A kidnapping incident and the power of caring

A facebook note that has been shared a couple of thousand times a few days back caught my eye and arrested my attention. It was yet another kidnapping incident in Malaysia. Fortunately, the victim had a narrow escape. Her courage and quick thinking allowed her to live another day and stand as witness to Malaysia's tragic state of affairs. Her testimony stirred the hearts of many Malaysians. The people's emotions were evoked. Many teared at the story of her close encounter. Many cried, imagining that it could be them, their sister, daughter or mother in her shoes instead. But above all, many people cried for their country they were born and raised in - and what it has became of it.

Back in the 1980s and 90s, we could hop on our bicycles, pedal to the local park, unchaperoned by our parents to hang out with the neighborhood gang. I remember the ice cream man with his bicycle would always swing by. We anticipated his arrival by the familiar ice cream song coming out of his speakers. When I was older, I would walk my dog to the park and together we would watch my brother play soccer. My brother always asked me to remove the dog because my dog's excited state watching the ball being kicked around, would scare the other kids. My dog, being a retriever, loved to retrieved balls. Naturally, he was excited.

It was hard to say when the crowds in the playgrounds dwindled to a mere trickle. The decline was gradual, like the change in seasons. I don’t just blame the technology. If I were the parents, I would rather my children inside, with their eyes glued to the telly and risking diabetes, rather than risking abduction and rape, when unaccompanied out in the playgrounds. Unfortunately, this is the country's current state of affairs.

Malaysia has hit the heartbreaking point where violent crime has almost become a passing, unremarkable story in the daily newspaper. Every month, a new case is reported – missing child, girl raped, man slashed by a machete. These days, I cannot walk the streets where I'm not  vigilantly inspecting my surroundings. A foreigner might mistakenly admire my curiosity of the world I'm living in. But in reality,  I'm on the alert for the low bass hums  from the exhaust of a motorcycle; On the lookout for a potential white van; A group of shady looking men; Or these days, even an old, fragile woman. I ensure that my car is parked near the entrance door when in the basement of a shopping center or, at least not in a dimly lit area. I do not sling a bag across my shoulders, lest a thief on a motorcycle grabs the bag, and me, along with the bag. When I dish out safety advice to my foreign female friends, they think I'm exaggerating the danger and I'm being overly cautious.

But one can never be too cautious in Malaysia. In the past decade, I've had a close shave with a snatch thief on a motorcycle. Fortunately, I also had a narrow escape. My mother was held at knife point, bag and wallet stolen and subsequently pushed into a deep drain. Her ankle was broken and was on crutches for three months. My adjacent neighbour's grandpa's pants pocket was professionally and swiftly slashed by a machete, not-so-coincidentally revealing a thick wad of cash. They trailed his car all the way from the bank. It was the Chinese new year festival. The cash was to be inserted into red packets for his grandchildren. Instead, it landed in the hands of unscrupulous monsters. My house was broken into a few months ago. The entire house was ransacked and most things of value were stolen. My father said break-ins are bound to happen, sooner or later and we were lucky that no one was home at that time. I agree and like how he views a situation with a glass half full. On the flip side, it's sad, that we have resorted to toasting our champagne glasses despite the huge damage done and consider the lack of physical harm, good luck.

 And these are just a few stories, of what comprise of "normal lar" stories in Malaysia. I must admit that I do not live in constant conscious fear in Malaysia, but in some way, out of necessity, I have become  semi-consciously fearful. I ask myself: am I truly living or surviving?

Before my recent trip to China, some of my friends gasped at me with huge eyes and said, “It’s not safe. You’ll get kidnapped. Your organs will be sold in the black market.” I can guarantee you that China is much safer than Malaysia (unless you are a political activist, perhaps). Once I saw a piece of evening news on the Chinese telly, in which a police interview took place. The spotlight was on an 18-year old unemployed boy who was recently arrested. He apparently broke into a house. Unfortunately for him, the house owners came home in the nick of time while he was performing the deed. Struck with fear, he deadlocked the front door from the inside and called the cops. The police officers asked him why did he turn himself in. In between tears, he said that he rather face prison than the beatings of the neighbors. House break-ins are extremely frowned upon in China, almost equated to murder. The neighbours will possibly beat you up, break your ribs and the police will pat them on the back for it.

This piece of news, gave me a few insights. Firstly, break-ins must be few and far in between (at least, less than in Malaysia) as its able to make the news headlines. Secondly, this news was used a example by the police to deter other youngsters from committing similar crimes. It proved how diligent the police officers were in trying to eradicate petty crime (I know I'm probably generalizing here, because there are instances where it shows otherwise). Third, it was just slightly over a decade ago since my first my trip to China. I remembered the poverty. How many were living in what seemed like unfathomable conditions. Little sheds with aluminum roofing and hay as incubators from the sub-zero temperatures. The land fertilized with human feces. The number of children beggars with dirt on their faces. I vividly remember the fruits at the local grocer - nicely stacked in a basket, black and rotting.. Yet, they were being sold. Although I was young, I realized that they were still being sold because this was probably as good as it got for many of them. Rotting fruit was better than no fruit. What I'm saying is that just over 10 years ago, China was so under-developed in comparison with Malaysia, yet today, I can personally say, is in many ways safer than Malaysia is today.

There's also a second part to the kidnapping story that I have not mentioned. The victim wrote that she was extremely thankful for the people who ran out of the car to help her.

"Strangers who didn't know who I was, came forward and offered me tissue paper, water, cellphones, and general comfort.Malaysians, please care for one another. You already do. Just keep on caring. Keep watching out for each other. Don't worry about being thought of as "busy body" or "overreacting". The world can be a cruel place, but all it takes is for people to care for one another to make all the difference."

This is a call of action to all of us. We should care enough to send smses to female friends who drive home alone late in the night, asking them if they have arrived home safely. Male friends should care enough to accompany their female friends to their cars. Or perhaps, drive them when possible. Large business owners should care enough to install extra CCTVs, lighting and hire more security guards for the parking lots. We should care enough to thank police officers, when a job is well done or even offer them a smile. Because we know that mere salary does not equate to job satisfaction, but appreciation can add a mile to job fulfillment. Parents should care enough to provide the love, support and education that a child requires, in hopes they grow up to be good citizens. The government should care enough to install more CCTVs on the public streets.

And very importantly, we should care enough, to be politically aware and cast our votes during elections to keep our politicians on their feet. When governments fear their people, there is liberty.

I'm not a huge optimist but I do believe small changes do go a long way. Sikit sikit lama jadi bukit.

top 10 food choices

Yesterday I was thinking if I had a choice to live off only 10 types of food for the rest of my life, what would they be? Not very deep thoughts, I know. But still....

Here goes:
1. Beef
2. Wild salmon
3. Spinach
4. Avocado
5. Olives
6. Cheddar cheese
7. Chocolate
8. Coffee
9. Broccoli
10. Oysters

When I was 10: New neighbours

That year was a year of significant change in my life. I not only moved schools that year but my family also moved houses. New houses meant new neighbours. Our left door neighbour had a daughter who was coincidentally the same age as me. We coincidentally went to the same school and was supposed to be in the same class that year (that is till I moved schools that year).

I clearly remembered my first encounter with her. I was playing in our house compound, running barefoot with mud between my toes when I saw her over the fence. My parents nudged me to say hi. I went over and we introduced ourselves.She said her name was Yvonne. She then invited me over to her house to play. I told her, I'll ask permission first. My mum said I shouldn't go over because I was muddy and dirty. She suggested that I invited her over to our backyard instead. She declined the invite. Perhaps she didn't quite like the outdoors or perhaps because I declined hers first. I still do not know.

But that was my first and last encounter with her. I never really saw her again after that. I heard that she became a doctor.

For the life she lived

Note: This was written a while back
 
Not remembered for her death but for the life she lived. That was how Prince William and Harry wanted their mum to be remembered.

Death. Still a taboo word in most societies. I dare not mention her name anymore. It was as if her existence was wiped out from our memories. I cant quite remember how she looked like. I was probably a little too young back then. But i clearly remember her presence. I remember how she gave me a tiny gold bracelet. I thought it was the prettiest thing i ever seen in my life because it glimmered in the light and its refine detail made it seemed fitting for an angel. And my last gift from her a boardgame. I was probably 6 years old back then. The day i received the gift was the last time i ever saw her. If i knew her candle would have stopped burning then, I would have savoured every moment spent with her. But i remember her not for her death but for her life. So i try to capture every fading memory I have of her and jot them down in words.

Yesterday in cell group, we had a session where we would write an obituary for ourselves. It was kinda freaky at first. Something our grandparents would disapprove. But, it really made us ponder on what we would want to be remembered for - a billionaire, the first person who stepped on Mars, a peacemaker, a person with integrity, a person who gave his 110%, a person who loved unconditionally, a person who walked the footsteps of Christ. I once read this in a book - "Imagine you were lying in a coffin and all your close friends and family were at your burial ceremony. What would they have said in their speeches? What would you have wanted them to say?"

When I was 10: the pork buns

My tummy was grumbling. It was recess time and I removed the lid off my lunchbox. I was excited because everyday a different food item was packed for me. Today, two white fluffy buns stared back at me. Char siew bao (roasted pork bun) - one of my favourite snacks in the world. The pork meat was succulent and coated with a dark sweet and salty sauce. There was a slice crunch from the condiments. And the bread was soft like fairy floss. As I about to grab one, a friend peered into my container and quickly shot a look at me. Her eyes were wide open, like I had a broken human finger in there or something.

"You can't eat cha siew bao in school. You cannot eat them in front of Muslims," she said.

That revelation was completely new to me. I never knew Muslims could not eat pork. I was not told in my old school. My family certainly didn't warn me. Did they even know? If they knew, why would they pack pork buns in my lunchbox then?  I was extremely embarrassed and pushed it aside. I can't seem to recall whether I actually ate the buns that morning or suffered through my hunger.

In my old school, we had only a few Muslim kids and one Muslim teacher in my year. Because Muslims were such a small minority, most of us were oblivious to the Muslim rules and practices.

One other time, I undid my bottle cap to drink water in class. As I swallowed down my first few sips, a Malay girl, who had short curly hair and round silver glasses, sitting right behind me told me, "You're so rude. You shouldn't drink water in front of Malays (who are Muslims) during Puasa (fasting) period."

I was in disbelief and shocked. I didn't even know what Puasa meant. I think I went home that day asking my parents what Puasa was and why couldn't I drink water in front of them.  My parents explained the situation and that day was the last time I performed that "rude" act.

When I was 10: the new kid (part I)

"You will be going to a public school from next year onwards," my dad told me during one school holiday.

"What? Why? I don't have any friends in the new school. And all our neighbour's kids go to my current school. I'm suppose to be in the same class next year as our neighbour's kid," I replied with a petrified look.

My dad gave his explanations and the paper work has been done. There was no turning back. That school break was spend buying new set of school uniforms and in dread of the year to come.

Finally, the first day of school arrived and I was placed somewhere in the middle of the class. I was extremely quiet that year. I only spoke if spoken to. I tried to hold my pee in as much as I could because I didn't know how to excuse myself to the toilet in the native language, Malay. I was unfamiliar with the language and the culture. The kids were playing games that I've never played nor seen before. One game was called "tiang" (pole). Till today, I'm uncertain about how to play the game. But I think, its something like musical chairs. There were poles supporting our corridors leading from the classrooms to the main area of the school. So five girls would be playing the game, but only four poles were available. At the count of three, everybody had to switch poles.

Another game the girls played were "batu seremban" (5 stones). It resembled mini beanbags that could be fitted in the palm of your hand. Mini pouches were hand-sewn together and filled with rice. You would then, throw one in the air, while catching the rest. There were various stages involved in the game. I was an initial observer, soon participated and got pretty good in the game. I even made my own 5 stones.

At one stage, all the classes took a sudden interest in animals. I was placed in the second class. The second class took an interest in tadpoles. The first class were busy catching ladybirds from the school garden. The third class...hm...I can't seem to recall. Tadpoles were an interesting lot. I recalled their transformation from little wriggly fishes lookalikes, to seeing them sprout tiny legs and watching their overnight transformation to tiny frogs. We always let them go before they got too big and ugly.

And of course, we played "getah" (literally translated as rubber). Much to his surprise, I asked my dad to get me a large packet of rubber bands from the local supermarket. The rubber bands would be looped together (sometimes two rubbers per loop to strengthen the bond) to form some sort of elastic skipping rope. The game is played as such: We were divided into two teams and two people from the opposing team would hold up the rope between them. First the rope was held right up to their ankles. The team members would then all have to jump across without touching the rope. Next, the rope will be up to the hips. Everyone jumps across. Next, its up to the waist. Everyone has to jump across, but we can touch the rope. The next measurement was the underarm, the shoulder, below the ear, the head, and the last one would be, one hand above the head. Most people were very flexible and skinny back then. That coupled with our lack of fear for falling made us superheros. Our legs would defy gravity and go above our heads and across the rope.

At one season, the entire class took an interest in hopscotch. The moment the recess bell rung, all of us ran out like madmen into the sun and onto the sand. We would take sticks and start drawing boxes in the sand. One of us would find a pebble and start the game.

That year, recess was playtime rather than a time to eat and chat. No wonder most of us were scrawny. But nonetheless, we were happy. Some of my good friends till today were in my class that year. You play together, you stick together.

When I was 4: Dumbo

My favourite cartoon as a young child was Dumbo. I would watch it a few times a day, from start to finish, rewind, and press play again. My mum said, because of my addiction to Dumbo, I was an easy child to look after. Pop in Dumbo and I can be left alone unsupervised. I suppose that a lot of our character traits have been developed since a young child. I know that if I like a certain thing/project, I'll be able to work on it hours on end, with full concentration. I've sat down and work on certain projects for 12 hours straight before (with just a few toilet breaks) But give me something too mundane or not to my liking, I'll find it hard to focus for even a mere half hour. Unfortunately, life doesn't just present us with cake, chocolate and everything sweet. Sometimes, lemons are thrown in the mix, just so we will never forget and take for granted what sweetness taste like. With that being said, I'm still learning how to deal with the lemons.

Recently I've come up with an analogy about "life". I've always enjoyed hiking. It's one of my greatest passions and I always feel very much alive when I'm out in nature and on a hike, conquering mountains. I try to look at life as one big hike. There will be times where I'll be asking, "Why am I doing this torturous exercise when I could be sipping lattes at a cafe?" and at times, I just want to give up, turn back and go home. But over the course of the hike, I stop, look around me and admire the breathtaking view and our Creator that painted that view. The most satisfying part comes when we finally arrive at the peak. I'll have a huge grin on my face, knowing that the journey accompanied by cuts and bruises and sometimes, threats from wild animals is worth it. I guess, life should be like a big hike. I will have down times and up times, but at the end of the finish line, I want to have that sense of satisfaction and contentment that it was a journey worth going on and a hike well done.

Touching Australian soil

Finally, I managed to send off whatever I needed to do. The last 16 hours have been torturous but it's all worth it, cause now, at 2 am, I just need to pack my bags, cook, clean the house, shower, find myself a cab, drag myself through the airport terminal and slum in one of the passenger seats. I don't think I'll be a very interesting nor chatty passenger companion tomorrow. But I do need my shut-eye!

It's been one year since I've left Australian soil and I cannot wait to head back, breathe the fresh air, run around Alexander Gardens, let grains of St Kilda beach sand run through my fingers, go penguin spotting at the pier, climb the thousand steps at the Dandenong ranges and best of all, spend Easter with my loved ones and friends.

People say you don't know what you missed till its gone. I think sometimes you won't know what you've miss till you're back.

Conflicts

The past few days have been pretty emotionally draining for me. By nature, I’m not a very confrontational person. If I was upset with a friend or a close one, I will ponder upon it for days, months and sometimes years. Nowadays, I would try to firstly ask myself, whether I, objectively speaking, had a part to blame or whether I blowing the entire thing out of proportion. After my somewhat objective analysis, then I’ll perhaps confront the person if its worth the cause.

This week, I’ve encountered a conflict with a friend, discussed past conflicts that I had with another old friend and also listened to a story about conflicts between a different friend and her partner. So when I try to analyze all three scenarios, I summarize that the conflicts are caused by two main reasons: unmet expectations and clash in values.

Everyone has his or her own strength and weaknesses. Perhaps, you may be a good listener but your friend is not. Then, you wonder why is that person so selfish? Why does he/she only talk about himself/herself as if the world revolves around that person? But perhaps listening is not one of their strengths or if you look at it in a positive light, perhaps they like ranting out to you because they are comfortable with you, that’s why their problems always end up being the table topic. Or perhaps, a person is not good at maintaining friendships. Maybe for that person, friendships, like the seasons in a year, work in cycles. I used to hold close to my heart who I believe are my close friends. So I used to get really affected if they don’t keep in contact as often as they should. But I’ve let that expectation go. I realized that everybody is busy with their lives and I bask in the happy memories and lessons I’ve drawn from having them once in my life.

What I’ve learnt from all my reflection is to not be so affected by people’s shortcomings. What they lack in some areas, they make up in others. At the end of the day, it’s their strengths in the other areas that drew me close to them in the first place. And perhaps, their strengths are my weaknesses. If I had to really sum up all my lessons in one word, its “grace”. When we were young, we were naïve and believe all was good in this world. Then, we realized the world is not all rainbows and butterflies. Then the real test of maturity arrives, when we realize that the world can be ugly but we still choose to practice “grace” and believe the best in everyone. This test is what I call the test of adulthood.

On Candles

Every now and then I meet someone who would leave an impression on my life and even when we only had a brief encounter, that person would unknowingly change me a little. And that person does not necessarily have to be someone I’m close to. I might not even know their last name. It could be the way they carry themselves or the way she bites her lips as she carefully ponders the next question or the way he seem to ask the right questions at the most opportune time. It seems like they have this insight to a whole new world that I’ve never seen before and so I’m drawn to what I call their “x factor”. Once in a while I think about these people who have marked my life and I wonder whether they are doing okay. I wonder whether are still carrying that light in them and unconsciously lighting the candles of others as they did mine.

Formidable place

One of my worst days last year happened when I was sitting on a cold leathery chair for five hours. Although the incident happened over half a year ago, I still clearly remember the smell of metal, burning flesh and gushing blood. I remember the sound of the drill. The bright light in my eyes. The whispers of uncertainty and curiosity in the room was almost drowned by the shouts of fear in my heart. Above all, I remember the sickly clinical smell of anesthesia.

I haven't been back to that place. But today, I suddenly recalled that dreadful day because I might, against my will, need to re-experience that day.

I was at the dentist attempting to remove my left bottom wisdom tooth. The dentist had injected the gums at the back of my mouth with anesthetic. We then watched the clock tick. 20 minutes passed, and another large syringe entered my mouth. Nothing I couldn't handle. It was a little more than an ant bite. We then spoke and exchange stories. She has been in practice for over 20 years, she told me. Countless wisdom teeth have been yanked at the mercy of her hands. Another half hour passed. She poked around my left cheek and asked if I felt anything. Nothing I said. What about here, she asked as she touched my lips. I said, I felt nothing. Great, she said. Let's begin. She clapped her hands in glee and grabbed her electric saw. Her shadow overcast my slumped body in the chair. But no, I still wasn't scared. I told myself that at any moment in this world, someone else would have their wisdom tooth being removed too.

My tooth was half impacted - that means she had to cut through my gums before she could yank out that unnecessary part of me (which reminds me that I need to ask God why humans are given useless appendixes). I could smell my own blood and burnt flesh. Hmm...yummy, bloody saliva. But all was still good, no pain.

Finally, the sawing has been done. My flesh was ripped. It's down to business. The dentist took out what looked like a miniature metal spade. Similar to forcing the roots of weeds out of soil, the tool is used to force teeth out of gums. She started exerting a little pressure when I suddenly felt pain. I told her to stop and I told her that I felt pain. It can't be, she said. Your gums are numb. I know, I said. It's illogical but I do feel pain. Perhaps its psychological. Just continue, I told her. So she continued. I then screamed, grabbed her hand and told her to stop.

No, it's nerve pain. My tooth is not numb at all. Definitely not pain from pressure.

It can't be, she said.

Then another anesthetic needle was injected. 30 minutes later, she continued her work. But I still felt the pain.

A more senior dentist came in to intervene. She picked a small tool with a metal end as thin as a toothpick. Can you feel this, she asked as she gently tapped my wisdom tooth. I jumped because it hurt. If you were numbed, you couldn't havent felt that she said.

Finally, she said, sew her gums back up.

I'm sorry, we don't know what went wrong. We can't help you here, we have to refer you to a more experienced specialist. We have done this work for over 20 years and have never seen such a case.

So, my gums were stitched up and like a child, unwilling to remove his face from behind his mother's skirt, my tooth remained.


Unfortunately, where I'm living now, GA is not allowed for normal dentist work. I don't think I can bear going through the experience of using LA once again. But I still have to get my wisdom tooth out as it has been causing me problems. So I might try getting them removed under IV sedation.

I read up on reasons why local anesthetic might not work and a few reasons were cited over the net:
1. Poor technique (although I doubt that this was the case because my dentist waited for a reasonably long period before attempting to remove the tooth. Also, my left side was numb all the way till the middle of my lips)
2. Anatomical Variation -that means, "you have some unusual nerve connections which mean that extra nerves supply the feeling for the tooth"
3. Raging infection - I didn't have any infection at that time
4. Anxiety - Perhaps, that's the reason.

Here's are links for failed anesthesia if anyone is interested:
http://www.nature.com/bdj/journal/v186/n1/full/4800006a.html
http://www.dentalfearcentral.org/fears/not-numb/#ehlers-danlos

2012 New Year Resolution

I've been doing resolutions as far back as I can remember. January has always been the month of excitement. Everyone anticipates a fresh start. Everybody is filled with hope that this year will be a year of success. But how do you measure success if you don't have a goal to begin with. So that's where resolutions come into the picture.

But this year, I started becoming more intentional with my resolutions. Before that, I used to have a list of about 10 items on my resolution sheet. Be more punctual, be fitter, run more often, read at least 12 book a year. But then I hardly ever achieve my resolutions, simply because many of them are written without any strategies in mind or in the grand scheme of things, many of them (like read 12 books a year) is not really that important.

I think resolutions should be called goals. Goals are less flimsy and more intentional. To have a goal is to have an aim. Resolutions is more of a list of what you should or should not do. There's no real aim.

I also believe that your yearly goal should fit somewhere within your life plan. If your life plan is to be financially free by 45, fit enough to run 10 km at any given moment, have a good relationship with your family and friends, have a business, own a house etc, then your resolutions for the year should align with your life plan. Your yearly goal should also be accompanied with strategies and a list of potential barriers.

So this year, instead of having a million different resolutions, I have only 4 resolutions (goals). This covers career, fitness, my own business and improving my Chinese language skills. The fewer goals, the better it is I say.

One of my overall strategies is to organize my life a bit better. I realized that been disorganized has caused me a lot of unnecessary stress. I started with my e-mail. I have a lot of unread mail in my inbox. The first thing I did was to archive everything. I then re-organized my labels and ensured that nothing ever stayed in my inbox. E-mails were either replied or sorted. E-mails that I left to reply later would be starred. If I don't reply within a week, I probably won't be bothered after that, hence it will be taken out of inbox into another folder or discarded.

I'm also measuring progress by jotting down many aspects of my life. I'm going to start keeping a food diary where I write down whatever I eat. Since middle last year, I've kept a fitness journal where I wrote down every workout routine I've done (including weight, reps and timing). I am also writing down whatever I do during a day, how much I weight and my body fat % (if and when measured). I estimate that this will take about 30 minutes of my time in a day but I think it will be worth it.

When I was 4: Honey stars

I am able to recall many moments of my early childhood. I always assumed that this was a normal phenomenon, only to realise that many don't recall much of their early years. I don't believe that I have a special ability or memory. I'm able to because every so often, when I'm unable to fall into the slumbers of sleep, I play a game with myself - I force myself to recall memories of my life, starting from my earliest memories. I believe that earliest memory I can recall is probably when I was 18 months old. So I'm starting a new series on my blog called: "when I was".

I've always been called butterfingers since I was young. I guess I deserved that title. Meal after meal, I'll tell myself, "Don't drop it. For once, don't drop it." But it always happened. I always spilled my rice, milk, cereal, you name it. Once, I was eating a bowl of cereals. I don't remember the name of the cereal. But it was golden in colour, shaped like stars and tasted sweet, like it was coated with honey. (Perhaps it was called, honey stars?) I remember it being yummy and I was in euphoria. But my euphoria moment didn't last long, before I knew it, I was sent into the fast-speed elevator and descended back onto earth. I had dropped the entire bowl of honey stars cereal. Unlike Van Gogh who painted the sky with stars above Cafe Terrace, I painted the carpet of the apartment with my stars.

O no. Big blunder. I would be scolded for sure. Lucky for me, being a lactose-intolerant baby, the cereal was dry. Otherwise, I might not be here to write this entry. Anyway, having grown a long white beard, I twirled it with my right index finger and in my infinite wisdom, came up with a brilliant thought, "I shall hide the cereal under the beanbag. No one would know. After all, it could have been anybody in this household."

So I did just that. I dragged the beanbag across the hallway and placed it on top the evidence. Problem solved.

A few days later, my mum discovered the evidence. "Who did this?" she asked. I kept quiet. After all, my brilliant coverup had no loopholes in it.

Little did I know, I was the only one in the household who ate honey stars.

When I was 4: Ribena

I am able to recall many moments of my early childhood. I always assumed that this was a normal phenomenon, only to realise that many don't recall much of their early years. I don't believe that I have a special ability or memory. I'm able to because every so often, when I'm unable to fall into the slumbers of sleep, I play a game with myself - I force myself to recall memories of my life, starting from my earliest memories. I believe that earliest memory I can recall is probably when I was 18 months old. So I'm starting a new series on my blog called: "when I was".

I've always loved cooking and having high teas from a very young age. But tea wasn't tea when you were 4. 4 year old children sip air from plastic cups and cooked plastic pasta on stoves without heat. Still, it was fun all the same.

I was having one of usual play dates with my father, cooking and eating plastic food with plastic cutlery on plastic pans and plates.

"Can I have ribena please?" I asked my dad.

"Sure. Here you go!" he said as he handed me over a purple cup.

"hahaha!" I laughed and squealed. "No, I mean the real ribena!" I said.

"It's real ribena!" he said as he continued holding out the cup.

"No, no, no!" I laughed till my sides hurt because the 4 year old me found it hilarious that I couldn't quite explain what real ribena was.

It is weird that I'll still find it funny today? =)

When I was 4: Life

I am able to recall many moments of my early childhood. I always assumed that this was a normal phenomenon, only to realise that many don't recall much of their early years. I don't believe that I have a special ability or memory. I'm able to because every so often, when I'm unable to fall into the slumbers of sleep, I play a game with myself - I force myself to recall memories of my life, starting from my earliest memories. I believe that earliest memory I can recall is probably when I was 18 months old. So I'm starting a new series on my blog called: "when I was".

My first brush with death was my dead fish that jumped to its death from an ice cream container. Earlier that night, my family and I were dining at our usual Chinese restaurant. We were usual patrons there and I remember that we always received a warm reception from the staff there. I guess the head waiter/manager must have liked me or perhaps, it was a seasonal gift, but I was presented with a tiny fish in a tied up plastic bag. It was my first "pet". That night, we (or rather one of my parents) untied the bag and placed the fish in an empty ice cream container. Later, before bedtime, I went to check on my pet fish but found it lying limp on the carpeted floor. It must have jumped out, my dad said.

When I was 18 months old

I am able to recall many moments of my early childhood. I always assumed that this was a normal phenomenon, only to realise that many don't recall much of their early years. I don't believe that I have a special ability or memory. I'm able to because every so often, when I'm unable to fall into the slumbers of sleep, I play a game with myself - I force myself to recall memories of my life, starting from my earliest memories. I believe that earliest memory I can recall is probably when I was 18 months old. So I'm starting a new series on my blog called: "when I was".

I don't recall too much of my 1.5 year life. I have only two mental snapshots of that period in my short life. The first snapshot was in Mt Buller, Victoria, Australia. My extended family were up in the mountains for a ski trip. I was obviously too young to ski. All I remember was the dark sky with heavy snow. I remember it being cold and gloomy, with a wooden signboard in front of me. We must be standing in front of a restaurant or a hotel.

My second memory is being in Singapore. I remember being on an escalator in a shopping centre in Singapore. I remember that my parents had bought a large Mercedes toy car for me, one that I could sit in and pretend I was legal to drive. It came equipped with batteries and pedals. All I can recall was my dad carrying the car (probably in the toy box) and the long escalator ride. Sometimes, when I'm gallivanting the shopping paradise island, I still find myself looking around, hoping for something to "click", to see whether I can recall the exact shopping center we were in, the long escalator engrained in my memory.

An evening adventure with a friend’s 4 year old child.

“Jesse, let’s catch some stars together!”

“Weee!!!” He bent his tiny knees and leaped like a little frog up into the sky. He had his arms spread open, reaching for the highest star he could.

I grabbed an invisible star and placed it in my mouth. “Yummy!” I exclaimed.

“What is yummy?”

“The stars are so yummy! I can taste…mmmm…chocolate and strawberries. What do you taste?”

He grabbed the wind and clutched his tiny fingers and brought them to his mouth. He opened and closed his mouth, grinded his teeth, made a chewing motion and licked his lips. He paused for one second like a little professor in deep thought. His eyes then lit up and he said, “I taste chocolate too! And strawberries. And ice cream. I love ice cream! I love stars!”

“Let’s grab more stars,” I said excitedly to him.

We ran along the pedestrian pathway and leaped up like little frogs. We leaped and leaped till we reached the moon. There, we sat by the pond covered by lotuses eating ice cream, chocolate and strawberry flavoured stars.

Mediocrity and procrastination

The room is full of shadows. The lonely fluorescent lamp had been flickering for the past six months but he hasn’t had it changed. It slowed down his reading and work progress because it made his eyes tired. But I can still read, he reasons.

The girl in the photo, 2007

I stared at the girl. I felt a slight notion of pain and envy. She had on a summery flowery top with frills at the bottom. She had a huge grin spread across her face. Her laughter seemed so genuine. Her eyes twinkled mischievously. She had messy locks and curls flowing from her head. A few strands of hair defying gravity, rebelled against her. Salty water and the gentle breeze touched her lips and tiny droplets hung on to her skin. The waves were up to the buckles of her knees. Part of her denim shorts were drenched in sea salt. She didn’t seem to mind. I saw white waves rolling in like froth on a cappuccino. I saw the clean blue sky speckled with flying seagulls. At the most front of the photo, there was the happy girl.

It was 2007. It was a time of happiness.

Snippets of my Asian Education - Part I, the Voiceless

She wasn’t very tall. She had a sturdy built. Hair up to the shoulders. A pair of round, gold glasses sat on the bridge of her nose. She always wore a conservative dress.

I haven’t spoken much to her before. After all, I was considered a quiet child. One who spoke little to others, what more to authorities.

You are lying, she said sternly to me. You know what they do to kids who lie, she asked me? I lowered my gaze and stared at my pristine white Velcro shoes. My mum always made sure my shoes were spotless. She continued, there’s a machine in the teacher’s staff room. They put lying kids in the chair and put the machine on their heads. We use that machine to tell whether you are lying or not.

I swallowed my saliva and tried to blink back tears. I said nothing. I didn’t know how to explain myself, aside from repeating the words, “I’m not lying.”

We took a class test a few days before. It was an easy test where we had to name parts of a snail in the Malay language. There were the eyes, the tail, the shell and the tentacles. Sesunggut it was called. Tentacles = sesunggut. With a double “g”. But back in the old days, like illustrated on the chart pasted at the back of the classroom wall, it was spelled with a single “g”.

Class, you may start the test. Remember not to cheat and not to look at the chart.

I scored almost a perfect score, except there was a problem. I spelled sesunggut with a single “g”, like in the chart.

She called me up front and called me a cheat. Why did you look at the chart? I didn’t, I said timidly. So why did you spell it similarly to the chart. I don’t know, I mumbled. So you cheated, she accused me.

I thought about it for a long time. Why did I spell it the similar way? It’s because I’m always at the back of the classroom where the chart is located when I drink my water or sharpen my pencils. I stare at the chart while doing it. I have somewhat a photographic memory. I must have memorized the chart.

But I couldn’t voice my thoughts. The words couldn’t and wouldn’t form in my mouth. I didn’t know how to form a rationale argumentative statement to state my case. Before her existence in my life, I’ve never been accused of anything I’ve never done before.

For the first time, the 7 year old me, with tears quietly streaming down my face, sat alone in the cafeteria and cried out to God.