Still Thinking…

I usually feel most connected to myself in Ramadan. They say to know yourself is to know God, and Ramadan – being a month full of ibadah, is a time that facilitates just that and therefore the subsequent effect of being connected to yourself was consequential.

But I worry. There has not been that connection this year, so far. The terawih prayers that I get to do have been sparse. The qiyamulails have not started, as Singaporean mosques usually do it on last 10 days of Ramadan, but I have no subsconscious plans in my head to wake up at 2.30 am in the morning and make a 10 steps trip to the mosque for it. The Quran reading of at least 10 lines a day, if not a half chapter has not happened.

The opportunity cost for not being able to do all the things above is something I have identified long ago as not a good enough reason to be an excuse.They are all dunya reasons. I shudder thinking at how easy it is to slip into old comfortable shoes and just treat Ramadan as a month to fast and count the days to Raya, and nothing else is dfferent in terms of prayer, reflection and connecting to God and yourself. When I was young, I used to think spriritual upliftment is a progressive linear line. My 12 year old mind thought that once you get things right, you will automatically do it again and better even. I confirm to myself yet again, that every year is a jihad. Much much stronger than the life-sacrificing kinds that serves no purpose around the world except for bulldozing a misguided dogma of some self-serving mullah.

I have about 11 more days to go. At this stage in previous years, I am already strategising my wake-up calls for the 2.30 am alarm so that I can make the 3.30 am qiyam prayers. I would have SMSed some regular friends from Ghufran to ask if they wld be at the mosque too. I would have missed sorely the melodious recitation of Imam Irshad Mawar’s Quran recitation if I miss any terawih prayers. The 18-year old’s reading has a way of making you rush home and practice your own.

I once wrote a column on how Ramadan is a month where I have my own mirror of self-reflection and see how smooth is the spiritual form I see in front of me.
11 days is a very short time. I know its my rezk that I have this consciousness to reflect on my Ramadan journey. Its also a gift that I get to share this with a lot of you reading this. I am somewhat jaded reading about Raya preparations and Raya thoughts.

Measure your Ramadan journey. Are you jogging on-the-spot too?
Come run with me. We can still make a sprint for it.

I did not come back for a funeral. My luggage is my proof.

The euphoria of returning to Singapore for the production of JALAN 2, and meeting friends and family whom I have not met for at least 6 months since my move to Canada wore off by the 3rd day of my arrival.

I remember that night. Returning late from an evening of production meeting and late supper with cousins, I was surprised when my niece told me that my mum was staying overnight at the hospital to accompany her elder sister. “Nek Ngah sakit..” was she all she knew, and my frantic self called several people at that midnight hour to confirm.

Nek Ngah, or Mak Ngah to me, is my mum’s elder sister. They are part of 4 Malaccan sisters, whose life’s journey fascinates me.Theirs is a story of lost, separation, survival and hope – one which I hope has a happy ending in their terms. My mum and her sisters were orphaned at a very young age, and had spent most of their childhood from one relative’s home to another. Some were lucky, like my Busu, who ended up in a loving home. Mak Ngah and mum did not. They were fostered out to a home where they were made to work on paddy fields so that they can feed themselves. Their little hands were tortured to carry heavy pails of water, and the fear in their kiddish hearts, were gripping.They were separated and then reunited, and then separated again.

But from all that, I learn real lessons in forgiveness. There was not strand of bitterness in them, all I get from them is their gratitude of being able to make it good here, thanks to the help of an uncle who saved them and took them out of Malacca to live with him in Singapore.

My own childhood was beautiful. Most of it has to do with the fact that I was the youngest in the generation, and lived in a big kampung house with not only mine, but Mak Ngah’s and Mak Long’s family as well. Mak Ngah alone had 6 children. In that 4-bedroom home – there were 3 families living together , with a grand total of 10 children. It was fun, much more fun for me being the baby in the family. I had always told my young friends then that I have 3 mums and 3 dads.How proud I was.

Mak Ngah, in her healthier days looked so much like mum, that they are often mistaken for one another. But I know my Mak Ngah well, she has a slightly bent set of fingers, and I liked to touch it when I was a young kid. So adamant was I to ‘fix things’, I tried many times to straighten it.”Sakit Uja…” was her plea for me to stop. I did. And two minutes later I would try again.

It was Mak Ngah’s compassion, and forgiving heart, that made me learn to forgive myself when I had the accident in New Zealand in 1994, where I lost my cousin. That cousin is Mak Ngah’s prized daughter, one of the smartest in the family. Mak Ngah was the one who told me and my friend (who drove the car) to move on and not regret what happened, and reminded that my late cousin would want us to continue our studies (we were in uni then) and not let the accident affect us. This, from a mother who had lost a daughter just a day before.This, from a mother who knew that it was at my suggestion that me and my cousin take 2 weeks off to NZ just to have a driving holiday. Like her childhood, she did not carry a single ounce of bitterness in her. I learn, again.

She makes a mean set of Sanggul Mak Inang, everytime there is an engagement or a wedding. When I was young, I used to tell her to make me one for my own wedding, and she always answered yes, only if she is is still around and healthy. And she did. Mine was the last Sanggul Mak Inang she ever made.

Mak Ngah collapsed 2 years ago, a year after I got married, on the last day of Ramadan. She succumbed to a stroke, which affected the left side of her body. I had my farewell gathering with my family before I left for Canada at her place, because I wanted her to be there and to ask her, barely mobile to help herself, to make her way to my place was unthinkable.

One the 1st of Ramadan this year, she passed on. We were all there, all 10 nephews and nieces, hordes of grandchildren and grandnephews/nieces, 2 of her sisters and her surviving 5 children. When I sat by her side and whispered to her ear that we were
all there for her, and that we all love her very much, I felt a strong presence of Mak Ngah’s daughter who died in the NZ accident as well.I felt choked and braced myself.

This trip back may not have started with pomp and laughter, but I am so glad in the pretext of coming back on business, Allah willed for me to spend Mak Ngah’s last moments with her.

Thank you Allah for arranging what is beyond me. To be able to say “Selamat Jalan, Mak Ngah” and plant that last kiss on her jenazah, was priceless to me.

Al Fateha.

Some of you may have seen this post. Lucky you.

Well, I have been told that this entry needed to be axed too.

So there, we now have a complete axing week. Dang.

What do you do when you have a bunch of friends coming over for dinner on a warm Summer evening, and they are a well-travelled bunch who has tasted almost everything there is to eat – from Chinese to Japanese to Indian, and not to mention, the Italian invasion of every food Western? Well, I say you suffocate them with a gastronomic galore of traditional Malay food,or so I thought. The idea remains brilliant, until you realise that you have never actually MAKE ANY of the traditional dishes you have in mind, and in faraway-land like Canada – you can’t actually run to the nearby hawker centre to buy the food and present them as your own (like I know a LOT of people do in Singapore..hahaha). Suffice to say that I dug myself deep into the holes of possible food disasters last weekend, but God saved me, I survived.

It all started with me wanting to treat a bunch of friends here to good ol’ Malay food last Saturday. DH and myself were gung-ho on planning the menu from day one. On one Wednesday night, DH whipped up his trusty clipboard, paper and pen during dinner – just to plan what we are going to serve to our friends so that I can quickly draw up my grocery shopping. I had a feeling he took it like how he has to design software with his ideas, and was quite perturbed by the clipboard. Alas, we didn’t quite succeed in our planning discussion, as we were too busy walloping dinner. And to round it all off, I confidently told him,”Don’t worry, I will think of something easy”.Not.

The next day, I was on a one-hour drive crossing over the US to visit a family friend in a hospital, with 2 lovely aunties. As luck would have it, we were stuck in overwhelming traffic for an hour at the border, so when you put a bunch of Singaporeans and ex-Singaporeans together – what do you talk about? No guesses,food.

They found out very quickly that I was yet to plan what to serve my guests on Saturday- and the suggestions on what to serve came fast and furious. There were many dishes thrown into the pot,many of which accompanied by oohs and aahs with the frequent slurping and harmonic renditions of “oooo sedapnyaaa…”.But none stuck to my head as much as ‘satay’ and ‘rendang’ did. Everything else was a blur. The fact that I have NEVER made satay (I made rendang once before, minus the kerisik though) was obviously also a blur to me.

It is a number ONE no-no to serve your guests something you have never made before.But the recalcitrant me just had to do it anyway (did I tell you my mum said I was born in a huge thunderstorm, and when I came out – the storm stopped? I blame the roaming electricity in the air for my stubborness. Serious). I did a quick search on the Net and found some recipes for rendang and satay. I was not sure which one to choose, so I used my gut feeling on which one would taste the best. I read the recipes diligently.Over and over again.

Boo-boos were aplenty. I read ’10 ulas bawang besar’ as 10 BIG red onions. It was supposed to be shallots. And thus my satay gravy was slightly bitter, and I had to make a long-distance call to my sister to ask her on how to repair my damaged gravy.

I bought 10 pounds of meat (chicken and beef) to make satay to feed 10 people, but that amount can easily feed an entire street of homeless folks for a day. I thought hey, with me and DH sticking the meat on the satay sticks together, we would finish the 10 pounds of meat pretty fast. Boy, were we wrong. We completed our satay-assembly task only at 3 am the night before the dinner.I had to YM Nazrah too to check if I have to put star anise in my satay gravy (or was it rendang?) and thank God that cooking queen was still awake.

Years of university did me no good. Suddenly, I don’t seem to be able to read. I thought I bought a packet of Tumeric Powder, dashed it into my chicken meat marinate – and realised later that the words on the packet said TAMARIND Powder. My chicken satay was a tad tamarind-ish, but it turned out to be a pretty good marinate!

By some grace, all the food turned out delicious. I worked up my guests’ appetite by making them pick some fresh sweet yellow plums from our backyard, and by the time they filled up their fruit bowl – they were famished 🙂 Good trick, yes?

You know the maths. When you are hungry, anything on the table will taste good.

I am a skeptical queen.

Whenever someone approaches me and try to sell an idea, I will be the first to list a long roll of why it would not work, and reaffirm the often-not-very-popular notion that every idea is fallible. To me the concept of an ‘idea’ is cheap, until it is being executed and achieve its desired affect.

So yesterday was one of the days when the execution of an idea first make known to me in 2005, was presented right in the face. Last year, SJ, a friend who had also made Canada her home, was the first to tell me how exciting it was to be involved in the first Canadian Islamic Cultural Expo in downtown Vancouver. It sounded exciting too – the idea of showcasing what Canadian Muslims are about – specifically the diversity of their different cultures via their countries, is enticing. But, I was skeptical.

When I arrived in Canada this year, I was quickly introduced to the organisers to help them out. I went for the first meeting, and keep abreast of their email exchanges. It was not long that I began to compare notes.

Almost fresh from helping out at another similar expo in Singapore (one that showcased the different Malay-Muslim organisations in Singapore), I had a scoreboard of standards that I am used to in how Singapore executes an idea. There, there will be committees and sub-committees, and then more sub-committees. Every sub-com has a task force of its own, and everyone has to deliver or risk meeting the axe, or worst – being known as the unreliable one.

With all that in my head, I was not very impressed with the fluid way the Canadian expo was being organised, or so it seems. I forgot, that the difference between the Singaporean and Canadian guys is money. The Singaporeans were paid (a handsome sum of money) to organise their expo, while the Canadians were lending their time and energy in kind. They all have full time jobs, and yet work tirelessly to present a much-misrepresented dogma to the Western world.That is, a tough call.

I chose to be involved in the event yesterday only within what I consider a minimal level – handling the press and filming the event for the organiser’s documentation. I hired a small crew with the small budget that the organisers can afford, and with the help of another journalist, YT, we started filming our interviews.

In between the hectic day, I noticed there were tonnes of visitors from both the Muslims and non-Muslim crowd. Some came with dogs, and it was a sight to see a man reading intently the 99 names of Allah in one of the tents, with a beautiful dog sitting quietly beside him. No one looked at the man differently, or try to get him out of the way. I even got to know Rica, a gorgeous-looking Husky. This is Vancouver after all, diversity-extraordinaire and where discrimination is a bad word.

It happened that yesterday was the day when an anti-US lobby decided to hold its street demonstration. So for a while, we had groups of Frankestein-looking men sauntering into the expo, to depict the victims of war. It was a sight – in between hijabis, men with dogs and curious visitors, we had ghostly characters weaving into the crowd. I wished they stopped by the Muslims and Science tent though.

Amidst my own skepticism, the event was a success. Every single media was there to cover it, and yes, it left me busy. Almost headless, I must say. But beyond the colourful cultural displays of every country, the myriad of visitors and the information about Islam being disbursed, I was struck by the sincerity of the volunteers who made the event happen, regardless if they do it well or not by whatever standards.

I was glad I helped out even at the last minute, and now, I must say I was proud yesterday I made Canada my adopted home.

PS: Remember the posting when the Canadian Anthem in an ice-hockey game recently made me cry, and feel oh-so-very-kelong towards beloved Singapore? I found the video online,and here it is. You will know why I end up screaming ‘O Canada we stand on guard…for theeee!!!” loudly with the crowd. The only difference is, I was in my living room.Damn.

There are only a few cities in the world I’ve visited that have the pulse and energy I can hardly race, and San Francisco is one of them. The rhythm of this West Coast city is always a thump ahead, and I can hardly catch up.

Determined to make this second visit as local as I can, I dumped the idea of renting a car to get around. DH had a WWDC conference by Apple to attend (read ‘geek convention’) and so me and SB, whose husband is a co-worker of DH attending the same conference, decided to tag ourselves along. We educated ourselves on all the various transport modes available in San Fran, bought a USD$24 all-in-one pass, and then ride ourselves silly with the cable cars, trains, historic street cars and electric trolleys.

I didnt quite enjoy the throngs of summer tourists weaving their way near the hotel where we stayed, but I enjoyed the various shades of characters that SF had to offer. The first time I was here, it was way back in 1998 – and SF was the first city in our cross-1/3 US road trip then. I was impressed by the bay, the Fisherman’s Wharf and the Alcatraz, and none of the rhythmic pulse of the city caught my attention then. This time, it felt as if someone just blasted loud, hip-hop music and by that, SF literally had blues band jamming away in some corner of a busy intersection, complete with a drum set and fully-plugged speakers.

However, the highlight of my trip had to be Ely. It was a joy to be able to spend not one, but 3 evenings with her. I kidnapped her 12-year old daughter for a day so that we can all go to the Titanic Artifacts exhibition at the Sony Metreon together, and I must have exhausted her out of walking around downtown in and out of stores and cafes! That poor girl also had to tolerate my silly antics, corny jokes and obsession with the camera, which is my killer strategy to embarass the hell out of a teenager. Hee.

Ely is as cheerful and bubbly as I remembered her to be, and looked radiant with a baby girl in her tummy. We had a yummy Mediterannean lunch on the first day we met, an Indian dinner with the husbands and kid the same night, mocha and pastry on the 2nd night, and finally – a good ol’ American serving of pancakes and eggs with DH on the last night. Yes, that ‘breakfast’ meal was eaten at 7pm. She was pregnant, and I was having PMS. So there.

DH however, did not get to see as much of SF as I did. I am pretty sure he had a ball being in the audience watching Steve Jobs revealing Apple’s new OS, but other than that – I think the trip passed by as a quick blur to him. In between the sessions he and a few others had to slog the night away completing a project, and I don’t envy that. It is a grim reminder about my own long-evenings coming up in a couple of months, when nights will be trapped inside an editing room. Ah well, one of us have to pay for the Victoria Secrets’, no?

As we flew back the day after the US issued a Red security alert on air travel – I expected a tough time at the airport, being one cladded in a hijab. Other than the long queues to check in, none of that happened. I had a better time with the US securities than I did when I flew to Melbourne to cover F1 for EMC, just 9 mths after Sep 11. At that time, no one in the Australian immigration believed I was a journalist covering a bunch of boys racing fast cars. Sigh.

San Francisco is a must visit for those of you who love to travel independently,and not be entwined by touristy things. You can do the Fisherman Wharf and all that, but leave a lot of time to explore on your own. Get lost, ask questions and walk a lot. I guarantee that you will be planning your next trip there even before you reach the airport to go home.

Godiva Chocolate Cheese Cake – just for Nazrah

I nearly choked myself to death laughing, when I read a certain letter from a certain civil servant about what the role of Singapore’s journalists should be. Shortly after finding a sharp streak of painful humour in her answer, I actually felt relief. Relief that while I am glad that my newspaper days opened many doors for me, I am so very thankful I am not a part of it now. I would have bowed my head in shame if I am still in the thick of it, with a Big Brother cloud hovering above me because of this:

“It is not the role of journalists or newspapers in Singapore to champion issues, or campaign for or against the Government. If a columnist presents himself as a non-political observer, while exploiting his access to the mass media to undermine the Government’s standing with the electorate, then he is no longer a constructive critic, but a partisan player in politics.”

K BHAVANI
Press Secretary to the Minister for Information,
Communications and the Arts

Her name, imprinted so boldly in the letter published in the newspaper Today – rang a familiar tone. I think I have met her before in some party, if not cajoled my way to interview one of the people she fervently served. Right now, however,I am having problems dealing with how bold and incredibly ignorant a reply from an experienced press officer has been in giving retorts to the newspaper. I assume she knows full well that it will be read by many beyond the Singapore servants circle. There is life outside of servitude, Ms Bhavani. It is called Living.

Let me begin this way. About a decade ago, I had my first brush of nanny-dom when a news editor who interviewed me for a radio journalism job said with a straight face – “You have great potential. But let me remind you that journalism is not about championing issues. We just report.”

I nodded unknowingly, chiding my young mind at the same time for being a tad smart-alecky by choosing to vocalise my opinions unabashly about some global issues then. Unsolicited opinions is not well regarded in Singapore’s journalism, oops, I didn’t know.I am convinced that I would have gotten the job if only I had shut up.

I moved on, and eventually ended up with the national daily. Those were very happy days, especially when you have a band to jam with every lunch hour 🙂 But those were learning days too – because there were times when I was told to source for reaction views from the public after the premier’s speech on national TV, thinking that it was indeed for a reaction story. I realized later that it was for the editors to report to the premier’s office, not to the public. I didn’t know I was a double agent. I should have asked for extra pay then, stupid me.

I still have a few friends who are championing issues in the Singapore media, or at least who still think they are. Many have left. I was an inch close to diving back into the world of newspaper journalism when I returned from Canada in 2004,with the same newspaper who decided to suspend the blog of a particular Mr Brown after he criticised the rising cost of living in Singapore. Mr Brown’s entry triggered that Bhavani reply you see. It must have been difficult on a very individual level for the newspaper staff to embrace such a decision. For most of them are conflicted, yet drawn to the sexy,juicy life of having a journalist tag to their name. It is a very seductive power, albeit amassed in a messy clump of false confidence.

The day the letter was printed in the papers – it was a national slap on all our faces – us Singaporeans who were educated well, travelled the world, opened our hearts and minds and embrace what’s best for our beloved country. It was an insult to think that we will gulp that sort of reply and not think anything of it.

I never thought I would diss an industry I love, and one that I had grew very much on as an adult in my own blog. But that reply Ms Bhavani, is the straw that broke this camel’s back. I wish you never wrote it, because I love my Singapore and want to be proud of it even when I am thousands of miles away.

I am a sucker for things I cannot do well. I gravitate towards it, spend months psyching myself that I CAN do it, fail brilliantly – and then pat myself on the back and said to myself that I tried. By some curious self-study, I realise that all these gigs involve the water.

Having an intimate love-hate relationship with the water is something that grew out of a deep fear of it since I was 6. I was swimming in the then East Coast Lagoon, somehow managed to reach the wooden platform floating in the middle of the lagoon and climbed on it like any curious 6-year old would. I was with my sisters and cousins, and I remembered sitting on the edge of the platform and hanging my 2 liitle legs out into the water, singing away. The next thing I know, someone pushed me from behind and splash I go into the water, struggling to keep afloat. I was saved by my cousin, but I swear to you, even till today – within the 15 seconds or so I was submerged inside the water, I saw an octopus. I did. I really did. I told everyone when I was ashore, but no one believed me. Now that I am older, I can rationalise it as hallucination since I must have been in deep fear when I was in the water, but the fear remains – never mind that the octopus is obviously gone and barbequed somewhere.

Anyway, since then, I was fearful to swim. A mandatory class to learn swimming in secondary school did not help me, I failed it because I could not take the test. When I was 24, I was determined to not let this water fear ruled my life, and this was when the water-challenge mission came to my life, and never left until today. I learnt how to swim from a lady whom I interviewed for a diving story for the paper I worked for, and she was the most patient instructor I know. Despite the fact that the night lesssons at the Anglo CHinese School at Barker Road meant eerie conditions due to the big, menacing, creepy-looking trees – I persevered, along with a few other friends. I wouldn’t say I am a good swimmer, but enough to gain some confidence to challenge the water again.

A few years later, I remembered how I had missed the fun my hostelmates had during their divijng trip to Tioman just because I was fearful of it. It took months for me to brave myself for it, and finally I did – not without its drama. During one practice session, I stood for 20 minutes on edge of the RIver Valley Swimming Pool – all suit-up, oxygen tank in place, regulator in my mouth – but I couldn’t. An old boyfriend then, along with my diving instructor were already in the pool and coaxing me to overcome my fear of jumping in – but all my 6 year old fear, octopus included, came rushing into my mind. I ended up sitting by the side of the pool – crying. By the way, I never had that diving license. I finished the entire course, but did not take the test. Wimp.

And then now, living so close to the Rockies and right in the heart of beautiful British Columbia – another water challenge came peering into my face. I have been telling DH that I WILL do the white-water rafting, even if I had to start with the Class 1 rapids (rapids come in categories of classes from 1-6 . CLass 6 being something like the aggressive gush of the Niagara Falls). There is a nearby white water river called the Chilliwack River and another one called the Thomson River which seems to be beckoning, but by my own record – I would need at least a few months to psyche myself up. By then, summer will be over and the water level may be too high or too low to raft. So how?

I don’t really want to see myself ‘fail brilliantly’, but I know I may just will. Maybe I should borrow SIL’s rubber dingy and practice floating on it in the river next to our house instead, that would be more methodical and gradual in building rafting-confidence wouldn’t it? Then again, thats boring – cause I am setting myself to successfully conquer the water. Its weird, but it seems the fact that no one believed my octopus story became a motivation for me to always do something which I know I cannot do so easily.

Look at what a 28-year-old incident did to me.So when your child said they saw an octopus in that pool or lagoon, please, do believe it.

After all these years of chasing fireworks – braving mosquitoes in a secluded undeveloped portion of Sentosa Island, hustled through bumper-to-bumper traffic at Marina Park, driving across the viaduct many times over between 7-7.30 pm to make sure the precise timing of the first bursts, nearly trampled to death while standing up at Harbour Quay in Sydney during the Olympics, climbing onto the top of the light tower at the National Stadium after cajoling the military marshalls and exploting my press pass – I thought, watching the fireworks from a moutain would top it all off, and what a smart decision I made for both me and DH to view the Canada Day fireworks splendidly yesterday.Not.

I realise how dumb it was for me to decide that we should view the fireworks (which is happening in downtown Vancouver) from Burnaby Mountain, some 20 km away. We were not the only ones of course, there were at least 200 people there – with a good mix of people showing what Canada truly is. I was amazed when I looked around and saw a potpourri of Chinese, Indians, Caucasians, Muslims, Eastern Europeans and many others I cannot instantly recognise. From the slopes of Burnaby Mountain facing the entire sprawl of Vancouver, it is a gorgeous view – including the waters between Vancouver and the Gulf islands, as well as the lights lining the summit at Mount Seymour Ski Resort. It was breathtaking, but it is no way a place to view fireworks – not the way I am used to.

Since young, fireworks is BIG, HUGE and LOUD. I am also always trying to get to it as close as I can – there is something so powerful and magical to be so close to the majestic thumping of each burst, and how small it often makes me feel. I like that feeling, that smallness – to be able to see something so full of grandeur and be completely marvelled by it.

Little did I realise that viewing fireworks from the top of a mountain will only make the firework seem, err….small. Its basic physics really – you are far, AND higher than the height of the firerworks – so the bursts seem like small sparks (macam bunga api) from where you are. As I watched the first few bursts of the fireworks last night, some distant away, minus the thumps because we were so far away – I was dissapointed. Literally, it was like someone ripped away my childhood firework fantasy – something that I have been chasing and gratified by everytime I seek it.

The chilly air, the breathtaking view and the romantic company (yes it was romantic, amidst the screaming children running around 🙂 – did make up the dissapointment a bit. Next year, DH says – we are going to go to another location. Fireworks CANNOT be smaller than you are, it is just wrong. That’s the whole magic of it.

Viewing fireworks from a mountain is bad, bad decision on my part. I thought I was clever, priding myself to DH saying I have been chasing fireworks all my life and so I know what is best. Yeah right. I forgot I did not grow up in a place where there are super-high mountains around, except for 12-storey flats.

Think like a Canadian when you are in Canada, girl. Fireworks from a mountain doesn’t work.

Before you read this, let’s agree on some things.

We agree soccer is NOT politics. When a green field is filled with 22 men chasing a rounded, leather ball made possibly in sweatshops in Pakistan, then no, soccer is NOT politics. Those national flags that people use to wave with the widest arc ever made by their arms, more so than they would do while exercising (never mind the ligament stretching achingly the next day), is NOT politics. When one of the world’s largest sportsgear-maker flashes a multi-million dollar ad, with a developing country backyard as the setting and top players from various countries, not to say multiple hair-colours shooting the ball for an 8 year-old captain, no it is NOT politics. It is just merely a feel-good advertisement about how far-reaching and ubiquitous soccer is. Right.

What IS political about soccer is the Italian team. As if it is not bad enough that soccer players tumble and scream when all they get is a mere knock on the knee, the Italians just HAD to carry it one notch further. Watch them. A usual tumble in soccerdom would be a double bodyroll for them, a typical holler for the team medic would include head-dives into the grass, if you don’t know what the meaning of ‘drama’ is – please, watch the Italians play.

I caught the Italy-Australia game this morning, in a crowded A & W with DH, gobbling our breakfast all at the same time. There were at least 40 people there watching the game too, and they didnt even order anything! The Aussies faught hard, and for that – I quietly cheered “Ozzy Ozzy Ozzy, Oi Oi Oi !” for them. Something I picked up unashamedly while in Sydney for the 2000 Olympics, complete with an Australian flag tattooed on my cheek. But that’s another story.

If you didnt catch it, the only reason why Italy won is because some a** faked a super-drama fall and the referee called for a penalty kick, during injury-time. Why on earth would a a world-class referee fall for the drama, I don’t know. It was so obvious that the Italian player was faking it. The win was an undeserved one, every sane person with a pair of good eyes can see that.

So it irritates me like crazy when 4 truckloads of Italian fans drove past Robson St (similar to Singapore’s Orchard Road) screaming, honking and even running alongside them, as if they just had secured the best win and played the best game ever. Each truck of fans have not one, but FOUR Italian flags waved from left to right, not to mention painted faces of red, white and green. With all the commotion outside, AG, who was drawing charts on a piece of paper while discussing the strategies to access Canadian television funds, was undeterred. He had to raise his voice, but in true Canadian fashion – was not impressed by the err…drama outside.

You know, if soccer players can just spare 3 minutes of their lives and play on the ice, hockey stick in hand – they will finally learn what it means by a sports injury. And btw, let’s see what happens if they fake an injury after a mere ‘touch’ during a tackle in ice hockey, and I hope to God they have the might to stand up to the hockey boys. When on a bad day, even the goalie stripped his shirt off and join the fight.

The first team I would volunteer to play against the Carolina Hurricanes, the Edmonton Oilers, or the Vancouver Canucks would be …the Italians.

And here is a sample of a true blue contact sport in my books, where there is no room for wimps, needless to say dramas.