For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire,
that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart,
and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say,
‘God is in my heart,’ but rather,
‘I am in the heart of God.’
And think not you can direct the course of love,
for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night,
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

Dark night of the soul.

They say that a picture speaks a thousand words.

They say that a picture speaks beyond a thousand words.

Dream flight | credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shelbob/

Bagaimana ya

hendak ku luahkan

Isyarat hati, agar jelas,isyarat jiwa, agar pasti

Agar kau tahu

Diri ini bergelora menanti hari, mengira waktu

Menunggu saat-saat agar kita dapat bertemu

Melepas rindu.

Ingin sekali ku panggil merpati, minta ia sampaikan

Warkah jiwa dari ku untukmu

Bersalut harapan, dimeterai dengan mimpi-mimpi

Agar kau tahu

Hati ini hanya ada satu nama

Dan di situ telah terukir namamu.

Hendak juga ku panggil awan turunkan hujan

Dan dari rintik-rintik hujan itu

Akan ku lukiskan perasaan ku terhadapmu.

Tapi,

Aku tidak pandai melukis.

Lalu Aku tulis puisi ini

Kerana ini sahajalah cara yang ku tahu

Untuk sampaikan hajat agar ia kesampaian

Agar kau tahu

Keadaan ku yang memujamu.

Biar bukan Hanya Tuhan sahaja yang tahu.

A, C, D, E, F . . .

I went to kindergarten at Tadika Riang Baru.

The author, the 'angmoh' kid and Joanne.

I remember competing with an ‘angmoh’ kid for the attention of an Indian girl named Joanne. You could say she was my  ‘first crush’. I adored her. I thought her pixie haircut was cute. That smile, oh that smile. Tadika Riang Baru’s uniform never looked prettier on anyone else.

I remember that my best friend in kindergarten was Luvin Kumar, a Chindian boy.  We were like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. Maybe Batman & Robin.

I remember a lot of things from my kindergarten days. But I also remember that I did not know a lot.

I didn’t know what was Malay, Chinese or Indian.

I didn’t know Joanne was Indian. All I knew was that oh-so-sweet smile.

I didn’t know the ‘angmoh’ was an ‘angmoh’. All I knew was that I did not appreciate him going after my girl. >:(

I didn’t know Luvin was Chindian.

I didn’t know back then that I did not look ‘Chinese’.

I remember my grandmother saying that I looked Malay. She also told me that if I misbehaved, the ‘apunehneh’ (a not-so-nice term for Indians) will kidnap me. The ‘apunehneh’ was like the Bogeyman;  an embodiment of terror which my grandmother used to great effect in order to keep my mischievious behaviour at bay.

Ke Bangku Sekolah Rendah.

Then it was primary school. People say that you go to school to learn.

I did. I learnt what ‘Malay’, ‘Chinese’, ‘Indian’ meant.

My eyes started to see ‘colour’.

I even started to notice my own colour. Like my grandmother, people were remarking that I looked Malay. I remember how my mum’s colleagues in school would joyfully exclaim that I looked ‘Melayu’. I never understood why were they grinning from ear to ear while going, ” Eh macam Melayu la anak kamu ini!” ( My mum was a teacher in the same school, horror of horrors).

I began to see that people were ‘separated’ based on WHAT they are. I remember an ustazah coming into my class one day, asking those who were non-Muslims to raise our hands. Being the blur kid I was, I raised my hand in compliance.

She then looked straight at me, “Kamu ni Cina ke Melayu?”

“Cina, cikgu.”

We were then asked to leave our class to go into another. Ah, the segregation of “Moral” and “Pendidikan Islam” students. I began to see that there was a “them vs us” culture right in the classrooms of a mission school.

In school, I learnt many new words. I learnt that certain words carried certain connotations with them, words that somehow like a magic spell from Harry Potter would incite mini fights in my all-boys school. Mind you, boys whose age did not even reach a double figure.

Words like keling.

Babi.

Not only that, I also learnt a few things. Cina makan babi, Cina kedekut. Malays were dumb, lazy and could not speak English. I learnt that Indians were keling; the troublemakers in school. I learnt that the Chinese and Indians are to go back to China and India respectively if we don’t know how to speak Bahasa Melayu. I learnt that the Malays were good at sepak takraw, the Indians football and running, the Chinese math and basketball.

I was just the teacher’s son. A primary school kid in navy blue shorts.

But I learnt a lot didn’t I?

These ‘lessons’ I learnt, were they true?

I was just the teacher’s son. A primary school kid in navy blue shorts.

How could I have known, what was right or wrong with what I ‘learnt’ in school?

People always thought I was Malay from my looks. Didn’t help that I had a Malay slang to go with my look. In fact the most FAQ I am asked is – “You Malay ah?”

Funny thing was, I represented Wilayah Persekutuan Kuala Lumpur to the BAHASA MELAYU National-level Storytelling Competition for TWO consecutive years in primary school, falling in love with the language in the process. In Year 4, I placed fourth. In Year 5, I emerged as the National Champion, possibly the first non-Malay to win that title.

Masuk Sekolah Menengah.

Then came secondary school.

History repeated itself.

Everyone thought I was Malay.

There was once I nearly got punished by the afternoon session supervisor. Reason? Saya tak pergi solat. He obviously thought I was Malay.

Racism was alive and well in school. It wasn’t an abstract concept, it could be seen by anyone who has a pair of eyes. Siva would sit next to Guna in class. A bunch of Chinese boys would be yakking away in Mandarin from the back of the classroom. The few Malays in class 5 Azam would huddle together. Our class teacher would valiantly try to change our seating arrangements to reflect a more Malaysian setting, but to no avail.

When we went for sports, the Chinese kids would naturally gravitate tothe basketball courts, while the Malays and Indians would square off agaisnt each other in a game of futsal. When the bell rang for recess, the whole school would be in chaos. Imagine nearly a thousand hormonal and hungry boys on growth spurts rushing for food in the canteen. When the dust has settled (literally), you’ll see again people sitting according to their ethnicity.

I was the weird one in school. Unlike the other Chinese students, I mixed around with the other races. I was usually the only Chinese student who played futsal with the Malays and Indians. Some days I sat with the Chinese. Some days, the Indians welcomed me as one of their own.

My best friend in school was Ikhwan B. Mohd Yasin. People said that we were like brothers, some thought we were a gay couple. Sometimes, teachers would ask me, “Bila nak masuk Islam, Derek?”

Belajar Rajin-rajin

I thought I am/was not racist.

I have a best friend who is a Malay.

I mixed around with people of every race.

I loved Bahasa Melayu.

I liked thinking that I represented what Malaysia was really about. My ‘Malaysian’ face was even part of a winning campaign that showcased the diversity of Malaysia.

But deep inside me, prejudices and stereotypes reign.

“Typical Malay. Lazy, subsidy-mentality, rempit.”

” Cerita pusing. No action, talk only. Indians.”

” What a selfish, kiasu Chinese. Communist.”

Sigh.

We all know all these descriptions don’t do justice. There are very hardworking Malays out there, even in my very own school. I know of many Chinese guys who are the epitome of a bum. I have seen my Indian friends standing up for what they believe in. I remember Haris Ibrahim saying that there is only one race. The human race.

Who do I blame for this? My parents who pass off racist comments? My grandmother who indoctrinated me with the belief that Indian men will hunt me down if I misbehave? Or do I point my accusing finger at the education system of Malaysia?

Did they teach me racism?

Or is it the man in the mirror?

Are we all racists, underneath the facade?

Tepuk dada, tanyalah selera.

Sam: It’s me. It’s your Sam. Don’t you know your Sam?

Frodo: I can’t do this, Sam.

Sam: I know. It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here. But we are. It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo; the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end… because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was, when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you, that meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going… because they were holding on to something.

Frodo: What are we holding on to, Sam?

Sam: That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.

We call him keling

We imitate his accent

Laugh at his dark skin

We call him apek

Tell him to “Go back China!”

“Rearn to speak Engrish!”

We call him huana

Lazy, rempit, ‘subsidy’

Can marry four wives

Why can't we be like them?

Let’s look at each other with colour-blind lenses.

 
Love is what makes the world go round. This phrase is often quoted and considered by many to be a universal truth. I however, beg to differ. In my humble opinion, ‘money’ is what makes the world go round. Yes, money is what sets the world in motion. Without money, nations would cease to exist. Without money, kings and queens would be mere paupers. Without money, some lose their meaning of  life.

A controversial subject it may be, yet money is a basic necessity in life. Humans need clothes, food, water and accommodation. Without money, would these needs be met in this world of rapid modernization? People accuse money of being the root of all evil, Satan’s sceptre and even the very cause of humanity’s deterioration but I say that it is the lack of money that is the root of all evil. Would crimes occur if there was enough money for everyone? Would banks be robbed, would innocent women be preyed upon by snatch thieves, would a man kill another person all for a few Ringgit?

From the great Aztec kingdom to our very own Melaka, money played a major and significant role. Ponder for a moment; would the great port of Melaka achieve its current historical prestige if it had not dealt with traders and the various currencies that came from the foreign lands of Persia, China and Arabia? In fact, out of money nations, empires and civilizations were born. Out of these civilizations and empires, money staked its claim as humanity’s greatest necessity.

Why are children told to study hard in school? Not to only pursue knowledge, but to guarantee the financial stability that comes with a job. It is an established fact that degrees and diplomas are prerequisites in getting a job. Even scholars who are sincere in their pursuit of knowledge need money from scholarships or grants to finance their research and studies.

The success of an individual is measured by the Porsche he drives, the crispness of his dollar notes and the army of plastic money stationed in his wallet. In an article by ‘Time’ Magazine, Will Smith was adjudged to be the most successful superstar for the year 2008. Why? He earned the highest salary among his fellow stars in Tinseltown after a series of box-office hits like ‘I Am Legend’. Even the world-renowned and widely-respected ‘Time’ magazine acknowledged money as a yardstick for success.

Money is also the motivation that drives mere mortals to achieve greatness. Men like Donald Trump and Sir Richard Branson are prime examples of individuals who defy norms, the views of society and even their own weaknesses in order to obtain money, money and more money. Sir Richard Branson’s eccentricity and creativity is widely acknowledged and can be easily seen through his successful ventures like Virgin Airways and Virgin Records. It is his lust for success and the wealth which comes together with it that fuels his relentless entrepreneurial spirit. Let’s not forget about our very own Tony Fernandes. In the past, who would have thought that man could fly? But now, with Air Asia “everyone can fly”. If Mona Lisa was Da Vinci’s muse to inspire and spark his creativity, money is now the fuel to the current generation’s drive for both success and happiness.

W. Somerset Maugham said, ‘money is the sixth sense without which you cannot make complete use of the other five’. How true, especially considering the current economic climate. There are no two ways about it; without money, man would lose the Polo tee draped over his body, the Bata shoes adorning his feet and the ‘roti canai’ that satisfies his growling stomach. Far greater than that, man’s zest and passion for life will surely dwindle. In this current generation, money is the thread that binds humanity together.

An inconvenient truth, a chilling fact but how true.

“The One Who Must Not Be Named”.

Throughout the Harry Potter series, the name “Voldemort” is so feared in the Wizarding World that it is considered dangerous even to speak his name. Almost no witch or wizard dares to speak his name, choosing to refer to him as “You-Know-Who” or “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” rather than saying his name aloud.

Fear. The fear of even uttering Voldemort’s name.

Only Harry Potter himself dared to utter that word.

He broke that fear, by first daring to say that name : Voldemort.

Amazing how much power a word can create. In fact, it gave more power to Voldemort?

Only when people began to DARE to utter the taboo name, did fear turn to courage.

The word ‘nigger’ in Twain’s work?

‘Pariah’ in Interlok?

Perhaps, just like Voldemort’s name in Harry Potter, saying that name will destroy the power it has over us?

It will perhaps allow us to see things with unhindered lenses? Open our eyes to see beyond the veil?

Otherwise, the unspoken words, the taboos, the no-entry zones – will always have dominion over us.

Let’s tear down the ‘Voldemorts’ of our life, our country, our world.

One word at a time.

I believe that the offending word in Interlok should not be removed. Let the past remind us of who we are as a nation. Let us dare to look face-to-face with what may ‘offend’ us. Don’t let political correctness stand in the way. Don’t let certain words be the ‘Voldemorts’ of Malaysia. Don’t allow certain words to have power over us, creating fear. All in the name of  so-called unity and tolerance.

After a while, it became tiresome to blog about the political arena of Malaysia. After all, there are MANY political commentators with greater insights than I could ever dream of having. I would simply be rehashing their arguments and points.

I decided that I would step out of my comfort zone this year as a blogger. I would start delving into my own life. A place that has been strictly off-limits for me. Not sure if people noticed, my essays and speeches were always written from a detached perspective. I would never write anything about myself, or my personal life. I wrote, because I had to. I never genuinely believed in what I wrote. People said that I could write. But I knew that my words were just concocted lies. Have any of you read my essay and speech that got me a place in the Nationals of Public Speaking? “Money makes the world go round.” “Money is the sixth sense without which you cannot make sense of the other five”.

Now.

I want to blog on what I believe in. What I am passionate of. What makes my heart beat. What breaks it. What fills it with anger.

I want to tell my STORIES.

From this end of the Telescope, as I peer into my life, the country, the world and all that is in it – I invite you. Come, take a look from my end of the Telescope.

“Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self.”
- Cyril Connolly.

Like a ballerina’s tiptoes, her fingers traced the length of the examination sheet ; her index finger counting the words of her essay.

A black cardigan worn over her school uniform. A white lace hairband trapped her shoulder-length locks in order. A ring on her right hand, golden in colour, but I doubt it’s authenticity. She was after all just a student, a refugee from Myanmar at that.

Her hands gripped her blue pen, writing furiously, running a race against time as the clock went ‘ticktock, ticktock’.

“Sigh, exams”, I muttered under my breath.

I shifted my gaze towards the whole class. Satisfied that there was no hanky-panky, I went back to my seat and picked up my book.

“Epicurus counselled his followers to study nature. The reason is rather strange. The goal of the study of nature was not, as one might think, the discovery of truth. The goal, oddly enough, was to produce and maintain a certain condition of mind, a state of being undisturbed or untroubled. As he cheerfully told his followers, ” Do not believe that there is any other goal to be achieved by the knowledge of metereological phenomena than freedom from disturbance and a secure conviction, just as with the rest of physics.”

I closed the cover of “Moral Darwinism : How We Became Hedonists”.

I was invigilating an exam, you see. To those who didn’t know, I spent my post-AS break volunteering in Harvest Centre.  I invigilated exams, taught Sejarah to the Fourth Formers, marked exam papers.

Just like how invigilators paced Maxwell’s exam hall during SPM, I walked around the classroom like a vulture looking for prey.

The same Burmese girl kept staring me as she bit the end of her pen.

I made eye contact.

Her eyes. Yes, her eyes.

There was something different.

People say that the eyes are windows to the soul.

Her eyes. Yes, her eyes.

People say that the eyes tell stories of the past.

What were her eyes trying to say?

Her suffering in her homeland? The tough journey to arrive here in Malaysia? Lost relatives perhaps? Tears shed? A broken heart?

Her eyes. Yes, her eyes.

Like a Pandora’s Box, filled with stories never to be told.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I snapped out of my reverie.

Later in the day as I sat in my mother’s car, those scenes kept replaying in my mind.

I was touched, provoked, disturbed.

These kids were refugees from Myanmar, most of them. Only God knows how they got to Malaysia, perhaps courtesy of some Immigration officer. I hear that they travelled by boat and walked for miles across the border. But I digress.

To those who do not know, Malaysia does not recognise asylum seekers/refugees hence these people are considered immigrants. As such, the children do not and cannot get education.

What Harvest Centre does is provide education to them.

What amazed  me was the fact that these kids wanted so much to learn, to study, to go to school. Things we take for granted.

When I saw them answering their exam questions, my heart was warmed. They weren’t Lil Einsteins, but they tried their best. Dodgy grammar, misspelled words. But if I could, I wanted to give almost every one of them an A for effort. Because they deserved it.

My Form 4 Sejarah students turned up everyday for class; braving six hours of torture inflicted by yours truly although they were already on term break. Six hours of Sejarah, I tell you. I salute them. For their diligence, for their perseverance. For wanting to learn.

They did not need to come for classes, did not need to study, did not need to do well for their exams. After all, all they get is a meaningless sheet of paper that is not recognised by any institution.

But they did.

I thought I was the one ‘giving’ to those at Harvest Centre, teaching them Sejarah. Au contraire.

What I did was just to tell them about the Dark Ages, the Greek civilisation, Confucius etc etc.

They taught me far more than that.

***

To those who are starting school/college tomorrow, remember these kids.

Remember that you can go to school.

Remember that you have a school to call your own.

Remember that you have horrible exams to sit for.

Remember that you have annoying teachers.

They don’t.

On your first day of school tomorrow, remember all that. Remember them.

And thank God that you have a first day of school tomorrow.

***

For more info on Harvest Centre,what they do, or to see what you can do to help, click here.