"I have a lot to be grateful for in life, you know." I told her when we were walking home last night after watching Mao's Last Dancer. "How often in your life you get the opportunity of waking up in the morning, walking out of your room, and meeting and eating and talking side by side with a beautiful Spanish vet who wants to learn English, who visits poultry farms every week and who treats you like a gentleman?" Not many. We smiled and we nodded to each other and continued to walk solemnly in grateful appreciation of the beautiful life we've been blessed with.
Afterward, when we were home and my friend and I was sitting at our dinner table, eating our Chinese takeaways, my photographer friend joined us. Exhausted from his long day, and complaining to us about his bad day, he dipped his two toasted bread in a baked bean and a leftover of instant Indian dish from yesterday.
I looked at him, and I looked at my soy chicken and rice. "Would you like some of my chicken?" He lifted his eyebrows, "Oh, no, no, no, thanks.". We sat back in silence, each enjoying our meals. Fifteen minutes passed, we talked and we chatted. Suddenly he turned to me, his eyes locked mine in earnest honesty, "Can I have some of your chicken?". We broke in laughter, "Of course!" I shoved my container to him rather happily, glad to wash away my guilt of eating good food while he couldn't.
"One day when you're famous, we'll go to the opening of your gallery in New York and you'll remember us as the people who feed you when you were a poor student." He nodded, smiling mischievously at us while we laughed.
Showing posts with label 18 Months in Australia Series. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 18 Months in Australia Series. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Letters to a Friend: Know thyself
Cowper Street, October 10, 2009
My dearest,
Have I ever told you the meaning of my name? In Arabic it comprises of two words; nur means light, and hidayat means direction. To my utter romantic self, I always believe my name signifies the essence of who I am, the purpose of my being. To me, the idea of how I am in people's life at one point of time to find something for them, to bring them to a different junction of their life and to guide them to their destination, seems so apt.
Yesterday when I was browsing a book with my friend in the little bookstore by the beach, we found out I bore similar and uncanny characteristics to the Goddess Artemis, the androgynous eternal virgin. How much of a coincidence do you think it is? You see, I wasn't kidding when I said I don't see much need for a man to complete me.
This realization, this discovery, this mesmerizing consciousness of my true self reminds me of the short journey I've shared with you in the past, and how in our brief and laconic encounters, I've conceived a reality so clear and unbidden to the faculty of my imaginations. It's as if in meeting you in return - I was guided, found, and brought to life.
How do you think we should explain our seemingly fateful but haphazard friendship, my dearest? I always think how degrading it is to attribute every single thing to mere chance and fortuity, as if our presence in each other's lives serves no larger purposes beyond the random, automated, and mechanized system of our breathing and bleeding bodies. At the same time, to credit our beautiful and blossoming friendship to the working of fate and forces of predetermined events renders a touch of lethargy to our outlook on life. When things are or not meant to be, what use is there in even trying?
There is now a tinge of strange bitterness every time I visit the memories of our time spent together, our intertwined and enjoined conversations are so drenched with saccharine and ecstasy in the barren land of my dreams and expectations - they feel almost unreal. "When you suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable and trifling", says Pi. Similarly, when you've become a stranger to compassion and grace, even a minuscule act of generosity touches you like an electric current - shocking and overwhelming and out of the world.
So I'm writing to tell you today, these are what you are to me - a thunderstorm, a lightning, a rain and a sunshine, a gentle wave crashing on the silent and steady rock, a leaf falling from the tree, a dancing fairy, and a Peter Pan in my wonderland, and
I am ever yours truly,
Ati. A. Aziz
My dearest,
Have I ever told you the meaning of my name? In Arabic it comprises of two words; nur means light, and hidayat means direction. To my utter romantic self, I always believe my name signifies the essence of who I am, the purpose of my being. To me, the idea of how I am in people's life at one point of time to find something for them, to bring them to a different junction of their life and to guide them to their destination, seems so apt.
Yesterday when I was browsing a book with my friend in the little bookstore by the beach, we found out I bore similar and uncanny characteristics to the Goddess Artemis, the androgynous eternal virgin. How much of a coincidence do you think it is? You see, I wasn't kidding when I said I don't see much need for a man to complete me.
This realization, this discovery, this mesmerizing consciousness of my true self reminds me of the short journey I've shared with you in the past, and how in our brief and laconic encounters, I've conceived a reality so clear and unbidden to the faculty of my imaginations. It's as if in meeting you in return - I was guided, found, and brought to life.
How do you think we should explain our seemingly fateful but haphazard friendship, my dearest? I always think how degrading it is to attribute every single thing to mere chance and fortuity, as if our presence in each other's lives serves no larger purposes beyond the random, automated, and mechanized system of our breathing and bleeding bodies. At the same time, to credit our beautiful and blossoming friendship to the working of fate and forces of predetermined events renders a touch of lethargy to our outlook on life. When things are or not meant to be, what use is there in even trying?
There is now a tinge of strange bitterness every time I visit the memories of our time spent together, our intertwined and enjoined conversations are so drenched with saccharine and ecstasy in the barren land of my dreams and expectations - they feel almost unreal. "When you suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable and trifling", says Pi. Similarly, when you've become a stranger to compassion and grace, even a minuscule act of generosity touches you like an electric current - shocking and overwhelming and out of the world.
So I'm writing to tell you today, these are what you are to me - a thunderstorm, a lightning, a rain and a sunshine, a gentle wave crashing on the silent and steady rock, a leaf falling from the tree, a dancing fairy, and a Peter Pan in my wonderland, and
I am ever yours truly,
Ati. A. Aziz
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The land of weird and wonderful
On Friday, I had glutinous Chinese meals with my friend cooked especially by her mother. Although we were quite hindered with everyone's ability to converse fluently either in Chinese or English, we ended up laughing most of the time it doesn't matter. Afterward, as I was about to start working at my desk I received a knock on my door. "You have to come out and see us", was the first sentence my friend uttered. A friend's friend was working on his photography project and he wanted to take photos at the bus stop - of half-naked people.
So there we were, under blistering rain and amidst thunderous wind, the foursome combination of weird and wonderful people. While I stood by the road side, shivering in my pajamas and blue cap, holding the umbrella for the photographer, the subject of the photo walked idly back and forth in his boxer short, iPod in his ears and sunglasses on his face. My friend occasionally barked from the other side of the road, her Australian accent was unmistakable, while our neighbour watched us amusingly, his head covered under a part of his shirt like someone wearing a hijab.
We reminisced on the night later on, sipping chai latte and quietly listening to the Velvet Underground. I told them, 'seriously guys, I don't need drugs to get high - I'm high now as it is with our life'.
My friends and I went to a talk by Christopher Hitchens on Saturday. As a part of the opening night for the Festival of Dangerous Ideas, Hitchens discussed his arguments against religion and god. Interestingly enough, even though I find myself nodding to most of his ideas, I did not find the coincidences frightening anymore. As I thought to myself in the morning the next day, if god really exists and he is going to judge me, then let him.
And Sunday was the highlight of my weekend. At the generous expense of my friend, he got us free tickets to watch the Australian National Rugby League (NRL) Grand Final. As my friend and I took the train from the city in the afternoon to his house, we could sense the excitement brewing as throngs of people in blue and yellow or purple jersey shirts, scarves, and caps passed through us. In their exhilaration, some people attempted to engage us in conversation by calling us their Indonesian friends.
As we walked into the ANZ Stadium later on, everyone appeared to burst with energy and anticipation. Although I am naturally apprehensive of crowds and loud voices, I let myself soak in the atmosphere like a dry and new sponge. Sitting there, seven rows from the field and in the middle of eighty thousand strangers, I feel small and overwhelmed with the magnanimity of life and fate and the world.
From afar, the combatant players on the field looked like bison fighting in their mating season - fierce, fast, but muted. Even though I couldn't set my heart to support anyone of the two teams, I watched my friends with keen interest as they jumped at every possible close calls for victory. The team my friends rooted for didn't win in the end, but the sombre mood was quickly replaced by our lively discussion during dinner.
And so passed one of the best weekends I ever had in a long time, which I believe is a starting point for many more to come. Isn't it funny how often only in the end the beginning starts?
So there we were, under blistering rain and amidst thunderous wind, the foursome combination of weird and wonderful people. While I stood by the road side, shivering in my pajamas and blue cap, holding the umbrella for the photographer, the subject of the photo walked idly back and forth in his boxer short, iPod in his ears and sunglasses on his face. My friend occasionally barked from the other side of the road, her Australian accent was unmistakable, while our neighbour watched us amusingly, his head covered under a part of his shirt like someone wearing a hijab.
We reminisced on the night later on, sipping chai latte and quietly listening to the Velvet Underground. I told them, 'seriously guys, I don't need drugs to get high - I'm high now as it is with our life'.
My friends and I went to a talk by Christopher Hitchens on Saturday. As a part of the opening night for the Festival of Dangerous Ideas, Hitchens discussed his arguments against religion and god. Interestingly enough, even though I find myself nodding to most of his ideas, I did not find the coincidences frightening anymore. As I thought to myself in the morning the next day, if god really exists and he is going to judge me, then let him.
And Sunday was the highlight of my weekend. At the generous expense of my friend, he got us free tickets to watch the Australian National Rugby League (NRL) Grand Final. As my friend and I took the train from the city in the afternoon to his house, we could sense the excitement brewing as throngs of people in blue and yellow or purple jersey shirts, scarves, and caps passed through us. In their exhilaration, some people attempted to engage us in conversation by calling us their Indonesian friends.
As we walked into the ANZ Stadium later on, everyone appeared to burst with energy and anticipation. Although I am naturally apprehensive of crowds and loud voices, I let myself soak in the atmosphere like a dry and new sponge. Sitting there, seven rows from the field and in the middle of eighty thousand strangers, I feel small and overwhelmed with the magnanimity of life and fate and the world.
From afar, the combatant players on the field looked like bison fighting in their mating season - fierce, fast, but muted. Even though I couldn't set my heart to support anyone of the two teams, I watched my friends with keen interest as they jumped at every possible close calls for victory. The team my friends rooted for didn't win in the end, but the sombre mood was quickly replaced by our lively discussion during dinner.
And so passed one of the best weekends I ever had in a long time, which I believe is a starting point for many more to come. Isn't it funny how often only in the end the beginning starts?
Thursday, October 1, 2009
How do you see the opposite gender?
"Oh, I like him. But he's too much", my friend said to me one day in utter exasperation and honest confusion.
We were having coffee in one of my favorite coffee spots, spending our lazy Monday afternoon away as if we have no obligation to fulfill. I just came back from a camping trip and I needed some resemblance of home to feel grounded again. So we each took a short walk from our respective place to the little cafe in the corner, where beautiful men make beautiful coffee and I can listen to beautiful music.
I shook my head, I leaned back on my chair, and I laughed at her statement. Her head turned sharply, and she looked at me with a bewildered look on her face. "What, why?", as usual she gets fidgety at my observation of her behaviour.
"True love is a strange and misleading notion, don't you think?" I folded my arms around my body, bracing for the debate to ensue. "Where do we get all these ideas when we meet the right person, he or she is going to be perfect and everything is going to work out by itself?". I ended my questions with a smile. I wasn't sure whether she was going to take my arguments as a head-on battle or throw her arms in the air with exasperation.
When she did the latter, I continued, "And what is it with us wo/men and our naive but persistent expectations of the other gender?" "I like him, but he's boring." "I like him, but he's too much." "I like her, but she's clingy." "I like her, but she's not spontaneous enough."
I breathed deeply at the end of my sentence, consumed in return by my own frustration.
Truly, I'm getting tired of looking at people through gender and sex telescope. When we are continuously looking at a person simply because s/he is a wo/man and when we are judging them based on whether or not they fit in the fe/male mould society has given us, we are simply admitting ourselves to the mere boundaries of our primal instinct.
Why do we seek companionship? Because we are one sex and they are the other? Because we are constantly bombarded by the thoughts of how hopeless we are alone and therefore we are always desperately in need of someone else to help us get through our difficult life? Why?
It is evident to me, when we constantly look at the other gender as potential mating match - we fail to look at them as individuals. And what a waste it is.
We were having coffee in one of my favorite coffee spots, spending our lazy Monday afternoon away as if we have no obligation to fulfill. I just came back from a camping trip and I needed some resemblance of home to feel grounded again. So we each took a short walk from our respective place to the little cafe in the corner, where beautiful men make beautiful coffee and I can listen to beautiful music.
I shook my head, I leaned back on my chair, and I laughed at her statement. Her head turned sharply, and she looked at me with a bewildered look on her face. "What, why?", as usual she gets fidgety at my observation of her behaviour.
"True love is a strange and misleading notion, don't you think?" I folded my arms around my body, bracing for the debate to ensue. "Where do we get all these ideas when we meet the right person, he or she is going to be perfect and everything is going to work out by itself?". I ended my questions with a smile. I wasn't sure whether she was going to take my arguments as a head-on battle or throw her arms in the air with exasperation.
When she did the latter, I continued, "And what is it with us wo/men and our naive but persistent expectations of the other gender?" "I like him, but he's boring." "I like him, but he's too much." "I like her, but she's clingy." "I like her, but she's not spontaneous enough."
I breathed deeply at the end of my sentence, consumed in return by my own frustration.
Truly, I'm getting tired of looking at people through gender and sex telescope. When we are continuously looking at a person simply because s/he is a wo/man and when we are judging them based on whether or not they fit in the fe/male mould society has given us, we are simply admitting ourselves to the mere boundaries of our primal instinct.
Why do we seek companionship? Because we are one sex and they are the other? Because we are constantly bombarded by the thoughts of how hopeless we are alone and therefore we are always desperately in need of someone else to help us get through our difficult life? Why?
It is evident to me, when we constantly look at the other gender as potential mating match - we fail to look at them as individuals. And what a waste it is.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
You're a speck of dust
You're a speck of dust and you fall on me.
Over the course of several months, I have been a reluctant witness of the failing of human resolves, the insecurity of our needs for something fulfilling, the naivety of our childish compulsion for something destructive. And my, how I was amused.
Sometimes I think human beings are akin to dusts. We are insignificant, We are a nuisance. The world doesn't need us, the world gets by without us. Like little dusts, we float around, we settle, we make visible of our tiny selves - we are not easily brushed off.
Nevertheless, there seems to be an affectionate relationship in our regards to the pitiful existence of dusts. We retaliate with anger and frustrations at its every visits, but we dutifully sweep it off day after day - and sometimes without complaints, sometimes willingly, sometimes with the pride of accomplishing something noble.
Human behaviour continues to amaze me, and in the complexity of the human-dust relationships I've decided to sit outside the box and observe the hilarity of things unfolding before my very eyes. I'm not a part of it, and I have no desire to be a part of it.
You're a speck of dust and you fall on me. You can sit there as long as you want, because I will never want you and I will never miss you.
Over the course of several months, I have been a reluctant witness of the failing of human resolves, the insecurity of our needs for something fulfilling, the naivety of our childish compulsion for something destructive. And my, how I was amused.
Sometimes I think human beings are akin to dusts. We are insignificant, We are a nuisance. The world doesn't need us, the world gets by without us. Like little dusts, we float around, we settle, we make visible of our tiny selves - we are not easily brushed off.
Nevertheless, there seems to be an affectionate relationship in our regards to the pitiful existence of dusts. We retaliate with anger and frustrations at its every visits, but we dutifully sweep it off day after day - and sometimes without complaints, sometimes willingly, sometimes with the pride of accomplishing something noble.
Human behaviour continues to amaze me, and in the complexity of the human-dust relationships I've decided to sit outside the box and observe the hilarity of things unfolding before my very eyes. I'm not a part of it, and I have no desire to be a part of it.
You're a speck of dust and you fall on me. You can sit there as long as you want, because I will never want you and I will never miss you.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Letters to a Friend: Feeling of lightheadedness
Cowper St, September 7, 2009
My dearest,
There is a certain greediness which influences me when I think of the future. Looking back, I realized now how I've built my life into small portions of time. A series of plans made in advance which disguise itself as a confident vote for where I want to be, what I want to do and who I want to meet. Whenever one portion of time is reaching its end, I'd scamper in fury and neurotic apprehension, trying to put together another set of ideas for what is ahead of me. Anything, something I know I can accomplish.
Truth be told, this greed is often consumed by fear; of the unknown, of losing control, of disappointments. It's funny when people tend to see me as a mountain of rock, a steady pillar of strength cloaked with a blanket of trustworthiness. When all I see of myself is a floating bubble, a single water molecule bound to dissolve itself into nothingness at a touch of a heat, a ray of sunshine, an increase of temperature.
I've always wondered, what is it I'm trying to run away from? People I love, people I hate, things I want to do but I'm not allowed to, things I was generously offered but I had no interest for? Better yet, am I actually running away or am I simply moving at an incessantly fast pace?
Forgive me for beginning our correspondence with such long and winding babble of words, my dearest. But you know I had to let them all out. These bundle of emotions within me are torturing to carry and I cannot always tell them even when I want to. So in the faith of your willingness to listen, to continue to read, to always sit there silently at the other end of my every letters - I shall continue to write, to speak to you, and to lay bare my heart to you for as long as I shall live.
The thing is, in the impending arrival of my departure, a shower of uncertainties begin to loom over me. I am drenched with fear, I am soaked in the many questions of what ifs, I am drowning in the hovering breathlessness of losing something I love. At the same time, I am perfectly and fully aware of how utterly determined I am not to lose these moments to the idle calculation of my emotions. What if I only get one chance, one perfect moment, one truly kindred spirit to last me a lifetime?
Sometimes I wish I always know what to do. I can almost see you now smiling with amusement at such impossible thought and your eyes glistening with menace behind your glasses as you think of potential jokes to ridicule me about how hopelessly illogical I can be. Still, I wish sometimes life is as easy as figuring out those derivatives and integral formulas I used to get full marks for in school.
I know what you're going to say, and of course you're right. But for once please nod and smile and say, 'I know what you're talking about?
I am devotedly yours,
Ati A. Aziz
My dearest,
There is a certain greediness which influences me when I think of the future. Looking back, I realized now how I've built my life into small portions of time. A series of plans made in advance which disguise itself as a confident vote for where I want to be, what I want to do and who I want to meet. Whenever one portion of time is reaching its end, I'd scamper in fury and neurotic apprehension, trying to put together another set of ideas for what is ahead of me. Anything, something I know I can accomplish.
Truth be told, this greed is often consumed by fear; of the unknown, of losing control, of disappointments. It's funny when people tend to see me as a mountain of rock, a steady pillar of strength cloaked with a blanket of trustworthiness. When all I see of myself is a floating bubble, a single water molecule bound to dissolve itself into nothingness at a touch of a heat, a ray of sunshine, an increase of temperature.
I've always wondered, what is it I'm trying to run away from? People I love, people I hate, things I want to do but I'm not allowed to, things I was generously offered but I had no interest for? Better yet, am I actually running away or am I simply moving at an incessantly fast pace?
Forgive me for beginning our correspondence with such long and winding babble of words, my dearest. But you know I had to let them all out. These bundle of emotions within me are torturing to carry and I cannot always tell them even when I want to. So in the faith of your willingness to listen, to continue to read, to always sit there silently at the other end of my every letters - I shall continue to write, to speak to you, and to lay bare my heart to you for as long as I shall live.
The thing is, in the impending arrival of my departure, a shower of uncertainties begin to loom over me. I am drenched with fear, I am soaked in the many questions of what ifs, I am drowning in the hovering breathlessness of losing something I love. At the same time, I am perfectly and fully aware of how utterly determined I am not to lose these moments to the idle calculation of my emotions. What if I only get one chance, one perfect moment, one truly kindred spirit to last me a lifetime?
Sometimes I wish I always know what to do. I can almost see you now smiling with amusement at such impossible thought and your eyes glistening with menace behind your glasses as you think of potential jokes to ridicule me about how hopelessly illogical I can be. Still, I wish sometimes life is as easy as figuring out those derivatives and integral formulas I used to get full marks for in school.
I know what you're going to say, and of course you're right. But for once please nod and smile and say, 'I know what you're talking about?
I am devotedly yours,
Ati A. Aziz
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Beautiful Kate
Beautiful Kate put me in a rather tricky situation; it made me wonder if we can disregard values in the place of beauty?
Rachel Ward - the Australian actress I admired for her sharp wit and no-nonsense character in Rain Shadow - brings to us exactly such debate in her debut movie which is as beautiful as it is provocative, Beautiful Kate.
When I read the movie is about a prodigal son's return to his home, haunted by the memory of his twin sister and his unresolved past, I had no expectation of what the past might be. And for some reason I didn't scour the internet for the ubiquitous film reviews before the movie as I usually did with other films. Having watched the film now, I am glad I didn't.
As it turned out, Beautiful Kate took me to an entirely uncharted territory when it tells the story of the twin brother and sister. At once, Kate in her youth is heartbreakingly clairvoyant and frighteningly vivacious. When Ned appears to metamorphosed into his older self, his struggle to keep up with the inseparable bond of a twin between his sister and himself grows into something totally unimaginable. However, surprisingly Kate seems to take the world as just so.
It's the starting point where Beautiful Kate puts us the audience to a test. How do we see the world? A black and white moral canvas or something more of a gray and foggy screen? Do we see the world as an extension of ourselves, or something entirely separate? Do we mind imperfection, or are we obsessed by the lack of it?
The way I see it, Ned and Kate's relationship as a twin is a cathexis process both of them desperately needed in the absence of their mother and insensitivity of their father. A way to fulfill their longing of the parental love and affections so failingly provided by their widowed father, Bruce - who I saw is as lost as he is determined to raise the children right.
Can we blame him? When all he did was trying to act in accordance to the societal norms imposed on him as a man, the leader of the pack. And when he himself lost his dreams when life got in the way?
Beautiful Kate shows us a story about guilt and remorse, and a search for validation, security, and forgiveness. It tells us about how sometimes we failed to love when we want to, because we are so bogged down by memories which actually didn't matter in the end. The film's ingenuity lies in its ability to guide us to the forbidden territory without feeling terrified or awkward by it. The soundtrack is befitting, and the landscape is as barren and beautiful as the movie itself.
Finally, I definitely relate to my favorite scene of all in Beautiful Kate, when Ned and Sally, his little sister finally said goodbye to their father, he told her without reservations she is in actual fact the best achievement of their father. I loved the scene, and it definitely shook me. In one simple gesture, it taught me how you don't need a lot to love, to do so you only need to see.
Rachel Ward - the Australian actress I admired for her sharp wit and no-nonsense character in Rain Shadow - brings to us exactly such debate in her debut movie which is as beautiful as it is provocative, Beautiful Kate.
When I read the movie is about a prodigal son's return to his home, haunted by the memory of his twin sister and his unresolved past, I had no expectation of what the past might be. And for some reason I didn't scour the internet for the ubiquitous film reviews before the movie as I usually did with other films. Having watched the film now, I am glad I didn't.
As it turned out, Beautiful Kate took me to an entirely uncharted territory when it tells the story of the twin brother and sister. At once, Kate in her youth is heartbreakingly clairvoyant and frighteningly vivacious. When Ned appears to metamorphosed into his older self, his struggle to keep up with the inseparable bond of a twin between his sister and himself grows into something totally unimaginable. However, surprisingly Kate seems to take the world as just so.
It's the starting point where Beautiful Kate puts us the audience to a test. How do we see the world? A black and white moral canvas or something more of a gray and foggy screen? Do we see the world as an extension of ourselves, or something entirely separate? Do we mind imperfection, or are we obsessed by the lack of it?
The way I see it, Ned and Kate's relationship as a twin is a cathexis process both of them desperately needed in the absence of their mother and insensitivity of their father. A way to fulfill their longing of the parental love and affections so failingly provided by their widowed father, Bruce - who I saw is as lost as he is determined to raise the children right.
Can we blame him? When all he did was trying to act in accordance to the societal norms imposed on him as a man, the leader of the pack. And when he himself lost his dreams when life got in the way?
Beautiful Kate shows us a story about guilt and remorse, and a search for validation, security, and forgiveness. It tells us about how sometimes we failed to love when we want to, because we are so bogged down by memories which actually didn't matter in the end. The film's ingenuity lies in its ability to guide us to the forbidden territory without feeling terrified or awkward by it. The soundtrack is befitting, and the landscape is as barren and beautiful as the movie itself.
Finally, I definitely relate to my favorite scene of all in Beautiful Kate, when Ned and Sally, his little sister finally said goodbye to their father, he told her without reservations she is in actual fact the best achievement of their father. I loved the scene, and it definitely shook me. In one simple gesture, it taught me how you don't need a lot to love, to do so you only need to see.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The story of stuffs and gender
After almost a year and a half in Australia, there are two things I am beginning to look at differently now.
Firstly, what, why, and how much stuffs I am using in my daily life now as compared to when I was in Malaysia. Transportation provides the first striking difference, whereas in Malaysia it's almost impossible to walk to get anywhere near to my destination, I only have to walk to get to school, buy my groceries, and watch movies these days.
Not only I drive almost every day in Malaysia, but every two or three month I drive intensively back and forth from school to home. Although I admit I enjoy driving immensely, especially so with the company of friends and along the beautiful beaches of Pahang, Terengganu, and Kelantan; living in Randwick now provides me with the satisfaction of being able to connect to my local areas, to know every road by foot, to know the owner of the store, to get a glimpse of familiar neighbour every time I walk by. At the same time, it doesn't cut me off from the world.
In terms of buying food and things, I notice how I am producing less surplus when I started to get things I only need. Part of it is attributable to living alone of course, because in Malaysia I usually buy things for my brothers and nieces, which also explains how we are more connected by things than communal interactions in our life now more than ever.
Watch the Story of Stuffs to see what I mean about buying and using stuffs and their impacts on our lives, and watch how much our world has changed since 200 years ago.
Another new perspective which I found revealing is the interplay of sex and gender in our society. Sex is biological, but gender is cultural. Who we are and how we behave is constructed by our society. And guess what, even what we interpret from the Bible, the Last Testament, and the Quran are socially constructed. It really is a question to ponder, what values underlie our judgments in the interactions of our daily life, and how sometimes we are clouded by perspectives which we think our own but not.
I've gained a lot of insightful awareness and confidence in the past year, and I believe I'm already miles away from what I had been before. The only question is, how do I bring these realization home and stay true to myself while bringing about the change I want to see in my home country?
Firstly, what, why, and how much stuffs I am using in my daily life now as compared to when I was in Malaysia. Transportation provides the first striking difference, whereas in Malaysia it's almost impossible to walk to get anywhere near to my destination, I only have to walk to get to school, buy my groceries, and watch movies these days.
Not only I drive almost every day in Malaysia, but every two or three month I drive intensively back and forth from school to home. Although I admit I enjoy driving immensely, especially so with the company of friends and along the beautiful beaches of Pahang, Terengganu, and Kelantan; living in Randwick now provides me with the satisfaction of being able to connect to my local areas, to know every road by foot, to know the owner of the store, to get a glimpse of familiar neighbour every time I walk by. At the same time, it doesn't cut me off from the world.
In terms of buying food and things, I notice how I am producing less surplus when I started to get things I only need. Part of it is attributable to living alone of course, because in Malaysia I usually buy things for my brothers and nieces, which also explains how we are more connected by things than communal interactions in our life now more than ever.
Watch the Story of Stuffs to see what I mean about buying and using stuffs and their impacts on our lives, and watch how much our world has changed since 200 years ago.
Another new perspective which I found revealing is the interplay of sex and gender in our society. Sex is biological, but gender is cultural. Who we are and how we behave is constructed by our society. And guess what, even what we interpret from the Bible, the Last Testament, and the Quran are socially constructed. It really is a question to ponder, what values underlie our judgments in the interactions of our daily life, and how sometimes we are clouded by perspectives which we think our own but not.
I've gained a lot of insightful awareness and confidence in the past year, and I believe I'm already miles away from what I had been before. The only question is, how do I bring these realization home and stay true to myself while bringing about the change I want to see in my home country?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Write, write, write away!
Last night I entertained the thought of myself pretending to be one of the Malaysian expatriates who readily write about our country from abroad. Purely because my father called twice when I was in class, and apparently he was concerned with the types of response I might be getting from my recent article in the Star.
Thankfully, to our surprise the feedback so far has been non-existent. "Things are not good in Malaysia," he contemplated. "Perhaps people are too busy with what's going on in the country they didn't have time to scrutinize your article."
I believe the conversation I had with my parents last night signifies two things; (1) I am beginning to comfortably grow in my skin as a writer and my parents recognized it too, and (2) no matter what or how I am depicted through my writings by the public, my parents do not mind and always know better.
For me, such acknowledgment is a powerful thing.
Thankfully, to our surprise the feedback so far has been non-existent. "Things are not good in Malaysia," he contemplated. "Perhaps people are too busy with what's going on in the country they didn't have time to scrutinize your article."
I believe the conversation I had with my parents last night signifies two things; (1) I am beginning to comfortably grow in my skin as a writer and my parents recognized it too, and (2) no matter what or how I am depicted through my writings by the public, my parents do not mind and always know better.
For me, such acknowledgment is a powerful thing.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Ramadhan and another year
Apart from birthdays, Ramadhan always signify the passing of another year to me. In the past 23 years, I've celebrated Ramadhan in three countries (Jordan, Malaysia, and Australia), five states (Terengganu, Kelantan, Pahang, Irbid, and New South Wales), and countless homes and houses and residencies.
It marks the celebration of new people in my life, and the departure of dear ones. I lost my dear calico Tompok during Ramadhan, she waited a week for me to come home from college. I welcomed my second niece a couple of days after the celebration of the month three years ago. I remember outstaying my visit to Terengganu, paying dues to friends and friends of friends with my brother. Last year, I celebrated Ramadhan by going to class - feeling nothing but empowered with the new things I learned about media and advocacy.
Strangely enough, Ramadhan in Sydney never feel so out of place. Perhaps because religion has always been a private matter to me, and in between waking up to the quiet morning and breaking my fast and praying in the evening, I don't feel the need to remove myself from the surroundings which are completely oblivious to the presence of Ramadhan. On the contrary, such differences often offers me a clarity of mind, an opportunity to return to myself at the end of the day and engage in conversation with God and the universe about what I'd like to see in the world in my lifetime.
These days, when I break my fast - sometimes in the class with Tim Tam in hand, sometimes at home with a cup of coffee and a plate of scones, sometimes in a cafe with much longed for cappuccino - I look back at my past Ramadhan, strewn with tales and stories of families, friends, and dear ones. I also wonder at the future, who and how and where am I going to share my Ramadhan with next.
If there is anything I learn about this month, perhaps I'd agree with how spiritual and sacred and special Ramadhan can be; because somehow throughout my lifetime and especially so as I grow older, in presence of dear ones or without them - I never feel alone in Ramadhan.
It marks the celebration of new people in my life, and the departure of dear ones. I lost my dear calico Tompok during Ramadhan, she waited a week for me to come home from college. I welcomed my second niece a couple of days after the celebration of the month three years ago. I remember outstaying my visit to Terengganu, paying dues to friends and friends of friends with my brother. Last year, I celebrated Ramadhan by going to class - feeling nothing but empowered with the new things I learned about media and advocacy.
Strangely enough, Ramadhan in Sydney never feel so out of place. Perhaps because religion has always been a private matter to me, and in between waking up to the quiet morning and breaking my fast and praying in the evening, I don't feel the need to remove myself from the surroundings which are completely oblivious to the presence of Ramadhan. On the contrary, such differences often offers me a clarity of mind, an opportunity to return to myself at the end of the day and engage in conversation with God and the universe about what I'd like to see in the world in my lifetime.
These days, when I break my fast - sometimes in the class with Tim Tam in hand, sometimes at home with a cup of coffee and a plate of scones, sometimes in a cafe with much longed for cappuccino - I look back at my past Ramadhan, strewn with tales and stories of families, friends, and dear ones. I also wonder at the future, who and how and where am I going to share my Ramadhan with next.
If there is anything I learn about this month, perhaps I'd agree with how spiritual and sacred and special Ramadhan can be; because somehow throughout my lifetime and especially so as I grow older, in presence of dear ones or without them - I never feel alone in Ramadhan.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Of friends and new companion
A friend was going out on a blind date, and she was asking me what if she doesn't like the guy, what if he doesn't like her, what if they don't like each other. She said he looks nice, but she doesn't have a good feeling about him. What if the cultural differences is too wide there is no way of reconciling them even if they are attracted to each other?
One thousands and one questions ran through her head, and she's getting anxious about their impending meeting in the evening.
I smiled, and I rubbed two palms of my hands together. Love, human beings, and relationships is my pet subject. I toiled a good two years of my life, crying and laughing when I wrote a book about it. You see, I told her, human interaction is something we've all missed nowadays. No longer we are allowed to understand, to observe, and to discover the beauty of human emotions the way people used to do 200 years ago.
These days, when we love, we love fully. When we hate, we hate fully. Life is no longer about teaching ourselves to tame, or to let our emotions run free. We know what we want, and what matters is getting them. Human relationship has become so simple these days. To us, life is like a series of walls with doors and windows, and all we need to do when we like or dislike someone is open or close those doors and windows.
Friends? Accept. No friends? Ignore. Friends? Answer. No friends? Screen. Friends? Follow. No friends? Block.
People used to get stuck with the person they loathe for weeks sometimes. People used to have to wait for months to get their letters answered, even when there is no guarantee they will receive one. People used to reserve their judgments until they meet in person.
All we need to do today is Google the person's name, check him or her out on Facebook, and read what he or she blogs about. We have the full liberty to shut and slam our doors to anyone we think we're not going to get along with. Considering how easily we can terminate our relationship these days, no wonder societies are getting fidgety when it comes to forming new relationships.
Our social circles are getting smaller, we choose to hang out only with people we like, we ignore those we don't like.
Go out and have fun. I told her. There is only so much you can think and worry about, and I don't think you want to go there. Enjoy the first smile and the twinkle in his eyes when your eyes met. Watch his face light up when he sees you, his whole body language relaxed when he watched your smile. Experience, feel, and notice his presence beside you. Don't let the moment passed because you're too worried about what he might think of you. Talk to him, and listen to him.
Even if you end up disliking each other later on, you'll have your integrity intact, and you'll be proud to know you didn't spend 1% of your life worrying about what a stranger might think of your life. Because obviously, you know better.
One thousands and one questions ran through her head, and she's getting anxious about their impending meeting in the evening.
I smiled, and I rubbed two palms of my hands together. Love, human beings, and relationships is my pet subject. I toiled a good two years of my life, crying and laughing when I wrote a book about it. You see, I told her, human interaction is something we've all missed nowadays. No longer we are allowed to understand, to observe, and to discover the beauty of human emotions the way people used to do 200 years ago.
These days, when we love, we love fully. When we hate, we hate fully. Life is no longer about teaching ourselves to tame, or to let our emotions run free. We know what we want, and what matters is getting them. Human relationship has become so simple these days. To us, life is like a series of walls with doors and windows, and all we need to do when we like or dislike someone is open or close those doors and windows.
Friends? Accept. No friends? Ignore. Friends? Answer. No friends? Screen. Friends? Follow. No friends? Block.
People used to get stuck with the person they loathe for weeks sometimes. People used to have to wait for months to get their letters answered, even when there is no guarantee they will receive one. People used to reserve their judgments until they meet in person.
All we need to do today is Google the person's name, check him or her out on Facebook, and read what he or she blogs about. We have the full liberty to shut and slam our doors to anyone we think we're not going to get along with. Considering how easily we can terminate our relationship these days, no wonder societies are getting fidgety when it comes to forming new relationships.
Our social circles are getting smaller, we choose to hang out only with people we like, we ignore those we don't like.
Go out and have fun. I told her. There is only so much you can think and worry about, and I don't think you want to go there. Enjoy the first smile and the twinkle in his eyes when your eyes met. Watch his face light up when he sees you, his whole body language relaxed when he watched your smile. Experience, feel, and notice his presence beside you. Don't let the moment passed because you're too worried about what he might think of you. Talk to him, and listen to him.
Even if you end up disliking each other later on, you'll have your integrity intact, and you'll be proud to know you didn't spend 1% of your life worrying about what a stranger might think of your life. Because obviously, you know better.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Beyond race
I GREW up in a small town in Terengganu and enjoyed the liberty of running wild and free with my bicycle, and my brothers and my friends. My world was small; it revolved around the town and its people, my family, and my Nancy Drew series collection.
When my father took me along on his business trips to Thailand or Singapore, I played with other kids as the parents sat together and talked business. Life was easy and uncomplicated, and I don’t remember pointing out differences between other people and myself.
It was only when I went to school that I learnt that boys are off-limits, and good girls pray, read the Quran and wear tudungs. There were no children from other ethnic groups or religion in my religious boarding school.
After 10 years in this environment, I’ve forgotten they existed. For a long time, they were simply etched in the background of my life like white noise on television. I was indifferent and uninterested to differences.
What dominated my mind at the time was how to become a good Muslim, how to please my parents, and how to become the best student sitting for the Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM).
What matters was living in a Muslim community, working in sincere piety for my religion, and fending off temptation.
Not the same
The first blow came in my pre-university years when I learned how religion is not a guarantee to good sense and company. When a Chinese family friend offered me a lift from the airport to school when I first arrived in Kuala Lumpur, she received nothing but rude scowls from the college security guard.
“What do you think you’re doing, not wearing tudung and wearing skirts around?” he pointedly said as he stopped the car.
I was burning with shame and anger, and what was worse was that I didn’t even have the guts to defend my friend.
The incident opened my eyes and shook my world. A question suddenly dawned on me, “What’s so special about me now? What makes me different than other people?”
In between reconciling with what was real and what was not, between getting frustrated with certain people and being simply myself, I began to shed my outer shell and embrace the world as if it’s a whole new classroom.
Suddenly, I saw things differently. Suddenly, I recognised the presence of my fellow countrymen who (despite our differences) share my dreams and hopes. I said to myself, “there are so many great things and great people out there, how come nobody ever told me about them?”
Celebrating differences
I tried to learn many new things. I tried to move away from conventions thrust on me, and tried to see how things look from different perspectives. Unfortunately, not many people share my enthusiasm.
While people from my own religion and culture labelled me a rebel who is too liberal for her own good, people from other cultures thought I’m just another Malay girl who has everything ready on her plate. While people from the village said I’m too Westernised, people from the city saw me as not being progressive enough.
In the end, I got tired of trying to fit in and fled to Australia to further my studies. It has been almost 18 months since I boarded the airplane with relief because I thought I’d be able to finally chart my own course. But I am still a misfit in the local Malay community because I live in a house with students from different countries, I live with men in my house, and I live with non-Muslims.
But who cares whether you’re a Malay, Chinese, Indian, Arab, or Punjab? Who cares whether you’re a Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, or Jewish?
I don’t. I accept that we are all different. I understand that my parents sent me to a religious school in the hope that I could go through life with the best education about life and society; something they didn’t get a chance to do when they were younger.
I did not regret going to a religious school, or burying my nose in books and magazines in search of all things to clear my confusions, or being perceived as different to many people – the experience has brought me where I am today.
But if I was given a chance to turn back time, I’d ask my parents to send me to a national school where I could be friends with children from different races.
When my father took me along on his business trips to Thailand or Singapore, I played with other kids as the parents sat together and talked business. Life was easy and uncomplicated, and I don’t remember pointing out differences between other people and myself.
It was only when I went to school that I learnt that boys are off-limits, and good girls pray, read the Quran and wear tudungs. There were no children from other ethnic groups or religion in my religious boarding school.
After 10 years in this environment, I’ve forgotten they existed. For a long time, they were simply etched in the background of my life like white noise on television. I was indifferent and uninterested to differences.
What dominated my mind at the time was how to become a good Muslim, how to please my parents, and how to become the best student sitting for the Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM).
What matters was living in a Muslim community, working in sincere piety for my religion, and fending off temptation.
Not the same
The first blow came in my pre-university years when I learned how religion is not a guarantee to good sense and company. When a Chinese family friend offered me a lift from the airport to school when I first arrived in Kuala Lumpur, she received nothing but rude scowls from the college security guard.
“What do you think you’re doing, not wearing tudung and wearing skirts around?” he pointedly said as he stopped the car.
I was burning with shame and anger, and what was worse was that I didn’t even have the guts to defend my friend.
The incident opened my eyes and shook my world. A question suddenly dawned on me, “What’s so special about me now? What makes me different than other people?”
In between reconciling with what was real and what was not, between getting frustrated with certain people and being simply myself, I began to shed my outer shell and embrace the world as if it’s a whole new classroom.
Suddenly, I saw things differently. Suddenly, I recognised the presence of my fellow countrymen who (despite our differences) share my dreams and hopes. I said to myself, “there are so many great things and great people out there, how come nobody ever told me about them?”
Celebrating differences
I tried to learn many new things. I tried to move away from conventions thrust on me, and tried to see how things look from different perspectives. Unfortunately, not many people share my enthusiasm.
While people from my own religion and culture labelled me a rebel who is too liberal for her own good, people from other cultures thought I’m just another Malay girl who has everything ready on her plate. While people from the village said I’m too Westernised, people from the city saw me as not being progressive enough.
In the end, I got tired of trying to fit in and fled to Australia to further my studies. It has been almost 18 months since I boarded the airplane with relief because I thought I’d be able to finally chart my own course. But I am still a misfit in the local Malay community because I live in a house with students from different countries, I live with men in my house, and I live with non-Muslims.
But who cares whether you’re a Malay, Chinese, Indian, Arab, or Punjab? Who cares whether you’re a Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, or Jewish?
I don’t. I accept that we are all different. I understand that my parents sent me to a religious school in the hope that I could go through life with the best education about life and society; something they didn’t get a chance to do when they were younger.
I did not regret going to a religious school, or burying my nose in books and magazines in search of all things to clear my confusions, or being perceived as different to many people – the experience has brought me where I am today.
But if I was given a chance to turn back time, I’d ask my parents to send me to a national school where I could be friends with children from different races.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
In case I ever forget; I'll remember these
Someday I'll feel like I'm nothing but one little dot on earth, insignificant and too small to see. Someday I'll feel like I'm going to be crushed by fear and devastation and disappointment, the feelings so strong I dissolve into nothingness and disappear. Someday I'll feel like I'm drowning in stormy seas, dark, quiet, and lonely.
Someday, when I feel all these, I'll remember;
I've walked through the magnificent Petra of Jordan when I was eleven, and I saw a part of me dancing in circles, shaking hands with the ancient ruins and elders. I've loved a cat for ten years and I slept by her side until the day she floated away to the sky, and I know in every cat's eyes now they always see in me her fire, their long lost friend. I've walked on Taman Negara Pahang's (Pahang National Park) canopy walk, and I saw an empire of green grass, blue sky, and white rivers unfolded before my eyes like the Kingdom of Terabithia. I've made friends with a sun bear, I've seen a free deer solemnly walked in the dark, I've hugged a palm civet, I've waved to the majestic hornbills. I've taken a 5-hour road trip and I sat on nothing but the bus floor, and I've never felt so free and alive. I've roamed my country with my friends by my side, laughing with them on the lake house where there was no light at night - only us, the sprawling black lake, and smiling stars on the sky. I've ridden along the Bendelong coast, and I've fallen free down the slope seeing nothing but beauty, magic, and a world full of possibilities. I've taken the solero shot and screamed and laughed by my brother's side, and I talked and talked and talked to him like nothing is going to change in our world. I've fallen in love, and I've felt like the luckiest girl alive.
If I ever wonder why the world feels as if it's going to crush on me, I'll remember the world has lifted me up too, soared me to the sky, and danced to my delight.
I'll remember all these, every time I'm beginning to forget.
Someday, when I feel all these, I'll remember;
I've walked through the magnificent Petra of Jordan when I was eleven, and I saw a part of me dancing in circles, shaking hands with the ancient ruins and elders. I've loved a cat for ten years and I slept by her side until the day she floated away to the sky, and I know in every cat's eyes now they always see in me her fire, their long lost friend. I've walked on Taman Negara Pahang's (Pahang National Park) canopy walk, and I saw an empire of green grass, blue sky, and white rivers unfolded before my eyes like the Kingdom of Terabithia. I've made friends with a sun bear, I've seen a free deer solemnly walked in the dark, I've hugged a palm civet, I've waved to the majestic hornbills. I've taken a 5-hour road trip and I sat on nothing but the bus floor, and I've never felt so free and alive. I've roamed my country with my friends by my side, laughing with them on the lake house where there was no light at night - only us, the sprawling black lake, and smiling stars on the sky. I've ridden along the Bendelong coast, and I've fallen free down the slope seeing nothing but beauty, magic, and a world full of possibilities. I've taken the solero shot and screamed and laughed by my brother's side, and I talked and talked and talked to him like nothing is going to change in our world. I've fallen in love, and I've felt like the luckiest girl alive.
If I ever wonder why the world feels as if it's going to crush on me, I'll remember the world has lifted me up too, soared me to the sky, and danced to my delight.
I'll remember all these, every time I'm beginning to forget.
Monday, August 24, 2009
There is something about me and god
And for thirty years he has not prayed, has not received communion and has not gone to church. And this is not because he knew his brother's convictions and wanted to share them, nor was it because he has resolved something in his heart, but simply because this comment of his brother's was like a finger being pushed against a wall that was on the verge of collapsing from its own weight.
- Confession by Leo Tolstoy
If God is made of kindness and good hearts and generous friendships, I wonder at His magnanimity. For it's something I'm awarded in abundance lately, and let me tell you, I'm not really the best of all believers.
If God is made of kindness and good hearts and generous friendships, I wonder at His magnanimity. For it's something I'm awarded in abundance lately, and let me tell you, I'm not really the best of all believers.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Aussie footy, seafood platter and a conversation
As it turns out, 2009 showed me how I could celebrate my first day of Ramadhan (the Muslim’s fasting month) in ways I could never have imagined. As I sat in the restaurant, as the waitress came and put in front of us a big seafood platter, as we began to eat and talked about our stories – I uttered to myself a prayer of gratitude.
From an outsider’s point of view, I’m certain all they can see is one old man sharing stories with three young people – a young woman in tudung who everyone seems to mistake for an Indonesian (or Iranian at times, for reasons only known to the guesser), another young woman who no one can seem to correctly guess where she’s coming from, and the old man’s son, a young man who looks every part an Asian, but who is as Australian as the next man cheering at Australian rugby matches.
However, what is unknown to them is the most precious thing for me. In the Land Down Under and miles away from my own home, I feel like I am a step closer to finding the missing piece of life’s puzzle which perplexed me in my younger years; I did not understand why I never had a friend who was not Malay, and what the real rationale for religious school was when I couldn’t see how kindness transcends religion, culture, and ethnicity and how a society’s greatness comes from its ability to see similarities beyond differences.
Naturally, I cannot speak for the mass of Malaysian youth who have a myriad of different experiences growing up in different environments and cultures. But if I could tell them one thing, I’d tell the stories of the old man I met last night – about how he grew up running around in Klang with his Malay and Chinese and Indian friends, how he went to the birthday party of his Malay friends and came back with a handful of pineapples tied to his bike, and how only one of his friends has a radio in the house and his friends had to come over to listen and memorize the songs for the rest of the week.
“Ask your father,” the old man kept repeating. “He would know what I’m talking about.”
What breaks his heart, however, was watching our generation grow up in the isolation and confines of our religion, culture, and ethnicity – when we never bothered to see beyond what was given to us and make the best out of it.
How many of us ever think to ourselves when we see what’s going on in the television, “what is right and what is wrong with the world and why it happened?” How many of us ever think to ourselves when we wake up in the morning, “today I want to break boundaries!” How many of us ever walk past a stranger on the street, who is as different to us as we are to him or her, and say to ourselves, “how about today I look at the world with my own eyes, and put away these rose-tinted glasses society has given me in the past 20 years?”
When my friend and I parted with the old man and his son, clad in their green and yellow Australian rugby jerseys and scarves, I felt as if one knot in my life has been undone and ready to be braided again on a new canvas. It was a meeting between generations, between cultures and nationalities, and despite coming together as citizens of different countries, I felt as if we all came from the same place with the same hope in our hearts – to see Malaysia as one again as it had been once before.
From an outsider’s point of view, I’m certain all they can see is one old man sharing stories with three young people – a young woman in tudung who everyone seems to mistake for an Indonesian (or Iranian at times, for reasons only known to the guesser), another young woman who no one can seem to correctly guess where she’s coming from, and the old man’s son, a young man who looks every part an Asian, but who is as Australian as the next man cheering at Australian rugby matches.
However, what is unknown to them is the most precious thing for me. In the Land Down Under and miles away from my own home, I feel like I am a step closer to finding the missing piece of life’s puzzle which perplexed me in my younger years; I did not understand why I never had a friend who was not Malay, and what the real rationale for religious school was when I couldn’t see how kindness transcends religion, culture, and ethnicity and how a society’s greatness comes from its ability to see similarities beyond differences.
Naturally, I cannot speak for the mass of Malaysian youth who have a myriad of different experiences growing up in different environments and cultures. But if I could tell them one thing, I’d tell the stories of the old man I met last night – about how he grew up running around in Klang with his Malay and Chinese and Indian friends, how he went to the birthday party of his Malay friends and came back with a handful of pineapples tied to his bike, and how only one of his friends has a radio in the house and his friends had to come over to listen and memorize the songs for the rest of the week.
“Ask your father,” the old man kept repeating. “He would know what I’m talking about.”
What breaks his heart, however, was watching our generation grow up in the isolation and confines of our religion, culture, and ethnicity – when we never bothered to see beyond what was given to us and make the best out of it.
How many of us ever think to ourselves when we see what’s going on in the television, “what is right and what is wrong with the world and why it happened?” How many of us ever think to ourselves when we wake up in the morning, “today I want to break boundaries!” How many of us ever walk past a stranger on the street, who is as different to us as we are to him or her, and say to ourselves, “how about today I look at the world with my own eyes, and put away these rose-tinted glasses society has given me in the past 20 years?”
When my friend and I parted with the old man and his son, clad in their green and yellow Australian rugby jerseys and scarves, I felt as if one knot in my life has been undone and ready to be braided again on a new canvas. It was a meeting between generations, between cultures and nationalities, and despite coming together as citizens of different countries, I felt as if we all came from the same place with the same hope in our hearts – to see Malaysia as one again as it had been once before.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
You know I'm trying and you don't mind
Sometimes I feel like I hardly know myself. At one time I found myself wishing nothing more for the happiness already firm in my grasp, at another time I crumble at the mere mention of the past already forgotten. At one time I gave the world the biggest and the most selfless smile I could muster, but when I saw the big smile on someone else's face I feel the tiny painful stabs in my heart. I've forgotten what it feels like to see a smile which could light up the sky and cut open the sea of my emotions. Sometimes I go through life trying to accept everything, trying to not be mindful of little things, trying to mend my heart around the little gaps which left me breathless in my sleep. All I am asking from the world is to let me be invisible so nobody can see how frail my strong heart can be. But there are times when I am afraid I've shaken the world out of its rhythm, when I feel I am lost at the end of the tunnel and the other side of life is coming close to swallow me, when I thought I've failed to uphold my promise in being brave and strong and courageous - someone sat beside me and hold my hand and told me it's okay and I looked at the eyes so pure and I wonder how can it be real? How do I know if the world is not going to crush me? Sometimes when I talked to God and I told Him I'm ready to go through life on my own, He shook His head and He laughed and He sent me someone. I wonder to myself whether He doesn't trust me or He was trying to make a joke or He meant the best for me. When I was eighteen I learned how it doesn't take the world to break my heart, how sometimes painful things even when I erase them from my memories they come and beat me in my nightmares, how my wound left its scars on me and stays with me all my life. But now I learned too no matter how my heart get torned apart it always learn to love and heal itself again, I learned kindness is the first thing God decided is a gift to me, not wealth or beauty or grand things, and I learned if I give the world a chance even when I'm afraid, it'll take me in its embrace and treat me like a long lost friend - warm, generous, and full of surprises.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Where art thou?
"And especially Bim. And then he left and we wrote letters - he wrote great letters - and it turned into something else. Something better. He was my dear reader." Addison said. "For a very long time, he was the first person to read every book I wrote."
Rima had her doubts. The box she'd seen in the attic was not the sort of box you put together for your dear reader. "And then what happened?" she asked. She didn't look at Addison's face. She looked at Addison's face in the window, her ghost face, just visible underneath the bright spot of the reflected table lamp.
"I was hoping you'd tell me," Addison said.
- The Case of Imaginary Detective by Karen Joy Fowler.
Rima had her doubts. The box she'd seen in the attic was not the sort of box you put together for your dear reader. "And then what happened?" she asked. She didn't look at Addison's face. She looked at Addison's face in the window, her ghost face, just visible underneath the bright spot of the reflected table lamp.
"I was hoping you'd tell me," Addison said.
- The Case of Imaginary Detective by Karen Joy Fowler.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Letters to a Friend: A Confession
Cowper St, August 6, 2009
My dearest,
Some day I will relate to you the story of my life, and of how those five years had been immensely transforming to the way I think about life and the world. It's about those time when we try to make sense of life choices, when at the same time we're struggling to find the grounding faith to prop us up against the world and its folly. For now, I will tell you about the time when I had the most tremendous fun in our motherland.
To begin with, I was always able to roam freely on the fertile land of our country; on foot or on the wheel, accompanied or on my own, sad or glad. Once my brother told me, "the trees and the wind and the soil remember you wherever you go", and I instantly saw the world as if it has opened its arm and embraced me. The trees linked their arms together when they saw me, the wind pushed me with its gentle hand to face the majestic sun, the birds sung to me and the cows nodded their head to me lazily. Do you think it's absurd if I tell you I'm always at home when I'm on the road?
The first time I rode off to the far northern island was the time when I began to learn my friends by heart. Oh yes, my friends - did I ever told you about them? My tower of strength, my pillar of joy, my shining beacon of hope. Strong women you don't want to meddle with, and the kindest men you'll find in your lifetime even in their imperfections. Sometimes when I meet them in my memories, I was embarrassed to see how they had readily accepted me in my darkest moments. As if all my ridiculous tantrums was nothing but of a child yet to find her own peace with the world.
We explored the world together, my friends and I. From toiling the muddy and grassy swamp, singing pitiful ballads to our heart's content, cooking the best of meals and the weirdest ones, sharing geeky jokes about love and relationships, laughing together everywhere we go like brothers and sisters, paying dues to each other families as if they are our own - I don't remember the time when my friends had not been by my side.
The time when I first learned to drive my car, the time when I refused to get into the water, the time when I fell in love with a man. My friends are the first people you will find most literate about my life. I think when I decided to leave them, I was scared to be the one who get left behind. But now I see, the rock and stone our friendship was built upon is not going to change by mere passing of time.
One day when you get to meet my friends, I'm certain you will understand. Because as I am blessed to find you, I am blessed to be granted the chance to spend the best of my times with them. And as you are too, they are my kindred spirits.
Yours devotedly,
Ati A. Aziz.
My dearest,
Some day I will relate to you the story of my life, and of how those five years had been immensely transforming to the way I think about life and the world. It's about those time when we try to make sense of life choices, when at the same time we're struggling to find the grounding faith to prop us up against the world and its folly. For now, I will tell you about the time when I had the most tremendous fun in our motherland.
To begin with, I was always able to roam freely on the fertile land of our country; on foot or on the wheel, accompanied or on my own, sad or glad. Once my brother told me, "the trees and the wind and the soil remember you wherever you go", and I instantly saw the world as if it has opened its arm and embraced me. The trees linked their arms together when they saw me, the wind pushed me with its gentle hand to face the majestic sun, the birds sung to me and the cows nodded their head to me lazily. Do you think it's absurd if I tell you I'm always at home when I'm on the road?
The first time I rode off to the far northern island was the time when I began to learn my friends by heart. Oh yes, my friends - did I ever told you about them? My tower of strength, my pillar of joy, my shining beacon of hope. Strong women you don't want to meddle with, and the kindest men you'll find in your lifetime even in their imperfections. Sometimes when I meet them in my memories, I was embarrassed to see how they had readily accepted me in my darkest moments. As if all my ridiculous tantrums was nothing but of a child yet to find her own peace with the world.
We explored the world together, my friends and I. From toiling the muddy and grassy swamp, singing pitiful ballads to our heart's content, cooking the best of meals and the weirdest ones, sharing geeky jokes about love and relationships, laughing together everywhere we go like brothers and sisters, paying dues to each other families as if they are our own - I don't remember the time when my friends had not been by my side.
The time when I first learned to drive my car, the time when I refused to get into the water, the time when I fell in love with a man. My friends are the first people you will find most literate about my life. I think when I decided to leave them, I was scared to be the one who get left behind. But now I see, the rock and stone our friendship was built upon is not going to change by mere passing of time.
One day when you get to meet my friends, I'm certain you will understand. Because as I am blessed to find you, I am blessed to be granted the chance to spend the best of my times with them. And as you are too, they are my kindred spirits.
Yours devotedly,
Ati A. Aziz.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The cloud of unknowing moment
When I walked home from class tonight, I thought about how my life might be viewed from other people's perspectives. I remember talking to my two friends over dinner some time ago, I was listening intently to their love stories when suddenly heads turned to me.
"So, why don't you tell us your stories." She looked at me conspiratorially. I sat back, amused. "What stories?" I asked. "Juicy stories, love stories. You must have some." I looked at both of them, and I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. I told them my juicy stories. But apparently it wasn't juicy enough when my friend asked, "How old are you again?" Her forehead was marked with concern. "24." I smiled. "What a waste." I laughed at her remark.
I walked home today and I looked up at the sky where the full moon sat idly and I asked myself, "What if I feel fine with the way I am, right here right now?".
"So, why don't you tell us your stories." She looked at me conspiratorially. I sat back, amused. "What stories?" I asked. "Juicy stories, love stories. You must have some." I looked at both of them, and I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. I told them my juicy stories. But apparently it wasn't juicy enough when my friend asked, "How old are you again?" Her forehead was marked with concern. "24." I smiled. "What a waste." I laughed at her remark.
I walked home today and I looked up at the sky where the full moon sat idly and I asked myself, "What if I feel fine with the way I am, right here right now?".
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
God, brother and another person
Memories always seem to get to you at the most inopportune time. Sometimes they made me think of God as one cheeky supreme being. He enjoys teasing His servants when they thought they had the best cards in their hands, He gave one to surprise, to test, and to see how they respond to it. Not out of spite, not out of vengeance, not out of superiority. Only out of love, out of what He knows is the best of us.
That's why, sometimes even when I'm tired and full of tears, I laughed out loud with Him. You got me there, my Lord. I told Him.
At times like these, when I am in need of an ear to lend. I remember my brother. He had been my voluntary therapist more than what any other can offer me. Even in his imperfections, I cannot conjure any other who had been as persistent as he is in his patience of listening to me, or answering my calls, or watching me cry for no reason, or laughing at my jokes, or taking me out of my squares and showing what the world can be for me.
I remember my brother for the lightness of heart he offered me after hours of pouring my heart out to him. Random things, weird things, pointless things. He never failed to listen. I remember my brother for his impartial and concrete ways of seeing things. When I agonized over things, only one word from him would silence me. I remember my brother for what he had done for me and what I can see of my family. For being a part of his and going home grateful of mine.
Now I remember my brother, when in my strength and my pride of being independent. He sat beside me and said I didn't have to go through everything alone. He is there, many people are there, to be by my side when I need them. Now I remember to open my heart, to allow another person to come close and sit beside me, just like my brother did.
That's why, sometimes even when I'm tired and full of tears, I laughed out loud with Him. You got me there, my Lord. I told Him.
At times like these, when I am in need of an ear to lend. I remember my brother. He had been my voluntary therapist more than what any other can offer me. Even in his imperfections, I cannot conjure any other who had been as persistent as he is in his patience of listening to me, or answering my calls, or watching me cry for no reason, or laughing at my jokes, or taking me out of my squares and showing what the world can be for me.
I remember my brother for the lightness of heart he offered me after hours of pouring my heart out to him. Random things, weird things, pointless things. He never failed to listen. I remember my brother for his impartial and concrete ways of seeing things. When I agonized over things, only one word from him would silence me. I remember my brother for what he had done for me and what I can see of my family. For being a part of his and going home grateful of mine.
Now I remember my brother, when in my strength and my pride of being independent. He sat beside me and said I didn't have to go through everything alone. He is there, many people are there, to be by my side when I need them. Now I remember to open my heart, to allow another person to come close and sit beside me, just like my brother did.
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