Snowventure


While in the midst of shuffling my thoughts on 3 other documentaries brewing in my brain, I found respite last week rollicking during a rib-cracking road trip to the Canadian Rockies. I really could have cracked my ribs. Literally.

It all started with a harmless love for Huskies. I fell in love with the Husky during a similar road trip to the Rockies in 2004, when while day-dreaming in the car – a truck zoomed past with a most beautiful-looking canine perched at its rear end. The dog, with its full glory of white and black fur was day-dreaming too – he was looking out of the horizon, the winds blowing gently against his long hair and his blue eyes staring straight into the meadows. And ah oh…he was squinting his eyes a bit, the same way we humans do it when we want to show appreciation.

So from that day on, I swear that I yearn, long, and really really wanted to ride on the ultimate vehicle where dog-power reign supreme: dog-sledding. We did it last week at the majestic Rockies no less, along with my clown cousins who came all the way from Singapore to let dogs pull them around ride on a Canadian mountain.

Oh the drama that ensues! Mats, minahs, dog-sleds and frozen lakes are nothing short of comedy material.

My cousin – all-Singaporean male with cigarette and digi camera in hand, did NOT ask the guide what the word was to command the Huskies to ‘go‘. So what does a Singaporean do in such unfamiliar situation? The practical him improvised. He heard that driver of the sled in front of him go ‘Hait’, but was not too sure what the word was. His version ranged from ‘HELP!’ to ‘HIKE’ to ‘HAIKAL’ to ‘GO DOGGIE GO!’. The dogs, amazingly, followed his instruction well. We were pretty sure that the dogs would still go even if we had shouted ‘JALAN!’.

We also quickly found out that the Huskies are often pooing, peeing and eating the snow while running! And when the sled is going uphill, the driver has to run and push the sled up. Errr…no fun, that one. DH, who was the driver on our sled – was my hero. The 5 dogs who pulled our sled were also my heroes. Me? I was the queen who sat in the sled, too busy shooting video and humming ‘Aku Cinta Aku Rindu’ by Nurul and Ajai. I told you this is a minah story, no?

On another adventure, we were kiasu enough to satiate our thirst for more snow adventure and we booked ourselves on a snowmobile ride. None of us had ever rode on snowmobiles before, the closest to it would be jet-skis (I once rode a jet ski from Pasir Ris Beach to Pulau Ubin, screaming in fright during most of the journey – but that is another story). How difficult can a skidoo ride be on fluffy white powder – all soft and ready to cushion your fall? Or so we thought.

What we didn’t know is that the ride is not on a trail across flat terrain. That would have been easy-peasy and lots of fun too. WE had to ride the snowmobile all the way up a bloody mountain, negotiate tight bends on treacherous cliffs (including swinging our bums to the ride and left ala corner baring, and the height? A colossal 10,000 ft above sea level. I swear that I thought I was going to be thrown off the cliff. I was riding pillion, and our snowmobile nearly hit a tree, was oversteered once, got stuck in snow during the 1st half of the ride and oh well…basically skidding away on that slippery ice. Why was I too happy to sign on that waiver form?!

We had walkie-talkies with us – thinking that we can signal each other if we spot a moose, an elk or a grizzly.But how could I spot a wild animal in the wilderness when I my heart was fluttering in fear in between praying ‘God, Forgive Me!” away out of sheer terror. Ajai and Nurul suddenly were mute. The Rockies were not so beautiful anymore. The cold wind was like dry ice. And the snowmobile adventure is now a torture. By the time we reached the summit, I asked DH nonchalantly – do we have to take the trail back down? I knew it was a dumb question – because the only other way to return to base camp other than riding your way down (again!) that dangerous terrain is by helicopter.

Sigh. I knew I should have befriended Donald Trump. It would have been really handy to get hold of that heli.

Petomising the Wii


This is Petom. She plays tennis, knock out her own husband in bowling games and shouts, “Ok! I am done!” when she is tired of playing. She is also a spa addict, recently reignited her love for Formula One and in real life, is a producer.

I really am puzzled why the Wii has not hit Singapore shores yet. I saw petitions being signed by avid gamers in Singapore asking the Nintendo distributors to get their act together but the last I checked, the Wii is still a North American escapade. The Wii has impressed almost everyone who had a chance to play it. I was of course, the sceptic , being the non-gamer that I am. So when DH told me that he bought a Wii the week of its release (yes, he pre-ordered. They do these things, these supergeeks) I was err…unimpressed? He went on and on what the Wii is about, yada yada yada…and all I remember thinking was about what I was going to order for breakfast at IHOP.

And then one fine weekend I decided to give it a go. I was shocked when he said we have to remove the coffee table in front of the TV to create more space. What?! I thought this was a normal console game, ala PS3 (btw, thats another story – my SIL queued 10 hours to get that game) or XBox, so why do we have to create space in front of the TV? Aren’t console games the type where you can play sitting down comfortably on the sofa, eat chips and then kill someone in between?

Anyway, I soon learnt that noooo…the Wii is something else. It is a Virtual Reality game. Each player holds a remote, and it moves along with your own hand movement. So basically, if I am playing tennis on the Wii, I have to stand up, hold the remote as if I am holding a racket and swing my hands as per real life. So now you know why we need the space in front of the TV.

I tell you, the last time I held a tennis racket was maybe 8 years back. I am not a good player and I scream a lot on the court, mostly out of boredom because I couldn’t hit the damn green ball. So when I played tennis on the Wii, oh my…it was awesome! Now me and DH are not exactly petite, so we shoved each other quite a bit when we swing our Wii rackets.

I refuse to name my Wii identity after my own. I decided that it is time that the Petoms and the Joyahs get tech-recognition and so even before the coveted Wii hit Asian shores, the Petoms of the world can now say she had played it first.

How’s that for naikkan status Melayu?

Woo. Petom lives!

PS: This is DH btw. I am sure he wants to call it a Spartan but then again, Greek warriors don’t wear specs no?

Gender Divide


Its funny how different both of us approach cooking.
I am constantly reminded why men and women are different whenever we hit the kitchen together. DH treats it like he is entering a chemistry lab, I go into the kitchen for temporary artistic gratification.

This past weekend, we were vegging out on a balmy Saturday morning watching Food Network when we both decided to make it cooking weekend right after, resulting in both of springing up from the otherwise comfy sofa, ran out of the door, zoomed the car out of the driveway and hit the supermarket (ok, not that dramatic – but close). We just HAD to try making chocolate souffle IMMEDIATELY – after merely seeing a souffle on TV for 4 seconds (yes, we are visual people).

I was tasked to run back and forth to my Macbook to check the recipe and read it out to DH.
DH will only move his hands with exact instructions. He won’t go with “Whisk until naik“. What is ‘until naik’“, he’d ask and I would painfully explain until it hardens at the top at least.
“Define harden!” he’d quip, with his hands still on the handheld whisker and looking very unimpressed with my reading the recipe. And I’d reply nonchalantly -“Until you can see it!”. And so the drama ensues…

Its hilarious. We can never make a cooking team on Iron Chef. We will raise our voices, debate, poke each other with the laddle to prove a point and many other very rude gestures in a typical Malay husband-wife dynamics. I remember when he decided to make some instant lemang from Adabi – he had a post-it with exact remarks like – “Flip after 45 minutes, put more water after 10 minutes…” and carry the post-it around the house so he won’t forget !!
He also takes his time when whisking, mixing until he reads the NEXT instruction. I can’t do that, if I am in the kitchen with him as his sous chef, I’d be flipping with anxiety knowing some things will harden anyway because of his slow speed. Or so I thought.

But our cooking weekend is always a blast. We love our differing personalities and always laugh at each other’s antics. I, being the woman that I am – always INSIST I know better because I am female. And he will be armed with a list of retorts on why men make better chefs. I should seriously tape one of these cooking sessions and make a TV series out of it.

We made Chocolate Souffle on Saturday and Quilt Pie (pictured above) on Sunday morning together. He also Baked Chicken with Tangerine Salad for dinner on Saturday. I suppose his ‘chemistry lab’ is brewing with good food anyways, and I should not complain.

Old Love

An old love came creeping up on me recently. It was not easy resisting him, and his timing cannot be worst. He just HAD to choose to reappear, of all days on the day I turned 35.

I have always been very wary of that number – 35. To me, it carries as much weight as the number 40 does to men. It is where everything starts, and although I do agree life changes for women when they turn 30 (and it did for me!) but 35…woooo..such a huge number. Mine came with big responsibilities, bigger dreams, calmer self and a bigger me too. Then again who is talking about weight here. I don’t know about you – I am definitely NOT.

Anyway, this old love used to be one of my biggest dreams that I held onto through most of my primary school life. Since I was 5, the day arwah Abah bought me that little wooden piano the size of an A4 paper, I knew I had fallen in love. Music, was not just a tinker-tanker here and there for me. I didn’t come from a rich family, so piano lessons and the like were not to be realised. That little piano – black, dog-eared and very well-used was all I had. I played funny tunes with it, and I didn’t care. I didn’t play for anyone. I played for me.

When I did go to primary school, I must have been 7 then – I joined the school’s orchestra. My first music teacher – Mr Bernard Low, taught us how to play the major chords and I was ecstatic. That was the ONLY piano lesson I had, albeit a free one, and with that 3 chords – all of C major, G major and F, I belted out funny songs with funny tunes on my funny little wooden piano back home. Many times I asked Abah to send me to Yamaha music school, he always promised yes but somehow life drove us along. I had a feeling Abah’s ‘yes’ was a delay tactic, I don’t think he could have afford it.

Abah died when I was 10. Mak took pains bringing all of us 3 girls up – she went back to madrasah teaching and sell kuihs in the morning to make ends meet. I was the happy-go-lucky girl that I am, very well loved by everyone and never once feeling deprived. I love my childhood. Every single minute of it. Yamaha school went drifting away and I soon forgot.

In secondary school, it didn’t help that I was in a top girls school in Singapore where many of the students came from middle class families who ALREADY had piano lessons in their resume. They came from priviledged families and it showed. I didn’t feel envious, just longing for that real piano or keyboard that I can call my own eventually. The school hall had a real piano and I used to love to to sit there with friends who knew how to play, and let them teach me a chord or two. I love those days. I felt so blessed then that I was able to play what little I could.

The journey continues in junior college. On days when I skip lessons, I will be hiding behind the curtain in the school hall – not because it is a place where teachers will never find you, but because there is a piano there! I will play funny tunes – by this time my repertoire had expanded to about 6 songs or so. Not bad eh?

Then fast forward and many years of journalism, heartbreak, youth, travel and bohemian jumps later – my love for playing my own instrument got buried deep in the trenches. I did have a band as an adult, but I was the singer – and I left the musical prowess bit to the people who were rightfully trained for it, and have musical instruments to prove it.

Then one day I visited a friend’s home, and saw a most beautiful thing with her singing seamlessly with it. As I watched her play, I felt a tug of emotions waking up within. I tried to control it but could not hold my excitement with DH.

DH bought me the Yamaha PSR-1500 to mark my 35th. I didn’t think it is a necessary purchase but his words were simple. I have been holding off my dreams for too long.

It has been a long way since that little wooden piano days. I thank Allah for his grace, and using Nazrah to show me that the dream is still within, and DH to bring me to it.

And now I shall go practise.

Quicking Tax


Its funny that I have just bought the book “Beat the Taxman”, have a meeting with the accountants on Thursday to do guess what – yes, BEAT the taxman, and yet if a Gallup Poll is done on me right now on who has the best customer service in Canada within my experience, it will be…err..the taxman!

Ah well, Murphy’s Law at its best. The taxman’s officers have been the nicest, most helpful people on the other side of the line. They have been prompt, informative and very accomodating to all your stupid, appear stupid, appear intelligent or not-so-stupid-nor-intelligent questions you have since the fiscal year is ending. They often pronounced my name wrong – I had an ‘Okanita’ a few moments ago but hey, I don’t mind a wince because she was helpful and informative, as would any other front service officers should. Unlike….jeng jeng jeng….yes, a rant is coming. Those who are up for a feel-good Oprah style post – go ahead and change channels.

I had the most horrendous customer service experience with the not-so-quick people at Quickbooks. In North America, Quickbooks is supposed to be one of the top selling accounting software (yes, my love-hate relationship with accounting ensues!) and I was rather pleased with it on my first day of use. Then came the 2nd day. I tried to launch it, and a .dll file was missing. So kaput it goes, and there’s no reason to panic. My tech-geek,software engineer who lives, showers and sleep-talk-in-programming-codes husband is always the first to convince me to never rely on technology. And so I didn’t.

I called the customer service number and went literally, from Canada, to India, to US, to Canada and then back to India in 1 hour 45 minutes of talk time. I am not kidding.They had problems from not being able to trace my registry account with them, to not being able to understand how a Windows parallel desktop work on a Mac, to not knowing that a “XXX Crescent’ literally means that – and do not have a ‘street’ or ‘avenue’ comes with it (this unforgivable dumb and dumber faux pas was made by the call centre down south of where I am now ), to making me repeat everything I said 5 times over (in many different accents so they can understand me) and oh yes, the missing .dll file! I can go on and on, but you will be bored. At the end of the day, I cannot believe how much manhour were spent on me, and cost, and my own time over what I deem as, a very simple technical problem. And I thought the call centre standards CAME from North America. I think SingTel does it waaayy better. There.

Now with all this experience, the taxman appear like angels. But seriously, their service officers were a delight to deal with. Then again, who am I kidding. So does the VISA call centre girls, no?

I seem to forget that all who collects money are usually devils with a Rachael Ray grin.

Of cold cities

And so I am finally back in the quiet, serene world of Ruskin. The sounds of water flowing from the creek behind our yard never sounded so beautiful, and peace in the country seems so alluring.

10 days, 3 cities and almost many meetings later is no fun for anyone.It felt like the Duracell Bunny, on and on and on. I hardly had time to get out of the hotel in Washington DC, a whopping total of 5 hours was all I had,that is also because we had to get out of the hotel food cycle. There is only so much crabcakes I can take, delicious as they were.

We had great meetings in Washington, the summit was fruitful but the toll on our coordination skills were killing. There were times when a colleague who was with me addressed a NatGeo executive as a Discovery director, you get the idea. Shows we have done slipped like butter, and my HappyBerry did not help (that’s Blackberry for you non-geeks). I soon learn to hate that red flashing light indicating an incoming email or SMS, while you are thick in a meeting.

Montreal, I must say is gorgeous. The fashion is marvellous. It was a good thing I was focused not to shop, or I would have hurt my wallet. I did succumb and bought a silver belt but other than that, the snow falling on old ancient buildings facing wrought-iron statues, nestled in between oak benches were romantic enough. Sad that I was walking with ZB, we were both drowned in thoughts on how we wish our husbands were with us instead.

The big surprise was Toronto. My Singaporean instinct used logic to predict the weather, so I thought Montreal being way east would be welcoming me with a nasty winter . I was warned of frozen eyelashes when one visit Montreal in winter.

But I was wrong. Toronto, as energetic as it is – came blasting with -30 degrees. The windchill were biting, it felt like a bulldog who refused to let go of your leg. We dont walk in Toronto, we jog. TV news warned of frostbites, and the idea of having a finger chopped off while walking in the streets is not very funny.

Back in Vancouver, the 8 degrees is oh-so-warm. Like hot chocolate with marshmallows. Yes, THAT warm. Delishhh…

Someone from Singapore recently asked why Canadians like to talk about the weather. Oh well.

My niece got her O level results yesterday. I was as anxious as her, even though 18,000 miles away. I fell sleep and was woken up by her call at midnight and her tears. No fun, this O levels !Couldn’t sleep, and kept thinking of her options. When I asked her what she wanted to do and liked, she said journalism.

Oh dear. What have I done. But I know my niece, she has a lot of spunk and I know that didn’t come from me. She had always been a hyper kid since young. She thinks she is not a writer, and I am adamant that she is. She is. Mark my words.

What an exciting time for her, I wish I am a teen again. At least, I dont have to travel through cold cities in winter and be warm to people all at the same time 🙂

Being Jakun in a Blizzard

I may be the only person in BC who is excited over a blizzard.
Its not funny to the average Canadian, and its definitely cumbersome to have to stock up on the road salt, candles and torchlights in case of power outage, food and other paraphernalia whose sole purpose is to keep you entertained in the dark.

BC does not get that much snowfall, so when a snow storm is hitting the entire news network – and I mean ALL of them, gets excited too. The oncoming ‘cold front is hitting the Western coasts’ news angle was repeated over and over, and everyone braced for the worst. Me? The Singaporean in me made me rushed to the grocery store to get torchlights and batteries, and the real person in me worried about food.

The snow storm was due to start at midnight last night, and high winds were aplenty hours before that. I noticed a pattern – whenever there is sunny break during winter, followed by high winds – snowfall is eminent.

I waited all night to see the first ‘hit’. It didnt happen, and I fell asleep at 3 am. When I opened my eyes around 8 plus this morning, the first thing I asked DH was ‘Snow storm dah start?’and the answer was a nonchalant, ‘Just a bit’.

I slipped into my pink flurry slippers, wobbled into the living room and was all too delighted to see a white lawn. An hour later the blizzard began, and instead sighing, I rushed outside, camera in hand and start posing for pictures with SIL. DH went outside too with his new swanky camera, took a few snaps and told us to go inside. But noooo….I wanted to pose some more!

When all was enveloped in snow and the blizzard washed its white way away, all I could think about is prata, mee goreng and hot, steaming mee soto. Sigh. A quiet whisper rang in my head – Welcome back to Canada it said.

And so I am back after 4 months in Singapore. JALAN 2 wrapped a week after I left, thanks to the pure dedication of the team. These guys are like workhorses, endless nights, few hours of sleep, lots of nicotine and ounces of coffee. Because of other responsibilities, I was not able to be as closely in production with them as I was last season, but I know the show is in good hands.

I left on Jan 1st, and arrived on Jan 1st here in Canada. The day before my departure was Mak’s 69th birtday, and we had a great celebration with 51 cupcakes engraved with all of Mak’s nieces, nephews, children, grandchildren, grandnephews and grandnieces listed. I love the cupcakes. Thanks Cupcake Momma!

My eldest sister and her family were great hosts during my stay. I had lots of fun with the kids, annoying and bullying them all at the same time. Bliss !

Its good to be back. DH and I are all too happy to be back together in CA again, and I am too happy to be back in a blizzard, no less.Obviously, as far away from home as I am right now, deep down, the jakun Singaporean in me stays the same 😉

Humbling The Musical (What Puteri Gunung Ledang reminded us)

A theatre production is a massive undertaking. A musical, I am sure, is a mammoth task.

Months before Puteri Gunung Ledang The Musical was staged last weekend, an equally excited cousin SMS-ed me in Canada to let me know of its staging in the Esplanade. Unfortunately, we couldn’t secure any seats by the time I got here. But I persevered, and at the last minute we managed to get 2 tickets out of sheer luck, and watched the production last night.

But this is not a post about my journey to watch PGL. Neither is it about Tiara Jacquelina, the producer and main actress of the musical – who befittingly wrote in the musical’s programme booklet that the journey to make the musical has been a dream come true for her, and that if one lesson can be drawn out of this – it is to be brave in chasing what you dream for. I second you Tiara.

This entry is about the journey of my own people, who sometimes I think, are a tad too quick to be awed and hummed by anything massive, in size and form. Tiara has never actually claimed that the production is world-class, although I am sure she would like it to be. It is the numerous comments and reviews by those who have seen it, mostly Malays, who claimed that it is fantastic! marvellous! world-class! superpowered! You get the idea.

PGL The Musical is good, but it is not great. It has a long way to go before it can even be in the realm of an international musical standard. Tiara, I am sure, is a brilliant businesswoman. She would have the acumen to revisit the production’s viability to proceed internationally, before jumping the gun. But I worry effect of the many accolades that have been showered onto this production. It may blind the producers and the team. More importantly, my worry is what we have not learn from our own history.

For those of you who have not watched, here are the reasons why I think the musical has not crossed the mark:

1. Casting – Stephen-Rahman Hughes is a great singer for a musical, but not being a Malay-speaking person incapacitated his ability to emote well. None of his lines stayed with me, except that he ‘performed’ the lines and that’s it.

Tiara J is a beautiful lady, and I love how Javanese she looks. But her singing ability needs to be improved, because this is after all, a musical. Unforgettable heroines in musicals are all singing nightingales. With much prowess, I must add.

2. Lighting – Sadly, the lighting design is too flat, and not very creative. The best scene in the musical is a night scene where Hang Tuah and Puteri rendezvous-ed on a hill, and 3 backlights flashed from the back to give them a nice shadow. But err, that would be a 101 on theatre, no?


3. Story
– Call me a sucker for history, but I so love the story. The writers did well with the flow too, as it was very apt that the 2 chapters in the musical were cleverly divided geographically – Majapahit and Melaka. But I wanted more from Hang Tuah, who is the main man. He is after all, the epitome of a Malay warrior – all heart and soul, all brains and brawn. I was hungry to explore his dilemma between his loyalty to the King and his love for the Puteri, but I was left vacuummed. I was hungry for my real Hang Tuah, very famished in fact.


4. Music
– Ah, Dick Lee. With all due respect to his talents, I do think he is the wrong choice. Listen to the music score intensively, and you will notice the rhythm and melody is way too modern for a musical, set on an ancient manuscript. There were moments when I was looking into the musician’s box (I was sitting in the Circle seats) and watched the musicians instead. A theatre friend aptly commented there should have been live gamelan to supplement. The music score lacked the ethnic elements – the resouding thuds and throbbing gongs of our ethnic musical instruments. And Roslan (Aziz), you cannot replace them with electronic PSRs. They sound too hollow.


5. Set
– The ‘hill’ reminded me of Lion King but more importantly, it is too simple. There were good use of the white satin drape and the majestic Malaccan palace door, but only sparingly. Scrutinise the top part of the ‘palace’ facade and you will feel like you are looking at a cross between a Guangzhou temple and a Minangkabau house.

6. Off-tangent scenes – Top of the list is a scene where Sultan Mahmud of Melaka and his entourage danced the night away. Let me correct that – he samba-ed his way on stage, complete with the flipping of his long hair, and shaking his booty in front of the easily-excited audience. That must have been the scene that plummeted the musical from a good effort, to a high-school one. It was so campy and unbecoming of the character, that the audience were either shaking their heads or screaming for more. You know immediately who appreciate fact and fiction from the reactions alone. Someone needs to remind the producers that Sultan Mahmud IS a royal character, and dancing pop-jazz style, regardless in a yellow tanjak and expensive songket, should be reserved for a Britney Spears video.

But all these did not matter as much to me, when compared to the many compliments showered on the production. Just Google or Technorati your way online on the reviews, and you will read nothing but praises and compliments for the show. Yes, I do want Tiara and her team to bring this to the world. And yes, I will support it in any way I can. My way of doing it is to be honest with what I think.

How did my community get to this point where everything big, grand and colourful is great? It disturbs me that there was something unlearnt from our days of being awed by those massive British ships sailing into Singapore, the long tailcoat that Raffles wore to convince the Temenggung, the very easy way we can be fooled on what is the best and what is not. The PGL musical is a good effort, but we would be doing a disservice to the producers if we say it is great. How can they improve when we are comparing it only with what we have, and what we don’t have?

It is very easy to say the first is the best. This is not the first time that Singapore or Malaysia watch a musical – but this is a first publicly marketed event with a glossy poster that has Malay characters. That to me is form, and not substance.

I am not from the theatre circle, I am merely a member of the audience. If I put PGL The Musical against other musicals like Les Miserable, Cats, Phantom of the Opera and Lord of The Rings – PGL is not even close. And deep down I know Tiara and her team know this.

It is the audience easily-awed praises that disturb me. Surely we have learnt from our history not to be fooled by size and grandeur, or maybe not?

Don’t compare yourself with the rest, compare yourself only with the best. I wish PGL The Musical a good journey ahead to better itself, and I WILL watch it again and again for the sheer courage the producers have in forwarding a Malay story.

After all, that was what my standing ovation yesterday was for.

Of Hijab and Times


I met a friend’s friend last night briefly, a French man, who said something during a short 2 min walk between Gelare and the car parked in East Coast:

“You should go to London right now, you will change your mind.”

That line, was in response to my gushing about how of all the major cities in the world, I feel most free walking around in my hijab, as a professional,in London, Toronto and Vancouver. The last 2 being Canadian cities were of no issues, but he was adamant that I will change my mind about London. He asked when was I there last, and I must say it has been 3 years. A lot has changed, the hijab-ed lady has morphed to an unwanted fashion icon.

I am not one swayed easily by mass media dynamics. I take every single news report with a huge dose of salt, often backtracking in my mind whose agenda it is fulfilling. I don’t get ga-gaed on celebrity-dom, needless to say the faceless masks worn by politicians to shed their own value-system to blend in with the party’s worldview. The recent rhetorics thrown by political figures on how wearing the hijab means you are not integrating with the larger society, were to me, just another mass media propaganda. It is a psychological campaign and that was it.

But that statement last night made me think hard and fast about this whole hijab wearing issue. Where did all this fear come from? Are we really alien-looking that it makes them wonder if we can even say hello back to them should they want to be friendly with us? Are they all that naive and ignorant to think that Muslims, and those who visibly are, are bomb-strapped underneath the Prada bags? Come on, surely those who shamelessly claim they are shouting anti-hijab for the good of their society is totally high on somekind of Ice conconction? I cannnot fathom the stupidity, nor the ignorance. This coming from those elected to lead societies. Unimaginable.

At the heart of this is fear. It is justified to feel fear when you know so little of what you fear about, but an educated mind, would at least lead you to a position where you will find out what you don’t know. As a leader, then that position is no longer a choice, but a duty.

I laugh when I read about how certain quarters describe Islam and Muslims as barbaric, and medieval. I don’t get affected much by them, because I am not defined by what others think. Anyway, standing in a position where you are thought of stupid is always better – since no one will stand on guard to resist you. But to make judgements about what I wear, just to decide what kind of mind I have, is ridiculous.

Didn’t civilisation teach them, anything? I think they should revisit the definition of medieval, and maybe they will find some answers.And those answers are for us too.

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UPDATE (13 Nov 2006)

A fellow blogger Nazrah kindly sent me this article by Yvonne Ridley, after reading the above posting. Food for thought.

How I Came To Love The Veil

Yvonne Ridley, LONDON
First Published in Washington Post (www.washingtonpost.com)

Monday, October 23, 2006

I used to look at veiled women as quiet, oppressed creatures — until I was captured by the Taliban. In September 2001, just 15 days after the terrorist attacks on the United States , I snuck into Afghanistan , clad in a head-to-toe blue burqa, intending to write a newspaper account of life under the repressive regime. Instead, I was discovered, arrested and detained for 10 days. I spat and swore at my captors; they called me a “bad” woman but let me go after I promised to read the Koran and study Islam. (Frankly, I’m not sure who was happier when I was freed — they or I.)

Back home in London , I kept my word about studying Islam — and was amazed by what I discovered. I’d been expecting Koran chapters on how to beat your wife and oppress your daughters; instead, I found passages promoting the liberation of women. Two-and-a-half years after my capture, I converted to Islam, provoking a mixture of astonishment, disappointment and encouragement among friends and relatives.

Now, it is with disgust and dismay that I watch here in Britain as former foreign secretary Jack Straw describes the Muslim nikab — a face veil that reveals only the eyes — as an unwelcome barrier to integration, with Prime Minister Tony Blair, writer Salman Rushdie and even Italian Prime Minister Romano Prodi leaping to his defense.

Having been on both sides of the veil, I can tell you that most Western male politicians and journalists who lament the oppression of women in the Islamic world have no idea what they are talking about. They go on about veils, child brides, female circumcision, honor killings and forced marriages, and they wrongly blame Islam for all this — their arrogance surpassed only by their ignorance.

These cultural issues and customs have nothing to do with Islam. A careful reading of the Koran shows that just about everything that Western feminists fought for in the 1970s was available to Muslim women 1,400 years ago. Women in Islam are considered equal to men in spirituality, education and worth, and a woman’s gift for childbirth and child-rearing is regarded as a positive attribute.
When Islam offers women so much, why are Western men so obsessed with Muslim women’s attire? Even British government ministers Gordon Brown and John Reid have made disparaging remarks about the nikab — and they hail from across the Scottish border, where men wear skirts.
When I converted to Islam and began wearing a headscarf, the repercussions were enormous. All I did was cover my head and hair — but I instantly became a second-class citizen. I knew I’d hear from the odd Islamophobe, but I didn’t expect so much open hostility from strangers. Cabs passed me by at night, their “for hire” lights glowing. One cabbie, after dropping off a white passenger right in front of me, glared at me when I rapped on his window, then drove off. Another said, “Don’t leave a bomb in the back seat” and asked, “Where’s bin Laden hiding?”

Yes, it is a religious obligation for Muslim women to dress modestly, but the majority of Muslim women I know like wearing the hijab, which leaves the face uncovered, though a few prefer the nikab. It is a personal statement: My dress tells you that I am a Muslim and that I expect to be treated respectfully, much as a Wall Street banker would say that a business suit defines him as an executive to be taken seriously. And, especially among converts to the faith like me, the attention of men who confront women with inappropriate, leering behavior is not tolerable.

I was a Western feminist for many years, but I’ve discovered that Muslim feminists are more radical than their secular counterparts. We hate those ghastly beauty pageants, and tried to stop laughing in 2003 when judges of the Miss Earth competition hailed the emergence of a bikini-clad Miss Afghanistan , Vida Samadzai, as a giant leap for women’s liberation. They even gave Samadzai a special award for “representing the victory of women’s rights.”

Some young Muslim feminists consider the hijab and the nikab political symbols, too, a way of rejecting Western excesses such as binge drinking, casual sex and drug use. What is more liberating: being judged on the length of your skirt and the size of your surgically enhanced breasts, or being judged on your character and intelligence? In Islam, superiority is achieved through piety — not beauty, wealth, power, position or sex .

I didn’t know whether to scream or laugh when Italy’s Prodi joined the debate last week by declaring that it is “common sense” not to wear the nikab because it makes social relations “more difficult.” Nonsense. If this is the case, then why are cellphones, landlines, e-mail, text messaging and fax machines in daily use? And no one switches off the radio because they can’t see the presenter’s face.

Under Islam, I am respected. It tells me that I have a right to an education and that it is my duty to seek out knowledge, regardless of whether I am single or married. Nowhere in the framework of Islam are we told that women must wash, clean or cook for men . As for how Muslim men are allowed to beat their wives — it’s simply not true. Critics of Islam will quote random Koranic verses or hadith, but usually out of context. If a man does raise a finger against his wife, he is not allowed to leave a mark on her body, which is the Koran’s way of saying, “Don’t beat your wife, stupid.”

It is not just Muslim men who must reevaluate the place and treatment of women. According to a recent National Domestic Violence Hotline survey, 4 million American women experience a serious assault by a partner during an average 12-month period. More than three women are killed by their husbands and boyfriends every day — that is nearly 5,500 since 9/11.

Violent men don’t come from any particular religious or cultural category; one in three women around the world has been beaten, coerced into sex or otherwise abused in her lifetime, according to the hotline survey. This is a global problem that transcends religion, wealth, class, race and culture.

But it is also true that in the West, men still believe that they are superior to women, despite protests to the contrary. They still receive better pay for equal work — whether in the mailroom or the boardroom — and women are still treated as sexualized commodities whose power and influence flow directly from their appearance.

And for those who are still trying to claim that Islam oppresses women, recall this 1992 statement from the Rev. Pat Robertson, offering his views on empowered women: Feminism is a “socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.”
Now you tell me who is civilized and who is not.

Yvonne Ridley is political editor of Islam Channel TV in London and coauthor
of “In the Hands of the Taliban: Her Extraordinary Story” (Robson Books).

Separation Sisters

Many months ago, Mak and Busu were involved in telling their personal story on how the separation between Singapore and Malaysia affected them. The footage is slated for an instalment in the new National Museum, due to be opened this December. The instalment, aptly called Separation Sisters, talks about how Mak and Busu grew up in 2 different countries, confronted by different opportunities and how they grow closer due to the distance. Of course, this being an NHB project, there is no question that issues on national identity was touched on too.

I conducted the interview. Right after the filming, I left for Canada. I never did see the footages, although I roughly remember what was being asked and how at some points, both Mak and Busu shed tears about their early orphan-hood in Melaka.

Two days ago, I had a meeting with the museum people to revisit that instalment and view it again. In between laughters and lame jokes thrown in on how the issue of national identity has been butchered by my migrating to Canada, and Mak now living in Malaysia as a result, I clicked on the clip on the director’s laptop and plugged in the earphones to hear what Mak actually said. What I saw, and heard was painful. It was not painful then during the interview, but it is now that Mak Ngah, Mak’s 2nd sister just passed on a month back.

I didnt realise that the tears she shed during the interview was on how she was separated from Mak Ngah when she was young, and how much she wanted to be reunited with that elder sister of hers. As a result of the 4 Melakan sisters losing their parents so early, they were all adopted by different foster parents. Mak Ngah, as mentioned in an earlier post, was adopted by rather strict parents. Mak recalled how she would pass by the house where Mak Ngah lived many times just so that she can get a glimpse of her elder sister. I couldn’t bear to hear more of the interview. I quickly shut it down.Suddenly, all those nights Mak was with Mak Ngah during her last days at the hospital, reading endlessly the Surah Yasin and talking to her in soft tones, bear a new meaning to me.Suddenly, I feel choked thinking how we sometimes take the availability of our family for granted.

Mak is in Mekah now, and so is Busu. Because Busu has already left for Mekah when Mak Ngah passed on, she was not able to be here for Mak Ngah’s funeral. Busu left for Mekah from Melaka, and thus staying at a different hotel from Mak.

We just heard that Mak and Busu finally met in Mekah. I imagine how much tears there would be between them, because it would be the first meeting for Busu with any of her sisters to share the grief of losing Mak Ngah.

I had initially planned to bring Busu over from Melaka for the museum’s opening in December, and make it a big family do for Mak and Busu to view their instalment. The idea of having their personal story immortalised, is a priviledge.

But now that I have just been reminded what the interview was about,I am not sure if it is going to be a happy occasion.