Happy Birthday, Malaysia...

Can I blame the fasting month for me not being patriotic this year? Or may be the lack of TV watching?

But whatever it is, I know the non-anticipated passing on Yasmin Ahmad has affected the nation greatly. It does seem that we are now lost, without a voice leading us towards the feel of belonging.

But why do we need a voice to make us feel belonged in this country we called ours? Why we allow the politicians to harp on unity issues that are actually nonexistent? Why do we allow them to divide us? And conquer our minds with non-sensical non-ethical accusations...

We are all Malaysians by birth. We are all born with equal rights. It is up to us to decide what shape we take, what move we make and what future lies before us.

And for the love of this land, I will once again inspect if my Jalur Gemilang is in good shape to dance in the Melawati breeze.

Happy birthday, Malaysia...

A Firecracker and A Loose Cannon

A little firecracker, he calls her.

I can only imagine the connotation it brings. Of how much love and admiration, of how she sparkles life into their love. I can't help but envy her.

I, on the other hand, is a 'loose cannon'. I didn't know if that was a compliment. But I take it as one nonetheless. A loose cannon that has the ability to do anything it wants, hitting left right center as it pleases; one loose cannon that has the prerogative to not hit anything whenever it feels not to; a very loose cannon with an unpredictable emotional swing. :P

But, hey, give this cannon some credit just because it knows itself well. :)

The Rock of All Rocks, The Fort of All Forts

My father has been a man with little words. He doesn't nag, he doesn't talk much. He rarely expresses himself in most occasions.

My early memories of my father was that when he was a Math teacher in Sekolah Tun Fatimah, Johor Baru. We stayed in the quarters, a huge L-shaped house. My mom would close up one part of the house; she told me it's already too big for the 3 of us even with the other part unutilized.

My father must have earned little back then. We didn't have a car. Every Saturday, we'd walk past the classrooms down the hill to the bus-stop, where we'd wait for the bus to take us to KOMTAR. Coming home, if no large purchases were done, we'd still take the bus and we'd walk past the classrooms again to get home. I was 5, then... and I dreaded the walk home.

I don't remember hearing my father's voice a lot those days.

And I certainly don't remember him being angry at me much other than the incident when one day he marched towards me with his belt. All I remember was I made my mother angry and I got the belting from him instead. After that, my mother had the best weapon ever against me - "do it again and I'll tell ayah" which definitely would get immediate response from me.

But I do remember that if I can't get my mother to buy me anything, I can talk to him and he'll give me that look saying "we'll get it if I can afford it"... which would usually end with him affording it.

I remember being so safe holding his hands, so happy whenever he was around when I was growing up.

In Standard 1 through 4, I was always at the top of my class. When in Standard 5, the school had some reshuffling and I joined some of the smarter kids in school and only managed to get the 5th spot. I remember one night while in the car waiting for my mom to get some mee goreng mamak, I was put under the spotlight by my father.

"Kenapa dapat nombor 5?"

That was he asked. Short, sharp and no nonsense.

I was stumped. All I could say was that Chong Phui Fong, Azimah and Shahrizal were smarter than me and that I got almost perfect marks and yet had to settle for 5th place. He said nothing. And his silence killed me, making me wish that I could just kill Chong, Azimah and Shahrizal (and the other guy) so that I could reclaim my #1 spot.

By then, my father had obtained his degree and was transferred to the Ministry of Education. He'd take me to work on Saturdays. Back then, the unit he was in was located at the Bank Pertanian building in Kuala Lumpur. His room was right in front of a library, and he'd teach me how to borrow books by writing his name in a huge register by the library door. Every Saturday, without fail. There I was, in his room, reading books after books after books, while waiting for time to go home. And we never chat. We just sat there, he with his work, me and my books.

Not until I grew up and got married that I try to create conversations with him. That was when I realized, despite his less of words, it did not mean he is less of love. He is so full of love, only not full of words. When I was going through hard times, it was his voice that soothed me. When I try to be strong, it's his words that add steel to me. When I try to hide my tears, it's his tones that brought down those pearls.

And through numerous, and I mean numerous, times that I felt like giving up, it's his SMSes that became the wind beneath my wings.

The rock of all rocks, the fort of all forts.

The one person whom I will be lost without, the one person whose love I never have enough of.

Ayah, I love more than you can ever imagine, and I owe you more that I could ever repay you. I love you.