A nation of tyrants
I read this post at my old friend’s blog and could not believe the comments.
FYI, Shireen and I go back a long way (we were in kindergarten together and her mother was one of my primary school teachers).
Obviously, we have grown up to be very different people.
I have had two maids in the past (in Malaysia – not something I like mentioning for what will become obvious reasons) and their mistreatment has caused me to come to blows with some of my family members. Suffice to say, I no longer have maids (and not only because I am here in the US – Lokes and I made the decision to stop at our second maid and I’d stay home with the kids long before we decided to come here).
Now I am not calling myself a humanitarian-wannabe because I’m not.
Question: Do foreign labour agents literally have it in their TOP THREE TIPS TO CONTROL YOUR MAID these little nuggets of advice?
- They are NOT your friends.
- They are NOT here to have a life, only to make a living.
- Be a-holes or they will not take you seriously.
Honestly, because this seems to be exactly how most employers of foreign maids treat the help.
How can one not have a problem with people who don’t bother hiding their disdain for maids, the only crime of the latter being that they were born in the wrong place at the wrong time with a government that has forced half the nation into voluntary indentured servitude, be it out of fear or ignorance, or both?
In my friend’s post, one of the commenters said that it was not her job to teach the maid English, but it is, for some bizarre reason, the maid’s job (aside from having to clean house and watch the kids) to teach her children Malay.
I know it may be seem too benevolent all of a sudden to bestow upon a mere servant the delicate instruction of the language arts and make like Professor Higgins but surely there is the invaluable benefit of teaching your children the values of kindness and respect even for those who wash our toilets and for some, our backsides? People with far fewer opportunities than to get married and pregnant at 15 and be shipped off to a faraway place to slave for people who treat them worse than their pets? Surely they too deserve some measure of respect, for having summoned the courage and spirit to go to a place where they can hardly speak the language or stomach the food without having to endure day after day of verbal and sometimes even physical abuse by people who know nothing about them and won’t even bother to find out, just to feed their families?
Surely that is far more essential than protecting your kids from the dangers of broken English?
It disturbs me to realise that there may be thousands, or tens of thousands of women – mothers, no less – in Malaysia who may be subjecting their children to a household of harsh words to the help (fear the alliteration!), believing that they owe these strangers no more kindness than the stray dog that guards their house because it is fed scraps and has a gate outside of which to sleep.
Where is all the religion and education and upbringing we’ve used to set ourselves apart from these people, some of whom are little more than children?
Six years ago, when my agent brought my first maid to our house, a slight slip of a woman in her mid 30s (very old for a maid – I’d specifically asked for someone much older) named Turi, she came and sat beside me at the dinner table.
The agent, Susan, entered the house a little later and all of a sudden, barked something. Walking briskly to the table, Susan firmly put an arm on Turi and led her to the floor beside us.
“Don’t ever let her sit with you at the dinner table,” she said to us chidingly, before muttering to Turi something about being taught better. Turi, who was grinning apologetically, kneeled on the floor next to my chair, like an obedient pet.
I reacted.
“No, no she can sit with us please, this is not necessary,” I’d protested, more alarmed than anything else.
“No, you mustn’t. This is to teach them their proper place,” she’d answered simply, before opening her files.
“No, I insist please. This is making me uncomfortable,” I’d added, taking Turi’s hand and helping her up to sit next to me at the table, where she perched for the next half an hour nervously at the edge of a chair, as though about to take off at the slightest sign of trouble.
Susan eyed me and said to me in Cantonese, “You need to be more strict if you want to keep her in control, Mrs Tan.”
With that, she gave Turi a curt glance, before putting on a bright smile and handed me Turi’s contract.
Technorati Tags: Indonesian maids, maids, foreign labor, hired help
Here’s another attention-seeking idiot for ya
He’s like one of those squawking moms who’s tossing a sodding fit to guilt-trip her son into divorcing the wife – a woman she’d once lauded as a girl after her own heart, only to discover a few years later that the perfect daughter-in-law has a mind of her own and as such, is not good enough for her bratty son.
Unfortunately for you, Dr M, it’s too little too late. You made the choice, now you – and all Malaysians – live with the consequences. You can’t just throw a fit and think that that will undo everything, aunty. This is not your house, even if you’ve managed to do as you like for 22 years.
Not anymore.
News break: You can have your son back. Nobody cares.
Technorati Tags: UMNO, Malaysian politics, Tun Mahathir
An example of what truly deserves attention
Maybe Somalia or Zimbabwe may be too much of a stretch.
Thanks, Daddy, for the heads up.
More United than United
While the world continued to follow the epic US Democratic race of Obama vs Clinton, Malaysians around the world focused their attentions on our own General Elections back home on March 8th 2008, ultimately (and unfortunately) bringing down popular news sites such as Malaysiakini, the only trusted independent source of Malaysian news and politics (which was made FOC for the elections, which was also probably why the crash occurred). But thank God for mirrors.
When the results rang in, I was seated at my computer, gobbling down every update, reading and re-reading my Malaysian friends’ reactions posted on their Facebook Statuses and Twitters and blogs. I’d also received SMSes and IMs from elated friends. It’s not everyday two of my old secondary school (aka high school) friends were running for office after all (both are Opposition). And they won. Go MGS!
“People are beaming. Smiling at total strangers,” my friend See Ming told me on IM the day after. It was truly a new day because despite all the fear-mongering about racial politics and disunity, the rakyat (people) came through. They became more united than the United Front. And that made their votes count. And despite being thousands of miles away, I was beaming with pride myself. And I wondered how my aunt felt. Was she shocked? Happy? Probably both.
Congratulations Malaysians. You’ve taken your first step. Now finish what you started!
Fight or flight?
A while ago, I wrote a post called Entitlement, about ’survival apathy’.
As a child born just four years after the 1969 Sino-Malay riots, I was raised, as many other Chinese children were in the predominantly Chinese town of Ipoh, with more or less the same survival plan: Study hard, save money, turn a blind eye to all the injustices that were happening, mind our ‘own business’ (whatever that was) and bide our time. For what?
For the first chance to pack our bags and leave.
I’m sad to say that it took me over 30 years to realise the full impact of such an upbringing. Because when you come into this world with the mindset that you’re going to leave anyway, chances are you won’t really give a damn about what happens in between. I won’t go into the religious undertone of what I’ve just said but I will make this assertion: someone who believes in reincarnation is more likely to treat the planet and people more respectfully because s/he doesn’t want to come back to a wasted land full of assholes.
As I look at my own kids, Malaysians who are growing up more American by the day, I am filled with a kind of guilt that is hard to shake off. On one hand, I know that they will grow up in a ‘fairer’ society with relatively more equal opportunities. On another, they will never have the chance to decide for themselves if they want to stay and fight, or fly.
Should we as parents be blamed for planning ahead, for believing that nothing can change in our lifetimes or theirs?
Should we have stayed and in turn, teach our children that some things, no matter how risky, are worth fighting for?
Am I to be blamed for leaving when I was raised, virtually packed and ready to go at the first sign of trouble?
After all, my grandparents left China for the then-Malaya for a better life.
Are most of us born with the flight gene in the end?
If I were single, child-less, would I still leave? Or would I have been out there, in my yellow Bersih t-shirt, shouting my voice hoarse for free and fair elections, throwing my mom into a fit over how irresponsible I am being to my unborn children?
“Perhaps we will care when we’re citizens of a country worth fighting for,” says Lokes, as we drive leisurely through an upmarket residential area in Redmond, with houses crossing easily the RM2mil mark, sipping our eggnog lattes.
“We are,” I answer quietly.
Tell me, Malaysian parents still in Malaysia – how are you raising your children?
Are you breeding fighters or flighters? What happens when we run out of places to which we can run?
Five days to 50 years
In five days, my home country, Malaysia, celebrates 50 years of independence from British rule.
What have we achieved?
Not much, apparently, especially when compared to South Korea.
Those who ignore the past are doomed to repeat it, so goes the famous saying.
It seems that our past is still our present.
Macam mana?
Nat speaks
Nathaniel Tan, the blogger who was incarcerated for four days under the OSA, has written an entry regarding his ordeal.
Read it and weep. I did.
Excerpting:
Entirely by a stroke of luck, a lawyer at the magistrate’s court was able to assist me in contacting my lawyer, R Sivarasa. Had said lawyer not been present, I may have not been given the opportunity to be represented by counsel during my hearing, and my remand order may have been for fourteen days instead of for four.
Even after my lawyer arrived, the police made every possible effort to block me from consulting with my lawyers, denying me extremely basic human rights connected to judicial due process. This even included repeatedly trying to spy and eavesdrop on the conversations I was attempting to have with my lawyers.
Reading this, I can already hear many Malaysians going, “Aiya, he should already know that if he say things like this on his blog he will kena OSA. Why he still do? He deserved it!”
Firstly, he was OSAed for allegedly possessing official secrets of which there is no proof.
If a man can be charged such flimsy claims, and was going to be tried without counsel, what makes you think you’re safe?
Nathaniel fought not only for his rights as a citizen to voice his concerns, but OURS.
You know what’s sad? That these very actions by the government help to condition widespread fear and apathy in Malaysians. With these tactics, they are sending us a message:
Look the other way.
Say nothing.
And tell your friends and family to do the same.
A tribute to roti-men
This here is the back of a motorbike laden with goodies. A fast disappearing sight in urban Malaysia today, the ‘roti man’ (literally the ‘bread man’) evokes the same childhood joy as would the good old ice cream truck here in the US.
As you can see from the physics-defying load he has on his vehicle, our dear roti men care not for life or limb, and can be seen as early as 5.30am delivering bread and other assorted delicacies (read: junk food) to Malaysian families all over the city.
I remember stopping one of these on a daily basis back home in Ipoh in the 80s, where my sis and I would smuggle Cheezels or oniony UFOs (remember UFOs?!) or the ‘healthier’ corn wheels (only if he’s out of UFOs) into our room by sneaking around the house and throwing our stash into our room via the window. We’d then enter the house, passing our Koo Ma’s contraband inspection, walk calmly into our room, lock it behind us, turn on the music and gorge on bags upon shiny bags of the MSG-laden snacks.
Ah, such simple pleasures. Don’t you wish you were as easily satisfied today? Reminds me of that episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where Raymond talks about the simple joys a child gets from candy, whereas as a grown-up, all we can think about are calories and cavities.
ps. I took this picture in 2002, ten days after Rae was born.
This is why Malaysia sucks, Part II
The lovable Malay Male blogged this first and shared this Al-Jazeera Everywoman video (in English) on youtube on yet another Hindu couple being torn apart by religion.
I blogged about Malik Imtiaz’s short but passionate entry in his blog about Marimuthu and Raimah.
Read Datuk Seri Lim Kit Siang’s entry on Suresh and Ravathi’s plight on April 4th.
Can’t help but think of the character Pi Patel in Yann Patel’s Life of Pi, who wanted simply to love God when asked why he became a Christian, a Muslim and a Hindu all at once.
He asked the question, why not one nation in heaven?
When will this madness end?
This is why Malaysia sucks
Reading news like this tears me apart.
What gives a government the right to take away a man’s family on account of religion?
I am heartbroken.
Gratitude
Firstly, I wish to thank someone who may have read my blog on Siti Aisya and sent a US$200 donation to the cause.
Daphne, the incredible young lady behind this plight, sent me this email a while ago:
Dear Mdm Tai (aiyo, don’t call until so old, Daphne! lol),
Hi, this is Daphne Ling from Malaysia…
Aisya’s parents have received a cheque all the way from the USA today (US$ 200), and they have asked for me to please convey their thanks…But they could not give me a proper name…
I can only remember you (From US) asking me about Aisya…If this is not you, please forgive me and ignore this email…
Anyway, donations, as of today, have reached around
RM 9400RM12840.For further updates, please go to my blog: http://daphneling.blogspot.com/2007/04/aisyas-list.html
Cheerio, and do have a nice day,
Daphne L
You can still donate or sponsor items. Where and how to help, here.
On a more sombre note, I read with sadness and anger the words of hatred sent Daphne’s way from Malaysians at Marina’s blog, unfounded accusations soaked in racism and bitterness and jealousy against motives so pure that they (the accusations) sound almost demonic. Marina has put it best against such malevolence.
But to take them to heart is to let them tarnish Daphne’s goodness. This young woman is an inspiration to us all and as they say, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.
Daphne, the seeds of suspicion will never flourish in the presence of light. Have courage in the good work that you do and let the faith in your heart lead you.
An amazing article
I follow Penangite and lawyer Malik Imtiaz Sarwar’s blog, Disquiet, religiously and the man is…just amazing.
I excerpt:
There is another layer to this. Sad as it is, and as difficult as it is to say, we are no longer the learned or mature society that we perhaps once were. In place of sophisticated and objective analysis of crucial issues, there is now a regime of sensationalist ignorance and belligerence.
Worse still, we live in a state of denial, insisting that we are more advanced and intellectual than we really are. Look at the issues that figure prominently in the arena of public discourse. How many of these relate to the fundamental aspects of our lives as Malaysians. Admittedly, civil liberty issues such as nude squats and burial rites are important, but where do a lack of coherent economic policy, a lack of coherent governance, a lack of political foresight, an overemphasis on vested interests, institutionalised and crippling corruption and a lack of direction for this great country of ours figure? They do not, in any meaningful way. In having allowed these crucial issues to fall by the way side, in having allowed ourselves to become more interested in being titillated by insane billionaires, sex scandals, Mawi and Academia Fantasia, we have begun throwing away our future.
Read the rest of this entry on waking up.
Malaysia sets up official bloggers’ alliance
Just read this at Malaysiakini (subscription required).
On April 5th, the National Alliance of Bloggers was born and a pro-tem committee was set up.
Some excerpts of the article:
Rather than fading into oblivion in the wake of the ‘attacks’ from the powers-that-be, bloggers here have banded together to form an association – the National Alliance of Bloggers.
Ahirudin said the alliance was not formed merely on the impulse to protect themselves from the authorities’ hostility.
He said while some bloggers often tell ‘painful truths’ about those in power, they have yet to come under siege as a whole.
The alliance could also serve the positive aim of promoting blogging and improving its members’ skills and knowledge through training and educational programmes, he added.
The bloggers, who agreed unanimously to the proposal, set up a pro-tem committee that would oversee the write-up of a constitution and registration of the alliance with the Registrar of Societies (ROS).
These are the heads and council members of the alliance:
This was the result of a recent proposal by Malaysia’s Deputy Energy, Water and Communications Minister Shaziman Abu Mansor to make mandatory the registration of bloggers, a move Malaysian bloggers believe will only stifle the local blogosphere and increase hostility among those who blog, and those who are being blogged about.
Most of Malaysia’s mainstream-media are government controlled or owned, and because our ex Prime Minister, Tun Dr Mahathir has promised not to censor the Internet, cyberspace has become a hotspot for those who wish to report – and read – real news.
A video of the report shows Rocky listing the reasons for the Alliance:
- to promote blogging (setting the record straight about the different bloggers out there to, say, the government)
- to protect bloggers (mostly on legalities)
Thoughts on such an Alliance: I think unity is necessary where the territory is unchartered, and such is the blogging environment in Malaysia. Having a physical group of people, people who are well-known and respected in the media and other industries, people who are heard and read all over the world, is at least a substantial stumbling block for a government that can suddenly change its stance on free speech on the Net tomorrow.
Questions: How will setting up such an Alliance help change or drive policy? How can the Alliance help with problems such as cyber-bullying, which is bound to happen as blogs become a mainstream source of info and news for our country?
Thoughts, anyone?
Exodus
In Malaysiakini’s Vox Populi section, a response from a reader to this article (registration needed):
Dr Mahathir has argued that Chinese Malaysians could move elsewhere given the lackluster economy in Malaysia. He is right, many Malaysian ethnic minorities are moving – some to China, some to Australia, some to Canada or some to New Zealand. The reason however is fundamentally rooted in the bigotry and racism which has been wildly fanned by none other than ruling party Umno and its youth wing.
When a large sum of money from the government coffers are blatantly dispensed only to bumiputera contractors and when Umno leaders boldly declare that the “pendatang†or “immigrants†can go back to their home countries (as if there is any) then it is time to look for a safe haven for the future generations.
There are systematic courses organised by Biro Tatanegara that teach bigotry and racism. This is further fuelled by the leaders from Umno Youth who make racist remarks and wave the keris for their own selfish political gains. You see, Dr Mahathir, it is not that we don’t love Malaysia, but that Malaysia loves us not.
In The Economist, a summary of what is getting from bad to worse.
Sometimes, I feel that I have no right to complain.
I’ve left. Jumped ship, so to speak.
I should be home, joining like-minded Malaysians to fight for our rights.
And yet, I cannot help but think, much as the Malaysiakini reader did.
What’s in it for me?
What’s in it for my family?
What if these rights never existed?
What if they never will?
A friend tells me that it doesn’t seem as bad when one is home. People are still going on with their lives. Driving their new Mitsubishis. Going for rides on a brand new 60m tall observation wheel.
Another tells me angrily that if these people want what they think is theirs so badly, we should just give it back to them. See what they do with it.
What will happen to our beloved tanahair when we are gone?
What will happen to those who are not able to leave?
Who will be left to fight for them?
Siti Aisya needs your help
Saw on Marina’s blog a sad piece of news regarding three-year old Siti Aisya, who has Fraser Syndrome, a genetic disorder that causes hidden eyes or webbing of fingers etc.
Originally from this post.
An excerpt:
Little Aisya went for surgery to create eyelids for her last December, using tissue from her lips. Unfortunately, the operation has backfired, because her eyelids have fused back together. Doctors have decided (this is according to Aisya’s mum) that there will be no more surgery for Aisya for another 2 years, as surgery is difficult for her young (and small) body and immune system. So it would be another two years before they re-attempt to create eyelids for her, and later, try and fit her with artificial eyeballs. That is the time when the family will need financial help the most.
Cash or cheque donations can go to her father
SHAHIDAN BIN YANG GHAZALI.
Mail to:
45, Persiaran Putra 5,
Bandar Baru Putra,
31400 Ipoh, Perak
MALAYSIA
Bloggers can’t be fired
I read with shock and indignation the news on Susan Loone’s site that Nila Tanzil, the Indonesian journalist who sparked off Malaysian tourism minister Ku Nan’s tirade on how bloggers are liars, has been suspended by her TV station because of her criticism of her Visit Malaysia experience.
And to think he can just laugh it off, that arrogant SOB.
Well guess what, Tengku? You can’t fire bloggers. Unless it is to fire us up more to speak up on what you have set in motion here.
But let’s see the positive. What is happening today may have lost the powers that be more than a seat or two in parliament.
And that, my friends, is the good news.
Hijau
Hijau means ‘green’ in Malay.
Since it’s St Paddy’s Day this weekend, I would like to dedicate a song by one of Malaysia’s most legendary musicians, Zainal Abidin, the artiste behind Hijau, a song about global warming which was way ahead of its time when it was released in 1990.
I know St Patrick’s isn’t about global warming, but it is about the colour green. Which makes this song most appropriate.
[audio:Hijau.mp3]
I’ve provided the lyrics and a translation. I’m sure I’ve made some mistakes somewhere as my Malay is rusty (especially where the Kelantanese kicks in) so please feel free to correct me.
Hijau (Green)
Bumi yang tiada rimba (A world without forests)
Seumpama hamba (is like a slave)
Dia dicemar manusia (she is polluted by humans)
Yang jahil ketawa (who only laugh ignorantly)
Bumi yang tiada udara (A world without air)
Bagai tiada nyawa (is a world without life)
Pasti hilang suatu hari (it will one day disappear)
Tanpa disedari (without realisation)
Bumi tanpa lautan (A world without the oceans)
Akan kehausan (will thirst)
Pasti lambat laun hilang (it will eventually vanish)
Duniaku yang malang (my unfortunate world)
Dewasa ini kita saling merayakan (In recent days we are always celebrating)
Kejayaan yang akhirnya membinasakan (Successes that in the end will destroy us)
Apalah gunanya kematangan fikiran (What is the use of maturity of thinking)
Bila di jiwa kita masih lagi muda (when our souls remain infantile)
Dan mentah (and raw)
Ku lihat hijau (I see green)
Bumiku yang kian pudar (My fading world)
Siapa yang melihat (Who sees you?)
Di kala kita tersedar (By the time we realise)
Mungkinkah terlewat (it might be too late)
Korupsi,opresi,obsesi diri (Corruption, oppression, self obsession)
Polusi,depressi,di bumi,kini (Pollution, depression on earth, now)
Oh …anok-anok (Oh, children)
tokleh meghaso mandi laok (will not feel how it is to swim in the sea)
Besaing,maing ghama-ghama (and play in it together)
Ale lo ni tuo umurnyo bejuto (this earth is millions of years old)
Kito usoho (we work)
Jauhke dari malapetako (to stave away disaster)
Ozon lo ni koho nipih nak nak aghi (the ozone is thinning and we still)
Keno make asak (keep burning)
Hok biso wei,pasa maknusio (poisoned by humans)
Seghemo bendo-bendo di dunio (all the things in this world)
Tokleh tehe (will not last)
Sapa bilo-bilo (forever)
50 years: Time for change
Homesickness is a natural affliction even among those of us who have semi-migrated (as in we’re not sure if we want to remain away for too long, and yet have accepted that we won’t be going back anytime soon).
Aside from the occasional yearning for the familiar, most of which has to do with the food, there is also a keen sense of not being part of what has defined me for so long: my nationality as a Malaysian.
15 months after leaving home, I find that I have become more patriotic, in that I now care a great deal more about what is happening in my country.
Before, I had been too busy living my life; getting married, popping babies, playing video games. Now, when I am not at home, when I have more time to read and reflect, when I have the chance to see how other people live in a whole other country, certain issues come into perspective and it is as though someone has given you glasses or one of those newfangled Lasik procedure thingies.
Even though I was a writer back home, the field I was in (technology) did not give me a lot of opportunities to write about Important Stuff. Sure, I read the papers and knew all the right people but it was also because I never truly cared about much of anything else except the next Bioware/Wizards of the Coast RPG because I’d always thought that nothing I could write or say would ever make a dent in what was wrong with our country or in fact, the world at large.
Which may be why you rarely see me comment on anything serious unless it really ticks me off.
There will always be greed. There will always be corruption. There will always be the same asshole who tries to take your place in line or your livelihood or fool around with your wife/husband. Until the Vulcans make up their minds to descend upon us and make first contact (or until Samy Vellu imposes another toll hike), we will always be divided by these petty issues. My philosophy in a nutshell.
All that has changed.
This is what having children does to you, sad to say, especially for those of us who can’t be moved to care for those not related by blood (or boon). It makes you want to control and predict everything.
We relocated here for very practical reasons: money and opportunities. We had the chance and we took it.
My girls are pure Malaysian Chinese but even as I am writing this, they are rapidly losing their identities. Rae speaks only English with a strong American accent, and Sky will probably not learn Chinese nor Manglish. They love their adopted country and already possess significantly Western palates (sandwiches for lunch, not economy rice; pasta for dinner, not hokkien mee).
Everything seems to be pointing us in the direction of never going home. As such, why do I still want to stick my nose in the affairs of a country I may not call home again in many more years?
It’s homesickness.
It’s patriotism.
It’s the damn food, I tell ya.
What keeps me up at night these days are things I read on Malaysiakini and other prominent political blogs.
Like last night, when I read how our Tourism Minister called me a liar.
And how two of said prominent bloggers are being hauled to court because some people high up have been embarassed and now want blood.
And how scandal has been allowed to fester because of high-level cover-up.
And how important books are being banned, while penis origami literature is being hawked for all to see at shopping malls.
And how buildings of heritage are being torn down for big business.
What is wrong with Malaysia? What do we need for our country to survive the 21st century or risk disintegrating into a civilisation lost to corruption, complacency and apathy?
What will it take for us to make it?
We already know the answer:
We need to raise literacy levels.
We are in critical need of a proper education system.
We need real democracy.
We need integrity in our leadership.
We need integrity, period.
We need equality.
We need financial wisdom.
We need change.
Come this August, Malaysia will be independent from British rule 50 years.
Will we have to wait another 50 years for real change?
Stay in your tempurung, katak!
(translation of title: “Stay in your coconut shell, frog!” This is a popular Malay saying to refer to someone who is poorly exposed).
For someone who’s all about travel, I would really like to know from which skanky tempurung did Tengku Adnan, Malaysia’s Tourism Minister, crawl out from.
Marina Mahathir’s Rantings blog linked an outrageous outburst by the Tengku in Sin Chew (a Malaysian Chinese paper) as blogged by Elizabeth Wong, a prominent Malaysian activist, who did a quick translate on the piece:
Bloggers are liars. They use all sort of ways to cheat others. From what I know, out of 10,000 unemployed bloggers, 8,000 are women.
“Bloggers like to spread rumours, they don’t like national unity. Today our country has achievements because we are tolerant and compromising. Otherwise we will have civil war.
“Malays will kill Chinese, Chinese will kill Malays, Indians will kill everybody else.â€
He asked people not to believe bloggers and gamble away Malaysia’s future because 50 years of Merdeka (Independence) takes a lot to achieve it.
“We have to show to the people our positive attitude. If the world learns from us, there will peace and no civil war.
Are these leaders we’ve put in our government?
Never mind the flippant disregard for International Women’s Day or the doubtful accuracy of his little ‘factoid’ there that “80 per cent of unemployed bloggers are women”, and the clever little slur there of racial mass murder, but where on God’s green earth is his media training?
Do they give media training under the tempurung? They certainly have managed to elicit some covert intel on umemployed bloggers that nobody else has, that’s for sure.
Pop over to Liz’s entry for more links and a full commentary.
This is Ipoh
This is a special post for my new American friends and old Ipoh pals who feel like taking a trip home through time to our beloved Ipoh.
I found these pictures in Flickr taken by various people and picked the few I liked best, just to give you a peek at where I grew up.
Do visit their Flickr pages by clicking on the images.
You can read a brief history of Ipoh here (not sure how accurate the info is).
Ipoh, pronounced “ee-po”, was named after the Ipoh Tree, pictured here.
These are photos of what we call “Ipoh old town”. I blogged many times of my Koo Ma’s saloon. This is what the back of it used to look like. Of course, it will always look new and freshly painted in my mind’s eye.
Another one in Sepia of a backlane at sunrise.
And this is the front.
This is just one block from Yau Tet Shin street, if my geography is still accurate.
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Traveling by motorcycle is very popular in Ipoh, as we are a small city and our roads are not wide.
It is both nostalgic and sad to look at these old buildings, which will be torn down one day to make way for newer ones. These are perhaps one of the last pictures of old Ipoh shops. Dylan Lim has an eye for such sights. Be sure to visit his Flickr page for more.
One of the few tourist attractions of Ipoh, these Chinese temples are built into the limestone mountains, adjoining caves that contain some of the most fascinating natural architectures in the country. I used to be terrified of the idols in these caves, for some reason. Everytime I walked into one, I would feel a chill and yet I’d continue to explore, staring up on the sometimes angry, sometimes benign faces of the deities and gods, saying a silent, fervent prayer in my child’s head throughout, asking for forgiveness for ANY indiscretion.
Can you blame me, with sculptures such as this?
Ah, the ever serene Buddha. The only comforting sculpture, next to Kuan Yin, that made me feel better.
The famous limestone mounts.
Ipoh has many beautiful old colonial buildings, remnants of the British occupation. This is train station, restored almost to its former glory, and is fondly remembered as the Ipoh ‘Taj Mahal’.
This is our city hall, also given a fresh coat of paint. It was designed by a British architect named A.B. Hubback, whyo designed many of the colonial buildings in our country, which is why many of the heritage buildings in Kuala Lumpur, Penang and Ipoh have that moorish style to them.
Our clock tower.
Ipoh is also famous for its cuisine. This is ‘white coffee‘, which until today is still my favourite type of coffee in the world, and I live in Starbucks land. It’s a taste of home I guess. Luckily, Ranch 99 sells the three-in-one kind. It’s not the same, but it’s better than nothing.
Another dish Ipoh is famous for: Tau Geh, a hot salad of bean sprouts, soy sauce, pepper and chillis. I have eaten too much of this to like it now. I wouldn’t mind a bite or two but taugeh has definitely made it into my list of aversions, for some reason.
Good God. I’ve not seen this in ages. Called a ‘kacang putih’ stall, literally ‘white nuts’ (which is as you can see, inaccurate), these are stalls selling a variety of nuts and fried/dried snacks made from nuts and flour by Indian ladies. We had one just like this in our school. I’m not a nut fan but this definitely brings back memories.
This is a picture overlooking the old Turf club, a race course infamous for making many a chronic gambler lose his/her home or even a life. Of course, the Turf Club has now ceased operations, and has become a beautiful recreational park, called the Sultan Abdul Aziz Recreational Park.
I spent much of my youth in this here Japanese garden. Good times.
This is St Michael’s Church, where an old school friend of mine just got married. This picture is taken also by an old school friend of mine, Janice. Good times, Jan!
The largest mosque in our city. Places of worship coexist peacefully in our multi-cultural country. Mosques, churches and buddhist temples, all in perfect harmony.
The Anglo-Chinese School, a boys-only school, was the ‘brother’ school of the Methodist Girls’ School Ipoh, my alma mater. A few of my old ‘boy friends’ were from ACS. It makes me smile remembering the ‘good old times’.
This is the St Michael’s Institution, a rival boys school of ACS. This building has a lot of history behind it, as it was used as a base for the Japanese during their occupation. So by history, I mean ghost stories of how soldiers were buried in the school grounds, the very grounds used to kick a ball around et al. A few boyfriends from here too. God, I’m such a slut.
Sadly, I could not find a good one of my own alma mater.
This is an unbelievable recent picture. I used to ride on buses like this one, with conductors like this man here holding a wooden board with a rubber band that had tickets for various destinations strapped on. Tell him you need to go to Batu Gajah, he’ll take a 35 sen ticket (the old price, of course), punch two holes in it to say you’ve paid or something (or perhaps the time?) and hand it to you. This is a priceless photo.
An almost empty old bus. Check out the metal backed seats.
I miss Ipoh.
I miss my friends, my folks, the food. The quiet, unassuming life that I was once so eager to be rid of. Will it have changed so much when I have the chance to return? I hope not. Still, Ipoh will always be my home, and maybe, I will be fortunate enough to return to it one day, if it will still have me.
The above photos are taken by these Flickr photographers:
Paul Khor
Dylan Lim
Soupscience
Mun Keat
Adrian Furby
McGun
Jan Koch
Ellis Bartholomeus
Vinc
TK Yeoh
Bentley Smith
Dr Fizzwizzle
Christina Leong
Richard Beddard
fotocentesis
Jon Lin
Janice Leong
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The hole in the floor
Watching Death Cab for Cutie’s video for I’ll Follow You Into the Dark (the tune – or should I say, zune – du jour), it suddenly reminded me of my third uncle’s shophouse back in Batu Gajah, a typical Chinese 1920s long building of business, where he plied, wholesale, commodities such as rice, flour and sugar.
The shop was huge, so huge that it had two stories, but six ‘parts’ to the house: the shopfront; the back of the shop front, where he stacked sacks and sacks of everything; the middle of the shop, which had a ceiling two storeys high; the enormous wet kitchen at the back, followed by a gargantuan backyard with an outhouse and a chicken shed and all sorts of bric-a-brac that had probably been brought over from China by my grandparents and the grandparents of some of our neighbours even.
And then there was the ‘upstairs’, where my fourth uncle lived with his family, and it had six rooms, all of which were dusty and badly kept, but man, did my sis and I find joy in roaming around this monstrosity of a place.
One of the best things about the ‘upstairs’ of this house was there was a hole in the wooden floor, through which you could see the cash register downstairs, behind which my uncle did all his business. The hole was the size of a tennis ball in diameter, so you can imagine the kind of mischief we would get into. Sometimes, we would casually drop a toy or two. Other times, it would be magazines or newspapers, rolled or squished up, hitting my uncle or his helpers squarely on the shoulders or heads, after which an earsplitting scream would erupt and we would scramble to hide. I remember once we even squeezed a small cat through it, and this is a good ten feet from the ground. It’s no wonder the damn thing scratched me good. Was that after or before I pushed it through a hole the size of its head? I don’t remember.
Until today, all memories of this little hole in the floor were tucked behind layers (years) and layers (years) of Other More Important Things. And all of a sudden, one video managed to excavate it clean from its grave. The Hole In the Floor.
Of course, then, I never ever wondered why there was such a hole in the middle of a living room floor (where we sat watching Hawaii-Five-O or Ultraman for many years). Now, when I think of it, it would be a great way to ’smuggle’ cash quickly, for sometimes, I would catch my aunt pulling things up using a rafia string, newspaper-wrapped Things I now presume would be cash.
The Hole had many other uses (besides dropping toys and torturing cats). For one, it was a good way to see if someone’s broken into your shop in the middle of the night. Who needs a thousand-dollar security system when you have a hole in the floor?
Another use would be (and I think this might be it) a good spy-hole for invasions or ’spot checks’ by Japanese soldiers during the occupation. I remember the hole having very clean edges, as though it’d been there for a while. Hear a commotion downstairs, peep through the hole to see if it’s a random check by Japanese militia, hide your daughters. Handy, isn’t it?
The shop is still there today, although it’s not inhabitable anymore. I’m sure its days are numbered, for neglect has a way of shortening one’s life. My uncle is retired and become deaf from all his screaming, and my fourth uncle has long since moved into his own very modern corner house with a small garden and hopefully, no holes in the floor.
And even if there were, I’m sure his children had fun with them.
What goes around, probably came from somewhere else
There’s been much ado about pliagarism these past few days in the Malaysian press, which in a surprising turn of events, led to the shocking revelation that the victim might be a pliagariser himself!
Thanks to Sharon and Jeff for the links (lest I be accused of the same as well).
To think I almost went for his book signing! Yea, Lokes had a BBQ that evening so my plans fell through.
Well, back to NaNoWriMo. I’m almost hitting 6k!
So if one borrows quotes without attribution from other people and injects them in one’s NaNoWriMo entry, does it count? Just to, you know, make the numbers.
Kidding!
Copyright © 2006 The I’mperfect Mom. This blog is for non-commercial use only. If you’re reading the entirety of this entry on another website (excluding your RSS aggregator), please email me to report copyright infringement so legal action may be taken. Thank you.
Memories, take deux
It’s amazing what the human brain retains.
And more astonishingly so when these memories come back in the form of dreams, almost 30 years, and a lifetime, later.
When I was around six or seven, I used to live with my aunt from my father’s side. My Ku Ma, as I call her, is dad’s older sister and his only other sibling.
She owned a hair ‘waving’ saloon in the ’50s right up to the ’80s in what was then the bustling town of Ipoh, the capital of Perak, a mid-Northern state in Malaysia. It was called Lee Lee’s Hair Waving Saloon, this bright blue long shophouse built in the ’20s. where ‘open kitchen’ meant having to run for cover when the rains came.
I can remember only happy times at my Ku Ma’s saloon. The beehive wigs on mannequin heads on the twin display windows flanking the cowboy-style swinging doors. The noisy whir of the wall-mounted hairdryers resembling large, egg helmets that would blot out all manner of conversation once you placed them over your head, enclosing you in a coccoon of swirling warmth that would coax those tightly pinned curls into shape. The carts laden with hair styling things: Curlers, combs, brushes, hairpins and, most importantly, hairspray.
What I remember most clearly about my years in the saloon were the mornings. At around 5.30am, I would slowly and reluctantly rouse to my Ku Ma’s symphony of smells and sounds: A kettle of hot water bubbling over roasting charcoal in a clay oven. Someone’s cock crowing proudly. Wooden clogs knocking about on cement floors. Water running. And then, pretending to still be asleep, I would wait for my Ku Ma’s first call.
“Fer!! Wake up lor!” it would come at around 6am, as my Ku Ma banged loudly on the wooden door of the room my sis and I shared with the live-in shampoo girls as there were only two rooms in the shophouse.
I still remember the names of these ‘big sisters’. Ah Lin Che (sister Lin) and Ah Siew Che (sister Siew). Ah Mei Che (sister Mei), the ‘retarded’ girl from Menglembu, as the others called her, who would walk around with her clothes half undone because she could not fathom how buttons and their corresponding holes worked. She would speak to us in what she thought sounded like English, which was the only language my dad had strictly told my aunt that my sis and I were allowed to converse in.
“Nis!” she would call my sis, Eunice.
“Go sickk ffun, please!” she’d say, because she forgot what ‘eat noodles’ was in English and so she would improvise by enunciating the ‘ckk’ in ’sik’ (eat in Cantonese) and the ‘ff’ in ‘fun’ (noodles). It’s probably how she thought Westerners would say those two words. It was pretty funny for a while, and I admired her for trying.
Another memory I have about life in the saloon was how my Ku Ma would get so angry trying to get my sis and I to sleep at night because it would be midnight and we’d still be giggling and playing all sorts of games in the room, such as ‘camping’ (blankets over umbrellas) or ’sun tanning’ (umbrellas on blankets), all the while keeping an ear out for the familiar sound of my Ku Ma room’s door opening, clogs clacking noisily on the cement, metal chair scraping towards our wired window. And then my Ku Ma’s curly head would appear.
“You two monkeys! Still awake? Faster sleep lor! Tomorrow got school!” she would whisper angrily, this five-foot woman standing on a chair so she could tower over our two darkened, supine figures.
Life after the saloon, as I stumbled clumsily through my teenage years, must’ve lost its magic, because most of all I can remember are not as, well, memorable.
But that, as they say, is another story.
Copyright © 2006 The I’mperfect Mom. This blog is for non-commercial use only. If you’re reading the entirety of this entry on another website (excluding your RSS aggregator), please email me to report copyright infringement so legal action may be taken. Thank you.
Selamat Hari Raya and Happy Deepavali, dear friends
This is our first year away from home, and away from our annual multicultural festivities.
I miss going rayaing. I miss rendang and murukku. I miss ketupat and satay. I miss all the Deepa-raya (to hell with you oversensitive pricks) ads. I miss all the free Nescafe along the highways during balik kampung. I miss all the gentle (and sometimes hysterical) pandu cermat reminders. I miss all the illegal fireworks.
Most of all, I miss the mad rush to finish work so that can enjoy the week-long holidays.
Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri to all my Muslim friends reading this blog. Maaf zahir dan batin!
Happy Festival of Lights to all my Hindu friends. May the new year be blessed with many more bright victories!