Walimatul Urus

Encik/Cik/Tuan/Puan/Dato'/Datin/Tan Sri/Mak Sri/Tun/Tin,

This is weird. This coming Friday, I will have been married to a rich, pompous man with a frightening belly for many years now. Complementing him, I will be a pretentious, stuck up, middle-aged woman (perhaps approaching premature menopause) who is devastatingly silly in her speech and quirks. Laugh at me silly as I blow some poor man's ass off with a tiny (but loud) cap gun!

I Will Marry When I Want, by Ngugi Wa Thiong'o and Ngugi Wa Mirii. You are cordially invited.


(This isn't the official flyer)

A sneak peek of my favorite song in the play:

Tolong Saya, Bantu Saya

What do you call the closure of two 24-hour campus libraries when you need them most? Grave injustice! University libraries--as I'm sure is written in their unwritten by-laws--should strive to serve their inhabitants to their fullest capacities, especially when they have committed to a status of being 24-hour premises suitable for academic discourse and intellectual goals.

If fullest capacity means offering limitless space and time for the destruction of campus beings' social lives as they forego Friday night amusements (like pre-marital sexual pursuits, spectacular rounds of beer pong and getting high on them 'erbs) in exchange for solitude in an air-conditioned environment and contact time with thousands of last minute-readings, so be it. 

I, as one of the students raped from my rights to the use of these institutions tonight, am livid. President Zimmer, you may think it a wise and dignified move to actually force the student body to explore this other, obscure realm called "fun" and "time off", but all I ask of you is, why? Why tonight; when I am panic-stricken, fluid and sleep-deprived and worried sick of the 10 page paper I am fundamentally clueless about? 

This deprivation from access to resource and basic exercise of my human ways (in the university context, at least) must surely be a violation of human rights. I believe with entirety that my predicament tonight falls directly on the violation of one of the many rights listed on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. 

It should be. It has to be. It must be. My capability to function (as a typical student who turns in long term papers within two days of work) is irreversibly shattered tonight. Testimony to that is the time I have already wasted in writing this piece of nonsense, when I should in fact be working on the bloody paper. Be convinced, my accusations hold water! If it isn't, it must be implicit. Read between the lines. 

I call upon Amnesty International and other goodwill groups out there to please give light and voice to my plight. Allow me refuge under your umbrella. Give me my right to work the night away, while swallowing the bitter truth I am living the life accorded by the infamous UChicago creed "where fun comes to die". 

Return me my right to outstandingly fit into the image of a nerdy girl in this brainy institution "where the squirrels are cuter than the girls". Let me be that android, who goes with minimal sleep for a mere three days in her life to get all her shit (although belatedly) done.

Sigh, that's what I signed up for, didn't I?

Do What You Wanna Do, Even If It's Fucked Up Haiku

Pimples di kulit kepala

Pimples di leher dan anggota

Pimples membabi buta, merata-rata.

Now rambut ada "body", maybe

tapi kelemumur datang lagi

diikuti debut split ends yang oh sangat terkeji.

Nak baca buku, mata tutup

Dua belas helai by Monday kena meletup

Econ exam hari Khamis buat saya nak masuk chicken coop.

Tak campur Kekasih Malam Ahad

atau falsafah Human Rights dengan masa terhad

dan latihan yang berhari-hari makin die-hard.

Lumrah hidup kadang-kala mati
Esok lusa awak pulak yang rasa nanti

Jemput beri salam dan semangat to me, sini mari!

Theory of Proximity

I fancy myself as an amateur ethnologist, I really do. The amount of time I spend "researching" people's profiles, finding parallels in their lives with mine, and observing the community around me with the naked eye seems to suggest just that; that I am an ethnologist in my own right.

Those who are unfortunate enough to be the subject of my "research" obsession can attest to the high level of dexterity I manifest in this trade. Mere strangers, do not be deterred by this entry. Rest assured I am not a psychopath who gives random people dirty phone calls in the middle of the night, although I may be a permanent visitor to your Facebook profile, and a distant observer of your many photo albums. Yes, I'm just your friendly, resident stalker (if you must belittle my newfound appellation).

Now that we both know that I am an accomplished stalker, let me compel you to read a social science inquiry I have recently formulated in accordance with my self-acclaimed elevated status of ethnologist. I liken my two year immersion into the American experience to the role of the ethnologist who "goes native", and thus have landed myself with an interesting theory of why the Americans I see act as they do.

We begin with the root of the inquiry, the crux, the situation that such an observation was in order. In a terse and crude approach--and I say this with honesty--Americans are extremely individualistic borderline self-absorbed, self-serving, and stingy. Note my qualifier "borderline" before you bash this little human with unkind words like racist and errr, racist. On the methodology, know that this inquiry is wholly legit for it is backed up with some substantial case studies, conducted and participated by: me.

The common experience I'm sure other international students share beef with me is the "thou shall share not" mentality Americans possess. This may pass of as a stereotypical remark; but again, these are empirical observations I myself have dilligently noted in my interactions with them.

To illustrate my point, an American is never ready to offer you the candybar/chips/soda he/she is holding in his/her hand; quite the contrary to the Asian manners of always offering and serving others before oneself. Or in isolated cases when they actually do, realize that they would never ask you twice, thrice, or incessantly bug you until you give in and take some.

Alas, when little things like a bag of chips are points to retract, more so are ingredients in the kitchen where the concept of "depletion" becomes more distressing (to them, that is) since it requires a trip to ol' faithful Walgreen's. It's safe to say there are three separate sets of cooking oil, butter, bread, sugar, salt, pepper and spices in my room thus far. Milk and juice are shared, but with precision whose turn it is to buy them this week or next.

Instead, here I am, always harrasing the Americans I care about to share what little I have. On the very sparing occassions that I cook, I ultimately get trumped because they are just not up for sharing. So to be fair, their self-reliance works when they are both on the receiving and giving end. But it still points to the obvious that sharing isn't quite practiced in this land of the free, doesn't it?

If sharing tangible materials is a non-practice, the trend observed for teamwork and collaboration leaves room for further probe. But what is sure is the different sense of camaraderie between us international students and us with them.

A case in point is the fact that we international students are extremely open to letting friends hold and read our solutions to problems for as long as they want; and for as much information they want to extract from, provided they don't get us in trouble with the university honor code. I have never triumphed in holding an American peer's problem set as freely as I could an international student's, sadly.

The facts laid out as they should, I shall provide you with my radical Theory of Proximity that seeks to explain this individualistic culture pertinent to Americans. I believe, with vehemence, that the source lies in the geography of the country itself. Think of the USA, the vast landscape encompassing 50 states, the different climate and time zones, the changing topology as you drive from the South to the Midwest, from East to West.

This gigantic land, housing states that are bigger than Malaysia, gives Americans much free space and individual cocoon to roam about in. Leave a metropolis like Chicago, New York or Boston and enter American suburban areas and you will understand what I mean. Homes are spread about, cars are necessary to travel from point A to point B, and less people are breathing in your near vicinity.

Even the aforementioned cities are no Mumbai, Jakarta and Bangkok; where people are literally neck-to-neck in slums that are one and many, and resources are scant. And so we, individuals born and bred in third world countries, developing countries, or just densely-populated countries, are decreed by the nature of our living, to share. We understand and embody the concept of "What is mine is yours".

Or at least if you do not agree, I do. I grew up in my grandmother's little bungalow, with my siblings, mother, three aunts, uncle, and cousins under one roof, at most days. Alas, it is fair to say sharing comes to me as naturally as farting does.

But think about it: every day, we face 40 friends in a sweltering hot public school classroom, with only a creaking fan and blackboard, sometimes having to share desks. If in Malaysia, the scenario is as such, what more in sub-Saharan Africa?

It is in fact, the proximity between peoples living together and sharing lives with that hugely affects their interactions with one another. The more people you literally and figuratively bump heads with, the more thoughtful you are about others' needs. For generations and generations next, the love for sharing finds firm roots in our community, right with the idea of nurture and the scientific term conditioning.

Americans, on the other hand, are blessed with the geographical endowment that leaves them free and unbound. My analysis is bereft of income distribution, socio-economic conditions and all that jazz, because I am inciting the idea of the generous space each person is entitled to in America, regardless of their plights.

So, as free and unbound as they are, they sadly lack the experience of sharing for a right to clean water, or a football field, or a dilapidated, shabby, wooden house in a community that seriously scrutinizes your every move (although I do not discount the dire living conditions in the American ghettos). The result of that? Ultra-individualistic, and shall I say "borderline" kedekut, kemut and berkira civilians.

p/s: If you haven't noticed, this entry is laden with satire and sarcasm. Take it with a pinch of salt, please, and don't sue me.

From Petai To Bagel: I Go All But One Way

I'll let you in on a little secret. My transition to the foreign norms and different cultural setting in this land called Chicago, and more generally America, wasn't as plain-sailing as I preconceived it to be. Upon my first infusion into this Western life and living, I surprised myself with my immediate disfavor for some things very American.

Bagels would be a good subject for me to take off from. I wasn't a fan of bagels until this recent year. Yes, it took me one whole year to acclimatize myself to the culture of eating bagels--a substance I once deemed so hard on the jaw, and tasteless to the taste buds. I could not quite fathom my sister's attachment to bagels and agony over the exorbitantly priced bagels carried by select supermarkets in Malaysia.

To me, it was what is was: a tough piece of bread that was even tougher for the jaws. With time and trial and error over the right flavor, I presently find myself settling on Asiago Cheese bagel and Jalapeno Salsa spread at least once a week.

Time and again, I also find myself actually preferring the three-hole papers and three-ring folders prevalent here. My father can attest to my initial detest for this matter, when I--obviously distressed by my first encounter with this three-hole enigma--ranted to him about America's stance on being different from the rest of the world. I hated with fervor, this whole notion of America setting itself apart from the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, since I bothered about these trivial points of adapting.

I went wild with displeasure that I could not use folders, papers and punchers interchangeably between America and the rest of the world. Besides, my ultimate chagrin (at that time at least) was what was I to do with the puncher I proudly brought with me from sweet home Malaysia that actually keeps up with the rest of the world? Of course, this heart is malleable and I soon learned that the three-hole and ring system creates much less heartbreaks over torn ruled papers for OCD students like yours truly.

Nonetheless, no aspect of assimilating into the American life is harder than the conversion to English units. Why must I be subjected to pounds, bushels, doors, miles, and (god-forbid) the ever obscure Fahrenheit when the globe has advanced to the universal standard? Alas, six academic quarters and societal pressure have imposed upon me the need to speak their lingo, and I am sadly coerced to rest my case against this.

As the Malay adage goes, "Masuk kandang kambing mengembek, masuk kandang lembu menguak", I have slowly but surely assimilated into the American life. However, from petai to bagel, from tapai to Oreo parfait, from A4 paper to US letter paper, from "watter" to "wader", I would go all but one way.

What is this one thing, you ask? Let's just say I'd never enter a restroom without a filled bottle, or at the very least, wet paper towels upon paper towels to my discretion and satisfaction; even at the expense of being conceived as a lunatic Asian with serious issues.

What comes out the A-hole--in my most humble and honest humanitarian opinion--should NOT be cleaned with nothing but a dry, coarse paper towel. Someone should perhaps teach Westerners a thing or two; beginning perhaps, with the word melecet and the terse expression "geli, sial!", don't you think?

The Prophecy

Malays and Malaysians are fast exerting their presence on Facebook in the recent months, it seems. Empirical facts speak loud and clear--so loud, that one can't possibly be sane and miss the influx of merepek quizzes to this once exclusive social network. When you see "What kuih tradisional are you?", "Berapa jumlah hantaran yang perlu Si Polan beri kepada Joyah" and the classic "How Kelantanese are you?" flooding your newsfeed, you know we're spiraling downhill.

Western supremacist I am not--in fact I am quite the Malay advocate--but to disaknowledge that the more ludicrous quizzes are borne from mine own roots is to be ignorant. Hats off to us Malays because only we can come up with pandir applications as such.

Call me bitch/snob/snobitch, but I think Facebook lost its novelty the day it opened its virtual doors big and wide. Or rather the day the Asian (Malaysian?) world closed its doors to Friendster and shifted gears towards my esteemed Facebook. Of course it's not mine and mine own, but lend me your ears. Two years back--after receiving my university email address--I felt such a sense of accomplishment and was sent to a state of felicity upon finally acquiring myself a Facebook account. It was an unwritten rule once upon a time, that you only get on Facebook via a college network.

And that, my friends, was the very pulse that kept Facebook a non-nonsensical and non-crowded social platform. American employers found it a promising tool to check the credence and network of a candidate, and people actually only added friends they legitimately knew existed. I like to keep it that way still, for I realized my mistakes during the Friendster era, cum my formative teenage years.

Alas, the Malaysian diaspora goes far and wide, and the virtue of this leniency is the very fact that it brings me closer to buddies all over the globe. I cannot feign that I am not glad la familia are on board this nexus, or that I have met long-lost friends through Facebook, and I am not going to start now.

On the contrary, I am rather a hardcore Facebook advocate that my heart boils to see people denouncing the virtues of Facebook, because it certainly is an important fixture in my life. Facebook is the first thing I do upon waking up, and the last thing I do before I thread through dreams in the night, and I am not ashamed to say so. Okay, maybe a little.

So the issue at hand is this: my adulation for Facebook is marred by this quiz lunacy I see with the droves of people being sucked into the vortex that is Facebook. As of now, I have gone on a binge of restricting quiz feeds (do so by hovering your cursor over the quiz box, and hitting--with zeal, if I may add--"Hide quiz so and so") and see myself doing this for as long as the craze lives.

All the same, there is one more problem with addicts like me. There are some that just slips through the cracks and drugs me with curiosity. So, on some days I find myself facing prophecies as ridiculous as this:


Siapa dari Johor sila masuk line, sebab Facebook dah kasi greenlight. Haha.

The Complete Crappopolis

In the visual arts, my weaknesses are many. Unable to draw straight lines, and perfectly incapable of producing dimensions and realistic sketches, I never once considered a vocation in the arts. Of recent times, however, I feel an odd, compelling attraction towards graphic design and illustration.

It is like finding a niche beyond the silver screen of this cyberworld, this act of poring over graphic designs produced by so many talented individuals1. It isn't merely their art, per se, that I am mesmerized by; it is the way they combine elements of type, pictures, and minimal words that ultimately ensnares me. It is one thing to be able to draw, but it is another to complete an illustration (either a book cover, poster, cards) that beckons people to it.

At the expense of sounding like a braggart, I must say that I have an eye for all things aesthetically pleasing. I, for example, take delight in driving around Kuala Lumpur with my dear Pok Chu and passing judgments on buildings upon buildings--new and old, contemporary or conventional, modern or not. This acumen I carry with me as I take in different forms of interior decorations and bag awesome finds in the fashion department. (Note that although I do not pride myself as a fashionista of some sort, I do maintain a certain level of acceptable fashion sense, I hope).

The same applies to the neo-art I take interest in now. My eyes--like a hawk's--quickly find works that work; my heart leaps with awe over the splendor; but my non-existent skills simply can't emulate. Yes, I will never be quite the artist, neither with my bare hands nor the help of softwares. As such, The Complete Crappopolis2 is a testament to my sans talent.

But we can all dream, can't we? In the meantime, let me continue my sojourn into the world of graphic novels3 and my established habit of stalking illustration blogs.

1 See Perempuan Jomblo, Emilia's Illustrated Blog and Saharil Conteng.

2 My ugly (but fun) spin-off from Marjane Satrapi's The Complete Persepolis (Completed Winter 2008, for HUMA 141, Reading Cultures).

3 For those who, like me, wish to delve into graphic novels, I highly recommend Palestine by Joe Sacco, Alison Bechdel's Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic and Satrapi's other works.

New PM, Bring Us No PMS

On the other side of the world,  I am a passive Malaysian youngster who watches by the sidelines, stories--some that makes her tiny Malaysian ass flare with pride, but mostly crap that sends her cringing--of her nation. I blatantly proclaim I know peanuts to put my two cents worth on the circus of a political scene we have in that country, but I do see enough revolt in its people to know there is urgent need for a changed Malaysia.

Like other Malaysians watching Dato' Seri Mohd. Najib bin Abdul Razak being sworn in as the sixth PM, I can only pray he does us, the people, some good. The foreign media have been having a field time taking stabs at the laughable (and dire) administration of Malaysia; so please, let us have the last laugh. A PM for the new times hopefully means a new hope, a more just governance and happier rakyat. As you frame your 100 first days, I will be waiting, alongside 25 million others and the stage that is the world, watching. 

Eulogy for the Double Eyes

By twist of fate, my life has become intertwined with many individuals who carry the acronym double I. A minutia of my life you couldn't be bothered with, perhaps; but one that brings me a sense of awe over the lucent coincidence that takes form in many lives (namely mine). I take the liberty of coining my own affectionate term for these five people I am sharing/have shared paths with: double eye.


Each double eye, to me, is important and certainly unique in their own right. Notwithstanding my use of eulogy in the title, they are all, alive and healthy, I hope. To say this is a curt tribute to them would not be apt, since two I do not know well enough to be given the privilege to trespass their lives. Instead, let this be my way of reaching out and saying hello to each of them, wherever they are, whatever they're doing.

Meet double eye #1, mother of mine. It is in fact, from reading my mom's recent letter that I am reminded of the especial double eyes I know in my life. On the subject of my mother, I rejoice her re-entry into the world of writing, her re-route to the passage of powerful words and her re-assertion of her two cents upfront. Although I was fed with animated accounts of her adventurous days serving in the media force, I could never truly feel pride of having had a journalist for a mother because my image of her were tainted with a crumbling, depressed one.

I reckon it is my gain on perspective and maturity, and increasing interest in a field that once belonged to her that I now see a side of my mother that merits reverence if not admiration. Yes, now the wheels are turning for me and for her both; her gears moving backward, and mine, forward. Now I see there is a long journey ahead of me until I can dream of becoming half as good a writer as she. Her comments are cogent, her passages, succinct, and her flair certainly apparent. Now, now I am appreciative of her and the inevitable attraction to words that she has borne me with; though again, I can only try.

Double eye #2 not only shares a very similar name as my mother, but also the prowess in prose. It is by sheer coincidence that I chanced upon this young lad's blog, and certainly even better fortune that I have gotten fairly acquainted with him. Perpetually writing captivating stories, insightful verses, and amusing anecdotes that never fails to bring a smile to my face, he is truly something else. A thousand miles between us, we are connected only by the miracles of the blogosphere and facebook; yet my instinct tells me he has a beautiful persona inside out. I may or may not get to know this friend much better; but what is sure is that his cleverly-spun stories will be something I'll hold on to for as long as he continues to pen and touch the lives of many others.

One of my closest friends happens to be double eye #3. Living in a boarding school does this to you: it takes you fresh and naive, lends you time to meet talented individuals from all walks of life (and learn something from each and everyone of them), and leaves you with a canon of friends, but only a handful of good friends you want to keep for life. Rest assured--as attested by the four years out of high school that our friendship has prevailed and in fact strengthened to the point of no return--that she is definitely for keeps. She has been one of my partners in crime (read: gossiping), my keeper of secrets and my safe choice for a day out, and always will be.

Double eye #4 is technically a triple I, but the notion of sets in mathematics would bring you to my logic that Idazureen Ismas Ismail belongs in the subset of double eyes. Ida is a girl whom I've seen blossomed so much over the past years. She is caring, sweet, and bright, a down-to-earth girl who is always there, like a tattoo on your arm. I say tattoo because sometimes you just forget that it is there, but it's always faithfully there, leaping to your attention when there is a need. And that is Ida for although we do not keep in touch as often as we ought to, she is one I'd turn to for some things personal, and vice versa. I wish you happiness every step along the way, love.

I sadly express here that there seems to be an unwanted hiatus (as friction may be too harsh a term) on my friendship with double eye #5. Or at least, that is how it feels on my part. As I thread on this (apparently) unsteady grounds of the 3 year friendship we have built, I accord some of our meaningful conversations to his being a good listener and possessing mature opinions. And I thank him for that. A brother to me in many ways, I am optimistic that he will come around. Eventually.

Who knows how many more double eyes I'll come across in the near future? Perhaps none, leaving me with these five to cherish, perhaps more than a dozen. For me, it is a haunting need and satisfying effort to take a step back and ponder about the different people you meet and see how their presence touches your life. Celebrate life and all it's glory in fate, kismet and coincidences we should.