Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Tidying up the mess, i found these...
A photo album.
A novel given by my friends and yet I haven't got time to read it.
An invitation to MNG preview party.
Miss the old days... (Journey to adulthood).
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I pity the parents
Copy the notes on the blackboard.
Cikgu, saya tak bawak buku.
It's okay, salin dalam kertas, nanti tampal.
Saya tak ada kertas.
Fine, pinjam dengan kawan.
(A piece of a ticket-sized paper was pulled out)
Cikgu, saya salin atas ni saja lah.
Mana boleh muat, kertas tu kan kecil.
Alah, cikgu ni, saya malas lah nak salin. Buang masa saya je.
Excuse me?
Nota cikgu bagi tak berguna pun.
What?
Gaji cikgu berapa? Kalau setakat dua tiga ribu tu tak payah berlagak la.
(I was stunned, but still in my patience sky)
Apa kaitan gaji saya dengan kamu?
Mak bapak saya pun tak paksa-paksa macam cikgu la.
La, I just want you to copy the notes. Nak ke tak nak ke, punya pasal kamu la. Bukan masalah saya.
Tau pun. Yang cikgu nak menyibuk hal saya kenapa? Mak bapak saya pun tak busy body mcm cikgu.
Aha.. siapa nama mak ayah kamu?
(Silence)
(The kid went out from the class)
(Back home, I noticed a long obvious scratch on the right butt of my car)
Cikgu, saya tak bawak buku.
It's okay, salin dalam kertas, nanti tampal.
Saya tak ada kertas.
Fine, pinjam dengan kawan.
(A piece of a ticket-sized paper was pulled out)
Cikgu, saya salin atas ni saja lah.
Mana boleh muat, kertas tu kan kecil.
Alah, cikgu ni, saya malas lah nak salin. Buang masa saya je.
Excuse me?
Nota cikgu bagi tak berguna pun.
What?
Gaji cikgu berapa? Kalau setakat dua tiga ribu tu tak payah berlagak la.
(I was stunned, but still in my patience sky)
Apa kaitan gaji saya dengan kamu?
Mak bapak saya pun tak paksa-paksa macam cikgu la.
La, I just want you to copy the notes. Nak ke tak nak ke, punya pasal kamu la. Bukan masalah saya.
Tau pun. Yang cikgu nak menyibuk hal saya kenapa? Mak bapak saya pun tak busy body mcm cikgu.
Aha.. siapa nama mak ayah kamu?
(Silence)
(The kid went out from the class)
(Back home, I noticed a long obvious scratch on the right butt of my car)
Sunday, August 2, 2009
In Between
This Tuesday I will be shifting out from the house shared with a friend. At first, I thought it is okay to stay with someone not in the same religion, but somehow its getting harder. My parents wanted me not to stay here. They wanted me to find another house with a Muslim housemate. But I've promised my friend long before this to stay with her, and I had to break the promise. My housemate's parents were of course, got angry with me and I could do nothing about that. I am stuck in the middle of my family, her family and of course her kindness because I can't deny the fact that she truly helped me a lot. My other friends accused me for being irresponsible, bring shame to my religion and race, but I am sure if they are in my shoes, they would know how I feel. When her mother showed me the "receipts", the "tenancy agreement letters" and stuff to me to show how much they had spent just to help me, I really could not do anything because my parents' orders were to move out from this house as soon as possible. I know my parents were worrying about me since I got here and I just don't have the heart to make them feel this way anymore. I chose the one that I have to obey, that I love the most with all my heart, and I fought all the guiltiness I felt just to tell my friend that I have to move out. I know deep inside her heart she feels betrayed and hopeless, and I am sure she won't trust me anymore, but I need her to understand why I have to choose to be in this way. To her, thank you for everything you did to me, and I am sorry that I have to put you in this situation. To Auntie and Uncle, thank you so much too for taking care for me these whole four weeks, and I am sorry I had to hurt both of you.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Super Black
Bought a car, but havent seen it yet. Myvi. Black. My dad officiated it first. :)
:( No More shopping after this. Damn.
:( No More shopping after this. Damn.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The True Faces
My journey of life has just began, just like the others. Somehow, throughout 4 excruciating days, I've discovered a true friend, who was indeed helped me went through the hardest part of my life while the one that I thought as a close 'friend' was 'gone' in an instant. What a life.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Its not all about shoes:)
The Shoe
The shoe . . . Hanging there on the clothesline
Behind the growth of trees
Shielding the makeshift lean-to shelter
Home to the vagabond, rejected . . .
Struggling with life’s problems present and past
There, out of sight of the eight-lane thoroughfare
Where they pan-handled, their meager needs to supply . . .
Fast food from the burger stations, a bottle of cheap wine
Drowning yesterday’s memories . . .
Situations in life that somehow went wrong
The shoe . . . Hanging near the entrance of their makeshift home . . .
Reminder of a life for the past fifteen years
Lived in the streets of a D.C. suburb
Found along with his watch, near the skid marked pavement
Where the tragedy unfolded just a few days prior . . .
The last coins collected, night enveloped in darkness,
Wearily crossing the heavily traveled highway . . .
Headed toward the “security” of the lean-to,
And the company of his comrades of the street . . .
Blinded by the lights of oncoming cars
Suddenly it happened—brakes screeching . . .
His limp body upon impact, hurled through the air
Lying there, his body broken, writhing in pain,
Then, a second car speeding along, the driver unaware,
Rolls over the pain-seared body . . .
TOO LATE! TOO LATE!
Sirens piercing the wintry night . . .
Red lights flashing, all traffic stopped . . .
Attendants carefully extricating the broken, lifeless body from the street
TOO LATE! TOO LATE! Dead at the scene!
6:38 P.M. time recorded on his stopped watch
The watch given to me by a city policeman . . .
As we surveyed the accident scene!
His shoe . . . My brother’s shoe, hanging not far away
Memorial to a life lost that fateful night
PFC Dwight William McKinney
US Army Veteran
Born June 17, 1945 . . . Died December 4, 1999
Donald E. McKinney
From the point of view of a shoes enthusiast.
I’ve encountered this poem while having a lunch with a friend of mine. It’s about a shoe that caught my attention. Today, I’ve received two pairs of shoes as gifts and the title of this poem touched my heart. How can a shoe be so significant in one’s life? The poet views the shoes as something hurtful and miserable, that reminded him the tragedy of his life and his late brother. As for me, shoes are made of two sides, the upper side and the down side. If life is a circle, having its ups and downs, I view shoes as something that portrays life, where the upper side and the down side may be ugly or pretty according the way of life that we choose. If the life we lead is full with sins and wrongdoings, it is just like an ugly and cheap pair of shoes, while if you lead an honest and good life, it is just like the good and exclusive pair of shoes. Both the upper side and the down side (footprints) are different, which distinguishes the quality and the value of the shoes. Although some people viewed shoes as just a pair of shoes that will be thrown away and forgotten after it is torn and used, my perspective is totally different because for me, shoes is life.
If you have ever noticed, each shoe is different. Perhaps it may be the same brand, the same price, the same patterns, but each of us have different sizes, different colours, and shoes will determine of who you are. Easy to put it this way, if the shoes are dirty and torn, we may think that the person is someone who is unhygienic. Since I am an uptight person about hygiene, I couldn’t help myself than judging people based on their self-cleanliness. Their shoes are the first thing that I would look at.
My friends said that being a shoes collector requires big amount of money, yes, indeed I agreed. Of course, most of the shoes are just being displayed on the rack, some of them I never wear, but when I am too stressful or happy, I could feel myself dancing with the shoes. The shoes are one of the things in my life that keep me alive. Although not all of the shoes are expensive, I value each of them. My mum used to say, “You’re my most normal daughter, but when it comes to shoes, you’re mentally retarded”.
The shoe . . . Hanging there on the clothesline
Behind the growth of trees
Shielding the makeshift lean-to shelter
Home to the vagabond, rejected . . .
Struggling with life’s problems present and past
There, out of sight of the eight-lane thoroughfare
Where they pan-handled, their meager needs to supply . . .
Fast food from the burger stations, a bottle of cheap wine
Drowning yesterday’s memories . . .
Situations in life that somehow went wrong
The shoe . . . Hanging near the entrance of their makeshift home . . .
Reminder of a life for the past fifteen years
Lived in the streets of a D.C. suburb
Found along with his watch, near the skid marked pavement
Where the tragedy unfolded just a few days prior . . .
The last coins collected, night enveloped in darkness,
Wearily crossing the heavily traveled highway . . .
Headed toward the “security” of the lean-to,
And the company of his comrades of the street . . .
Blinded by the lights of oncoming cars
Suddenly it happened—brakes screeching . . .
His limp body upon impact, hurled through the air
Lying there, his body broken, writhing in pain,
Then, a second car speeding along, the driver unaware,
Rolls over the pain-seared body . . .
TOO LATE! TOO LATE!
Sirens piercing the wintry night . . .
Red lights flashing, all traffic stopped . . .
Attendants carefully extricating the broken, lifeless body from the street
TOO LATE! TOO LATE! Dead at the scene!
6:38 P.M. time recorded on his stopped watch
The watch given to me by a city policeman . . .
As we surveyed the accident scene!
His shoe . . . My brother’s shoe, hanging not far away
Memorial to a life lost that fateful night
PFC Dwight William McKinney
US Army Veteran
Born June 17, 1945 . . . Died December 4, 1999
Donald E. McKinney
From the point of view of a shoes enthusiast.
I’ve encountered this poem while having a lunch with a friend of mine. It’s about a shoe that caught my attention. Today, I’ve received two pairs of shoes as gifts and the title of this poem touched my heart. How can a shoe be so significant in one’s life? The poet views the shoes as something hurtful and miserable, that reminded him the tragedy of his life and his late brother. As for me, shoes are made of two sides, the upper side and the down side. If life is a circle, having its ups and downs, I view shoes as something that portrays life, where the upper side and the down side may be ugly or pretty according the way of life that we choose. If the life we lead is full with sins and wrongdoings, it is just like an ugly and cheap pair of shoes, while if you lead an honest and good life, it is just like the good and exclusive pair of shoes. Both the upper side and the down side (footprints) are different, which distinguishes the quality and the value of the shoes. Although some people viewed shoes as just a pair of shoes that will be thrown away and forgotten after it is torn and used, my perspective is totally different because for me, shoes is life.
If you have ever noticed, each shoe is different. Perhaps it may be the same brand, the same price, the same patterns, but each of us have different sizes, different colours, and shoes will determine of who you are. Easy to put it this way, if the shoes are dirty and torn, we may think that the person is someone who is unhygienic. Since I am an uptight person about hygiene, I couldn’t help myself than judging people based on their self-cleanliness. Their shoes are the first thing that I would look at.
My friends said that being a shoes collector requires big amount of money, yes, indeed I agreed. Of course, most of the shoes are just being displayed on the rack, some of them I never wear, but when I am too stressful or happy, I could feel myself dancing with the shoes. The shoes are one of the things in my life that keep me alive. Although not all of the shoes are expensive, I value each of them. My mum used to say, “You’re my most normal daughter, but when it comes to shoes, you’re mentally retarded”.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
A Request
“For your love, I have everything from my blood to the essence of my existence” – Juanes.
When I was a child, most of my childhood times were spent with my mum. My sister and brother were studying in the university during that time, and my father was away from home for months. We were not a well-off family; in fact, my father had to make ends meet especially when my other siblings entered university. For my father, furthering your studies in university means more money, to earn more money, means he had to work real hard. I was only a child then, so I didn’t understand why my father was such an invisible man, I could hardly see him.
Most of the time, I spent with my mum, helping her to arrange the clothes that she had sewed and tailored. Sometimes, she even made me rag-dolls made from pieces of colourful cloths because we could not afford to buy toys. Money was something hard for us, but that didn’t deprive us in living life to the fullest. I could still remember the time when mum bought me “Vitagen” and I didn’t know that it should be kept refrigerated, so I kept it in the food cupboard because we had no refrigerator. The next day, I felt frustrated because the Vitagen had turned stale and I blamed my mum for that. I remembered I cried so loudly and it was quite funny because my mum told me that the Vitagen was for the rich, not for the poor people like us who had no fridge.
My mum is actually very particular about what goes inside my stomach and brain. Although we couldn’t afford expensive food, she would make sure that I had raisins, fishes, and eggs as my daily meals. We bred a few chickens, therefore we would we be able to trade the eggs for the fishes. We had no problem for chicken eggs because our chicken would lay their eggs everyday and everywhere, most of the time was in the bushes. There were times when my mum disappeared in the morning because she had to find the hidden eggs in the bushes early in the morning just to prepare breakfast for me. Since there were only two of us in the house, sometimes we had too many eggs to be eaten because my mum believed that eggs should be consumed as fast as possible so that we won’t lose the vitamins. When I grew older, I knew that she just wanted me to have the best.
Mum was not someone who lavishes her children with luxury, she could not even afford to. But she always remind me, it’s not the things that you have makes who you are, it is the how you value and appreciate things around you, although it is the smallest, or the cheapest or it may be very insignificant towards you. She always emphasized the importance of education, although she could not afford to buy me story books and colouring books, it is no problem to me because I always get “thrown” books from the recycle centre in front of my house where my free time were spent reading those thrown and torn books that I’ve found.
When I was a child, most of my childhood times were spent with my mum. My sister and brother were studying in the university during that time, and my father was away from home for months. We were not a well-off family; in fact, my father had to make ends meet especially when my other siblings entered university. For my father, furthering your studies in university means more money, to earn more money, means he had to work real hard. I was only a child then, so I didn’t understand why my father was such an invisible man, I could hardly see him.
Most of the time, I spent with my mum, helping her to arrange the clothes that she had sewed and tailored. Sometimes, she even made me rag-dolls made from pieces of colourful cloths because we could not afford to buy toys. Money was something hard for us, but that didn’t deprive us in living life to the fullest. I could still remember the time when mum bought me “Vitagen” and I didn’t know that it should be kept refrigerated, so I kept it in the food cupboard because we had no refrigerator. The next day, I felt frustrated because the Vitagen had turned stale and I blamed my mum for that. I remembered I cried so loudly and it was quite funny because my mum told me that the Vitagen was for the rich, not for the poor people like us who had no fridge.
My mum is actually very particular about what goes inside my stomach and brain. Although we couldn’t afford expensive food, she would make sure that I had raisins, fishes, and eggs as my daily meals. We bred a few chickens, therefore we would we be able to trade the eggs for the fishes. We had no problem for chicken eggs because our chicken would lay their eggs everyday and everywhere, most of the time was in the bushes. There were times when my mum disappeared in the morning because she had to find the hidden eggs in the bushes early in the morning just to prepare breakfast for me. Since there were only two of us in the house, sometimes we had too many eggs to be eaten because my mum believed that eggs should be consumed as fast as possible so that we won’t lose the vitamins. When I grew older, I knew that she just wanted me to have the best.
Mum was not someone who lavishes her children with luxury, she could not even afford to. But she always remind me, it’s not the things that you have makes who you are, it is the how you value and appreciate things around you, although it is the smallest, or the cheapest or it may be very insignificant towards you. She always emphasized the importance of education, although she could not afford to buy me story books and colouring books, it is no problem to me because I always get “thrown” books from the recycle centre in front of my house where my free time were spent reading those thrown and torn books that I’ve found.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Cerita Hati
Untuk hati yang tiada siapa yang punya,
Untuk hati yang tiada siapa mahu miliki,
Tiada cinta, tiada sayang untuknya,
Hanya muram yang memenuhi,
Tanpa belas, tanpa apa-apa,
Hati itu kosong,
Tiada siapa yang peduli,
Kerna ia tidak mahu siapa-siapa peduli,
Biarlah ia terus sunyi,
Mati dalam sepi.
Mati dalam mimpi,
Mati tanpa apa-apa,
Biar hati itu pergi,
Biar hati itu ditinggalkan,
Biar hati itu mati.
Sg. Petani, 11.56pm, 13 Jun 2009.
Untuk hati yang tiada siapa mahu miliki,
Tiada cinta, tiada sayang untuknya,
Hanya muram yang memenuhi,
Tanpa belas, tanpa apa-apa,
Hati itu kosong,
Tiada siapa yang peduli,
Kerna ia tidak mahu siapa-siapa peduli,
Biarlah ia terus sunyi,
Mati dalam sepi.
Mati dalam mimpi,
Mati tanpa apa-apa,
Biar hati itu pergi,
Biar hati itu ditinggalkan,
Biar hati itu mati.
Sg. Petani, 11.56pm, 13 Jun 2009.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Rice-less Diet
I am despised enough by others (who are thin and slender) because I am fat. I wonder if it is a sin to have big belly and fatty thighs. They are those people who eat two plates of rice and never gain an inch, and I would be on the opposite. So what if I have big muffin tummy and ugly thighs as long as I know I am healthy? Somehow, many of us, especially girls would despised you (directly or indirectly) because you are fat. Thank God that I am not obese, but somehow my heart would turn blue when some people commented on how chubby my cheeks are, how big is my tummy or how fat is my bum? Why should I bother on these people? Well, girls and the weight issues and how they always think about themselves as being better than anyone else. I've been on a "rice-less diet" and I've lost 10kgs after almost a year I ate only Nestle Fitnesse and cups of green tea. Nevertheless, I began to look like a ghost, always fatigued, had frequent mood swings and I thought I almost become anorexic, but I managed to terminate the ridiculous diet. For girls out there, who are suffering from tremendous negative comments about your body from others, it is the best to ignore, or at least remind yourself that it is your body, keep it happy and healthy.
Steps to begin with a SLR camera (soon...)
Take a peek on my object below (both pictures were taken by a borrowed Nikon F5 film camera) :
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The continous hazardous effects of using Malaysian local products
When I was still using Malaysian local products: Natasya (5 years) and DN Hans (3 months).
This was a day after I stopped using both of the two local products.
I went to dermatologist for treatment, examined as having eczema and now I am using Clinelle and antibiotics.
The moral of the story: Trust No One.
There's no but, no cause.
My heart is dead,
Quenched with tears,
Tears that I would never let out
I'm afraid of their laughter
And it keeps ringing in my head,
I'm holding on,
I'm not sure till when,
Would it be until I turn to pieces?
I'm waiting for my death,
I'm not ready yet,
I'm willing
God, please give me the strength
A strength for me to hold on,
To go on,
I'm falling into a dark hole in his eyes,
Those blank eyes,
I'm falling in love,
A love that could never be mine,
He wants me to hold on,
To wait,
I hear laughters between my cries,
I don't know till when,
Should I hold on to something I could never see,
I could never feel.
Sg Petani, April 25th, 2009. 12.03am
Quenched with tears,
Tears that I would never let out
I'm afraid of their laughter
And it keeps ringing in my head,
I'm holding on,
I'm not sure till when,
Would it be until I turn to pieces?
I'm waiting for my death,
I'm not ready yet,
I'm willing
God, please give me the strength
A strength for me to hold on,
To go on,
I'm falling into a dark hole in his eyes,
Those blank eyes,
I'm falling in love,
A love that could never be mine,
He wants me to hold on,
To wait,
I hear laughters between my cries,
I don't know till when,
Should I hold on to something I could never see,
I could never feel.
Sg Petani, April 25th, 2009. 12.03am
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
My mind is under construction.
When there's happiness, there'll be sadness. My thumb is swelling due to surfing the internet using my sony w660i. Yeah, an old, outdated phone, but i am satisfied with it, but not completely. I've left the cable in sungai petani, so i couldn't get connected in a normal way. Right now, sighing would be an absolute verb. Im not looking forward to my redang trip anymore. Its not because of money, in fact my parents paid for it as for this year's birthday present. My face is suffering from an 'acute adverse allergic reaction due to the skin's dependency on chemicals contained' on local products i had used. I don't know whether it is appropriate to say this, well, ban the local products! Yes, its my fault for totally placing on complete trusts on facial products that promised you a 'beautiful, supple, and glowing skin'. Yes, they are proven right, as i had used them for years, and i added the consequences with 'marine elastin collagen'. After a day i stopped using and taking it, i could feel the swelling of my face. The burning itchiness, the spiral kind of acneous pimples popping out, my face is reddish now and it hurts like hell. Well, i'll upload some pictures later cause its impossible to do it here and the joints of my fingers are aching.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
at last, he remembers my birthday
thanks for the advance birthday cake; (those were sugar free chocolate cake and chocolate indulgence by secret recipe) i didn't expect that, but thank you.
when i am letting go things i love the most in my life
i'm selling all these. anyone interested may contact me for information. prices are negotiable. this is for the funding of my redang trip. sob sob..
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Minah Tudung
Common excuses I’ve heard and (sadly)said some of the points too…:
1- I’ll get headache when I wear tudung.
2- My hair is so nice, I’m still young, and this is the show time…
3- My parents don’t allow me. Even God says we have to obey our parents; of course I have to obey my parents when they say no tudung. (Readers? What say you?)
4- If you wear tudung but your attitude like hell, what’s the point?
5- It’s okay not to wear tudung, even tudung girls got raped what?
6- Wearing tudung makes me look ugly and old.
7- I think tudung girls are sexier than the “free-hair” ones…
8- I’ll wear tudung when I get old and sick.
9- Wearing tudung limits my style. If I wear tudung, how am I going to wear my Cat Whiskers’ tube dress?
10- Wearing tudung does not necessarily mean that you are a good Muslim. I don’t wear, but I pray five times a day, I read Quran every day, last time I ate pork and drank Tiger a bit lah, but now no more, so okay what? But my heart is good, I believe in Allah and later I bertaubat lah.. ( I was jaw-dropped when I heard this)
I think most of us have or had “religious rebel”. I am rebellious in many ways and sometimes I feel guilty about it. Yes, I should feel guilty about it as I’m losing in counting the sins I’ve committed (too much). Whenever my friends advised me, I glanced at them in a blink of eye, whereas I should appreciate that they are making points there. My mum always asked me to cover my head and my usual replies would be, “It doesn’t mean you wear tudung means you’re good” or “I don’t want to look religious”. What point am I trying to make? My mum never give up, she buys me expensive “tudungs”, even a “jubah” because she don’t like to see her daughter wearing “skin-tight levis” with “a four-year-old-size t-shirt”. Nevertheless, yesterday’s comment of a complete random stranger struck me straight in the heart. She said “quote” “Girl, by looking at you, I can see the light of your face. The light of Islam. But, there’s only one thing, please cover your hair, girl. Or you’ll lose the light soon”. “Unquote”. (Actually I was confused by the light she was talking about; sounds like I’m going to die real soon.) Back to my hostel, I was thinking about that, and what is it am I trying to prove by being so rebellious towards my own faith and belief? I don’t want to be those girls who are proud that they are Muslims, and at the same time they wear non-Muslims’ apparels. I am ashamed of myself, and I should “convert”; from unknown to the known, from worst to the less worst, and of course, from rebellious to obedient (I’m trying slowly). I remembered when someone commented on a friend of mine, “Lah, aku ingat dia kafir, terperanjat aku bila dia bagi Salam” because she wore tight jeans and white spaghetti straps tube. I know most of us believe that we should never judge people on what they are wearing, but I don’t want to hear if someone describes me like that. It’s kind of sad you know. I know being a Muslim is not only the attire, it is also the heart, the soul, the body that God gave to us, and how we should really take care of those. I know, by covering my hair would not make me an instant religious follower, but it is a necessity , a compulsory to cover it, I don’t want myself being charred in hell just because of one simplest thing. And I am grateful enough that Allah makes me realize this before it’s too late.
1- I’ll get headache when I wear tudung.
2- My hair is so nice, I’m still young, and this is the show time…
3- My parents don’t allow me. Even God says we have to obey our parents; of course I have to obey my parents when they say no tudung. (Readers? What say you?)
4- If you wear tudung but your attitude like hell, what’s the point?
5- It’s okay not to wear tudung, even tudung girls got raped what?
6- Wearing tudung makes me look ugly and old.
7- I think tudung girls are sexier than the “free-hair” ones…
8- I’ll wear tudung when I get old and sick.
9- Wearing tudung limits my style. If I wear tudung, how am I going to wear my Cat Whiskers’ tube dress?
10- Wearing tudung does not necessarily mean that you are a good Muslim. I don’t wear, but I pray five times a day, I read Quran every day, last time I ate pork and drank Tiger a bit lah, but now no more, so okay what? But my heart is good, I believe in Allah and later I bertaubat lah.. ( I was jaw-dropped when I heard this)
I think most of us have or had “religious rebel”. I am rebellious in many ways and sometimes I feel guilty about it. Yes, I should feel guilty about it as I’m losing in counting the sins I’ve committed (too much). Whenever my friends advised me, I glanced at them in a blink of eye, whereas I should appreciate that they are making points there. My mum always asked me to cover my head and my usual replies would be, “It doesn’t mean you wear tudung means you’re good” or “I don’t want to look religious”. What point am I trying to make? My mum never give up, she buys me expensive “tudungs”, even a “jubah” because she don’t like to see her daughter wearing “skin-tight levis” with “a four-year-old-size t-shirt”. Nevertheless, yesterday’s comment of a complete random stranger struck me straight in the heart. She said “quote” “Girl, by looking at you, I can see the light of your face. The light of Islam. But, there’s only one thing, please cover your hair, girl. Or you’ll lose the light soon”. “Unquote”. (Actually I was confused by the light she was talking about; sounds like I’m going to die real soon.) Back to my hostel, I was thinking about that, and what is it am I trying to prove by being so rebellious towards my own faith and belief? I don’t want to be those girls who are proud that they are Muslims, and at the same time they wear non-Muslims’ apparels. I am ashamed of myself, and I should “convert”; from unknown to the known, from worst to the less worst, and of course, from rebellious to obedient (I’m trying slowly). I remembered when someone commented on a friend of mine, “Lah, aku ingat dia kafir, terperanjat aku bila dia bagi Salam” because she wore tight jeans and white spaghetti straps tube. I know most of us believe that we should never judge people on what they are wearing, but I don’t want to hear if someone describes me like that. It’s kind of sad you know. I know being a Muslim is not only the attire, it is also the heart, the soul, the body that God gave to us, and how we should really take care of those. I know, by covering my hair would not make me an instant religious follower, but it is a necessity , a compulsory to cover it, I don’t want myself being charred in hell just because of one simplest thing. And I am grateful enough that Allah makes me realize this before it’s too late.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Feet
“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel” – Maya Angelou.
I was only fifteen during that time, the time when I lost my respect towards the teachers especially English teachers. Yes, I wrote that essay on my own, I love writing and I worked hard to get my essay error free. My dad helped me with my English and most of the time; I spent hours to write English essays. By repetitions and drills that I received from my dad, I managed to successfully write some English essays. My English was not as perfect as my other classmates, and the teacher that I’ve mentioned above could not tolerate with Malay girls much particularly me. Since the incident, I have never attended her English classes, I would just walked out of the class and she would never even care. As for me, the irresponsible teacher should not be called a teacher. I am taught by my parents to respect my teachers, but sorry, I could never respect her.
I proved her wrong by my PMR results as I obtained 8As. My English results throughout my schooling time were always "A". My father was my English teacher. I would never forgive her for what she had done and today, I proved her wrong again as I am the new generation that would replace her in anytime. I promised to myself when I’ll become a teacher in a few months more, I would never do such a horrible thing to my students. I’ve learned that the teacher of that kind would never be respected. It is hurtful to hate somebody and too bad that I have to hate her.
The teacher’s eyes were filled with anger. She looked at me with a disgusting look. ‘Where did you copy this?’
I stood in front of her silently; I wanted to scream at her that I wrote the essay by myself. But I know she would never trust me because she had personally told me that she hated me because I am Malay. There were another thirty-four pairs of cynical eyes were lingering on each inch of my skin.
The teacher grabbed my hands harshly; I could feel the burning fire in her heart, and another thirty-four envious hearts around me. I stared on the dusty floor and awkwardly I said, ‘I wrote this on my own, my dad helped me with the grammar’.
The flame was getting higher. She looked at me like I am a piece of shit. As I had expected, she tore my essay into pieces, and splashed them right on my face.
‘You, stupid girl! You think I am that blind? There is not a single grammar mistake here!’ The teacher stood up and raised her voice in hoping that the next class would hear her too. Wished that the world would agree with her too. The teacher’s high-pitched and shameless voice struck into my ears, into my brain, ‘Get out!’ she shrieked. I could feel there were thirty-four faces were smiling and gawked at my face in repugnance.
I walked out of the class in pride. I glanced at the teacher, bursting in disgust and I never looked back ever since.
I stood in front of her silently; I wanted to scream at her that I wrote the essay by myself. But I know she would never trust me because she had personally told me that she hated me because I am Malay. There were another thirty-four pairs of cynical eyes were lingering on each inch of my skin.
The teacher grabbed my hands harshly; I could feel the burning fire in her heart, and another thirty-four envious hearts around me. I stared on the dusty floor and awkwardly I said, ‘I wrote this on my own, my dad helped me with the grammar’.
The flame was getting higher. She looked at me like I am a piece of shit. As I had expected, she tore my essay into pieces, and splashed them right on my face.
‘You, stupid girl! You think I am that blind? There is not a single grammar mistake here!’ The teacher stood up and raised her voice in hoping that the next class would hear her too. Wished that the world would agree with her too. The teacher’s high-pitched and shameless voice struck into my ears, into my brain, ‘Get out!’ she shrieked. I could feel there were thirty-four faces were smiling and gawked at my face in repugnance.
I walked out of the class in pride. I glanced at the teacher, bursting in disgust and I never looked back ever since.
“Feet” by Norwani Wahid, 2000.
I was only fifteen during that time, the time when I lost my respect towards the teachers especially English teachers. Yes, I wrote that essay on my own, I love writing and I worked hard to get my essay error free. My dad helped me with my English and most of the time; I spent hours to write English essays. By repetitions and drills that I received from my dad, I managed to successfully write some English essays. My English was not as perfect as my other classmates, and the teacher that I’ve mentioned above could not tolerate with Malay girls much particularly me. Since the incident, I have never attended her English classes, I would just walked out of the class and she would never even care. As for me, the irresponsible teacher should not be called a teacher. I am taught by my parents to respect my teachers, but sorry, I could never respect her.
I proved her wrong by my PMR results as I obtained 8As. My English results throughout my schooling time were always "A". My father was my English teacher. I would never forgive her for what she had done and today, I proved her wrong again as I am the new generation that would replace her in anytime. I promised to myself when I’ll become a teacher in a few months more, I would never do such a horrible thing to my students. I’ve learned that the teacher of that kind would never be respected. It is hurtful to hate somebody and too bad that I have to hate her.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Without a shoe
To the boy with a losing shoe.
Ummi, why are they so cruel?
They killed
Abi, khoya and okhti,
Yesterday I was running
free,
Today I am wrapped in
blood,
with stitched skin and soul,
Why is the sky grey?
There is no more birds flying
free,
Are they being shot
dead?
There is no sun, but why
I could not open my eyes?
I could only see lights, lights and lights,
But I see no
life,
Because there is blood among the lights,
I know why I couldn’t play anymore,
Because my friends are all
dead.
Sg Petani, March 3, 2009
My friend and I were having dinner at our favorite Tomyam Stall where usually we would settle there for hours to enjoy the tomyam and watching the Astro channel. There was a news flash that caught my intention; a Palestinian boy was shot by the Israeli and I could feel the pain that the boy endured. His body was bleeding; his left leg was already crushed into pieces, and that moment, I felt myself as the luckiest person in the world.
Looking at the poor boy, I began to reflect myself and my mind went off to the moment when I was a little girl. I was only seven years old when I was involved in an accident that I thought that was much more horrible than anyone else. I was mischievous and adventurous, as my mum always say, I had not much friends to play with because my neighbours were all adults, and my brother and sister were already 20 and 21 years old, so they won’t play with a 7 - year old girl. Most of the time, I was alone, and I was always preoccupied in investigating and exploring things around me. Then, I saw a strange, shiny black and red metal which was huge and beautiful. When I looked upon it, it was like looking up to the blue sky and the light from the sun had reflected the silver metal on top of it that made my eyes became smaller and curious. I took a small stool, stepped on it and climbed on the gigantic metal thing that I’ve found. The brown leather seat was too wide for a child, but I had successfully placed myself on it. My pale hands grabbed the handle tightly so that I would not fall on the ground.
It was my late grandpa’s old bicycle that caught my attention. I had never cycle a bike before, that was my first time encountered a bicycle. To a child’s point of view, it was extraordinary and mystifying. I placed my feet on the pedal and I could feel my world was spiraling. It was slow and then, I was moving faster and I could feel the spinning breeze around me. I was flying and free!
The excitement and happiness lasted only for a short time. My new-found bicycle was cycling by itself and I lost control. It was going so fast and it pushed me down in a waterless drain. My face fell right on the surface of sharp and prickly rocks that caused the skin on my face being torn into half. I didn’t feel any pain as my brother found me unconscious in the cruel drain. When I woke up, my mum took a big ‘rotan’ to punish me, but my brother managed to calm her. My face had 52 stitches, and I looked like a monster for a year because my face was blue and swollen. I had broken leg and hand too. My brother looked after me because mum was scared to look at me, and dad was always away.
That was the most horrible thing ever happened to me when I was a little girl, but the Palestinian boy in the news were facing much more difficulties in his life. I’ve lost the skin of my face, but the boy lost even more. He lost his family, his friends, and he was fighting to survive in agony. When I looked at my shoes, where my feet were nicely wrapped by it, I could see the boy’s feet, one bare-footed, another one had gone because of the cruelty and the ravenous of human.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
