Still Thinking…

My poor Busu. She has been whining for comfort with my mum recently, over long-distance phone calls about her missing kambings. Yes, those kampong goats. All 15 of them disappeared. Vamush.

The kambings usually get out of the Padang Sebang compound in an organised herd in the morning, and return faithfully in the evening. They are a very cohesive bunch, these kambings. It is a case of one for all and all for one.

This year’s Raya is purported to be a special one for them – since one or two of them will be korban-ed for the big Raya feast that the Malaysian and Singapore cousins have been planning. What bliss – since it is highway to heaven for them. I can just imagine the kambings fighting among themselves who is to be on the honour roll for this year’s Raya.

And then one fine day recently – the kambings NEVER came back. My Busu, a sprightly, jolly old lady who is the favourite among the kids must have waited and waited in the evening, and they never make their ’emmbeeekkk’ way back.

There is only one theory to this – that the kambings were stolen by a kambing robber. How sickening. There is no way ALL 15 of the kambings were hit by some truck on the roads – unless we are talking abt Tianamen Square style bulldozers here. There is also no way that the kambings are suicidal and killed themselves – becos surely one of them is in love with the female kambing belonging to Mak Temah next door, and will not want to die a virgin. And then there is the theory of them getting lost and not knowing how to get back to Busu’s house – which my mum quickly retorted with a, “Kau ingat kambing tu semua tak berbincang ke jalan mana satu nak balik?” . Cis, silly me.

So here we are, a sad Melakan family thinking we have no kambings to roast on the rotisserie for the 3rd Raya gathering in Melaka. Makan daging beli ajerlah nampaknya …sigh.

Inspired by Inane Chronicleses thoughts. I might as well go visual.

Whoever created the Mee Goreng Mamak is a God-send. I love the thing – no, let me correct that, I LURRRVVVEE the thing. Mee Goreng Mamak has an intimate relationship with me, and one such romantic moment involved a 10-year old Uja some decades ago on a very hot Ramadan month.

I remembered taking the feeder bus number 225 from Bedok Interchange at around 6-ish in the evening. I was fasting, and obviously running on an empty tank or whatever that was left of my energy on that school day. When you are a kid, you do NOT think of conserving your energy in the day so that you can get through your fast well. Instead, you play and play and play, and run and run and run, and scream and scream and scream until your throat is as dry as the savannah and your body shakes like it is a Sumatran tremor. That was how I felt when I alighted from the bus – and I was literally shaking out of hunger and was so hungry I could not even take the 5 minute walk to my block without feeling like I was floating with wings.

Now to get to my block, I have to pass a kopi tiam that has, among other things, a Mamak Stall. He sells good Mee Goreng, I would not say the best, but you know, red enough and tasty enough for me. I went to the stall, with a bit more than $2 left from my pocket money and bought a packet. My intention was of course to eat it for buka. I continued my walk home.

The moment I entered the lift, I was transported to heaven. The smell of the Mee Goreng Mamak nearly killed me and transcended my senses, and I was so hungry as whiffs and whiffs of the tasty mee entered my smelling faculties. When the lift door opened, I dashed out.

By now, it was 20 minutes to buka time. I was sitting on the floor, the mee goreng mamak in front of me and I was looking at it. Correction, I was STARING at it. Now that the packet has been opened, the aroma from the delicious mee gets stronger.My nafsu gets the better of me, and I took a fork and dip into the plate of noodle. At that point, my mum screamed – ” UJA! LAGI 20 MINIT AJE !!!” after which I retorted “NAK BUKA! NAK BUKA!” and stuffed the fork-ful of noodles into my mouth in seconds before my mum could stop me. It was heaaaveeeenn, I tell you! (God, forgive me for I have sinned. I was 10 then – disclaimer?)

Now that I am an adult, this Mee Goreng Mamak is still tops on my list. It is addictive. Everytime I am abroad, this is the first thing I will buy to satisfy my craving. My cousins know it well.

I married a fellow Mee Goreng Mamak fan too. Ajun, having been away for more than 16 years would wallop plates of these whenever he returns to SG. He has tried asking my mother in law to replicate it in Canada, but he said it has not been successful.

So one day, I bought a plate of Mee Goreng Mamak just so that I can sit and stand in front of the stall to see how they actually made it. I had various discourses (no kidding, it was almost a scholarly debate on what goes INTO the Mee Goreng Mamak) with friends and finally figured it out. So here is my first Mee Goreng Mamak, just so I can cook it in Canada and make myself and my husband happy! Eh they say a happy couple is NOT a hungry couple ok.

The verdict of this homemade Mee Goreng Mamak has been good. It tastes the same, and it looks the same! I am so proud of this dish. You will be assured that’s the first thing I will make when I move. And yes Sherin, I will make it for you too!

Footnote (what else can this be but a footnote right? When it is written at the foot of the article ;): There is only ONE, and I do mean ONE place where the best ever Mamak Sup Kambing is sold. Go to Nazrah’s for the full rundown. Ignore her comments about me, which are all true. Muahahah…

I saw an episode of Oprah today where Winona Judd said something so profound, I wanted to hug her. “The world is too loud,” she said, referring to how she was so distracted by life that she did not have time to focus on herself and listen to her inner voices.

I sometimes feel like that. Sometimes I feel my life is like an F1 race track, and me, being the girl who still gets excited by the mere sound of the revving engines, savour the loud sounds and passing images of spectators on the stands or the side gates (depending on which circuit you are watching it from). Don’t you ever wonder how it is like to sit snugly in that tight seat at 300km/h ? You literally see the world zoom pass you! How thrilling!

It is this thrill, however, that I need to tone down. My life has been way too fast, so fast that I feel priviledged yet tested. When Winona (ok now we are going by first names) said that, it struck a strong chord in me. Sometimes I think there are way too many people I have in my life. There are many moments I literally feel like I need a breather to do just that – breathe. But I love the company of people, and I get more energetic when I am with a big crowd.

So when I was in Canada last year for 6 months, spending our first marital life together, I discovered another level to me that I never knew existed. You see, in Canada where rivers divide highways and mountains form authoritative props to landscapes, life is faaarrr and waaayyyy quieter. I didnt have many friends there, being a newbie, and so my days were mostly spent reading, writing and at the library. And oh, did I mention reading too? I must have.

Now the few friends that I have were not the kinds that I have in SG or KL. My Canadian friends’ conversations were always bordering on the spiritual and were somewhat strangely deeper. I hardly have chats about make-up, facials and hair colour. No gossips, no whining. Life is so smooth and content.In the beginning, I sorely miss my more happening life in SG and KL, but the social environment (plus the rivers and the highways) quietened me down.

When I return to SG in June, one of the first chats I had here was with a childhood friend who complained about a certain person in her life. I remembered feeling so violated that I literally felt like some rock guitarist just burst into my bedroom at 5 am in the morning and played the lousiest,loudest most annoying riff ever into my ear. I remember wanting to ask her to stop talking, cos the gossiping literally felt like noise. What was that, I asked myself. Was I attuning myself to an inner side that yearns a quiet existence rather than be too mindful of how people treat other people?

I remember telling DH about it. I was not sure what was the outcome of our short discussion of what was happening to me, but I am very sure of what happened later. As I settled into SG more, my world became louder. The social life slowly paces itself into the usual rhythm.

I have lost that peace. It has evaporated. What a bummer. Now that it is Ramadan, I am rather determined to grab it back.I can’t just dust off the life I have created here so I must learn how to manage the noise, so it is not too loud and make me distracted.

I love people, so what it comes with it – I still love the sounds of life. I just wish it is not so deafening.

Coldplay hit the nail right in the head for me. That song, Fix You – will always be one that reminds me of KL. Replace the person in the song to an inanimate being in the form of a city lying in between a valley, north of where my parents are from. A city my fellow countrymen adore for its shopping extravaganza, a city some of us affectionately code-named the holy city with a small ‘H’ and a city I will forever cherish for the freedom and growth I went through a few years ago. It was also there that God chose to time when I will eventually meet my DH, when I am at my peak and literally free-falling from a mountain high above, the winds sashaying above me. And so falling in love seems like bliss magnified ten times over.

I was very excited at the prospect of visiting KL after almost 2 years of not stepping foot there after my marriage almost 2 years ago. The plan was to have my friend AA drive 3 of us, all giggly squealing girls in her very hot Proton (you can read hot in every way you want 😉 and stay at a studio apartment me and my KL cousin bought 2 years ago at Damansara. I had the iPod Mini packed with 1000 songs and even included requests from AA and GA of their own favourites. (at this point, I would like to request DH to stop smirking abt the fact that HE can pack more than that in HIS iPod Gedegak. Cis, kita tak heran ok!)

Somewhere between Sungei Besi and Puchong, I had the idea of swopping the Singapore-registered Proton with a Wilayah-registered Honda my cousin owned – and that was a good decision. Reason – kalau bawak kereta Mesia in KL I can do many stunts without being honked – including making illegal U-turns and at one time in 2003, going against traffic for a thrilling 1 min! Woohooo!

And so our adventure begins . It started the moment my cousin unlocked the door of the studio and I realised how nice the apartment really is. She had carefully chosen a nice ensemble of dark brown and beige for the kitchen cabinet, and put up resorty bamboo blinds at the windows. But that is all there is to the apt – my mission there is buy furniture and do up the place further. So AA was quick to command :Ok, put down all your bags and lets inflate the air-beds NOW!” – betul-betul macam the volunteer policewoman that she is. She was good at it though, while I watched – heee.

The days that followed were full of shopping trips for AA and GA, and me meeting up with old KL kakis. I had one 1.5 hr session with Sherry in Ceylon Bar on a Monday night – which ended up with Sherry talking so fast trying to fill me in on what I missed about her life for the past 2 years. Sherry is a former schoolmate, a Singaporean who had made good in KL and now about to open her second spa in Starhill. We were not the sort of friends who were pally in school, but found our ngam later when we both chose KL to explore. If you see me and her, you will be confused – she was dressed in her normal super low-cut top, with her long flowing red-highlighted hair and Davidoff ciggy in hand. She marched out of her Volvo SUV with such poise that it made the monster vehicle looked like a toy-car.

I was in my black pants, black top and dark blue tudung. The only thing I had clsoe enough to a Davidoff ciggy is my very old Nokia handphone, and I was marching out of a white Honda VTi. By that, I mean taking a solid 30 seconds to get my fat ass out of the car seat, before stretching my back as if I had just driven for 12 hours. So un-glam. Kesian Uja. Hahaha. The moment we hugged at the roadside I could feel the stares of disbelief from the boys who valet-parked our cars – “WHAT is this akak pakai tudung doing with that very hot mama ?!”. I treasure how we respect each other’s lifepaths, and how we slide on commonalities of making it on our own without riding on someone else’s name. This is one woman with drive, and for that I salute her.

I met with H and The Two Sisters too for coffee at Dome and some bonding session later. They were like my siblings when I was in KL. I wish we had more time, but we didn’t. We caught up on old jokes and present adult problems we have to face, and we still give honest feedback on what we think should be done. I miss them, especially The Two Sisters who always insist I sleep at their place when I get too lonely in Cyberjaya.

On one of the days, I drove all the way to Shah Alam at night to meet up with MH and her family. I risked getting lost, but with her specific directions, I was confident I would be ok. Another kaki from TUDM – LS and her husband came over too – so it was a merry hari-raya-like gathering. Me and the two husbands present talked about an old passion – cars. Old for me, still current for them.

I paid homage to Cyberjaya and Putrajaya, and took awesome pictures of the place. We bumped into a filming session where the actors and extras were all dressed in winter clothes, on the steps of one of the Putrajaya buildings. The sky was dark and it was slightly windy- and with the European-like treatment of most Putrajaya buildings – it made the scene believable I suppose.

I felt like a free bird in KL. I realise that it was the wide space, the edgeless greens, the energy of the people and the long winding highways that made the place so close to my heart. It was my last time-in-space before tying the knot with DH. It gave me the space to drive with or without speed, an activity I so absolutely love . It gave me the space to be a Malay and feel at home, while being a globe-trotter at the same time. It gave me the space to get lost on the roads, and then find my way home again.

With me migrating to Canada next year, I will be experiencing the same kind of space but in a different realm. It will be with DH, and he, being the very man I married him for – had always been respectful of my bohemian side. I love him for loving this side of me – someone who is always freefalling and loving every minute of it.

I now know what KL is all about for me. It was the culmination of my last moments of singlehood, in a package so irresistable it is so hard to forget. With this trip, and my impending move next year, I now have my fix.

What is yours?

When you try your best but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep
Stuck in reverse

When the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste could it be worse?
Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

– Chris Martin, Coldplay – Fix You

I attended an all-Malay event after a looong time yesterday. By that, I mean an event which is not a wedding, and definitely without trying hard to reconcile Western traditions and Malay customs (read: cutting a wedding cake or cutting a cake made of pulut kuning).
While at the event, I suddenly had this strange voice urging me to soak up every sight and sound around because I know I will miss this when I finally move to an ang moh country next year. I had an innate real fear of missing a Malay environment and all the meriah-ness that comes with it.

Since I hopped into the intrepid blog-world, I have been reading blogs of various young Malay Singaporeans, most of them professionals and many of them leading very enriched lives. Thanks to the new policy of allowing Singaporeans to sign their lives away with 10-year car loans, many of these young Malays are driving brand new cars too. When you meet them on the streets they will speak to you in English, and then say sorry quickly with “Sorry, my Malay not very good lah,” without batting an eyelid. You can almost sense a billowing smoke of pride when they say that. These are young energies in their 20s.

The more ‘elderly’ adults have it in a different fashion. The successful 30-somethings, often with kids in tow attending pre-school, complete with ballet classes and violin tuition to boot – will illustrate the strange detachment of being Malay in a more measured manner. If you are lucky, you will get the “Sorry, my Malay not very good lah,” statements, but being wiser adults – they say that sparingly as they realise saying it only shows how they are still grappling with their own identity and the fact that they still crave for nasi goreng on a Sunday morning, does not make them err..any less Malay or any more Western.

Today, I switched on Prime Time morning on Channel News Asia and frowned for a good 1 minute, when I heard the hosts refer to the ‘Asians’ as Japanese, Korean and Chinese. So where do you place the millions of Malays from the Malay Archipelago – are they Asian migrants instead? I flipped through yesterday’s Sunday Times (yes I am one of those who read ST the day AFTER on weekends) and saw a full page interview with a professor who insists that the Asian-language media will grow and grow – and by Asian he meant the Chinese and Indians. Err…orang Melayu tak ada media-massa ke?

It is baffling, but it is a sorry state when we as Malays, feel embarassed about our own self and then blame others for our own displacement. Are we about to be displaced? If we are not careful, my non-scholarly thinking say we will be. And this, mind you, is coming from a non-academic WITHOUT conducting research studies. I shudder to think what proper statistics will reveal.

I have heard too many Malays, women especially who said -“Aiya, that guy is so Mat. So Malay!” Gosh, that’s like taking an egg out of the fridge and then slap it against your own forehead. What does that mean – “So Malay?!”. I am determined that my kids will be as Malay as they will be, regardless if they grow up in the Canadian backyard or againts the Singapore/Malaysia backdrop. They can be as Minah and Mat as they want to be – albeit I know they might be a bit confused when Ibu and Abah will feed them salmon and sambal belachan for dinner. I had a Eurasian friend who said she is waiting for me to raise my Canuck-Mats (the Vancouver Canucks is the city’s famed ice-hockey team).

The only thing I have to keep in check is to make sure that DH doesn’t go overzealous with showing them P Ramlee movies, as he has done to himself – only to have him insists he will walk around Geylang in kain pelekat and singlet putih. Aiyayayaya…minta ampun!!

I hope I am Malay enough to carry through my Malay heritage regardless where we will be. And will never ever be apologetic for being Malay.

This was the exact sign-post where an old man once flagged my also-not-very-Ferrari Kenari two years ago, and I did what all women driving alone should NOT do. I stopped and asked him where he was going. The story, staying true to the ingredient of defiance-related situations, did not stop there of course. I shall blog about it in another post. Today being Malaysia’s Merdeka Day and so many of my Malaysian blog friends have written about their beloved country, I asked myself why am I – the self-declaring half-Malaysian never profess my lurrrrve for the country in my blog (yes yes Singapore, I love you too. Pls read the post ‘NDP-addict’ – happy?!) .

Cyberjaya was not my first posting to Malaysia. It was my second. The first time I was sent to Malaysia was to KL – Kelana Jaya to be precise. I lived in a swanky-sounding condo called ‘Shangrila’ (no kidding) and the apartment was smacked in between PJ’s sports hub. The condo, swanky as it sounds, was not as swanky though. At least not on the exterior. So my dreams of living the posh expat life was dashed.

When I first moved, my entire , and I do mean ENTIRE clan (we are talking about BOTH my Malaysian and Singapore side) trooped to my place for a Uja-dapat-kerja-luar-negeri kenduri. Now, I don’t really consider Malaysia as luar negeri, but hey, it was an excuse for my family to meet and makan-makan lah.We had caterers and we had only one small TV. We also had 30 people in our family. I had no Internet connection then and recalled how ZH, my cousin-in-law from Penang was trying to send a document to work via my then-very-sophisticated Psion Revo.The Internet connection was via my mobile phone and of course the PDA crashed. This was 2001 mind you, and 3G was still a subject of debate and discussions among wannabe techno-geeks. So of course the bandwidth on my mobile was a-bit-the-ketat.

My stint in Kelana Jaya was memorable, but nothing prepared me for the awesome life in Cyberjaya when I was posted to Malaysia again in 2003. This time, I felt like someone was playing a prank on me. I DID LIVE in a swanky apartment (wohooo!) but this time, with a not-so-swanky name. It was called D’Melor (*hide my face, quick!*), and remembered friends commenting – “Apa? Nama apartmen kau D’melor? Eee..kampungnya!’. Suka hati koranglah, Mamat.

I love Cyberjaya . It was only in Cyberjaya, the Intelligent City – that you can see a herd of cows crossing the road on a bright afternoon, going towards the Cyberjaya Street Mall. Did you know that cows are into Gucci and designer coffee too? Only in Cyberjaya my friend. Cos it IS an Intelligent City – who is to tell that those cows were not cloned Dollys.

I remember stopping my car, mouth agaped while letting the cows passed and wondered – ‘Ok Lembus, are YOU actually having coffee at the mall or what?’. The Lembus of course couldnt’ be bothered with me. They just stared blankly at my not-so-Ferrari-Kenari and walked away probably with this thought –‘Bodoh punya Singaporean. Macam tak pernah nampak Lembu!’.

There were also many mornings when I would zoom off and drive around Cyberjaya and Putrajaya in circles.On some days I went warring with the laptop – just for the thrill of finding a free wireless network I can latch onto. Hey, I AM Singaporean you know. Kalau free, mesti cari!

The two Jayas were sexy-looking cities, and I always show them off to Singaporean friends or overseas colleagues who came to visit. In my books, the majestic pink Masjid Putrajaya is unbeatable, right up there with Istanbul’s Blue Mosque or even the Imam Reza’s Mahram in Mashad, Iran.

Then, there were the wonderful evenings listening to SH’s hungry drive to make her spa the best in the world, in between live blues music in a small Irish pub in Lorong Kasawari (I think). In between, there will inevitably be her stories about men, and those were the juice! I remembered we were once followed by 2 men on a bike at 2 am in the morning, and it was SH’s fast response that saved us. Phew. It must have been her years of being close to the male species. She can detect them following from behind even when they are metres away! I didn’t have such powers nor such intuition. Not enough practice lah, kesian.

The night scene in KL is exuberant, to say the least. From rib-cracking theatre talents from Drama Lab, to pure, raw strums of the guitar in small pubs somewhere around the Jalan Raja Chulan area – everyone will have something to do besides shopping ! I cannot undestand why, therefore, Singaporeans ONLY visit KLCC on their trips there and THEN complain there is nothing to do in KL. Puh leeasee…

Then there is H and N, 2 sisters who introduced me to some wonderful lorongs in KL and the surrounding Selangor area where the best food awaits. I am talking about REAL food people, not the restauranty, Singaporean-tourist type. I love, absolutely love to aksi borak with the hawkers, macam-macam cerita terkeluar! I also remember how I embarassed N ( a pure-bred Malaysian) when I proudly wore a T-shirt with a the words ‘Teluk Chempedak’ strewn across it while we were hanging out at Dome in KLCC. That was how proud I am of my Malaya.

Don’t get me started on my many road-trips out of Selangor area. My not-so-Ferrari-Kenari have been to Kuantan and back within 8 hours on one crazy Sunday with my cousins. It was going at 150km/h no less. Mind you, I was a bit high on dollops of lemang and rendang daging bought from the lovely orang kampung who set up stalls along the Karak Highway. I was also in denial that I am indeed driving a Kenari, and not a Ferrari. Sigh. Double kesian.

So how can I not love Malaysia for all these adventures? I irritate fellow Singaporeans all the time when I say I am half-Malaysian just because I mastered how to say ‘kot‘ instead of ‘eh‘ in between sentences, and that my Singa friends – is the mark of a true-blue wannabe Malaysian.

Selamat Hari Merdeka Malaysia. Soon, I will get to the point when I will be an addict to your Merdeka celebrations too.

I had a big forehead as a baby. In the Malay language, it is called a ‘jendul‘ – never mind that the word itself sounds comical when pronounced. Now that I am an adult, it is this ‘jendul‘ that I suspect is giving me headaches on how I over-analyse difficult issues, such as the one involving the very beautiful lady carrying the ‘jendul’-ed baby above.

My mother, as you can see in this picture taken in 1972, was a fashionable lady. I, unfortunately, did not inherit that gene. I can never carry off an outfit like that – rubber slippers, a tight-fitting batik sarong, flower-printed kebaya AND pearl necklace and bracelet to complete! Her hair was coiffed ala Margaret Thatcher and I am pretty sure a ‘jendul‘-ed baby in one hand does make errr.. a complete accessory. She was and is, a very well read lady and still bury herself in books – written both in Jawi and Malay alike. If she had the opportunity to study English, I am sure she would be reading Shakespeare now and expound theories on his writings. She used to write a lot of short stories in Malay and have them published in the newspapers. She even had her hand acting in theatre. Me? I only went as far as translating theatre manuscripts, but does not have the talent to act in them.

Twenty-three years after losing my father to a sudden bout of stroke and with all her 3 daughters all grown up – my mother has circumvented the problems of loneliness, retirement and having an empty-nest very well. If the term ‘well-balanced’ can be applied to an elderly and not just teenagers, I would vote for her with BOTH hands. For all these years, she has kept herself busy socialising, doing charity work, travelling, reading, tutoring other senior citizens on reading the Quran and many other spiritual activities with a stable network of friends and acquaintances. She lived up to her exuberant spirit, and still holds the record as the only granny I know who’d have her grandkids calling their lungs out asking her to stop swimming in the sea as it is already maghrib, and not the other way round! To me, she is the definition of ‘liberal but rooted’, a phrase I often use to describe myself when people I meet get confused by my hijab and jamming days.

As the daughter who lives with her, her independence has been a gift. I have been very lucky to be able to travel to remote and faraway places in the course of work on a day’s notice – sometimes for months. I never had to worry about her health or her getting about. Often, her own schedule is already full before mine is even half-filled.

So when I broke the news to her that I am migrating later this year to join DH, and that she may have to live with my sister in JB, the news was not an easy release for both of us.For a spunky old lady like my mother, living in a strange land – albeit only JB – means her wings are clipped. She knows she will be cut off from her friends, her activities and most importantly, the very chord that kept her self-esteem alive and soaring after my father’s death – her independence. Living in Malaysia means she will not be able to move around unless she is driven.

I reasoned that I need her to live with my sister and her meriah family, because I cannot fathom her living all alone without no one looking after her every day. I dont like the idea of a maid doing the job either.

She may not be as svelte or fashionable now that she is over 60, and walks with a slight bounce and roll thanks to overworked knees – but she gets up and down the MRT trains and buses mercilessly. She loves Singapore for that – and I know deep down inside she is not one who will content with sitting and cooking at home, she wants, in her words, to ‘hidup bermasyarakat’. Singapore’s compact living allows her to do that.

Today, Bertha Henson, who was my supervisor back in newsroom days wrote a poignant column in The Straits Times about her mum and allowing the old to feel useful. She too was raised by her mother, if I recall. Reading her piece reminded me that as days pass, the time is nearer for my mum to face her newer, more quiet life. While some senior folks may cherish that, to my mother – an active life is best. Will a more quiet life make my mum feel useful ? I doubt it.

I feel like a punisher. My jendul-ed head is not helping either, it only sets me thinking deeper on what I am about to do, de-enriching the life of an enriched senior citizen. I have yet to reconcile my nagging conscience and my action.

Who is to define what makes an elderly person happy?

It has been a tumultous 8 months. The day I decided to take the plunge into book publishing came to a close today, and it ended with a bit of a dance by some 40-ish year old men, a huge yellow card and a generous shopping voucher.

Reading the warm words written by the Editors, Senior Editors, Designers and other colleagues only reinforce what GD and RLB taught me all these while – stay close to the ground, and always always put your heart on your sleeve when you lead. These 2 men with whom I had the priviledge to work under never knew how much they have inspired me but they dont have to know anyway, because they dont seek validation. They are just 2 cool guys who know how to lead best, and do it with a conscience. They dont even know each other. One is in the Middle East and the other in South East Asia. The only thing they have in common is their deep love for Arsenal.

I grew to love the youthful energy that the publishing world attracts, but I loathe the same energy that it kills. I have seen so many of them not living it up, complaining about having ‘no life’, belittled and blamed for everything single thing that can go wrong in the production and yet expected to churn a miracle of a book. I initially had the motivation to make improvements, but lost my confidence after a few incidental windows opened. I had the innocence to see changes through, but I lost the virginity of hope.

I know many of them will be reading this blog. To all of you guys, stay true to your course and you will achieve greatness. Never mind the tempest that goes on around you – just sail on.

My true course is up north, 18,000 miles away. My other course is also the written word, finding that one great story of real people to tell the world and put it on film.

But till then…

“Clouds have all disappeared
Freedom I hold so dear
Cause nobody knows me here
Please understand, now I can dance..” –Tina Arena

She hailed from war-torn Palestine, with hope of a new life in a promised land. She was beautiful, intelligent and extremely resilient. She braved the isolation of being a new immigrant in an English speaking country, and left her beloved father whom she has been taking care of since her mother died. She was the prized youngest daughter and the protected sister – but they let her go because of the new future Canada promised. Now, in a twist of fate and God’s plan for her – Canada will be the place that will make or break her.

This is the story of a sweet 25 year old I know. On a weekday afternoon while completing my translation of a play for Teater Ekamatra in Vancouver Public Library more than a year ago, I was greeted by a whisper of a salam. When I shifted my focus from the laptop’s screen to the person standing next to me, I was struck by this girls’ beauty. She has all the typical Arabic physical gems you can think of – sharp nose, fair skin and so well-groomed you would think she belongs to the Birmingham Palace. When I returned her greeting in Arabic, she broke into a wide smile and literally threw a verbal avalanche of Arabic sentences. I had to quickly stop her and let her know I dont speak Arabic, and that my hijab means I am Muslim but not necessarily an Arab. She said sorry, and her almost perfect English came out of her mouth. It turned out that she just got married to a Palestinian-Canadian, and moved to Vancouver the same time I moved there last year. She saw me – a woman with a hijab on head typing furiously on a laptop in the library, and was eager to make a new Muslim friend as she had been alone most of the time at home.

We had coffee after that, and what followed was a sweet sisterlike friendship between the 2 of us since we shared so many insecurities as new wives, new country, lots of time in our hands and a deep love for the beautiful Vancouver Public Library. We had many exchanges (and public debate!) about how we are holding up Islam in our respective ways. I introduced her to Starbucks, and taught her how to pronounce ‘Toffee Nut Latte’ properly without confusing the barrista.

One fine spring day last year, she called me to say she needed to see me. She sounded desperate and I got worried. I said I had dinner plans with DH after he finished work but she insisted on coming to see me even for a short while. And so she did.

That meeting, was my first window of a trouble marriage. I didn’t like the fact that her husband did not allow her to mix with other Arabs, and only allowed her to be friends with me, and a few other non-Arab ladies. I couldn’t understand his rationale – as she needs to be with her community who speak the language at least, so that she will not feel so lost. I, on the other hand – have the luxury of in-laws and other Malay community members who are already good family friends to my husband’s family, and yet I still feel isolated a fair bit from good ol’ South East Asia. So imagine how it is like for this Palestinian girl. She was contemplating divorce then, and I remembered telling her to rough it out. It is a marriage throught thick and thin after all. I recommended John Gray’s books on Men are from Mars .. and she read them to find answers on how to communicate her needs to her husband.

A year passed, and my life moved by several leaps. I was back in Singapore last year, and was very much focused on having my life and DH’s settled in Singapore. Then she called long-distance and said her marriage was over. She had quite a gruelling time with her husband that it was warranted that divorce was the answer. He was, regrettably, dishonest to her and her family from the beginning.

At that very moment this 25 year old’s world stop spinning. She had a choice of returning to Palestine, where in her own words, she knew that divorced women are scorfed – or stay in Canada, alone, with no money, no job and not knowing what holds in the future. She also knows no one, besides me and a few other women.

I remembered sitting in my yellow sofa in my Singapore flat that day, and crying. I felt so helpless I could not be there and be the friend I knew how. I knew Palestine was not the answer for her, because unlike you and me – there is not much future for her in a wartorn country yet to settle its political affairs. But how do you do it when you are literally sebatang kara? All that she has were some jewellery that she has been pawning to buy phone cards and bus tickets, and that dear readers, is enough to make me feel useless and teary.

But alas, she did rough it out. DH and my MIL fixed her up with a South African family friend, and now she is renting a room from them for a cheap price. She has decided that Canada will be the place for her for at least the next few years so that she can gain her Canadian citizenship, and then in the meantime she is pursuing her studies and try to find work part time.

How her course has changed. Just over a year ago, she had come to the big North American land to live a married life, escape the harsh reality of the turmoil back home and seek a better future. Now, she is all alone – with nothing but uncertainty in front of her. All that she holds true to her heart – is Allah’s hands in guiding her.

In all my travels and the many individuals I met or interviewed, no one, and absolutely no one impresses me with a a resilience as mind-blowing as hers.

This song was sung by a girlfriend at my wedding. I had always wanted to dedicate this song to all my nieces during their weddings eventually. But till then – this one goes out to her. Specially for my Toffee Nut Latte friend.

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you’ll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Living might mean taking chances but they’re worth taking
Lovin’ might be a mistake but it’s worth making
Don’t let some hell bent heart leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out reconsider
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance