Ketuanan Melayu is Not Malay Supremacy

If you do a quick Google search on the term ‘Ketuanan Melayu’, you would be conveniently directed towards the Wikipedia page on the subject, where you would be delightfully enlightened to the fact that the literal English translation to the term is ‘Malay supremacy’. Even Google Translate would tell you that the Malay translation for the word ‘supremacy’ is ‘ketuanan’.

Actually, it isn’t.

The Oxford dictionary defines supremacy as ‘the state or condition of being superior to all others in authority, power and status’. It can be traced back to the root word ‘supreme’, meaning ‘highest in rank’.

It is a word that speaks of unquestionable authority, overarching power, and elevated status that reminds one of the ages of Imperialism when certain nations impose their idea of system, growth and progress to other poor uncivilized barbarians across the globe. It is a word that, in our age of freedom of choice and innate rights, instill negative perceptions of slavery, domination over the lower classes and leaves behind a bitter taste of repulsion.

However, the Malay word for ‘ketuanan’ is derived from the root word ‘tuan’ or owner. The official Malay dictionary, DBP’s Kamus Dewan, defines the word ‘ketuanan’ as ‘hak menguasai dan memerintah sebuah (negeri, daerah, dll)’ or ‘the right to dominate and rule a (state, district, etc)’.

It is a word that reminds many people of the time when our lives and culture were tainted by the supreme nations who found it wise to teach us that we’re not good enough, not smart enough, and not civilised enough to rule our own lands without their advice or direct interference. It is a word that suggests ownership, sovereignty and independence from foreign indoctrination. It is a word that, in our age of post-colonisation rule, reminds us of our loss of autonomy and what, if we are not careful, we will once again lose.

Connotation

In making sense of the words we use, two factors would come into play. The first is the definition of the word, or the actual meaning of the word as written in the dictionary. The second is the connotation, which is the unsaid ideas and thoughts we relate to the word, often without a conscious thought.

For instance, when reading the tale of Snow White where she was described to have skin as white as snow, the intensity of her white skin suggests purity which alludes to her pure and innocent nature. It is an implied meaning that does not have to be spoken outright but still has an effect onto how you read the words and perceive the story.

Similarly, when talking about racial supremacy, the thoughts that usually come to mind are those related to xenophobia like those adopted by the White supremacists such as the Klu Klux Klan who committed crimes such as the mob lynching of innocent people, or that hailed by the Nazis in their Holocaust that targeted particular members of the society solely due to their genetic makeup.

Even in the world of today, white supremacy is still a problem in the United States which is a status quo brought by the age of colonization when they brought in African slaves into the country, establishing their ranks as the lower class. After decades of problematic policies like redlining, where both government and private agencies systematically denied various services to the racial minorities through direct intervention or selective raising of prices, it has lead to the blacks receiving huge disadvantages, especially in wealth and education.

This correlation between racial minorities and lack of wealth and poorer education quality is comparatively non existent, here in Malaysia. In fact, the policies enacted by the British empire systematically sidelined the majority Malays, for example, by restricting their usage of land to infertile areas or those unsuitable for agriculture. At the same time, the Chinese and Indian dominated areas were encouraged for commercial and economical growth, establishing a disproportionate number of Chinese dominated areas to becoming commercial centres during this time.

Both of these actions were taken by the British in a selfish attempt to gain a stronger foothold in their colony by oppressing the existing Malay rulers and undermining the power and authority of the preexisting Bumiputra people. By destabilising the established social hierarchy, they have a better chance at gaining control either as a direct ruler or indirectly as a protector of a party that is willing to bend the knee. And much like the redlining in the United States, this systematic encouragement to certain parties while declining services to others, had left high racial inequality. At the time of the formation of the Federated Malay States, the Bumiputras, the ethnicity of the majority, were also the poorest in Malaysia, which bred discontent and animosity between largely the Malays and the Chinese, and were one of the factors that caused the May 13 riots in 1969.

Ketuanan Melayu

While the concept itself predates the formation of the Federated Malay States, in the decades following it, the idea of ‘Ketuanan Melayu’ has been hailed as the reclaiming of ownership of a right which had been denied by selfish Imperial colonization, what is often championed as ‘Hak Bumiputra’ or the rights of the Bumiputras, the sons of the land. To many of the Malays who fight for it, it is intertwined with the notions of the freedom to act, to live and to rule of their own accord, to proudly uphold their culture and receive the opportunities they would have received had their history not been tarnished by colonization.

The struggle and the fight for Hak Bumiputra or Ketuanan Melayu has nothing to do with the minimizing of other races or denying their own rights as one would have deducted from the inaccurate and misleading term of ‘Malay Supremacy’. It is all about reestablishing what they have lost and what was stolen from them similar as to how the rights of the blacks were snatched from them when they were shipped away into the slave trade. They wish to really feel it when they say ‘Tanah Melayu’ or ‘Malay Homeland’ and to really know that nobody else would rob them of their customs, their cultures and their heritage when they call out ‘Daulat Tuanku’.

While I myself am unabashedly a staunch supporter of the ‘Hak Bumiputra’ and ‘Ketuanan Melayu’, I understand that it is the many people and their various opposing opinions is what makes the reality of the world that we live in. It is why debates and discussions and prevalent throughout all levels of society, from the social media, to the kedai mamaks to the Parliament. However, inaccuracy and false negative perceptions would do little to help move the discussions forward and I believe it is imperative that we clear up this misunderstanding once and for all.

The Wisdom Behind The Words ‘Waste Not, Want Not’

My sister once said that the word that is sure to grab everyone’s attention at my house is the word ‘buang’ or discard–and she is not wrong. Whenever I hear someone mention anything that could be associated with throwing things out, it is impossible for me to keep my focus until I know what is being thrown out, why it is being thrown out or perhaps what is actually being said.

The saying one man’s trash is another man’s treasure shows that rubbish can be all about perspective. I remember back at school, my friends used to give me their old highlighters, coloured pens and markers, after they found me fishing them out from the waste basket. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have any coloured pens but it bothered me to see people throwing out things that could still be used. While others got frustrated by the inconsistent ink flow or the lighter colour as some of the ink dried up, I saw that it could still leave mark. Dried magic pens may not be ideal for writing anymore but I could use them for colouring, producing something akin to the dry brush effect. And highlighters, no matter how unsaturated could still mark important notes.

My mother, who was getting rather annoyed by my growing collection of bunga telur flowers, old and unusable CDs, bits of colourful ribbons, strings, papers and torn fabric, started throwing them out while I was out at school–only to find them reappear in another day or two. It took her some months before she finally caught my toddler brother waddling from the bin with a handful of broken items and handing them all to me, whispering that he had just ‘saved’ them from the rubbish bin. When my mother taught us ‘waste not, want not’, she could not have imagined the repercussions it left in the house.

Nonetheless, she is quite the ‘rescuer‘ herself, specialising in food recycle and recovery. She grew up watching her grandmother cooked fried rice with a variety of leftover fish and gravy and she herself would occasionally make ‘nasi special’ (special rice) every now and then from a concoction of various curries, ‘kuah‘ (gravy from side dishes, usually eaten with rice) and ‘sambal’ (a kind of hot sauce) that she could pull out from the freezer. What others might have considered to be useless because it’s out of ‘lauk‘, be it chicken, beef or fish, she would pack them and store them for future use.

Which is why it is sad, and sometimes maddening, for us to see the mounds of half eaten food piled high on plates, along with rows of barely touched drinks, that people leave behind at eateries. Papers, with their backs still white and untarnished by ink, getting crumpled and tossed into rubbish bins is as painful to me to watch as hearing fingernails scraping on a chalkboard. And my sister is always going around, turning off unused electrical appliances

My late great grandmother would always say that the more grateful you are and the more you try to make use of what you already have, you would always be blessed with more. I used to think that what she meant was you would have more physical things: money, food and items, because you have less need to buy more. However, the more I think about it, the more I think that there is more wisdom to her words; wisdom that she probably deeply understood.

Because through our dislike for throwing things, we have to constantly really dig into our heads to try and find a use for something nobody pays attention to. When the dough of one of my mother’s early bread making attempts failed to rise, we tried frying it and from that ‘disaster’, we’ve got ourselves some interesting ‘cakoi‘-like fritters that everyone enjoyed. When our collection of curries, too little to be served as side dishes, reaches a formidable size, we tossed them into the rice cooker and get a surprise mix of flavour that we could never recreate. And when I pull out my collection of odds and ends for a craft project back at school, I could come up with something unique that others would call ‘creative’.

The thing is, what people call creativity is usually the ability or tendency to look at the world from a different perspective and finding unique ways to do things or solve problems when unconventional methods fail. And in a world where we are constantly bombarded with quick and instant solutions that are taken for granted, you don’t get a chance to train your mind into looking for interesting and possibly better alternative methods or even the consequences of all of your actions.

And there is something very beautiful in seeing the wonderful possibilities and the many threads that connects the various cycles which creates the universe–all lighting up in front of you, in the form of a chicken-less chicken curry that is left in several bowls after a small community dinner. And when someone asks me if I am going to have it as a dipping sauce with my bread, I smile and wonder upon the wisdom of my grandmother’s words–and then run off to grab the next bowl before someone collects it for the bin.

Don’t Throw Out Your Daun Serai (Lemongrass Leaves)

Serai or lemongrass is a herb that is used for a variety of Southeast Asian dishes, as a natural bug repellent it could commonly be found in a lot of Malay gardens. It is generally pretty easy to care for. In fact, here in Kuala Lumpur where a daily evening shower is not uncommon, I have left my lemongrass without watering it for months and it survives when some of the fussier ones might not.

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Baby serai (lemongrass) moved into their new home. . When removing the babies from their mother, I would cut the top off so they could focus on reestablishing their roots. Usually, if you leave the leaves attached, they will fall off anyway and if you don't remove the dead leaves, it could lead to rusting. . The other good part about removing leaves is that you can infuse the leaves into your tea! My mother loves them and they come with a number of health benefits to boot. . However, if you're like me and you think lemongrass tea tastes like food in a cup so you'd rather not have them, you could still add the leaves to your soup or broth for added flavour. . For now, these babies would work their magic with sunlight and compost tea before they make their way into our pots, cups and plates. . #serai #lemongrass #gardening

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However, my father would always remind me to give the plant a periodic trim to boost its growth. I’ve often watched him snip the leaves off the stalks and later cutting them into small pieces before scattering them in various pots to be used as mulch (with a bonus aromatic fragrance that would last the rest of the day). And as his work kept him busy and I began to take over the mantle, I too would prune them from time to time, usually after my father remarked on how long the leaves have grown.

Which is why it came as a surprise to me when I found out that some people actually buy lemongrass leaves to make tea! My mother had long been brewing lemongrass stalk for its health benefits but we had never considered the leaves to be edible. And as someone who is ‘allergic’ to the term ‘discard’, I was excited to find one extra use out of the leaves before I return them to the earth.

Traditionally, lemongrass is known for its ‘detoxing’ properties as well as a remedy for some gastrointestinal issues but more and more research is proving that lemongrass comes with a lot of beneficial properties.

In labs and animal studies, lemongrass exhibits antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, anticancer and antiproliferative properties which would help against problems like cell degradation and tumour growth. They also show vasorelaxant properties and in one observational study, those who drank lemongrass tea experienced a moderate drop in systolic blood pressure with a mild increase in diastolic blood pressure. Lemongrass oil has also been shown to help control cholesterol levels in animals although it is not known if the same effect could be seen from simply taking lemongrass tea. Lemongrass extract also gave hypoglycaemic effects on rats which suggests it would help with Type 2 diabetes.

What surprises me most was how effective lemongrass oil is in its antimicrobial and antibiofilm properties. In fact, in a preliminary study, lemongrass oil has even been shown to be a helpful addition to periodontal therapy for treating chronic periodontitis (a severe gum infection). Which is why in many countries , people have been traditionally chewing the stalks as a part of their oral hygiene routine–and the fibrous stalk works well as an emergency brush.

Despite all of these amazing benefits, it is important to remember that like all things, natural or artificial, everything likely comes with a side effect of some sort and it is important to keep things in moderation (even too much oxygen can kill you!). Many people suggest steeping 1-3 teaspoons of fresh or dried leaves in a cup of boiling water and you could either let it cool with a couple of iced cubes or serve them hot.

My mother, at the moment the only person who regularly drinks the tea, likes hers cold so I usually boil a pot of water, drop the chopped leaves of one stalk in after I turn the gas off and once it has cooled, just pop them into the fridge for a couple of hours. If it is a thicker stalk with more leaves, I would dilute the tea before serving.

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Lemongrass tea for Mama #lemongrasstea #lemongrass

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I tried having the tea once but having the taste of what I usually associate with savoury food in my tea was very confusing. But knowing what how healthy this tea is now, I might give it another try.

So please, don’t throw your leaves out. Even if you don’t like having it in your drink, you could repurpose them into your cooking. It doesn’t taste exactly like the stalk but it still has the lemony scent which would go well into a number of soup and broth. And you’ll feel good about repurposing something that otherwise would have gone into the bin.

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Top to the cup, stalk to the plate.

 

Eczema And My Right Hand

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My right hand, two days after my last SPM paper – November, 2019. Sometimes an outbreak can happen when you really need to use your hand and there’s nothing you could do about it but to trudge on.

Like the majority of people in the world, I am right-handed. This means that my right hand is my dominant hand, the hand that steadily pours water from a large jug, the hand that holds the broom when I sweep the floor, the hand that reaches out to turn the knob whenever I reach a closed door. I’ve trained my right hand to do so many tricks, big and small, ever since I was old enough to grip an item in my hand that I can now perform a variety of them without a conscious thought. I can write my name without pondering over the shape of an ‘A’ or cut vegetables without wondering how to hold a knife.

And because being right-handed is the norm, there had never been a need for me to learn otherwise. I wasn’t taught to write, use a saw or open jars with my left hand. And I would have been perfectly fine not knowing how to if I didn’t develop dyshidrotic eczema on my right hand.

Dyshidrotic eczema is a skin condition where itchy, and sometimes painful, blisters develop on your palms, fingers, and/ or the soles of your feet, usually for around two to four weeks. Often, the skin could swell or dry out and crust over which makes it vulnerable to cracking, even tearing the skin altogether into a cut. I would have to constantly keep my fingers slightly curled or I might accidentally stretch it too far and tear something. At times, the wound or the blisters could get infected and that could increase the duration of a flare up. Sometimes you could have a number of flare ups in a row and you end up having it for a few months straight.

I would consider mine to be comparatively less intrusive as mine is limited to the fingers of my right hand, and very rarely, the base of my palm. My left hand and feet are completely free of it and I don’t have to worry about not being able to walk or unable to hold anything at all. At the same time, whenever my dyshidrotic eczema flares up, I would rekindle my admiration towards ambidextrous people, those who, either by force or by choice, have developed the ability to do a wide range of actions on both hands.

One thing that I’ve never noticed until I had my first outbreak in my mid teens, was how much I completely relied on my right hand. It is only when I am forced to perform the simple everyday task with my left hand, would I realise how strong, dextrous and well coordinated my right hand is. I could sweep the floor of the whole house and the only complaint I’ll make is how much I dislike sweeping but when I have to do it with my left hand, the dining area is enough to make my wrist feels like I’ve just returned from a workout. Wiping the table takes twice as long or I’ll miss patches of splashed soup and dried rice. And I wouldn’t even think about which hand I’m using to twist a jar cover open until I’ve split another thick, hard and crusted skin.

When I was younger, I had a strange need to be (what I thought as) independent, flexible and versatile. I wanted to be able to fully function on my own even if I am limited by circumstances or if things were to change. I would train myself to do odd things like carrying heavy things to and fro, turning the door knob with my toes without spilling the filled mug in each hand or placing a number of objects precariously over my head as I walk around with my hands full. I wanted to be the epitome of a jack of all trades to the most extreme level I could take it for the sake of independence, should I be forced into such a position where I only had myself to rely on.

And yet, I thought of big things like not being able to use both hands or not having anyone stronger to help me lift things up. I didn’t think about the completely natural way I whip air into my eggs for a baking project, dig a large hole with a trowel in my garden or gently pouring compost tea out of a bucket and how utterly useless my left hand is in such tasks.

And the thought of my naïve worries and attempts is frustrating, amusing , humbling and illuminating all at the same time.

Because, really, no matter how hard we try to cover all of our weaknesses, we’ll always be limited in some way or fashion in some aspects of our life. It is simply our nature as humans to be limited. It doesn’t mean that we should just give up and say “I just can’t” but we also don’t have to scramble about higgledy-piggledy trying to do the impossible. We should just take a step back from all the messier parts of life and really consider what matters–how we should develop our strength to support it and work around our weakness as to not damage it. And then carefully and mindfully, try all we could to reach our end goal while appreciating the gifts we are blessed with, even we can’t really see them.

Some people say that there is no light without darkness. I don’t fully agree with that but as a once avid stargazer, I do know that it is only in darkness we could see the stars. When the sun’s blazing rays stretch from horizon to horizon, it is impossible to catch even a glimpse of the little diamonds in the sky. We know that they are still there like we know that gravity would pull us down when we jump but it’s only when night comes and the city lights dim that we pull back the curtains and gasp at the beauty of a star speckled sky.

As for me, I still truly admire anyone who has taken the time and effort to switch back and forth between two hands but I still am very, very grateful for the amazing things my right hand can pull of and the tiny amount of work my left hand could manage. And whenever another round of blisters start popping up, I’ll try to take it as a reminder and a prompt to discover all the wonders I’ve been blessed with and praise Allah with a heart full of gratefulness.

And just try not to be too upset when my finger burns and I have to sweep the floor again.

My Path Into Literary Nonfiction

Literary nonfiction, also called creative nonfiction, is a type of writing where one uses literary techniques to depict real life events. Basically, you’re writing something that really happened in the same way you would write a story.

If I am asked to state one writing exercise that has helped me the most in developing my writing, specifically narrative writing, ‘literary nonfiction’ would probably be my pick. While I had always had a knack for writing essays or articles as a kid, my teachers and dear mother were always advising me to stay away from anything fiction — an advice I have never listened to.

Stories are dear to me. The worlds and lives of the imaginary have been my companion even before I could read. As a child, I used to stay up late in bed, reading under my blankets past my bedtime. Like most young bookworms, one of my biggest dreams back then was to become a novelist and produce my own work of fiction someday. While my own classmates enjoyed reading my little story snippets, I did not get the recognition of being a writing prodigy from those whose opinions I value. It did frustrate me but I wasn’t about to simply turn back and give up.

With determination bordering on stubbornness, I continued to work on my stories, though never finishing any long form project of my own. When I had some time to spare, you might find me hidden behind doors or locked inside my room, just scribbling a few paragraphs down. Most of them are too short to be even considered a decent short story and reading back now, almost all of them were terrible literary work.

My poor mother tried to teach me how to write descriptive writing. She would tell me again and again the story of how her own English high school teacher, had asked her students to describe an ocean and the only adjective they could think of was ‘blue’. My mother then continued by explaining how vividly her teacher had described the ocean. Somehow, the lessons did not reach me as my idea of description only extended to the most basic of forms and I colour in the rest with pure imagination.

I had an overactive imagination as a child (I probably still do), and before I could dissect my own emotions and experience in depth, I never needed an abundance of words to truly experience something. Whatever the story doesn’t expressly say, I fill in with my own imagination and ideas.

It also did not help that I was a bit of a dreamy child, prone to daydreaming when an idea strikes and detaching myself from the real world around me. And whenever I look back to a memory of an event, I rarely have crystal clear images of what happened. Rather, I remember the ambience and my own feelings and thoughts as the events unfold; things that most books for children do not express in detail.

My first introduction to writing truths with literary techniques was through Awang Goneng’s book ‘Growing Up in Trengganu’. Having been trained by my mother in public speaking and the importance of using emphatic intonation, I was forced to really inspect the words I was repeating again and again to express them as authentically as possible. My favourite chapter was ‘Nasi On The Apor’ with its life-like imagery that did not simply recreate the sentiments of the moment, but awakened all of my senses — something quite new to me. Despite having to spend so much time repeating the same words, it became a joy instead of a chore to revisit Mak Som as her fingers danced among the many ingredients that constitutes a ‘nasi dagang’ with the fragrant steam curling around her.

The book itself was a collection of sights and memories from an age long gone, the era of my parents’ childhood back in their homestate ‘Trengganu’. Most of the passages would fit descriptive writing instead of a narrative one but now I understood the lesson my mother tried to teach. And being a story lover by heart, it did not take me long to take Little Women’s Jo’s advice to heart: “Write about what you know” — and what do I know more than the tales that of my own life?

So I began writing journal entries with a newbie’s idea of a literary flair but something interesting began to happen without me noticing. Being a dreamy, sentimental young teenager means that I had more than enough emotions bubbling within me especially in these situations I thought worthy enough to be forever locked in ink.

Instead of having to create unlikely scenarios and odd afterthoughts to add drama to a story that has no direction, I know deep within why the story matters to me. I know the exact direction towards which I wish to lead my readers and the message I wish to embed within the tale because they are the reason why the event matters so much to me.

I unconsciously began to hone the ability to pick the parts that serve the larger narrative and that had improved my stories tenfold. It may still appear and feel like a story written like a naïve kid, but it’s a kid who writes to make a statement instead of one who doesn’t really know why she’s saying anything.

So if you have a problem with creating appropriate dramatic tension in your writing despite having lots of potential within, try looking back into a recent but particularly poignant moment of your life and see what you could come up with. Don’t try to make it the best work ever written but a photograph in words that captures all of your dizzying highs and lows. Be open, be honest and be authentic.

It’s a long process that requires repetition as all exercises do but you’ll may be surprised at the words you pen down when you embark on your own journey into literary nonfiction.

Why Do Kids Put Beans Up Their Noses? A Thought on Impulse and Introspection

It is a widely known fact that if you tell a child not to put beans up their nose, almost without fail, they will come running back to you in pain because now they have a bean stuck inside their nose. It is something to lament about when discussing the frustrating trials of childrearing or to be laughed about when reflecting on how ridiculous we all once were when we were young. Despite how readily we accept it, we rarely take the mental effort to ride down their train of thought a little deeper and really ponder on why we do it.

I personally have never put beans or anything up my nose as far as I could recall and I was scared of quite a number of unfamiliar things. My mother often retell us the story of me wailing in fear when a distant cousin tried to give me sweets. However, my father did call me ‘Miss Opposite’ when he discovered that anything forbidden was an object of interest to me, and the way my father trained me not climb up ladders was to tell me to climb one.

I have a pretty clear memory of myself around the age of three or four and being solemnly told by my father not to go anywhere near the flame of a candle. The very moment I found myself out of my parent’s sight, I reached out for the nearest thing I could find and shoved it into the bright, dancing light. Within (what felt like) seconds, the side of the comb that touched the flame began turning black and the tip began to sag. That horrified me enough to immediately throw it out of a window and decided never to touch fire again.

Nevertheless, what interests me most about the memory now is that I remembered pretty well the line of thoughts that motivated me into doing what I did; and one thing they had in common was the thirst to know something that I clearly do not. Why was I told not to play with flames? What will happen if I do? Why are candles always put on high places? What does it feel like to touch a fire? And my curiousity was peaked when it was blended with the thrill and indignation of the forbidden.

However, at the same time, I was too young to be truly aware of why I do the things I do and if my parents were to find out (they somehow didn’t) and ask me why did I play with fire when I was told not to, I may honestly answer ‘I don’t know’. My mother’s reminder ‘think before you do something’ had been ringing in my ears ever since I could remember but I was a lot older before I truly understood what it even meant, and that was years before I understood the wisdom behind it and somewhat tried to act on it. I just acted on automatic and it just happened to be fuelled by wonder and a self-righteous belief that I could do anything.

Of course, it isn’t the same for all children. While an unquenchable thirst for information and experience is common in a lot of children, some children are quicker to break rules because they simply wanted a reaction from the people who told them not to. Other quieter kids may surprise you when they suddenly ignore an unbreakable law; simply because they feel like they understand the wisdom behind all forbidden acts except for this particular one, and see it unnecessary to obey. On the other hand, some children are just oblivious to clearly laid down rules, as they are to a lot of on-goings of the world around them, since they view things from a different perspective.

But what is true for the majority of them is that they were mostly unaware of the inner workings of their mind. Introspection is a skill that takes age and wisdom to cultivate and at the age when kids are at their wildest, they were focusing more on observing and experiencing than they are at understanding why they do the things they do.

And to be fair, as wise as we all claim to be, we are still in the mercy of our ‘automated’ self to various degrees. Those of us with a better ability to introspect, either by nature or by practicing mindfulness, may have stronger awareness of the purpose behind their actions but for the most of us, we rely on habits when running our regular everyday lives. We don’t think about why we decide to chew every morsel of meal we feed ourselves or the why we hold pens in the way we do. That’s why watching your step is as good an advice to a toddler as it is to an adult.

Even at times when we are fuelled by emotions, most of us are rarely aware by the state and cause of our emotions and we simply act without consciously making the decision to bend to our sentiments. We are often more aware of our conscious drive and purpose and use that as an excuse to validate what we do; as sitting down and reflecting upon it may cause that uncomfortable awareness of our cognitive dissonance.

When I myself feel frustrated about the little nuisance that goes on around me, more often than not, I recognise the fact that I feel frustrated but I would also say that I have things under control. For instance, it feels wrong to be angry at your friend who had to miss your monthly meet-up, which you had been looking forward to all week, due to an impromptu meeting.

However, when night comes and I have time to reflect, I realised that all of the misfortune I had throughout the day are simply daily occurrences that somehow takes more attention. It is just that today, I could not blame my friend for the cancellation as it wasn’t her fault. And without being aware of it, I had pinned my anger to everything else that I could just so I could release the pressure that I had bottled up inside.

Like the kid who didn’t know why she thrusted the comb into the flame, I wasn’t aware of the actual cause to why I was angry at the stranger who accidentally bumped into me as we were boarding the train. I simply was.

And unless we want to be like the kids who put beans up their noses, we have to try a little harder to really ask ourselves why we make the decisions we do and what do we really want to make out of our lives. If we don’t have control over our own ‘mature’ impulses, it’s going to be quite an ordeal to teach our own children the lesson that would last them a lifetime.

My Tinking Philosophy

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Every knitter tinks at least once in their life. Some people, like my sister, are more careful and conscious when knitting and they could finish a good number of tink-less projects. I, on the other hand, spend far too much time tinking that I would like to admit.

Tinking in terms of knitting is basically ‘un-knit-ting’, removing the stitches you have lovingly tucked onto your needle because of a mistake (it is knit written backwards). Sometimes you miscount your stitches and realise that you should have purled instead of knitted or maybe you’re repeating the pattern for a particular row when you should have move on to the next step.

The most frustrating thing about tinking for me is that I am not a fast knitter and having to tink means that I am negating those precious minutes I spent wrapping my needle with yarns. It’s especially dejecting when I’m in the middle of a cable stitch, which takes even longer as I slip stitches onto a different needle or when I did not realise my mistake until I’m already a number of rows down. In my previous project, I have already done a cast off before I realised that I dropped a few stitches a number of rows down and if I don’t fix it, the whole rose could unravel.

It is not a secret that I am a generally careless person. I’ve sent in Maths homework where I got all the answers wrong because I added instead of subtracted back in my primary school days. I have accidentally poured water from my double boiler into my butter when I was melting it to bake a cake (a feat my mother thought impossible). And although I try to count my stitches and check my work at every row, I still tink at least once in every project, often times more especially in larger work.

However, I also do a lot of pattern-free projects where I experiment and improvise as I go along. With those projects, tinking is pretty much unavoidable as I try different ratios of knits and increase to get a flat circle or where should I make a decrease that would give the finished work a cleaner look. And interestingly, tinking in those projects do not feel like a regretted mistake because for every row I have to tink, I am learning something new.

When following a pattern, all I do is making sure that I get my work done exactly as the instructions are written so I would end up with the same product. A mistake is a problem that I would have to fix, a delay that I would have to extend. So my mind is focused on perfection, on keeping count on the stitches and rows, on making sure that I do a slip slip knit and not a knit two together, and so on.

When I am starting fresh from the start, I have no guide to tell me what to do, no pictures to give me an expectation. Every single stitch I make is a trial run and there is no wrong step because everything I do would produce a particular effect that one day I may put into good use. I rarely find myself getting disappointed over a failure because there is absolutely nothing to fail. Every knit is an opportunity and every purl teaches a lesson.

This dichotomy exists in other interests in my life too. My love for some areas in Mathematics is often hampered by the need to answer questions accurately and quickly in a cold and uncompromising exam setting. I enjoy trying out Maths puzzles even though I couldn’t solve most of them because each one of them could open my mind to a new way of thought that I hadn’t even considered before. When someone explain to me the answer of a geometry question I got completely stumped on and pointed out the relationship of different angles that I haven’t noticed, it’s like learning a new word in a different language or learn something about a culture I never knew existed.

However life does demand a certain amount of ‘perfection’. We don’t pat a faulty traffic light and tell it ‘That’s okay, you tried your best”, when it caused a massive pile up that took away lives. We don’t pardon a surgeon who mistook an artery for a vein and say “You’ll get it right next time!”. We don’t give the engineer whose mismanagement caused a radioactive disaster another project to supervise because everyone makes mistakes. We don’t do all that because the consequences of such mistakes are catastrophic and must be avoided at all costs.

At the same time, that faulty traffic light might shed light on human psychology and how we place trust on certain cues even though we are otherwise capable of watching the traffic ourselves. The surgeon’s fumble could enlighten us on the particular weakness of medical machinery and the engineer’s oversight illuminated flaws on the current plant design that might have otherwise be used elsewhere throughout the world. And if all of these mistakes are hidden behind closed doors, these lessons could never be learnt.

Mistakes, like most things in life, comes with a bit of good and a bit of bad and the severity of either would depend on the particular situation. They should be avoided, of course, but when one does occur, it shouldn’t be treated like a complete loss. We’re always offered lessons wherever we go and whatever we do and at every turn the worst thing that you could do is say “That’s it,” and give up–because when you do, you will close your eyes and your mind to something new and beautiful that was crafted just for you.

And so whether it’s the thousandth time I drop my stitch or get a lumpy hexagon instead of a flat circle or deface the stockinette stitch with a big ugly purl, I’ll still tink my way back and try to see what the lesson might be before moving on and keep my fingers knitting.

A Lesson From A Tree

I stood by my herb bed and looked up. The moringa tree that I’ve moved there two years ago was now more than twice my height, a testament to the length of time I had neglected my garden. What used to be a row of chili, eggplants, lemon grass and various smaller herbs was now a thick mass of ‘kadok’ and ‘belalai gajah’. Lemon grass leaves both dead and alive were tumbling everywhere like a wild mess of tangled hair. Amongst them were vines, which I do not recognise, climbing whatever they could grasp and pulling them down with their weight.

And of course, there was the moringa tree, towering over the whole place like a misplaced giant among dwarves. The thick and sturdy trunk stretched up into the sky to where I couldn’t reach if I wanted to fetch some of its leaves. Moringas are not hard to care for once they’ve gotten themselves securely rooted. They could withstand the lack of water when I forget to give them their drink so unlike many of the other plants that did not survive my absence, my moringas persevered.

In the past, I would trim down my trees at least once a year to allow for an easier harvest and to avoid having its roots digging in too deep so I could easily move them around. However, with my exams taking place last year and my months-long eczema breakout, my garden was slowly being transformed into a mini forest and as the number of days grow, so did the difficulty of the restoration project. And instead of taking the sensible and rational route of early intervention, I let the tides of sorrow crept onto me.

One of my biggest frustrations is how passionately I launch myself into things that I truly love and yet in the end, they somehow die away into nothingness. Some of them happen because of chances and circumstances but many, many more are lost by my own hands, either by neglect, fear, frustration or lethargy. Often times I find myself letting my own bitterness contaminate the sweet taste of pure fervor, and the satisfying scent that accompanies the exhaustion after a day’s work had soured into a musty odour of fatigue. Little by little, I lost sight of the sparkles that comes with tiny victories and saw only the mountains I have yet to climb–and I couldn’t find it within me to take another step.

However, every now and then my zeal would return and at a whim, I would pack my backpack and step back out into the blizzard with the intense wish to gain back all that I have lost. The medals in my trophy cabinet back at home assured me that I have done it before and I could do it again–but the assurance last only for a moment. Fixing a mistake is often harder than starting anew and while you may lose the height of your skills, the memories of them stay, mocking you in your face. It doesn’t take long for me to doubt everything that I do and sometimes everything that I am; because if this present me is nothing like the person I was–then who am I?

But for now, I pushed all of those thoughts from my head and I had one clear objective. This tree is too big for my herb bed and I am going to move it to a more suitable home,  some place where it would be given all the opportunity to grow and bring us the first of the much loved drumstick fruit. I sawed the tree down to a manageable height and kept the leaves for my mother. I pulled the mess of ‘kadok’ and ‘belalai gajah’ for our ‘ulam’ until there is nothing on the ground but the trunk of the tree and the roots beneath. And with a rusty trowel in one hand, I thrusted it into the Earth and started digging.

As it is my habit when I work in the garden, I began talking to the plant, apologising for my neglect and telling it that I am trying to get back into the swing. I told it about how the last time I felt I couldn’t do something turned out okay in the end and although I don’t really feel it, I think it’s a sign that I need to pick myself up and move on. I thanked it for waiting for me even though I don’t deserve it. The tree never said much but it lets me talk nevertheless.

The day was not hot. The sun hid behind clouds and our mango tree provided me a lovely shade from the dimmed sun rays. Nonetheless, my lack of physical activities in the recent months had started to make itself known. Although the moisture within the soil couldn’t be more perfect (not too dry and not too wet), I started to feel tired after going past half a foot down. It didn’t help that the deeper I go, the harder it was to navigate through the root and avoid the sharp edges of the sides of the bed which was covered in tiny stones. So I grasped the trunk tightly in my arms and gave it a gentle but strong tug. It didn’t give.

Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. I know that, I whispered, as I continued to dig. Say what I want about my own inner conflict, I made the decision to leave my garden and I have to make amends.

But, my dearest, my sweet, could you please help me out a bit?

I paused to look up at its leaves. The little green circles danced prettily as the wind blew, breaking its perfect mosaic for but a few moments. No, I gulped and pressed on. No, the tree had done more than I had done. It too had its struggle when the ground was dry and the moths fly by. I wasn’t the only lonely one. 

Relationships go both ways, do they not? But love, would you please, please lend me a bit of a hand?

The trunk did not answer.

Ah, you are just as stone hearted as I. Then so be it.

My hands are now red and a few of the cracks on my fingers which were about to heal had burst back open as they pressed on the hard edge of my trowel. The small bits of concrete jutting out from the inside of the bed are scratching me every other minute and the roots showed now signs of tapering off. My back was aching and I couldn’t find a comfortable position. I had forgotten how to whisper, or the fact that I have neighbours, and they could probably hear me having a full blown one-sided argument with a tree.

My child, the reason why I couldn’t go out was because of my eczema. Well, partly anyway. And if you don’t make way any time soon, I’m going to hurt it and that could cause another outbreak. Yes, patience, I know. I am trying to be patient but patience would not stop my hand from breaking. Do you want me to just saw your roots off?

The trunk stared me down.

Fine. Fine. Fine. You were patient, I will be patient too.

I groaned and went back in with the thinnest of patience. My hand was now shaking with a mix of exhaustion and frustration. I was covered in soil from head to toe and I no longer cared about keeping my hand safe. I stabbed the trowel into the ground again and again and again and the dirt that got into the cracks of my skin were now practically cemented with sweat and bits of blood. I was now a foot in from when I started. I placed my hand between the two main roots and tugged with all my might but I couldn’t move it even a bit. And I was starting to feel like a fool for even trying.

Please, I am trying to be better. I want to be better, I really do but it’s already so hard. Just the idea of it all seems so insurmountable. If I can’t even pull you out, my sweet, what can I do?

The trunk stayed quiet.

I was now desperate. I had done nothing today other than digging this hole and I have nothing to show for it. The sun would be setting soon and the roots showed no sign of thinning. I looked around at my garden in its horrendous state and asked myself if I have anything to show for all that I have done in my life. I just wanted to stop.

Then I paused and looked back at the tree. Something clicked at the back of my head and I eyed it tentatively.

Are you… are you trying to teach me a lesson on perseverance?

I waited for an answer which did not come. I turned to the pile of unearthed soil and back into the hole in the bed. The way I see it, I only have three choices. I could just leave the whole thing be and probably let the tree die now that I’ve upset it so much. I could push all the Earth back in but that would only get me back to where I started.

Or of course, I could keep going. I know that somehow, in the end, I would get to tip of the roots. Even if I have to use a stone as a makeshift shovel, I could theoretically get it done eventually. The tricky circumstances, the need for time and my own doubts are obstacles I need to overcome all my life, whatever the struggle. Whether the problem is restarting a garden, finishing a book draft or just pulling out a tree, I still have to face problems from within and without, and I have to learn to wait.

Okay. Well, I guess I’ll take it then.

With that I went back in, this time quietly, as I reflected on the things that I already know deep inside and even discussed about in my head but which are now being repeated to me. I thought of the many tiny knolls I succeeded to climb because I went on despite the obstacles. Silat routines, NaNoWriMo challenges, artworks, school achievements and public presentations. Even little things that I am proud to have done but never shared because they seem so insignificantly small. But I did them.

And so with the hole nearly two feet deep, I hugged the trunk of the tree, took a deep breath and gave it a sharp tug. Finally it gave way and I had in my hand another medal to add to my cabinet. I grinned at it and thought I could feel it grinning back.

Was my tree really teaching me a lesson on perseverance? You tell me.

 

Covid-19: Our Fear and What Can We Do About It?

On the morning of the 17th of March, I went to a nearby supermarket to buy a few things we’re running low on. The night before, the prime minister had announced that starting on the 18th, Malaysia would be placed under movement control, and although we already have been stocking up on some essential items, we thought it would be a good idea to get some fresh food, just in case they would be hard to come by in the future.

The roads leading to the supermarket were eerily silent. They weren’t completely empty but for a Tuesday morning, there usually would be a lot more traffic especially on the main road. As I approached the supermarket however, I began to see some of cars slowly building up a mini traffic jam but it was nothing compared to what greeted me next.

The moment I walked through the glass door, I found the supermarket to be absolutely crowded. Trying to make your way from one end of the supermarket to the other was a complete obstacle course. People of all ages were clearing out already bare shelves. Elderly couples and families with young kids are standing shoulder to shoulder, snaking their way into the cashier queue which have stretched all the way to the entrance. And although I’ve decided that the grocery is not worth spending any more time than I need to in the mini mass gathering, I still had to worm my way between the crowd just to make an exit, trying in vain not to touch anyone.

Back at home, we hear about similar events taking place all over Malaysia. People are rushing into stores in a manic frenzy and families are frantically packing to escape the city. Instructions on precautionary measures like staying at home, standing a metre away from each other or just frequent hand washing are nothing but hazy recollections at the back of one’s head, blocked by a more urgent sense of impending doom. The people’s underappreciated freedom to do whatever they please have now been revoked and that have placed everyone into a state of uncertainty, confusion and fear. And as varied as the colours of people who walk this Earth, so are their reactions to their fears.

The Need to Act

For most of us, fear drives us into immediate action. We are plagued by a sense of restlessness and helplessness, propelling us into doing simply anything to ease our discomfort. It doesn’t matter if we know which mask to get, how a mask even works against infection or how to use it best; we simply buy them by the dozens. It doesn’t matter that proper hand cleaning with soap and water is the best way to prevent the virus from spreading through contact, we’ll just get bottles of hand sanitizer because it seems much more medical.

This is partly why people are buying seemingly irrational things too. After news of the toilet paper robberies in Hong Kong and Australia spread through the social media, people all over the world are buying rolls and rolls of toilet paper. Fueled by FOMO (or the Fear Of Missing Out) and the shock at such desperate an act, even those who usually don’t use toilet paper are now asking themselves “Should I get one too? Or perhaps a few, just in case?”

Similarly, it is the reason why people are leaving their homes in droves in a search for a ‘safer’ place. The availability of good facility in major hospitals has given the appearance that these cities have high number of cases and those seeking assurance assume that it would be safer for them to stay away.

For others, the thought of living far apart at a time of crisis is too much to bear even in the age of instant communication. Their sleeps are disturbed by the thoughts of loved ones dying far away from them and they want to be together for each other. The unseen risk of them being the catalyst for spreading the disease seems negligible in compared to these more imminent fears.

State of Denial

Another common reaction to fear is to rebel against it as the thought of being weak is too uncomfortable for us to deal with. Instead of admitting to ourselves that there is a problem which they have to face, we would rather tell ourselves that everything is okay. And the harder the world tries to force us into believing that something is definitely wrong, the more inclined we are to not face it. Suddenly, the thought of staying at home is giving us the heebie-jeebies even though we could spend hours on the game console without a word of complain.

To others, this denial may be more subtle. They are consciously aware and admit that it is a time of crisis, but to actually live in a way which reflects that is so unbearably uncomfortable. It is similar to the actions of a heavy smoker who, deep inside, do feel the need to cut down a few packs, but would rather just not think about it and keep smoking.

Is It All Fear Though?

Of course, humans are much more complex and no matter how much we try to dissect each other, we would never be able to even begin comprehend the whole truth. There are lots of different factors that affect our actions in all situations. However, humans are social beings and in a society, emotions can be just as contagious, or even more so, than the virus that threatens our lives.

And fear itself is a very powerful emotion that had been hardwired in the brains of all creatures to ensure their survival. We often hear amazing things one could do in the midst of an adrenaline rush. At the same time, fear can cause you to do something that you would regret as it often only cares about your short term survival. And at a time of crisis, even those who generally have a good hold on their fears are now being affected by the accumulated anxiety of the whole population that surrounds them.

So What Do We Do?

Fear often cause the steadiest of people to act on their impulse. It comes with a sense of urgency that demands immediate action. Especially at a time like this, it is wise to practice a bit of mindfulness and self awareness as a tool to help us make wiser actions. Keep checking in with yourself and ask yourselves questions like “What is the reason behind my action? How am I feeling and how is it affecting me? Do I really need to do this or would it harm other people? Based on my beliefs, what is best thing that I could do right now?”

By being more in tune with your values, your actions would bring a more permanent sense of satisfaction rather than the quick bites of temporary relief that would simply lead to another round of panic. And by constantly checking in with your emotions, you would be more sensitive to the irrational urges that may cause you to do something that you will later regret. The more control we have over ourselves, the less burden we will put on all of the healthcare workers and members of the public service who are racing against the clock to save lives.

On top of that, keep yourself informed with current updates from reputable sources that would help you prepare yourself for what is to come. Pay attention to and carry out the precautionary measures given by the authorities so you could tell yourself honestly that you have tried what you could to protect yourself, your family, your friends and your community.

Be patient and be calm. Insya Allah, if we all work together, by His help and guidance, we will get through this.

Finding The Spark

There is a gas stove that is about my age sitting in our kitchen and it had been faithfully serving us for well over twenty years. As is expected with its age, the stove is hardly perfect. The flame on one of the hobs would simply die out if you try to lower the heat while I haven’t seen the spark of another kicking the gas alight for more than ten years.

The biggest hob is the most troublesome of the functioning three as there are days when the gas simply refuses the light and you need a match to get it started. And if you’re pressed for time or simply lacking on motivation, it’s just too much trouble to hunt for a matchbox or a candle to catch the fire from another hob just to get it started.

And like its peer, I have days when I wake up with a roaring spirit brimming on exuberance and I work on the chores or projects of the day with a singing heart. Ideas after ideas are lighting the bulbs in my head as I pick a few to be my passion projects and label the others as ‘to-be-considered’. Every step is rewarded with a sense of purpose and quiet satisfaction. Every thought is treated as a possibility and I turn the house upside-down with my “let’s do this NOW!”

But sometimes I wake up to a dark, bluish tint as the world is enshrouded in cumulonimbus clouds. Without the sun to light up the flowers in my garden, my eyes catch only the weeds that pop out of nooks and crevices. All around me, I can only see shadows of quenched dreams, failed expeditions and love lost. The knolls I skipped over everyday become imposing mountains that laugh in my face. And the fire, the fire that used to burn so brightly, now fizzles away in the rain.

But just because the knob on the gas stove wouldn’t work, it doesn’t mean that my only choice is to buy my meal. There is always the lighter or the matchstick. There are two more smaller hobs that I could use with a little tweak of the recipe. There’s also the oven and the rice cooker if I’m feeling more adventurous. All I need is a bit of determination.

And although it is harder when the raincloud filter is in my own eyes, it doesn’t mean that I couldn’t do anything simply because it is too dark for me to see. Just because I am blinded to the light, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. Even in the bleakest of nights, we are reminded of the bright sun by the gentle glow it lends to the moon. And with eyes so dark that I forget the images of my own sight, I can still find that spark to relight my fire as long as I have my faith to fuel my heart.

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