A Placement to Happiness

“OFFER LETTERS Threaten to Tear the Very Fabric of KMB Society”

BANTING: Emotions run high and friendships strained as a portion of the KMB student population receives offer letters from foreign universities. An emerging divide between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’ threatens to tear D’Batch into two warring factions.

The recent IUMC placement announcement, in particular, has led to the emergence of a large chunk of discontented students ready to strike out with violent acts. Those who have received such offers, on the other hand, live in fear of those who did not. Meanwhile, a third group of those ‘in the balance’ (awaiting an offer letter) are caught in between.

As tension continues to mount, students have resorted to panic buying everywhere from the dormitories to the college Kooperasi. A faulty ATM has not helped in calming frayed nerves. All this has occurred in anticipation of a college-wide outbreak of chaos.

“Yes, the koop has seen sales go up in the last few days,” commented Kuchai (name changed to protect identity), former ALK member-turned-economic analyst. “But hey, its nothing personal, just business” he added with a grin.

The current MPP, expecting a Second Year revolt, has bolstered security. Checks on the MPP financial record reveal the purchase of bullet-proof windows for the MPP office, highlighting the potential magnitude of the imminent mayhem. The head of the Public Relations Bureau, though, refused to remark on this worrying development when questioned during a recent press conference, preferring instead to announce the details of upcoming college activities (go figure) =.=”

Authorities have called for calm in the coming months – D’Batch president calling for “a batch spirit which transcends the award of offer letters” in an interview at the local Surau.

Regardless, there is no denying that the placements are a very real threat to KMB security. Everyone live in a climate of terror, seemingly surrounded by enemies who were once friends.

It seems only to be a matter of time before the Banting Spring explodes into life – AP

Disclaimer: Comments from the ‘sources’ quoted above (Kuchai, MPP financial records, Head of Public Relations Bureau, President of D’Batch) are totally made up and should not be taken seriously. Everything in the above ‘article’ is a work of fiction and is a product of my overactive imagination only…

Or is it?

Okay, okay, fineeee...the situation isn’t THAT dramatic, but isn’t it true that the offer letters have divided KMB-ians? And isn’t it true that little joy can be found on either side of the divide? Those without offer letters (obviously) are saddened; but those with offer letters too feel only temporary delight before a creeping sense of guilt overtakes them. Guilt stemming from the feeling that they are somehow leaving their friends behind.

“Somehow I don’t want this offer, placement anymore if it only destroys happiness”, an IUMC-bound friend of mine told me in a bout of such sadness. She wanted to comfort friends who didn’t get offers, but was countered with comments like “those who got the offers will never understand our situation”.

Such a situation is not unique to her. KMB-wide there exists, not anger, but a feeling of despair+guilt+helplessness that definitely isn’t fun. But take a pause and think about it: should we really be feeling this way?

I it as a blessing that we have secured a place in KMB anyway: that we have had the opportunity here to meet roommates, classmates, maybe even a soul mate, whom have found a place in our hearts. And it is not a blessing that we have that heart in the first place?

This offer letter fuss has made us yearn for what we do not have, instead of treasuring what we do. By painting a mirage of what could happen, it has made us forget of what already has.

Yes, some would argue that I am in no position to tell people to ‘cheer up’. I am, after all, one of those who have received an offer letter. Which means that if a Banting Spring really does begin I will probably be on the receiving end of a beating (I can’t run very fast).

But my gratitude today does not stem from that offer letter alone – although I really, really am grateful for it. No, I am thankful for ALL that I have. A non-comprehensive list of things I am blessed with in the past 19 ½ years on this Earth, off the top of my head right now, would look something like this:

1. an awesome family,
2. a complete set of body parts in the correct proportions (lazy eye notwithstanding),
3. great friends everywhere I had the privilege to spend time in which includes:
4. an awesome neighbourhood called Puteri 8,
5. an awesome school called SKPJP,
6. another awesome school called SMKPBP(1),
7. an awesome PLKN camp called Kem Temasya Rimba Templer,
8. an awesome college called KMB,
9. committed teachers at 5, 6 and 8,
10. a neighbourhood futsal court,
11. a neighbourhood playground,
12.  neighbours to play futsal and ‘Dinosaur’ with at 10 and 11,
13.  a wonderful childhood,
14.   enough food and oxygen for the last 19 ½ years,
15.  the mere but profound fact that I’m alive –

And I’m sure I’m not alone in this. Look closely enough and we are all blessed.

So, as long as I can say it, I’ll say it: friends…please cheer up. As we are all blessed, the next step is to be happy. Because:

“…And We will reward the grateful” [3:145]

An EE of An EE

4.0 Results and Findings:

  

It is uncanny how similar the growth curve of my Extended Essay is to the growth curve of an average human being.

But then again, why should I be surprised? To me, my Extended Essay has taken an almost human quality. Even though this sweet child of mine has given me sleepless nights, played with my mental state and won my hate and love in equal measure…I cannot deny that she has found a place in my heart.

5.0 Evaluation:

5.1 Birth

It all began months ago, when she first popped into my head – and into my life – as an adorable little Research Question. She was barely a thesis statement and a hastily-put-together list of research objectives then, but to me she was my world. Proudly I showed her to Miss Melor, who agreed to be my EE advisor (for the rest of this blog post, Miss Melor will be referred to as “the Godmother” for dramatic purposes). 

But like any new father, I was nervous. Horror stories abound from seniors and teachers about EE’s which have gone bad; RQ’s which had to be changed halfway, EE’s which have gone down the dark path of plagiarism. But I was determined that she was not going to be one of those EE’s.

5.2 First procrastination phase

That determination though, did not last long. It is this point of the story of which I am most embarrassed: I became a negligent parent.

I don’t know whether it was my other assignments or my responsibilities as a student rep, but I ignored her. I left her in my laptop, alone and overlooked. Referring to Diagram 1, this part of the story is the nearly horizontal part of the graph slightly above the number ‘0’ number of words.

The deadline for your first check-up came and went, but still I did not send her to the Godmother to be inspected. I was a man on the run, ready to bolt at the sight of the Godmother. At one point I got pretty good at escaping her. The key to escape, I learned, was not to run, but to hide. I never did get caught – or so I thought.

5.3 First growth spurt

But one day I got a letter from the Godmother, my full name and class neatly typed out on the front. In it was a memo:

“…due to your poor and bad commitment, you will now handle your IB exam registration directly with the Head of Academic Affairs…”

To the Godmother I sent a text:

“Teacher, I am sorry…can you extend the deadline to next week please?”

To which the reply (in true Godmother fashion):

“I don’t want excuses. I want a first draft.”

This leads me to believe that EE advisors must have been trained in the art of psycho-ing their advisees…

The weekend after that marked the first growth spurt in Diagram 1, as I did not leave my laptop for two days to shower my EE with the attention she so lacked. With the words I fed her, she grew from slightly above 0 words to 3000 words in a matter of 48 hours.

5.4 Second procrastination phase

Unfortunately, this was not to be the feel-good part of the story yet. The Sem 3 examinations rolled along, and once again my EE went unheeded. I promised myself that I would once again shower her with attention once the holidays began. But procrastination, my arch-nemesis, reared its ugly head as per usual. I did look at her, and fed her the words she was so hungry for – but they were far from enough.

As it was then, she had no citations whatsoever yet. This sweet child of mine was heading down the dark road to plagiarism – it was going to be a potentially hazardous puberty indeed.

5.5 Second growth spurt

The second growth spurt was brought about by mother (a.k.a. my second EE advisor) who persuaded (read: forced) me to work on my EE towards the end of the Sem 3 holidays. So when Sem 4 began my EE had exceeded 4000 words. In other words, she was overweight. Still I fed her more words as the deadline approached. Eventually she would approach 6000 words. It was at this point that I had to submit to the painful truth – she was obese.

5.6 A painful weight-loss programme

When I submitted her to turnitin.com (which checks for plagiarism) it felt like watching my baby been checked for drugs. But my faith in her was justified – my baby was clean. Only 10% of her content was ‘un-original’ – something which could easily be solved via citations.

Her weight problem, though, was still a big issue. She could not be submitted while exceeding 4000 words… I had to do it – I had to put her through a weight-reduction program. I knew it was going to hurt me as much as it hurt her.

Deleting months of hard work at the click of the backspace button was not easy, but I knew I had to do it. It was her health, after all, which was at stake.  Eventually she was down to the ideal size. And after her citations were included (after a sleepless night), this sweet child of mine was absolutely stunning.

5.7 Submission

The day she came out into the world (from the printer) was a day I will remember for quite a while. The feeling when I sent her in to the Godmother was like that of flying. My baby has left me, and regardless of how many points she wins, to me at least she will always be beautiful.

6.0 Conclusion

ARGHH!!! Who am I kidding?? The only reason that I am writing this 999 word post (graph included) is because I have nothing else to do! I miss that sweet child of mine :’(((((((((((((

Listening for Faith in A202

“Salman’s Room”

For us A202 will always be that, although you no longer stay there. Somehow part of your immense personality still lingers in a room now half-empty.

The night after I learnt of your departure, I sat on your empty bed. I don’t know what I was trying to achieve. An answer to why you left, perhaps? Perspective? Maybe a way to get over my guilt?

Because I am guilty. We were best friends in Sem 2, but drifted apart in Sem 3. We climbed roofs together, sat together in a corridor eating ice cream (and subsequently got told off together by the counselor who was passing by), got into all kinds of s***. Good times :D

So I should have known better. I recognized the signs, but I didn’t put them together. I knew things were going wrong, but I should also have known that they were falling apart.

On that night I sat on your folded mattress, on an empty bed, in a room right next to mine. I stare at the wall beside your corral, once covered with memos you wrote to yourself. Stuff like “There is no right or wrong, just right now”. But right now that wall is bare.  

I should have done something – anything – to ease your burden. Because behind that now-bare wall of A202 is my room. Where I stood by doing nothing, while you were silently (and not silently) crying for help. Behind that wall I stood by idly as you sank deeper into a personal hell. Of that I am guilty.

Sitting on what was once your bed I see the things you must have seen in your darkest hours. The ancient ceiling fan, the modest locker, the ordinary yellow door. Things you must have seen differently then than I do now. And again I question: where was I?

I couldn’t have advised you – mainly because I didn’t know what to say, or how to. I still don’t. But looking back I realize I could have provided something more precious than any piece of advice: a listening ear, and a shoulder to cry on. But where was I?

Now I sit in a room half-empty, trying to listen to someone no longer present. I am too late. I am sorry; I did not help you reach for the faith you needed so much.

After that night, we finally met you in the corridors of our college. Your decision was final, we did not attempt to shake it. We know how stubborn (read: principled) you are. We are just glad you have not given up. By yourself you seem to have rediscovered faith in yourself. And although you are now “living outside the lines, [where] its nerve-wracking and disturbing, no road in front of you”, somehow you inspire in us a belief that you will make it somehow. I don’t know how; but God willing, you just will.

On that night I did not yet know all of this. And on an empty bed, and just a little too late, I sat a while longer; listening for faith in room A202...

5-Hour Existence

Raja died aged 5 hours old.

Raja had a fatal birth defect called anencephaly – which means he was born with much of his skull missing, and most of his brain exposed. His optical nerves failed to form normally, so he was totally blind. Anencephaly strikes 1 in 10000 babies. Raja happened to be that baby. He was not expected to live long –babies with anencephaly, after all, often die almost immediately after birth.

Raja’s mother knew about her baby’s condition 5 months into her pregnancy. Needless to say, it was devastating news. A typical expecting the birth of a child would spend the pregnancy preparing for the arrival of a brand new individual – their own flesh and blood. Raja’s family spent the pregnancy preparing for the death of the child. There would be no baby shower, only a funeral. Instead of preparing a crib, they prepared a coffin.

Raja’s 5-hour life was longer than anybody expected it to be. Some expected him to, quite literally, drop dead instantly after birth.  Yet he stayed around long enough to spend time with his extended family, who was all there. He spent his brief life close to his mother, a cap covering his vulnerable head.

The most touching part of the documentary was after Raja had died, and his diminutive body was being passed around the room, to be held by his family members. Watching the love in their eyes, love for a family member they would never watch grow up. Then he was lowered into his coffin, like any baby being put to sleep for his afternoon nap.

Watching this documentary on TV made hit me hard. I compared myself to Raja’s parents, his family. To Raja himself.

Am I as strong as Raja’s mother, who chose to carry her baby to term despite knowing about her child’s fatal birth defect?

Am I as supportive as Raja’s family, who dropped everything to travel from afar and comfort a loved one in need?

How many lives have I touched in my life…the way Raja has touched so many lives in 5 hours?

Do I value the gift of existence…a gift denied to Raja?

We always complain that 24 hours a day is not enough to do anything. Raja teaches us that you can do so much in just 5.

I admire Raja. He was blind, but he inspired others to see. He died young, but he inspired others to live. He did not leave any last words, but his message is priceless:

Thank God every day for the simple gift of existence.

Raja’s full story below:

http://www.aljazeera.com/programmes/witness/2011/12/201112148390546755.html

Pedas Giler? Challenge Accepted

The sign said ‘Nasi Goreng Kampung – Pedas Giler!!!’

A cheap, cheesy sales gimmick, admitedly– but I fell for it. The sign felt like a challenge to the very integrity of my tastebuds, and if I could answer the sign in two words or less, it would be this:

“Challenge accepted”

Order up; I called for “Nasi Goreng Kampung” with a voice which conveyed authority and confidence. My tongue never felt so ready to face the barrage of spiciness I was sure it would face (or rather, taste).

But I was careful not to let my confidence blind me to the trial I would face. In preparation for my showdown with NGK, I ordered a cup of laici susu (which turned out to contain more ice than laici susu) due to milk’s properties as an antidote to spiciness.

The chef played a good psychological game. For one thing, he took a really long time to prepare the meal. In the meantime I was subjected to air laden thick with cili padi particles from the kitchen. Sneezing uncontrollably, I soon realized that it was a cunning, sinister move by the chef to undermine my tastebuds through my nasal cavity. Well played, chef. I have to admit that I was slightly shaken. A sip of laici susu to calm my nerves.

My resolve stood strong – I was not to be defeated before the fried rice even arrives. For 30 minutes I waited; once again, a sneaky move by the chef to build the suspense. Several more sips of laici susu to calm my nerves.

Finally the much-awaited plate of nasi goreng kampong appeared before me. My laici susu reserves were already at half its full capacity. The plate of NGK looked innocent enough. It was not deeply-coloured, as I expected. For a while I mistook it for nasi goreng cina, until I looked closely and spotted the flecks of cili padi hiding malevolently among the rice. A tentative taste confirmed it – it was definitely nasi goreng kampong. And as promised, it was ‘pedas giler’.

How do I describe the taste? It wasn’t the type of spiciness which attacks the tongue alone. Rather, it carried out a carpet-bombing tactic; the spiciness travels slowly, inevitably down your throat. The only way to overcome this was to eat continuously. Occasionally I would slow down to savour its “oomph” (and because it was quite hot), but I was doing it at my own risk.

The entire meal was a strange chase between these two sensations – the “oomph” and the spiciness.

But I am proud to say that I won the overall battle while hardly breaking a sweat. Sure, my tongue was slightly numb in the end from the heat of the meal (temperature-wise and spiciness-wise), but I can safely that the plate has been safely neutralized. If there were any parting words I would say to NGK it would be to compliment it for a battle well fought. But it has met its match in me.

Credit to the cup of laici susu which helped me through this battle. Although the cup was more ice than laici susu, I couldn’t have done it without you.

Overall, NGK lived up to its tagline.

Still, ‘pedas giler’? Challenge accepted. Challenge overcome.

I am Me

“Are you proud to be Malay?”

Was the question posed to me during a recent course I attended. It was a straightforward question, for most of the course participants at least. But it was a bit tricky for me.

First of all, how Malay am I? My entire life, my Malay name and Chinese looks means that the two questions asked by a person I’ve just met are usually:

“Nama apa?”

And, at the mention of my Malay name, the next question asked with eyebrows raised in slight astonishment:

“Melayu ye?”

As a kid, I would duly nod my head to the second question. After all, my birth certificate, and later my IC, stated that I am “Melayu”. I didn’t really care, frankly. Rarely did I give my mixed heritage a second thought. I was indifferent to the fact that Mama is Chinese and Papa is Malay. I knew I was unique somehow, but so what? I rarely gave very much thought to it.

Later in life my answer to the second question would be “Melayu + Cina”, and a brief description of my parent’s ethnicity. I always saw myself as that. I was never asked to choose between the two. And I didn’t see any reason too.

Until my first real encounter with racism, which (perhaps ironically) happened during National Service. I remember taking my wudhuk outside the camp surau, and another camp participant telling me (jokingly for him): “Eh, ni bukan tokong la”.

Fortunately, I did not find myself the butt of racist jokes during the camp. Besides several references of “apek”, I found myself mostly accepted by all ethnicities at the camp. I count my blessings for that. But NS was the first time I noticed how bad racism really is. The ‘wiras’ and ‘wirawatis’ (as they called the participants) of the camp would, almost automatically, gravitate to those of the same racial background.

Melayu dengan Melayu. Cina dengan Cina. India dengan India. Yang lain-lain tu (which perhaps included me)…pandai-pandailah.

Unfortunately, I learned later that it was not a problem limited to the boundaries of the NS camp. Going to a college which was >90% Malay, I found that racism, though not extreme (yet), was well and alive even among students deemed the crème de la crème of the country.

It is at this point that I have to say this loud and clear: I am not ashamed of my Cina blood. In the same line, I am not ashamed of my Malay blood either. I just question why people have to be so damn proud of their own race to the point that it leads to hate towards others who look and/or act differently.

I used to be offended by jokes on my Cina-ness. The fact that my left eye is a lazy eye and is thus smaller than my right one (“Sebab separuh Cina la tu”) did not help matters. But I have grown past that. I now play along when Chinese jokes are thrown in my direction – why be ashamed? Besides, the eye infection currently going around my college means that I am no longer the only one with one eye smaller than the other (thank you to my roommate, Boiler, for starting off the infection) :p

I am no longer offended by jokes about my Cina-ness. I am, however, offended at jokes or statements aimed at harping on the flaws of the Chinese – to demonise them. I will always try to speak out against that. For that matter, I will also speak out against things said against the Malays if I get a chance to study overseas.

After all is said and done, my search for identity was, in the end, resolved in this college – and for that I will forever be grateful. I did not find my identity in my Melayu-ness, or my Cina-ness, as I always thought I would.

I found it in Islam. A religion I was born in, but perhaps never really lived before entering this college. I have found acceptance – brotherhood – among Muslims. Alhamdulillah.

Perhaps the question at the start of this post merely caught me off guard when I was asked. In retrospect, the question was good for me. It pushed me to decide between being Malay or not. And it made me realize that I have made that decision long ago.

Am I Melayu or Cina? I am neither and I am both. I am Malaysian. I am Muslim.

And most importantly, I am me.

Deal with it.

Fact: Mixed kids are cute :ppp

51

I guess Papa at the ping pong table epitomizes the way he has lived his life: playful, constantly on the move and irritatingly cheerful (Mama would totally agree with me on that last one).

Let me paint you a typical situation at the ping pong table:

Sweat glistening on my brow (and other parts of my body not appropriate to be mentioned on a U-rated blog), I deftly stroke the ping pong ball across the table. It is beautifully hit, spinning through the air I am convinced that my 51-year-old Dad would be unable to reach it. I am wrong. Somehow he stretches forward and replies with a brilliant cross-court ball. Caught off guard, I cannot touch it even if my life depended on it. It is my Dad's 21^st point of the game. Victory for him. Another spirit-crushing defeat for me.

The insidious smile on his lips grows, and a primordially evil sound arose from them:

"YEEEEEESSSSS!!!!"

I have so far won a not-so-grand grand total of ONE game against my Dad. My Dad, on the other hand, has won…let's just say more than one. I've lost count, to be honest.

And it is killing me! This is a man 3 decades older whose me beating me constantly…how can this be happening, you ask?

No, it's not skill. I'm just as good as Papa in that respect (seriously!). Fitness? Come on. Practice? My Dad has barely played ping pong in the last few decades. So how then?

This is how: Papa plays with a composure befitting his years. He plays with a smile on his face. And irritating as it is, I respect him for that. The smile gets wider (and more evil) the bigger his lead, and eventually erupts in evil celebratory laughter after 21 points. Never have I seen him without that evil smile. When my Dad plays, he does with the belief that he will win. A confidence that has come with age. Evil confidence…

But there is one area though where Papa's confidence is, I think, misplaced: his health. Mama constantly lectures Papa to not drink cold drinks, or oily food, but Papa goes on with it anyway. There's little anyone can do to stop him. Hell yeah, "Stubborn" is a prominent feature on Papa's CV.

Papa, when it comes to matters of health, you should LISTEN TO MAMA! And I'm sure you will eventually. Like a player who initiates a last minute comeback to win the set, I am sure you will make the right decision in the end. There are a few things that comes with age. Sometime in the last half-century (yeah, you're that old Pa), Papa has added "Wise" to his CV after "Playful", "Cheerful" and "Lame" :p

Pa, this is not an insult to you. When we call you an old man (and I speak on behalf of Mama and Adik too), it is in a lovably respectful way; as one would describe wine made flavorsome by age. (Not that I would know how wine tastes like).

In the end, this post is not (just) the rant of a son who has lost to his dad (unfailingly). It is a tribute to a Dad who is a credit to his 51 years.

A friend of mine (his name won't be mentioned to protect his identity) at the futsal court told me: "for his age, your Dad is a very fit guy". Of course, as most sons would do, I answered with a shrug and a "nyehh…!", but honestly, I agreed with him. I can only wish to have Papa's futsal skills when I'm 51.

As a son, I just hope he will keep it up. It would be a shame for all that skill to go to waste just because you can't run anymore. So, once again, LISTEN TO MAMA when it comes to eating habits! *high-five from my Mum* :p

I am a sore loser (I got it from Mama). But Papa, if there is anyone I am to constantly lose to, I am happy it is you. It is an honour, sir.

Stay healthy, Pa. We all want you around for another 51 years. I may need that amount of time to finally beat you at ping pong :D

Happy Birthday, Pa.

I just give chance for your birthday la...