emoting’ out thoughts out with rubbish vocab that is all style and little else, and start talking about things that matter — things that have the potential to make a change in someone’s lives. Let’s take it a step forward, and match our talk with our actions. Talk is cheap (if done correctly, heck, it can be free!), and in the end, if we don’t do as we say, the only people we’re fooling are ourselves.

Let’s dare to be different. Let’s dare to brave through difficult times, just for the sake of what results in the end, even if we won’t live to see it. If you believe in the Hereafter, show it with the things you do, and the principles you believe in. If you don’t, well, think about what you’re going to leave behind for your children. Do you want to let them inherit a shell of an existance?

If you love your country, the way God meant you to, then prove it. Make a change for the better. Think for others, not just for yourself.

Let’s quit being full-time optimists and start being full-time activists. And stop acting as if CHANGE is a dirty word.

Because trust me, it’s not. In fact, for a monosyllabic, it’s actually quite rewarding.

‘Rasulullah once mentioned in a hadith, as narrated by Imam Ahmad:
“Islam began foreign, and it will end foreign, so the foreigners (ghurabaa) should rejoice.”

When asked by the sahabi, “Who are these foreigners, O Prophet of Allah?”

He explained, “They are those who make right what has been wronged by mankind.”‘

Thank you for letting this reminder for myself become a reminder to you, as well.

Jazakumullahu khayr.