tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-97762952024-03-13T19:30:40.465+00:00Kak Teh's Choc-a-Bloc BlogKak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.comBlogger416125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-54155548721697288072019-08-14T18:00:00.002+01:002019-08-19T17:50:14.077+01:00Goodbye Dato' Yunus - You will be terribly missed!<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OvweB4AWj74/XVQ94kszBnI/AAAAAAAAHGg/WpLW9S_NgicAYosCgoiXIckWCElyBXStwCLcBGAs/s1600/Dato%2527%2BYunus%2BRaiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OvweB4AWj74/XVQ94kszBnI/AAAAAAAAHGg/WpLW9S_NgicAYosCgoiXIckWCElyBXStwCLcBGAs/s320/Dato%2527%2BYunus%2BRaiss.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
EDUCATIONIST Datuk Yunus Raiss, 84, died on Sunday at University College Hospital here.<br />
<br />
Spending the last few weeks at his hospital bedside, I have learnt a lot more about the man who rose from being an illiterate 15-year-old from Batu Gajah, Perak, to a magistrate, principal and proprietor of Sels College, than I ever did in a friendship of almost 40 years.<br />
<br />
He was often described as “kind and generous” by those who knew and loved him as friend, mentor, father and grandfather.<br />
<br />
Always by his bedside, since he was admitted, were several Malaysian students — Ain, Nur Hayati as well as Dr Amalina Amir, who were among those he had taught English at Malaysia Hall every Friday evening. They took turns to take care of him with Yunus’ old friend, Ravi Pillai, who would stay there from morning until noon.<br />
<br />
The man, whose love for teaching knew no bounds, taught for free. The Malaysian students were not the only recipients of his generosity.<br />
When Amalina was nominated for the Schmidt Science Fellowship, she discovered Yunus slotted her in with students from Egypt, Syria and Italy.<br />
<br />
Several years ago, a Malaysian who was in London for a short course had the misfortune of being mugged. Yunus paid for his two-week stay at the Malaysia Hall plus food at the canteen.<br />
He always encouraged me to do more and even paid for my trip to Berlin to film an old manuscript for a documentary. He contributed a generous sum to a child who came here for a liver transplant.<br />
Being with Yunus, even outside the classroom, was always a learning experience. I remember meeting him on a bus to Cricklewood, north London.<br />
<br />
His observation was sharp — he brought to my attention the different languages being spoken by the passengers, which he said was like driving through different countries.<br />
Yunus lived by the motto, “Learning to learn to live to learn”. He was learning several languages.<br />
Last week, among the stream of visitors to his bedside was his Mandarin teacher. She had taught him for two years and was saddened by his sudden absence in May.<br />
<br />
She cried when her greeting, “<i>Ni hao ma</i>”, was replied with a weak “<i>Hao</i>”. I took the cue and said, “Datuk, <i>wa ai ni</i>”, to which he smiled and replied, “<i>Wa ai ni”</i>.<br />
He spoke Tamil to his relatives who visited from afar, and impressed fellow patients and hospital staff with his English.<br />
When he woke up from his painkiller-induced sleep, we spoke about theatres and restaurants — two of his favourite subjects.<br />
<br />
Once, Leo Hamburger, who has known Yunus since he was a toddler, mentioned several favourite plays of Yunus and the latter responded by saying “Covent Garden!” — a place he held dear perhaps because this was where his school for English was located.<br />
<br />
When we mentioned food, he demanded that the phone be given to him.<br />
“Who are you calling at 1am, Yunus?” Leo wanted to know.<br />
“The Punjab — take away,” he said, jabbing at the screen.<br />
It was sad that in the last few years of his life, he was denied several of his favourite foods, having been put on a strict diet.<br />
He loved the Malaysia Hall canteen. His fear of flying meant he had not flown back to Malaysia for the past 20 years, so he religiously went to the Malaysia Hall canteen to get his fix of <i>mee rebus</i> and roti canai.<br />
<br />
“Malaysia Hall is home to me. Without Malaysia Hall, where would I go?” he said.<br />
Once, when the nurse told him off for eating melon as his sugar level was high, he looked despondent for a while. Then, he looked up and said, “Roti canai!”<br />
<br />
I promised him that I would bring some the next day, but he insisted I do so immediately. Thankfully, he fell asleep and I brought his favourite food the next day.<br />
<br />
Yunus believed in giving people a chance. When he couldn’t read or write, the tailor who was his first employer at the age of 15 gave him that chance he needed and sent him to evening classes.<br />
He was among Malayan teachers who went to Kirkby to be trained in 1954. Train tickets were already booked for him for a reunion of Kirkby-trained teachers at the end of the month. They were supposed to meet at where they were taught. He was supposed to read his poem, <i>Kirkby — A Many Splendoured Thing</i>, there.<br />
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Yunus will be remembered by all who knew him as the “Malay English gentleman” — always meticulously attired, with a hat, coat, muffler and a handkerchief, tucked in his pocket.<br />
“I have never seen him in anything but suits,” said his son, Alex Swan, who was by his bedside almost every day since learning about his deteriorating health.<br />
<br />
The presence of Alex and his wife, Sherry, during the last few weeks of his life meant so much to Yunus.<br />
<br />
Yunus may have left us, but he will live on in our memories. We will miss him dearly.<br />
<br />Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-23374292012913391972017-02-27T13:22:00.003+00:002017-02-27T13:24:39.660+00:00Love in the tropics: She was just 17, and I fell in love with her!<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“Well, she was just 17 and you know what I mean, and the way she looks…”so
goes the song by the Fab Four from Liverpool.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">
</span><span style="font-family: "arial";">It was the sixties, The Beatles and Cliff Richard were all the rave.</span><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial";">This song could have been written specially
for Sally and Malcolm Moore, the couple who met in the queue buying tickets for
the movie “Summer Holidays”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AMdeycrGeY4/WLQm2wOuhII/AAAAAAAAG_4/d-qcyaRDC_sWEFuYb4NALvVpIthuMaCzgCLcB/s1600/DSC_0137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AMdeycrGeY4/WLQm2wOuhII/AAAAAAAAG_4/d-qcyaRDC_sWEFuYb4NALvVpIthuMaCzgCLcB/s320/DSC_0137.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sally Lee Sing Neo was 17 going on 21 and Malcolm Moore was the good looking
soldier in uniform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You could almost
hear on cue, the theme song for a blockbuster movie - the one with lots of thorns
strewn along their path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smooth it
wasn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He was an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ang moh</i> and the
vivacious Methodist school girl came from a Peranakan family whose parents,
family members, aunts and uncles, would rally around at a flick of a fan, to lock
her up if possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was in 1962 in Malacca that they first set eyes on each other, they
told me almost in unison. And yes, it was love at first sight too, they
chorused, with Malcolm nodding in agreement with dates and events that Sally
narrated, her 72-year old eyes alive and dancing as memories flooded back when
we met in their cosy home in the village of Rossington in Doncaster recently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The living room of their smart detached house was decorated with
pictures; old and new, colour and black and white, Malaya and England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are memories of their life together
since their meeting on that fateful day at the Cathay cinema in Malacca.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Malcolm was a corporal with the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry (KOYLI),
when he was posted to Malacca at the age of 20. He is now 75.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o-tTWUZOslg/WLQnQFnzniI/AAAAAAAAHAE/MkdTPO4aTBA0xGQ3IhsaB8tDxv7em_0GQCK4B/s1600/sally.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o-tTWUZOslg/WLQnQFnzniI/AAAAAAAAHAE/MkdTPO4aTBA0xGQ3IhsaB8tDxv7em_0GQCK4B/s200/sally.jpg" width="142" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“When I saw her, I knew that she was the one,” said Malcolm, the tattoo
on his arms bearing a female name seemed to be a minor problem that he thought could
be erased in time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We started going out,” continued Sally whose escape plans involved
logistics, precision planning as well as physique and agility of a commando for
the attempts of rendezvous, given the opposition from family members.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I had to sneak out otherwise I would get into trouble,” explained
Sally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As was normal in a Peranakan family and extended family, Sally slept
with her cousin sisters in one room. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the two storey house, she would climb out
of the window when they were asleep and they would go somewhere in town or the
beach.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She soon exhausted all the well tried and tested reasons for staying out,
such as sleeping over at a friend’s place and soon enough family members found
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although no one was pointing
fingers at the brother who caught them kissing, it must have been quite a
relief that their trysts were discovered and their intentions to get married
could be discussed openly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">However, it was the threats that came first; especially from the uncle who
lived next door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“When he found out he forbade me from going out. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said they would not allow me to marry an
Englishman,” she added saying that she had to kneel in front of him while he
did the talking, warning her of the bleak outlook of life without rice in
England.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“He said I should try to eat potatoes for a month and being stubborn, I
said yes, I would,” she said laughingly, living up to her reputation as the
most stubborn and naughtiest member of the family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sally’s mother threatened to put her in a home
for naughty children and when that went unheeded, hit her with a broom when she
came back from an outing with Malcolm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“She said ‘Lu kasi malu gua' (you have embarrassed
me!)” hitting me as she said so. But I just walked past her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It wasn’t just the parents and family members who were set to stop the
marriage of the young couple. Marriage between soldiers and the locals were
frowned upon by the army.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Before a posting to Borneo, Malcolm proposed. Sally was interviewed by
the army and she was kept under surveillance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt;">To ask
for her hand, Malcolm had to see her parents and uncle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt;">It was not
unlike a job interview for Malcolm had had to answer a barrage of questions
from the uncle who asked whether Sally would be treated as a servant once they
were back in England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Malcolm said no
and he was made to promise that he would look after his young bride
to be.</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> <span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The happy couple married on 16th Nov 1963 and their son was later born in
May in Terendak Camp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RHR16Bt5SmE/WLQnt-A98gI/AAAAAAAAHAM/HF7QYxkwWgAq8CrxiUP45R8KrM4pmwIPQCK4B/s1600/DSC_0135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RHR16Bt5SmE/WLQnt-A98gI/AAAAAAAAHAM/HF7QYxkwWgAq8CrxiUP45R8KrM4pmwIPQCK4B/s320/DSC_0135.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It wasn’t
too long when Malcolm brought back his young family to England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sally recalled how unexpected it was with the
hugging and kissing from strangers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“The
weather was a shock. We arrived at the Brice Norton airport at six in the
morning. I didn’t have a coat and just a cardigan with a baby in my arms and I
was expecting another one. I was 18,” said Sally of the September weather,
adding that she used to cry in the nights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was missing her family AND rice. Her mother in law went out of the way to find rice
and curry, but it was one with fruit and raisins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But gradually she found friends who were in a similar situation having
uprooted themselves to be with their soldier husbands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sally was
lucky that in 1966 she was back in Malaysia <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as Malcolm was posted back to the same camp he
left two years before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sally then went
back as a British soldier’s wife.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H5YuHC8xxzw/WLQoAl-EDlI/AAAAAAAAHAc/LZ0-qyD4bQMYlAFKAb4D6UuJmUM18dt0wCK4B/s1600/DSC_0145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H5YuHC8xxzw/WLQoAl-EDlI/AAAAAAAAHAc/LZ0-qyD4bQMYlAFKAb4D6UuJmUM18dt0wCK4B/s320/DSC_0145.JPG" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She brought
her two small children to visit their grandparents and relatives and soon they
won the affection of the family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“After that
I could do no wrong in the eyes of the uncle,” quipped in Malcolm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When
Malcolm left the army in 1971, he worked as a mining welder and later went to
Hong Kong to work for a security firm as well as in the police force.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They lived in Hong Kong for 21 years before
coming back to Doncaster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="line number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="page number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of authorities"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="macro"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="toa heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Closing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
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Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-91485431604102118532017-02-23T21:02:00.004+00:002017-02-23T21:06:06.277+00:00Love in the tropics :A young soldier fell in love with a local lass and proposed everyday for over five years until she relented<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: arial;">Over the years, I have met
a lot of ex-servicemen from the British Army and spoken to them about their
experience in the jungles of Malaya; defending the country against the
communists and during the </span><i style="font-family: arial;">konfrantasi</i><span style="font-family: arial;">
with Indonesia.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Some brought back
wonderful memories of friendships which they still treasure, some still recite
the pantuns they learnt and memorized behind sandbags, and some brought back
wives to be their life long partners.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">With love in the air, this
being the month for Valentines, I went searching for some couples whose love
blossomed in the tropics to see how they have fared in the cooler climes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Suffice to say, I got more
than I bargained for; love stories that defied all odds and worth turning into
a Mills & Boons series. Who wouldn’t swoon listening to stories of undying
love of a young soldier for an 18 year old Chinese girl to whom he proposed
almost everyday until she relented years later, who wouldn’t cry reading
jottings of love from someone who couldn’t read or write to her soul mate who
saved her from a series of life’s misfortunes, who wouldn’t sympathise with the
lass who was beaten with a broom for going out with an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ang moh</i>!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, all for the
love of an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ang moh kui</i>, the red
haired devils in uniforms that set many hearts a flutter!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8tORIgwMthk/WK9MX8t3IGI/AAAAAAAAG-s/_UeBgIejE3kb7fzdlmdo4iX73DtNVmijgCK4B/s1600/DSC_0012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ubERnABJfpI/WK9MaZynXoI/AAAAAAAAG-0/q68moQtucO4S6lgGWXRODXJh_kFUXBInQCK4B/s1600/DSC_0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ubERnABJfpI/WK9MaZynXoI/AAAAAAAAG-0/q68moQtucO4S6lgGWXRODXJh_kFUXBInQCK4B/s200/DSC_0009.jpg" width="118" /></a><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8tORIgwMthk/WK9MX8t3IGI/AAAAAAAAG-s/_UeBgIejE3kb7fzdlmdo4iX73DtNVmijgCK4B/s200/DSC_0012.jpg" width="144" /><span style="font-family: "arial";">Last week, I travelled up
to Colchester, once the capital of Roman Britain, to meet up with the first
couple, John and Ruth Fitt, both 71, to hear their love story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">John Fitt joined the army,
the Royal Green Jackets, at the age of 15, to see the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he was posted to Penang three years
later, his meeting with the long haired and petit Cheng Say Muan, also 18, was
only the start of a life long adventure that would take them around the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“My friend had asked me to
go to this White House restaurant and bar in Penang Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was when I saw her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hair was right down to her bum,” he said
pointing to a black and white picture of the lass he now calls Ruth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“My jaw dropped, my heart
was beating so fast and the first time I spoke to her, I asked her to marry me,”
he recalled the moment as if it was yesterday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">The gobsmacked lass, whose
family owned the restaurant, obviously thought the young soldier was either mad
or drunk, for she had met so many drunken Australian and British soldiers who
frequented her father’s bar<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Everyday since they met,
she was bombarded with, “Will you marry me?” She gave in five years later and
they were married on 30<sup>th</sup> May 1967.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When he was away, he would send piles of
letters and every line and every page would be filled with “I love you” said
Ruth of her besotted beau.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3hUx0jESRNw/WK9NC-MnNXI/AAAAAAAAG_I/X8GjWfiB3kca4Rz69_1OBOj28lZ-bmJJQCK4B/s1600/DSC07777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3hUx0jESRNw/WK9NC-MnNXI/AAAAAAAAG_I/X8GjWfiB3kca4Rz69_1OBOj28lZ-bmJJQCK4B/s320/DSC07777.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial";">“When you are in love, you
are a complete idiot, aren’t you? You tend to do idiotic things!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John defended as they sat in their sitting
room surrounded by memorabilias, souvenirs and pictures; testimonials of their
journey in life together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">As the stories unfolded,
with John and Ruth trying to tell their own version of the story, each
finishing each other’s sentences as it is wont to be with long married couples,
John’s admission of being an idiot didn’t stop there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“He stalked me
everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He bribed trishaw pullers
with five sens or ten sens to tell him where Miss Long Hair was,” protested
Ruth lovingly while John just smiled coyly remembering his mischiefs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">It would be months before
Ruth would agree to go out, and a lot longer before they would hold hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“We had to meet secretly,
at the cinema for the midnight movies. I would buy the tickets first, gave them
to her and we would meet inside the cinema.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of her sisters would meet her outside and they would walk home,”
John continued, adding that just by being nice, he won over the approval of her
siblings, her mother and even her grandmother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">However, the biggest
hurdle and challenge was her father, a respectable member of the Hainan
community on the island, who considered marrying an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ang moh</i> as akin to ruining his reputation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“My father didn’t mind us
being friends, but not to marry,” added Ruth whose work as a baby sitter with
an Australian couple at the Australian base in Butterworth, helped true love on
its course during the turbulent times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">By then, Ruth was offered
a place in Australia to do nursing, sponsored by her employers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When John received orders to be posted to
Munster in Germany, she found herself at a crossroads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Her grandmother found her
crying in her room and offered her the best advice that she needed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“She liked John who was kind
and caring, so she advised me to go with John,” said Ruth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">The decision to marry
started a conspiracy that would involve more willing sympathisers across
several continents.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">The day of their marriage
at the registration office in George Town and the dinner that followed was one
that was tinged with sadness as her father, who wasn’t privy to what was going
on, wasn’t there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">“All my siblings, my
mother and aunties were there, but not my father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my employers left for Australia, my
father thought I left with them to do my nursing course.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">But we left two weeks
later, as husband and wife. I also left letters for my father. The letters
would be sent to Australia to my former employers and they would be posted back
to my father with the Australian stamps and postmarks!” explained Ruth of the
web of conspiracy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">But Ruth knew she needed to
tell her father who still thought she was in Australia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the help of her mother, they came up
with the story that Ruth had accompanied her Australian employers to Germany,
where she ‘accidentally” met John again and they had married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By then she was 23, and although her father
was heartbroken, he accepted that explanation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aBqHohcafSw/WK9Na18zC9I/AAAAAAAAG_U/S2stYFWnH74uxF7BWnpjPv4PID-NaPCpQCK4B/s1600/DSC07874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aBqHohcafSw/WK9Na18zC9I/AAAAAAAAG_U/S2stYFWnH74uxF7BWnpjPv4PID-NaPCpQCK4B/s320/DSC07874.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial";">A few years later, the
couple went back with their first born, Dan, and her father’s heart melted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They then had a daughter and Penang is now a
favourite destination for the family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">As a final evidence of
their devoted life together, the couple took out a cake; the first tier of
their wedding cake which had travelled halfway around the world with them and
had remained unopened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";">The whiff of smell, akin
to old cheese, filled the air as they finally got the almost 50 year old cake
out of its container and ceremoniously cut it for me to witness. They laughed
and giggled; the love smitten 18 year old <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ang
moh</i> soldier and his Malayan bride.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">This article first appeared in the NST on 12 Feb 2017</span></div>
Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-8201449082427766942017-02-20T21:59:00.001+00:002017-02-20T21:59:24.235+00:00Love in the tropics : No English no Problem<div class="MsoNormal">
This being the 60th year of Independence, I am compiling stories about the British presence in Malaya and later in Malaysia and how that has affected our lives. They went there as soldiers, expats etc. What have they brought back with them? Some brought back memories, friendships, some found their life partners there. I tracked down some soldiers, now in their seventies who found true love in the tropics.</div>
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This piece about Kim & Keith appeared in my column "Postcard from Zaharah" in the NST last Sunday.</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><b>Love in the Tropics - The story of Keith & Kim Marshall</b></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p>The couple who went to separate cinemas on their first date and still together after 52 years!</o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Goh Kim It,
78, or Kim and her husband of 52 years, Keith Marshall, 77, had their studio
taken pictures, letters and wedding anniversary tributes to each other all
ready for my perusal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A self made booklet
entitled ‘Kim’s Story’ was also on the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I had to
write this story for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is her
story and it had to be told,” said Keith who was a 22-year old soldier with the
transportation unit of the Royal Army Service Corp when he went to Malaya in
1961. He was based at the Terendak Camp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I had
travelled to Doncaster in South Yorkshire to meet the couple who had agreed to
tell me how the seeds of love that were sown in the tropics, bloomed and
blossomed in the cooler climes of the northern hemisphere. They had
demonstrated how language was no barrier when cupid struck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“When I
came back here (to England), I came home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For her, this is another country, another culture,” he added leafing the
typewritten manuscripts that he had painstakingly documented, of his wife’s life
from the time she was a four-year old girl growing up in a farm in Johor during
the war, through her turbulent life in an arranged first marriage and their
fateful meeting that led Kim to a whole new world she had only heard from
stories told.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The couple
then took me down memory lane to the night of their first meeting when they
went out on a blind date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keith was much
needed to make a foursome for a friend who couldn’t afford to take two girls
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kim, a baby sitter for an
Australian couple, was only chaperoning her friend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Apart from
going to the studio to take pictures as was the norm it seems for couples out
on a date, not much else was happening between the two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p>Kim & Keith on their first date</o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fot_b43HqO4/WKtlfLpVfJI/AAAAAAAAG9s/H9gKkODnBrYboWHMV3e4ySY1917aGliNQCLcB/s1600/DSC_0104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fot_b43HqO4/WKtlfLpVfJI/AAAAAAAAG9s/H9gKkODnBrYboWHMV3e4ySY1917aGliNQCLcB/s200/DSC_0104.jpg" width="145" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
“She
couldn’t speak much English, I couldn’t speak Chinese, so we sat and just
nodded and smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the visit to
the studio, we went to the movies; I went to see Cleopatra and she went to a
Chinese movie,” and they both fell about laughing recalling the absurdity of being
in two different cinemas on a first date!<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">There was a
chemistry between the two that had quite an effect on my tear ducts. A part of
me felt I was intruding into a very private and sacred space, a part of me
wanted to share and celebrate their undying love together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Keith read
out loud Kim’s letters that were written by Kim’s employer, the wife of the
Australian soldier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The letters were
written during their three months of separation while waiting for Kim to fly to
England to be married.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He then
read out her declaration of love penned by their daughter, on their golden
wedding anniversary and she looked at him lovingly as he did so, breaking into
laughter once in a while.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“It wasn’t
easy not being able to talk to each other properly. However, the feeling was
coming together, slowly but steadily,” explained Keith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kim who
only knew life on a farm looking after her siblings couldn’t read nor write.
Dyslexia was also a problem but not a hindrance for her to express her love for
the kind and caring soldier who swept her off her feet, albeit the threatening
stance of army regulations and of course the stigma of marrying an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ang moh</i>, the foreigner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I grew up
during the war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still remember the
Japanese coming to the village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day,
they took my father and because I was with him, they took me too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must have been about four.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people were shot dead” said Kim, the
memories still lingering in the deep recesses of her mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keith had asked her to marry him just before
he left for Thailand in 1963. The army then sent people from the church to talk
to Kim as she was still married although they had been apart for a long time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I had
already been told the army would not let me marry in Malaya. So, I had to get
everything organised to marry in the UK. She had to go to hospital to get
clearance health wise and lots of other things had to be done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“But to get
into town to get these things done, I had to give my word not to marry
illegally, as far as army was concerned. I was given an hour for each trip to
town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess we could have married
there but I would have been jailed for contravening orders,” explained Keith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Disentangling
herself from her first marriage, and with the help of her kind Australian
employer, and without the knowledge of her siblings, Kim flew to England in
December 1964, to join Keith who was sent home much earlier before the date of
their planned marriage in Malacca. He had borrowed some money from his
grandmother to pay for her flight ticket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“When he
went away, I told him whenever he missed me, look at the moon and I will also
look at the moon and will remember him,” said Kim who was told that Keith, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ang moh kui</i> would forget her the minute
he stepped foot on English soil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kim brought
with her two bowls, chopsticks and two wedding dresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Keith met her at Heathrow airport, she
couldn’t recognise him as he had put on weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was only convinced when he showed her his ring with her name engraved
on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They took
the bus to the registry to be married and took the bus back, a simple and cheap
ceremony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reception at the pub that
evening offered more excitement as Kim was awestruck by the snow that fell during
the night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Keith was
only getting £8 a week while waiting to leave the army before joining the
colliery working in the coal mines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
began taking another job to make ends meet, while Kim, when they moved out from
her in laws across the road, to their own home rented from the Coal Board, did
what she knew best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I grew
vegetables and Chinese salads and then took them to the shops and exchanged for
goods that I wanted. I missed rice and the only rice available was rice for
pudding,” she recalled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kim won not
only the affection of her in laws but also her neighbours who helped her with
her gardening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, adapting to life
in a different culture was not without any nerve wrecking experience which they
now looked back with laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">She learnt
very fast not to wash clothes and dry them out in the cold as they wouldn’t dry
or to be mindful of the materials that she washed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I had to
wear my wedding suit to the colliery because she washed my work trousers and it
shrunk!” said Keith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">However,
life counting every little penny and living on just eggs soon passed and they
acquired the house which they now beautifully extended and decorated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They occasionally went home to Malaysia for
holidays and Kim became less homesick as she began to find friends from Hong
Kong and even from Malaysia and Singapore who had migrated with their soldier
husbands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BX4Gqr7h2Pk/WKtmAvXbqkI/AAAAAAAAG9w/DRI9K7hLCTg8ShNbpvqF42v622WTDHL_QCLcB/s1600/DSC07908.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BX4Gqr7h2Pk/WKtmAvXbqkI/AAAAAAAAG9w/DRI9K7hLCTg8ShNbpvqF42v622WTDHL_QCLcB/s200/DSC07908.JPG" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“Keith is a
very kind and loving man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am very
lucky,” said Kim,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>her turbulent past
truly behind her but only documented in the manuscripts for her children and
grandchildren to read one day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-30473987259054465082015-05-06T18:07:00.002+01:002015-05-06T18:17:43.963+01:00Kak Teh limps back...<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k2JaepMgmmw/VUpMj1knajI/AAAAAAAAG3g/MkPozs4Qt0E/s1600/kakz2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k2JaepMgmmw/VUpMj1knajI/AAAAAAAAG3g/MkPozs4Qt0E/s1600/kakz2.jpg" /></a>Kak Teh limps back...</div>
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It was not unlike a long ardous labour which resulted in the birth of Kak Teh in blogosphere at 0531 on 25th December 2004. I had had a severe case of jetlag that led to unsolicited forays into the blog world. I met many interesting characters, some funny, some mysterious and some, well what they called SoPo. I’d nudge my husband and ask him, SoPo tu?</div>
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And then of course there ’s no turning back!!</div>
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This attempt to return to blogdom is inducing braxton hicks, made sufferable only with an overdose of murukus. The pressure is great, mainly because I am one half of the duo who initiated this bright idea to revive blogging. The other half is in Stockholm and she had pressed the publish button while I am still struggling.</div>
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Anyway, a bit about Kak Teh’s Choc-a-bloc. Some of you might have forgotten. The name was easy to choose; I had always been Kak Teh to my siblings and cousins. Choosing the name of the blog was even easier; I was and am still a chocoholic whose life is nothing less than err, choc a bloc. </div>
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From my first entry, I had one comment from blogger Berisman - The Reader (Pak Adib Noh). I replied and that gained me TWO comments!! WOW!</div>
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Well, blogging gave me the freedom to write wihtout the editor standing behind my back. I went from writing about my Mak to my family, my travels, pantuns and syaers and banterings with people like Abang Malaya, Ray Pak Malim and made lots and lots of friends who not only opened their hearts to me but also their doors and offered me a bed should I sort of appear at their doorsteps.</div>
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I have enjoyed the camaraderie that the blogworld offered. My trips back are never the same again; a reunion with bloggers is a must. Non bloggers think we are mad to meet up with people we never knew in real life.</div>
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Many things have happened since the last time I blogged. My sleeping partner is a grandfather! Well, that is because I am also a grandmother - we are grandparents to little Iskandar who has changed our life somewhat. We have this silly grin every time we think and talk about little Iskandar. </div>
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We have lost all our cats - the last one Snowbell left us three days after Iskandar was born. </div>
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My children are all working now and I cant blog about them anymore without getting a curt reminder in the family whatsapp. </div>
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I have been bitten by the travel bug and fancied myself as a travel writer; chasing sunset, albeit limping along the way with a tripod on my back.</div>
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I love filming and editing just about anything that moves - if they sing, it is even better!</div>
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So, I guess that’s enough paragraphs that would qualify this piece as a blog and not an FB entry, right Ood?</div>
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Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-71997974027168393102015-05-05T23:52:00.002+01:002015-05-05T23:52:42.292+01:00The Blue Bench (Part 4)<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 11px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<b>The Blue Bench (Part 4)</b><br />
<b>By Sofian Boe Abdul Rahman </b><br />
<b>What? No Tea and Scones?</b></div>
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Embun pulled the curtain aside ever so slightly. She discreetly studied the man who sat at the garden bench of the holiday cottage’s immaculate lawn. He looked to be in his late fifties – maybe two or three years older than her mother.</div>
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Dressed only in an olive green tee-shirt and a faded pair of jeans, the man looked conspicuously under-dressed considering the late afternoon chill of Cameron Highlands. He wasn’t especially large, but the years had put on a few obvious inches around his waist. By the way he sat, Embun could tell the man was no slouch. In his younger days he must have been quite athletic – perhaps some sort of boxer or martial artist. Even then, Embun didn’t feel he was a dangerous man. If at all, she felt an inexplicable fondness for the middle-aged man with the ponytail who sat there in the lawn looking like a fresh graduate nervously waiting for his first job interview.</div>
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“That’s him, Abang… ” Embun whispered to her husband.</div>
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“Who?”</div>
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“That’s him. Encik Azhar, you know, Ibu’s boyfriend from her London days.”</div>
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Embun’s husband took a closer look at the stranger from behind the slightly parted curtains and remarked, “Hmmm… geriatric men shouldn’t wear ponytails. It makes them look silly. Besides, Ibu never said he was her boyfriend.”</div>
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“Don’t be daft, Abang. Have you never seen the look in Ibu’s eyes when she mentions his name?”</div>
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“Whatever, dear. But I still think that ponytail makes him look silly. He must be pushing sixty already”</div>
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“I think I’ll send over some tea and scones to him while he waits for Ibu.”</div>
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“Go ahead, dear. But I think he looks more the teh tarik and roti canai type to me.”</div>
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When he noticed Embun, Azhar stood to acknowledge her presence. He looked at her and gave her a smile. His has the gentlest eyes she had ever seen. But they were also the saddest. She could not help but feel that his eyes had once seen the utter beauty of heaven. But she was also certain that they had plumbed the depth of hell for what must have been the longest time. In spite of all that, above all, his eyes had a stillness that somehow made her feel safe – absolutely and unequivocally safe.</div>
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“I thought you’d appreciate some tea and scones while you waited for Ibu, Encik Azhar.”</div>
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“That would be nice, young lady. Thank you.”</div>
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<br />
His English accent was unmistakable. Even given his hairstyle of choice and the less than fashionable attire, she felt that there was more to Azhar – much more than he was letting on.</div>
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“And, young lady, it would be nice if you didn’t call me Encik. It sounds a tad too formal. It makes me sound like I’m your boss, which I assure you, I most certainly am not.”</div>
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She looked him in those gentle eyes and replied, “OK. Should I call you Uncle Azhar instead?”</div>
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“That would be very nice”<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
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<br />
As she turned to walk away, she heard him speak to her. He could not hide the hesitation in his voice as much as he would have liked to.</div>
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“Would… would you care to join me for a spot of tea, young lady?”</div>
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She was hoping he’d ask.</div>
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“Yes, I think I might just do that… but only if you would stop calling me young lady. Do we have a deal? The name is Embun. Sarah’s one and only daughter“</div>
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After a slight pause, Azhar replied, “We have a deal, Embun. And do ask your husband if he’d care to join us, too.”</div>
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“My husband?”</div>
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“Yes. That young man who was checking me out from behind the curtains just now”</div>
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Embun felt a blush coming on, but calmly replied, “Nah. He doesn’t like tea and scones. He’s more a teh tarik and roti canai man… “</div>
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“Very well, then”</div>
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Talking to the man was easy. It was as if they had known each other all their lives, as if he had been there all those years while she was growing up. At first, Embun found it scary that this was so. But she so enjoyed talking to him that her fears melted away with every sentence, with every question they exchanged.</div>
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She knew immediately that she liked the man. Strangely, it was almost as if she had liked him even long before they had met. Talking with him was like being in a sweet, soothing dream that shrunk her fears and insecurities into manageable bite-sized pieces of cotton candy. Embun couldn’t remember ever feeling as safe and as accepted as in those minutes that she spent with him.</div>
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<br />
The dream was shattered when she noticed Azhar stiffen slightly. The cup and saucer trembled in his shaking hands. Without saying a word, Azhar looked over her shoulder towards the main door of the holiday cottage and rose to his feet.</div>
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Almost on cue, the door opened. It was Sarah.</div>
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The pain that had tormented Azhar since forever seemed to lift and disappear into the clouds above. Embun struggled with a gush of joy she could not explain – a joy that somehow made her feel like a traitor. After all, Azhar could well have been the reason her father left all those years ago.</div>
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For the longest time, Sarah and Azhar just stood there looking at each other. It was as if all the years they had been apart was slowly being erased so that they could start all over again. She was still the most beautiful woman in the entire world; he was still her samurai who would gladly lay down his life to make all her dreams come true.</div>
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Despite her misgivings, Embun nudged Azhar gently in the ribs with a teaspoon and whispered, “Don’t just stand there, you silly man. Go there and get her.”</div>
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<br />
Azhar stood so close to Sarah that their lips almost touched. He trembled as he fought the urge to take her into her arms and melt into her body forever. Lost deep within her light brown eyes, Azhar relived every dream, every fantasy he had had of her while they were apart – years of missing her condensed into a few precious seconds. He didn’t care if he never made it back. He was where he belonged. He was finally home.</div>
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<br />
Sarah touched his cheek with her fingertips. It felt sweeter than a soft evening breeze after the rain.<br />
<br />
“How long has it been, sweetheart?” she half whispered to him, her voice so soft that he almost didn’t hear her speak.</div>
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Still helplessly lost within her eyes, he replied, “Twenty seven years, three months and…”</div>
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“… sixteen days.” continued Sarah.</div>
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Sarah took him gently by the elbow and gestured towards the small country lane that ran in front of the cottage. “Let’s go for a walk shall we?” she said.</div>
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They walked without saying a word. It wasn’t easy for either of them. After so long apart, it was difficult to find the right things to say; after so long apart, neither wanted to risk destroying the moment by speaking a badly chosen word. They walked on in silence, each step slowly washing away the dreadful past that had kept them apart.</div>
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It was not long before they found themselves in a garden close to that rustic steakhouse that had long since become synonymous with Cameron Highlands. It wasn’t exactly England, but it was close enough. Unable to find a bench of any kind, they sat on the grass, shoulder to shoulder, quietly watching the sun slowly disappear behind the distant treeline. The fading sun left the sky awash with glorious splashes of yellows, blues and reds. It was as if the sky was putting on a show just for them. Secretly, both willed for time to stop. After years of suffering the anguish of their separation, life owed them at least that.</div>
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<br />
After a fashion, talking became much easier. It was almost as easy as it had been before they lost each other. But their conversation was still peppered with stops and starts, with awkward pauses and mumbled words. Just as it was about to get awkward again, Sarah pulled out a package from her satchel. She unwrapped the cheese sandwich and handed it to him.</div>
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“Sayang, you remembered”</div>
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<br />
“Did you think I’d forget?”</div>
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Azhar shook his head.</div>
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“And I brought coffee, too. It’s just as well. You never could make a decent coffee – even back then” she teased.</div>
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With her head gently resting on his shoulder, Sarah asked, “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me now, tell me while we’re here like this. Was there ever anyone else?”</div>
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Azhar felt as if the rest of his life would depend on what he was about to say next. Should he lie?<br />
Could he even think of telling her a story he knew she wouldn’t believe?</div>
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He took a deep breath. “Actually, there was this Uzbek girl I once knew while I was on assignment in Tashkent…”</div>
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<br />
Instead of the anger or tears he expected to find, all he saw was Sarah looking into his eyes and smiling.</div>
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“Tell me more, sweetheart. Was she beautiful?” she asked.</div>
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“She was absolutely gorgeous…”</div>
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“And was she good in bed?”</div>
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“She’d put a porn star to shame, I tell you.”</div>
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Sarah laughed and smacked him playfully across the chest. “Oh, stop it, sweetheart! You’ve never been any good at lying. There’s never been anyone else, has there?”</div>
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Azhar shook his head. “How could there ever be?”</div>
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Sarah brushed a stray strand for hair from his forehead. At the very last second, she held back the kiss she so desperately wanted to give him. They were in Malaysia now; they were no longer on that blue bench in Regent’s Park.</div>
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<br />
“Sayang, while we’re on this road… what ever happened to Embun’s father?”</div>
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“You mean my ex-husband?”</div>
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Azhar stroked her hair and waited for her story.</div>
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“Well, there’s not much to it. He upped and left not too long after Embun was conceived. Haven’t heard from him since”</div>
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“Not even to visit Embun?”</div>
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“Nope”</div>
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<br />
“Sorry…”</div>
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“Don’t be. Better this way, I guess”</div>
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<br />
After a fashion, Azhar could no longer hold back what he wanted to say to her.</div>
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<br />
“Sayang, I must tell you I’m a tad disappointed.”</div>
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“Disappointed that I now have wrinkles all over my face and that my breasts have gone all droopy?”</div>
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“Don’t be silly, sayang. I’m a bit disappointed that you named your daughter Embun. Don’t you remember our promise?”</div>
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“Oh, that promise…”</div>
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<br />
“Yes, sayang. Didn’t we make a promise that if we ever had a daughter together that we’d name her Embun?”</div>
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Sarah cupped his face in her hands and wondered if he was ready. She decided that the time had come. She had waited twenty six years for this moment.</div>
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“And I have kept that promise, my darling…”</div>
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<br />
It took a while before he finally understood what she was trying to tell him. Even then, he had to be sure.</div>
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<br />
“You mean…”</div>
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<br />
“Yes, darling. She is. God! Didn’t you have a good look at her?”</div>
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<br />
Azhar drew her close and held her as if he’d never let her go. Neither noticed the tears as they rocked slowly in each other’s arms for what seemed like forever.</div>
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Sarah and Azhar sat close to each other and watched the light disappear from the sky. When the stars first stars appeared, Sarah spoke, “But she must never know, darling… “</div>
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<br />
“But… “</div>
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<br />
Sarah placed her fingers softly against his lips. “Promise me you’ll never let her know…” she pleaded.</div>
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<br />
Azhar took her hand in his, kissed her fingertips and replied, “I promise.”</div>
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<br />
It was dark when they finally made it back to the cottage. In the jealous light of the moon, he kissed her on her forehead. “Keep well, sayang. It’s time for me to go” he said in a voice that was on the verge of breaking.</div>
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<br />
Sarah didn’t say a word. She nodded once and let go of his hand.</div>
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<br />
Azhar straddled his ageing Triumph Bonneville and inserted the key into the ignition. He wondered how many more times would he have to leave his sweet, precious Sarah before he would be able to stay forever. Would he ever live to see the day when he would never have to leave her again? As he was about to gun the engine, he felt a light touch on his shoulder.</div>
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<br />
“Please stay…” said Sarah in a voice that melted Azhar’s heart.</div>
<br />
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He climbed off his machine, took her hand in his and walked with her to the cottage. After twenty seven years their dreams finally came true.</div>
Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-20724285506966321592013-01-13T10:38:00.002+00:002013-01-13T12:23:43.721+00:00A blind couple who made me see<br />
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This entry is in a way an attempt at my already failed challenge with Datin Rosmah Yaakob.</div>
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Makan Cafe, right in the heart of Portobello Market, is the place to be on Saturday - or any other day. The atmosphere, the people and of course the food. Yesterday, a little late, the children decided to have their favourite all day English breakfast of toast, halal sausage, baked beans, fried eggs. I had my usual laksa lemak and Hulaimi ordered satay. I have always wanted to be a fly on the wall in Makan Cafe. Ani and Azhar - the owner have what it takes to attract all kinds of people to their popular eatery in one of the most popular street markets in London. It was made even more popular by the film Nottinghill with its blue painted door. </div>
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Yesterday, the crowd at Makan Cafe was a mixture of the usual tourists to the area and regulars like us. Ani, after making whatever she had to do in the kitchen, came out and talked to her customers, chatted with her regulars and even sat down with them for a natter. She is the magnet to Makan Cafe, apart from the food. She listens to their worries, shares their good news and generally a friend to those coming in from the cold.</div>
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An old man, sat at the table by the toilet - I couldn't see him at first, but heard his booming voice, sometimes agitated , sometimes, bursting into a song. Ani told me he was one of her regulars - perhaps a singer in his younger days and now a little confused and in his own world in his advanced life. He found sanctuary in Makan Cafe, he found someone who accepted him for what he is, or what he has become.</div>
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As one by one customer left to see what was left of the market, a couple walked in. They held on to each other - each with a white walking stick. Both, visibly impaired was the proverbial blind leading the blind. Obviously regulars too to Makan Cafe, they found a table opposite us. The man, perhaps in his sixties, and blessed with a better eyesight then his wife, adjusted the chair for her to sit on. She is hijabbed, and kept her dark glasses on, whispering constantly to him and he responding back. </div>
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I couldn't take my eyes off them and felt so much an intruder into their private space. All around me , couples , families, groups of friends were communicating and getting connected - but via their gadgets; whatsapping, sms'ing,, bbm'ing and what not. But this couple, though blind were looking at each other and communicating. The husband would only look away from his wife when he cut and diced the food on her plate. He guided her hand to the cutlery and with saw that she ate her food.</div>
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For once I didnt finish my laksa lemak. I watched them enviously. How beautiful is their way of communicating with each other. How connected they are without their Samsung S3 or iPhone or the latest gadget in the market. </div>
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When we were done, I took a snap of them together but mysteriously, there was no trace of that picture. Perhaps I wasnt supposed to intrude into their private space. Perhaps they were not even there - but others with me saw them too. Perhaps, the blind couple were there to make us see what we have lost. Yes, perhaps.</div>
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We left Makan Cafe, after a rendition of My Way by the old man sitting by the toilet. The cold evening air greeted us and I left Portobello Market with memories of the couple who have more sight and insight then us with 2020 vision.</div>
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Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-3524173028168784662011-12-23T12:23:00.004+00:002011-12-28T20:52:46.472+00:00Musings of a Muruku Marauder<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Knightsbridge was bathed </b>in Christmas lights, courtesy of Harrods – the corner shop for the rich and famous. I was momentarily blinded by the glitters and mesmerised by the window display.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They certainly have style – Harrods. Christmas shoppers were leaving in droves clutching their famous green carrier bags, while others rushed in in search of last minute Christmas bargains. I was not the least tempted. I have better things in mind - a mission almost impossible. I braved the cold and the crowd, all the while the sound of jingle bells and Christmas carol drifting from the solo steel band drummer at the top of Knightsbridge station.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The night was still young but I felt old. I was a young bride when I first walked on the streets of London, shivering under my paper thin kebaya.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now, I am much older and wiser – I wore my new coat bought at a 50 percent discount from Debenhams.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CIoKFBmRZUo/TvSd8jATpNI/AAAAAAAABtE/9HwwwV3Qo-k/s1600/muruku+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DryBgLtWQU8/TvuBfNHr6vI/AAAAAAAABtQ/1Yd30opX8WQ/s1600/Ealing-20111228-01014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DryBgLtWQU8/TvuBfNHr6vI/AAAAAAAABtQ/1Yd30opX8WQ/s200/Ealing-20111228-01014.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>My mission didn’t take too long and soon I was also clutching that green Harrods carrier bag, boarding the C1 homeward bound. I was happy to get a window seat and oblivious to everyone around me, I started to dip my hand into the bag and tore open one packet. I was consumed with guilt but with every munch and crunch I felt good. The Harrods carrier bag was full of the scrumptious muruku courtesy of my buddies and accomplice back home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I didn’t know when it happened, but I remember Kay bringing me a packet when I was back home. A packet wasn’t enough…and like an addict I went round looking for more but nothing was as good.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some friends who came to London brought me more…but the crunching and munching was no music to some other ears…and with the best of intentions, my muruku supplies began disappearing. I coaxed and cajoled but to no avail. But yesterday, without even looking I found them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Kak Nasirah Aris and Kay through PS Fadzillah brought me more supplies – thus my trip to Knightsbridge. As I walked to the front door, I perspired in the cold winter air and wiping off crumbs from my mouth I walked in.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dipping into the bag, I offered him the acar ikan masin. This is from Kak Nasirah to you, I said sweetly. And dipping further into the big bag, I said,” and Kak Nasirah bought me these books,” referring to Malaysian Tales etc.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">“….and er…of course some muruku that I will share during the tazkeerah session!”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Phew! Suffice to say, I am still in one piece. After 32 years together, he knows how to deal with my obsession; Alleycats, Ferrero Rocher, Cocoa Dusted Almond Chocolates and Chocolate Truffle Cake.These obsessions soon disappeared.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This will soon go too – but in the meantime, thank you comrades!!!<br />
Kak Teh's other harmless obsessions:http:<br />
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<a href="http://kakteh.blogspot.com/2005/08/obsessions.html">Obsessions</a><br />
<a href="http://kakteh.blogspot.com/2005/11/as-i-was-munching-muruku.html">As I was Munching Muruku</a><br />
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</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-55373717989165293482011-10-20T00:41:00.000+01:002011-10-20T00:41:43.186+01:00A Learning Curve with two Odd Socks<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix" style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Work was about start in fifteen minutes.</strong> I was still in last night’s clothing. Managed to find a decent top, grabbed an Ariani tudung and my reading glasses and was right in front of the laptop within five minutes flat.<br />
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That’s the beauty of online teaching – this new technology which once frightened me has proven to be quite exciting. Within minutes of logging in, the student came online, hardly aware of the fact that I had a kain pelikat on with different coloured socks. What mattered was from shoulders upwards I was professional looking, ready to do the job at hand.<br />
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The first lesson went smoothly as if I had worked with the tools for years; different from the confines of a classroom. While student was doing exercises, I could let the cat out, start the drier and make endless cups of coffee! As long as the camera stays in place, who was to know that there’s a pile of laundry on the sofa, or another pile in the laundry basket near the garden door. All the student could see was an impressive stack of books behind me. Impression counts. And he still couldn’t see my odd socks!<br />
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But during the three hour session, I learnt a few things that one must not do during online sessions; teaching or coaching. Do not hover over the camera to reach out for something. Tudung or no tudung, your breasts would be suffocating the person at the other end. DO NOT look over the camera as the other person can see up your nostrils, and DO NOT munch muruku when you thought student is silently doing exercise. If you need to do so, remove the headset…the munching and crunching of muruku can be annoying.<br />
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And when you need coffee, remember to remove the microphone or push it aside, as you risk dunking microphone in mug of coffee!<br />
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It has indeed been a learning experience!! <br />
(Now excuse me, I need to have a bath!)</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-74735541606741238162011-08-11T05:48:00.001+01:002011-08-11T06:17:26.622+01:00The power of social networking - the Asyraf Haziq Experience<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>THE video clip</b> on YouTube showing Mohd Asyraf Haziq, 20, bleeding and in shock after an attack during one of London's worst riots, touched so many people. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">There was an outpouring of sympathy which then turned into anger when his so-called saviours, apparently from the same gang who attacked him, ransacked his backpack and took away his PSP.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z0bmjaI5aJA/TkNlqk24XlI/AAAAAAAABsk/nuIE9L3krys/s1600/student+attacked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z0bmjaI5aJA/TkNlqk24XlI/AAAAAAAABsk/nuIE9L3krys/s320/student+attacked.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">He cut a forlorn figure as he staggered home while the gang went off with their spoils of his STG60 (RM293) bicycle, a hand phone and his PSP.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They missed his wallet in his back pocket. The one who ransacked his backpack, disdainfully threw away an empty plastic container that Asyraf had brought to pack food for his sahur (pre-dawn meal).</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Asyraf, a first-year Association of Chartered Certified Accountant (ACCA) student and a Mara scholar studying at Kaplan Financial College in nearby Tower Hill, was cycling with a friend to break fast at a friend's house when they were attacked.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">His friend managed to cycle away, thinking Asyraf would do the same.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unknown to him and his attackers, the incident was filmed by someone from a nearby building and it was posted on YouTube and repeated many times on the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) and Sky TV.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This one-minute-15-second video clip was ironically as powerful as the tweets and SMSes that the likes of his perpetrators had employed to plan their mindless attacks and carnage throughout London and cities across Britain.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So powerful was it that tweeters got together to collect money to replace the things that he had lost, and a search was launched for the person who recorded the dastardly act on a helpless student.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V4QryVqWoXo/TkNdyxWFm8I/AAAAAAAABsg/zoy2mEu343Q/s1600/Student+Asyraf+Haziq.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V4QryVqWoXo/TkNdyxWFm8I/AAAAAAAABsg/zoy2mEu343Q/s200/Student+Asyraf+Haziq.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Asyraf Haziq in hospital after the attack</td></tr>
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone on my Facebook had contacted me about his identity. And apparently, he, too, was making efforts to collect money to donate to the student, who is now nursing a broken jaw as he awaits surgery at the Royal London Hospital.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Asyraf, on his hospital bed, was still oblivious to the publicity and attention his misfortune had caused.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">With his lower jaw wired and a swollen right cheek where he suffered another broken bone, Asyraf looked vulnerable but a far better picture than the one on YouTube.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Abdul Hamid, who filmed the attack, wrote a caption under his clip: "Footage I captured of some men using the riots as an excuse to just harm and humiliate an innocent person. I hope to get in touch with the victim and I am also trying to raise money for him."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In an interview with Hamid, he said he was very sorry he couldn't help Asyraf as he was too far away.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He only noticed Asyraf when he was lying on the pavement after the attack.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"When I saw him , I then realised I should get something for evidence," he said, adding that he would be collecting money to donate to Asyraf and hand over the recording to the police.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that is not all. A group of facebookers-cum-tweeters are also busy generating interest among sympathisers and friends of Asyraf.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A friend, Zaila Idrus, a travel consultant with Iman Travel, started a GetwellsoonAsyrafHaziq campaign which has been gathering support among her Twitter friends.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another tweeter, ShaunCFC1866, has started a campaign to buy back and replace everything that Asyraf had lost to the young criminals.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This article was first published in the NST <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles//2tube/Article/">here </a></div><div style="background-color: transparent; border: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><br />
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</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-11365109758045417872011-05-27T14:39:00.008+01:002011-05-28T09:29:56.412+01:00Surrealistic Syria - Part 1 - Delightful Damascus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i4p31saCIUk/Td-2oQapSuI/AAAAAAAABsQ/ieEMjAs6OPY/s1600/PC270069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b>Ever since</b> I came back from Syria, this charming and beautiful country had been preying constantly on my mind. The short and brief visit had been like a dream and could have been a dream had I not been literally touched by the beauty, charm and hospitality of this Middle Eastern country which enjoys the characteristics of the Mediterranean to the west, hemmed in by Lebanon on its western frontiers, Turkey to the north, Iraq to the East , Jordan to the south and Israel to the Southwest - all these close proximity making it such an attractive package but at the same time also by virtue of the close proximity, a whole region that's volatile politically.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">It is difficult not to push away the images that we see in the media recently as a result of the wave of protests sweeping the Middle East, but it is difficult too to forget images of Syria that will forever be friendly and full of history and culture. That is something no one can ever take away from anyone that has ever stepped foot on Syrian soil.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">My journey to Syria started with a lot of apprehensions. I didn't know the country and my initial skimpy knowledge of the country was coloured by whatever political reports dished out by the western media. Suffice to say, a week was not enough to take in the country so rich in culture and steeped in history. You will want to go back, because that's what Syria does to you. It beckons you to go back.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The journey started early on Boxing Day. The lack of hospitality on Syrian Air was very much compensated by the overwhelming reception throughout the visit - be it from the friendly vendors in the souks of Damascus, the beautiful girls dancing on the top of Aleppo Citadel, the farmer's wife making bread in a small Syrian village or the bedouins in the deserts of Palmyra. Their smiles just broadened when they recognised you as a Malaysian!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">With a friend, Zaila Idrus from Iman Travels, and Ali and Nagi tour guides and driver Hassan from Mowiashe travels, the trip was more than I could ever ask for. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Day one in Damascus was planned by Mr Ali - a walking encyclopaedia on things Syrian - </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">he briefed us before we said goodnight and retired in our comfortable room in Semiramis Hotel. The next morning after a typical Syrian breakfast, we headed for the old city of Damascus , the sights and sounds that has the capacity to transport you to a totally different world, in a different era. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i4p31saCIUk/Td-2oQapSuI/AAAAAAAABsQ/ieEMjAs6OPY/s1600/PC270069.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i4p31saCIUk/Td-2oQapSuI/AAAAAAAABsQ/ieEMjAs6OPY/s200/PC270069.JPG" width="200" /></a><b>The Hamadiyeh souk of Damascus</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">The first thing that crossed my mind as I entered one of the many alleys in the souk is that I could easily get lost in the souk that dates back to the Ottoman rule under Sultan Hamid. And what wonderful adventure it would have been dodging mules bearing goods, motorbikes and people doing their shopping. It would have been a welcome respite away from the hustle bustle of modern living - to be sipping tea in one of the caravanserais listening to travellers' tales from the deserts of North Africa. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Alleyways lead to alleyways with merchandise to entice you such as beaded tablecloths, table runners, prayer mats and many, many more. It was simply amazing that you can browse around, pick up a thing or two without any pressure from the vendors. Instead, they offered tea, with no expectations in return.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b>Ummayad Mosque</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">We exited the souk into another world that left me in awe of its majestic presence - the Ummayad mosque - one of the oldest and holiest mosques in the world. From a temple built by the Armenians in 1000 BC, it went through several periods under the Romans, the Christians and finally the Muslims - making it the interfaith place of worship - where a shrine said to contain the head of <b><span style="font-weight: normal;">John the Baptist or Nabi Yahya to the</span></b><b> </b>Muslims. The building was once shared by both Muslims and Christians as a place of worship.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Standing on the vast courtyard, I took in the three minarets, the Minaret of the Bride, the first to be built, the Minaret of Prophet Isa, believed to be the place where the prophet will descend from on the Day of Judgment and the Minaret of Qaitbay. I did my prayers in the vast opulence of the Ummayad before leaving for the tomb of Sa<b><span style="font-weight: normal;">ladin which</span></b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span>stands in a small garden nearby. There was already an orderly queue of Muslims and non-Muslims entering the shrine to pay respects to one of the greatest Muslim warriors. Standing there before the tomb was one of the most emotional moments during the visit - a prelude to things and places connected to the great Saladin, such as the Saladin Castle and Krac de Chevalier. But that will come later.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jGx0FMqpW3I/Td-tdPl_9SI/AAAAAAAABsM/YLxp5OH_Rtw/s1600/PC270192.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jGx0FMqpW3I/Td-tdPl_9SI/AAAAAAAABsM/YLxp5OH_Rtw/s200/PC270192.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomb of the Bilal</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jGx0FMqpW3I/Td-tdPl_9SI/AAAAAAAABsM/YLxp5OH_Rtw/s1600/PC270192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Damascus is not a city to do in a day but I suspect that a month wont be enough as well. But we did as best as we could, taking in the enchanting Hamam and the hospitality it has to offer. My only regret is that the day we visited the Hamam it was not a day for women. After that we went on a long search of shrines and ended up in Bāb Saghīr Cemetery which houses among others the shrines of Umm Kulthum, daughter of Ali and Fatimah, granddaughter of the Prophet pbuh and that of the Bilal. Again, tears welled up in my eyes as I offered prayers to the Bilal. I couldn't believe that I was there. Shrines are popular places for Shiah tourists who come from far and wide on a pilgrimage of a lifetime. Young and old were carried and piggybacked to enter shrines and women and men wailed out loudly. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">As the sun was about to set, Hassan sped towards Mount Qassion where you can feast your eyes on the whole of Damascus as the sun goes down. There are stalls with middle eastern music from transistor radios and hot teas are endlessly poured as the temperature dipped, making me yearn for my bed. According to legend the Prophet Mohammad pbuh stood there and was asked why he didn't go to the city. His reply was, he didn't want to go to paradise twice. Wallahualam. But indeed watching the colour changing over the Middle eastern skies. I was mesmerised.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">Surrealistic Syria - Part 2</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">To Palmyra, Hom, Hama and Aleppo </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-12966271431381139172010-12-15T02:32:00.002+00:002010-12-15T02:45:27.515+00:00Hoping for a Kindle-lit dinner<div><div style="background-color: transparent; border: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TQgp_l6pXiI/AAAAAAAABrw/EHpk55g-3hE/s1600/Kindle_international.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TQgp_l6pXiI/AAAAAAAABrw/EHpk55g-3hE/s200/Kindle_international.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture fr Kindle International</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">AS our 31st anniversary loomed near, I found myself frequenting a website, amazon.co.uk, and looking longingly at the slim, sleek 3G plus Wi-Fi e-book that has, for sometime, been a contentious issue in this household.The intended recipient of the new toy had left me in no doubt about his dislike for this new gadget that is making waves and getting rave reviews.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I thought this wireless gizmo that weighs less than a paperback would easily replace the heavy hardbacks he carries around in his rucksack. Imagine all that you can fit in the palm of your hand — it can store more than 3,500 titles!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Think of the space we could save every time we go for a break, and we can share the reading experience. We have, after all, shared many things in our 31 years together.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Like two silly teenagers at the backseat of the number 7 we have shared the i-Pod listening to our favourite zikir, even sharing the earphone trailing from his pocket to our ears.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">During my restless nights, he’d pick a favourite prayer and together we’d listen to it till we fell asleep. But the Kindle is not his kind of thing. The realisation sank in that we are not on the same page on this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ever since I knew him, I had learnt how precious the book is to him. It was a book that brought us together and if I remember it well, it was a book on Groucho Marx.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our courting days were spent browsing around the bookshops of PJ and Kuala Lumpur. He bought me books on all sorts of subjects, from how to write features and scripts to how to deal with PMT and pregnancy and how to cope with menopause. (In 31 years we do have to go through all these together).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He’d rather hold a real book and feel the pages in his hands, smell the smell of a new book as he turns the pages and carefully wraps it back in the paper bag which he had bought it in. He’d stack them carefully on the bookshelves already groaning under the weight of hundreds of books fighting for space in our front room which is fast turning into a library. And there is no way he’d read an e-book with a Wi-Fi in bed seeing that he has already banned my Blackberry to a safe distance, for fear of radiation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Rather then buy other trivial stuff as presents, he’d buy books for the children, for friends old and new. An e-book would deny him that pleasure.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, the prospects of a Kindle-lit dinner is fast fading as I weighed the pros and cons. I might get it for myself pleading a bad back as an excuse. In my bag, there are already the netbook and charger, the phone and charger as well as the camera. So, of course there will be space for a slim 3G with Wi-Fi.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could say the eyesight is fast going and the Kindle with its bigger fonts would be good for these tired old eyes, which could start me reading again without the cumbersome reading glasses.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">During all the years we’ve been together, I’ve courted technology more passionately than him. He dismisses most things, including the microwave oven, as unnecessary and even harmful. He never owned a mobile phone until I bought him a simple, cheap one which is now held together by a red rubber band.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He never switches it on, except to send and check messages and boasts that his battery lasts for a month! He does not depend on the flat screen HD TV for news as he prefers The Guardian and The Independent or the free tabloids he finds scattered in the trains.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I guess the jury is still out on this and in the meantime, the anniversary present will have to be another simple woolen jumper that will prove useful for this cold winter. A Kindle-lit dinner will be out of the question for the time being.</div><br />
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Read more: <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMAN_HopingforaKindle-litdinner/Article?sms_ss=facebook&at_xt=4d069ffa8597f82b%2C0#ixzz188xWn0Lo" style="color: #003399;">I’M EVERY WOMAN: Hoping for a Kindle-lit dinner</a> <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMAN_HopingforaKindle-litdinner/Article?sms_ss=facebook&at_xt=4d069ffa8597f82b%2C0#ixzz188xWn0Lo" style="color: #003399;">http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMAN_HopingforaKindle-litdinner/Article?sms_ss=facebook&at_xt=4d069ffa8597f82b%2C0#ixzz188xWn0Lo</a></div></div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-25886449450204242732010-11-05T01:19:00.002+00:002010-11-05T01:29:07.147+00:00Malaysia has Talents - Abroad<div><div style="background-color: transparent; border: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNdk93YcJI/AAAAAAAABrs/EyP-VX-zQj4/s1600/the+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><b>BETHNAL Green</b> in east London is not a place I would normally visit in the evening, especially alone. It was, after all, the neighbourhood in which Jack the Ripper operated and the playground of the infamous gangsters, the Kray brothers, in the 60s. But that was where I was headed one warm autumn evening. <br />
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</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The promise of meeting new friends and the prospect of renewing old acquaintances made me trudge the distance, well away from my comfort zone in the west. <br />
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The east end district, which received much aerial battering during the Second World War, has undergone a lot of changes and is now home to mostly Bangladeshis. The short walk from the station to Costa Cafe revealed the changing face of Bethnal Green: It is more Asian in character, dotted as it is with halal groceries and eateries. </div><div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNZ26wNIqI/AAAAAAAABrg/XzvmtpxPPoU/s1600/pixgal1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNZ26wNIqI/AAAAAAAABrg/XzvmtpxPPoU/s320/pixgal1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unku in Thoroughly Modern Milly with Maureen Lipman</td></tr>
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At the cafe, I met Unku Majid and his friends. I had known Unku from the late 1980s when he was waiting on tables at Satay Ria in Bayswater. He was also then acting in the West End. An accomplished stage actor, Unku, from Johor, had acted in many plays including Miss Saigon and The King And I where he played Uncle Tom alongside Elaine Paige. He also appeared with Maureen Lipman in Thoroughly Modern Milly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It was Unku’s suggestion that I meet some of his friends, and then proceed to see the play, The Death Of Tintagel, by playwright Peter Morris — a dark satire set in a Cornish castle, where a boy is summoned back by his grandmother, to his death. It is directed by Vik Sivalingam, a fellow Malaysian.<br />
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Among those waiting to meet me was Vik, Michelle Lee, another West End actor whom I had the pleasure to do some voice-over work with and newcomer to the group, Shanon Shah. I had quickly googled Shanon Shah and discovered that this young and talented writer/songwriter and singer had just released his second album! This chemical engineer by training is now in London to do his Masters. I made a mental note to get his album or at least to listen to it on youtube.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
I had met Michelle before when she was acting in Miss Saigon. Plays like that and The King And I, of course, had opportunities for talents from Southeast Asia. Michelle, a ballet dancer, had also worked with Instant Cafe Theatre in Malaysia before venturing to England to study music, drama and dance at the University of Birmingham. She had just finished filming The Diana Clone, a fantasy thriller about a scientist who tries to clone Princess Diana. The lead actor was half Malaysian — Anna Leong Brophy. <br />
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Michelle herself had done many things, from soap ads to voice-over work. We did similar work for The Sleeping Dictionary and a few years ago, Krakatoa, a BBC production. <br />
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I must be the only one in this country who had not seen The Bridget Jones Diary, where Michelle played the immigration officer who found drugs in Jones’ bag!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNZ2S1qZAI/AAAAAAAABrc/nme94ruy26k/s1600/pixgal3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNZ2S1qZAI/AAAAAAAABrc/nme94ruy26k/s320/pixgal3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vik and Vera</td></tr>
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Sitting in the small cafe with this group of talents, my thoughts went back to the days of the pak cik sailors in the 60s and 70s — Malay sailors who came to work for the merchant navy were very much in demand for roles that required Oriental faces in war films such as A Town Like Alice. I imagined them meeting in cold and dingy cafes not far from Bethnal Green, in between sailing assignments, to look for parts as Japanese soldiers. People like Pak Man Tokyo had worked in A Town Like Alice as a Japanese soldier. And then, years later, I myself was roped in to play Fatimah in a radio drama of the same title by the BBC.<br />
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The play we were about to see at The People Show Studios is Vik’s latest work. He has a string of directing credits which include Uncle Vanya, Daisy Pulls It Off, Human Rights and Day Trippers. He is currently resident assistant director at the Royal Shakespeare Company.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNa2189yUI/AAAAAAAABro/tzDLZCnj8hQ/s1600/pixgal2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNa2189yUI/AAAAAAAABro/tzDLZCnj8hQ/s320/pixgal2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vera Chok with Freddie Machin in The Death of Tintagel - pix by Lucy Pawlak</td></tr>
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Vik’s current play has as its lead Vera Chok, who brilliantly plays Ygraine, Tintagel’s protective and caring sister. Vera, who read archaeology and anthropology at Oxford University and who trained as an actress at The Poor School in London, is also artistic director of Saltpeter Production. <br />
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The producer is Anna Sulan Masing from Sarawak, who is also working on her PhD, looking at identity through performance practices of indigenous women of Borneo.<br />
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Meeting them was like a breathe of fresh air. Since then, I have been in touch with Rani Moorthy, another Malaysian-born playwright and actress as well as artistic director of Rasa Productions based in Manchester. Her Handful Of Henna recently toured the country. She has done radio plays such as Who’s Sari Now? for the BBC.<br />
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And last night I found myself on the phone with Pik Sen Lim who made her name as Su-lee, the Chinese Communist student in the British sitcom Mind Your Language. She was in London doing some filming. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNdk93YcJI/AAAAAAAABrs/EyP-VX-zQj4/s1600/the+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TNNdk93YcJI/AAAAAAAABrs/EyP-VX-zQj4/s320/the+group.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shanon Shah, Michelle Lee, Unku, Vera and Vik</td></tr>
</tbody></table>As we walked out of the studio to Bethnal Green tube station late that night, the temperature had dipped further but we were oblivious to that. We had that typical long lingering Malaysian goodbye all along the way. So many Malaysian talents abroad and so little time to cover them all, I muttered to myself as I walked home in the cold night air,</div><br />
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Read more: <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I_meverywomen_Talentswithoutboundaries/Article/#ixzz14Mk86Ilp" style="color: #003399;">I'M EVERY WOMAN: Talents without boundaries</a> <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I_meverywomen_Talentswithoutboundaries/Article/#ixzz14Mk86Ilp" style="color: #003399;">http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I_meverywomen_Talentswithoutboundaries/Article/#ixzz14Mk86Ilp</a></div></div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-5359770384685250352010-10-01T14:29:00.001+01:002010-10-01T15:06:54.341+01:00Memorable memories are made of these<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TKXqtvh6-oI/AAAAAAAABrY/g-_8QrPni24/s1600/P9240323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TKXqtvh6-oI/AAAAAAAABrY/g-_8QrPni24/s320/P9240323.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TKXpHrTLJxI/AAAAAAAABrU/nhoJZsUAiK8/s1600/P9250434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div style="background-color: transparent; border: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TKXmx-f7sSI/AAAAAAAABrI/6hWYi6Gf23s/s1600/P9250460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">Dancers of Sri Bulan troupe</a></div><b>TOO many memorable images</b> of events from this week are playing like a slide show in my mind — those that I had captured in my camera as well as moments I did not but which will forever be etched in my memory. A lot has happened in the past week that keeps tugging at my heartstrings and reminding me of home with a certain surge of patriotism and nostalgia.<br />
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On-going Hari Raya open houses, a belated Merdeka celebration and the climax of the Malaysian Kitchen campaign fervently promoting Malaysian food at a pasar malam that momentarily transformed Trafalgar Square: All served to make one yearn for home but at the same time be grateful that home can actually come to you.<br />
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Last Sunday, Malaysians in the UK had a very belated Merdeka Day celebration at the usual venue, the sprawling grounds of the Tun Abdul Razak Rubber Research Institute in Brickendonbury. It was made all the more special when the King and Queen of Malaysia graced the occasion with their presence.<br />
The sun came out, after an awful day before that. At close quarters, I noticed how young and dashing the royal couple looked.<br />
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There was a time when our kings and queens were old, but that, I believe, was because I was much younger then. The Queen brought back memories of the time I had spent with her mother when we were in school. That must have been 40 years ago. Time certainly has wings. I watched the dancers on stage, as I emceed the show (I usually do when they perform in London, or elsewhere in Europe). These talented dancers, my daughter included, were mostly born and bred in London. I had witnessed their development as they took their first faltering zapin and inang steps under the watchful eye of their dedicated dance teacher Khalid Din. Their love for traditional Malay dances is amazing. They bravely danced on in the cold blustery winds at the pasar malam in Trafalgar Square the night before. But they persevered, with smiles on their faces, urged on by the appreciative crowd which didn’t seem to get enough.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TKXoFnsuq6I/AAAAAAAABrQ/qwVStCpDAw0/s1600/rehana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TKXoFnsuq6I/AAAAAAAABrQ/qwVStCpDAw0/s320/rehana.jpg" width="83" /></a>I remember persuading my daughter to join the dance class as I myself had been denied such an opportunity.<br />
At the convent school, we were only taught the Irish jig and the Scottish dance. So, I had placed my hopes on my daughter. Her first Ulit Mayang performance almost reduced me to tears. And now in true 1Malaysia spirit, she can even do the Indian dance, which she did when the Sri Bulan Dance Troupe was invited to perform in Croatia. They have really been a true cultural ambassador for Malaysia.<br />
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Enjoying the sun and the celebratory mood, children in bright baju Melayu and baju kurung ran around while waiting for their turn to perform the dikir barat. They waved little flags in their hands and some even attempted a sword fight with these. But once on stage, they behaved very well, swaying and waving the flags on cue.<br />
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One familiar figure who would turn up without fail at the carnival was there — a shadow of his old self. Every year I see him, a lone figure, walking around with a basket of fruit or a packet of sweets to distribute to the children.<br />
Last year, he took to the stage and attempted a song. This year, he looked very lost. I have documented him in my mind and in my memory card for I have followed his development for a while now.<br />
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He was the brave young man who wanted to cycle around the world but love stopped him in his tracks in London.<br />
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The year the late Tunku Abdul Rahman came to negotiate Malaya’s independence, he was there with a group of friends to meet the first Prime Minister to be. He has a picture to prove it.<br />
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As the carnival came to a close, he cut a forlorn figure walking back to his awaiting transport.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TKXmx-f7sSI/AAAAAAAABrI/6hWYi6Gf23s/s320/P9250460.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Afdlin Shauki entertaining the crowd at the carnival</td></tr>
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It was nice to see the stand-up comedian making a special appearance. I had met him when he came with Sheila Majid to Ronny Scotts some years ago. We enjoyed his comic act with his sidekick Johan but it was his last performance that did it for me. Waving the little flag, he invited us to be on our feet and to sing along the patriotic song Setia, and as I did so, stumbling and choking over the lyrics, the dam burst.<br />
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It’s funny how little things would trigger off memories. As I said, the night before was the hugely successful pasar malam at Trafalgar Square to promote Malaysian food.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trafalgar square transformed - pix by Debbie Braggs</td></tr>
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The rain in the morning threatened to dampen the spirit but even as the temperature dipped further, it failed to stop people from converging in the square. The 20 or so foodstall owners were out of food by 8am. One stall was selling peanuts left over from the nasi lemak. Everyone had expected a no-show as the weather was so horrible.<br />
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The queue for Puji-Puji’s satay was so long that by the time you got to the front there was not a stick of satay left! Needless to say, a lot of people were disappointed, but the cultural performances by Sri Bulan and Nusantara compensated for this. The gamelan and traditional Malay music filled the air.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Coventary Dikir Barat Group </td></tr>
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Girls and boys carrying baskets of red hibiscus distributed them to visitors who pinned them to their collars or pockets or tucked them behind the ears. What a beautiful sight. It triggered memories of what my friend, the late Datin Peggy Taylor, once told me. Tunku, a very close friend of hers, had confided about the choice of the red hibiscus as a national flower. Why the hibiscus? Peggy had asked. It wilted very quickly. To this came the retort that she mimicked very well: “What’s the probleeeemmm?” Indeed, what’s the problem? I wore mine proudly on my scarf when I went to the carnival as did thousands of others.<br />
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These are what memories are made of.<br />
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Read more: <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMEN_Memoriesaremadeofthese/Article#ixzz1175tNF6x" style="color: #003399;">I’M EVERY WOMAN: Memories are made of these</a> <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMEN_Memoriesaremadeofthese/Article#ixzz1175tNF6x" style="color: #003399;">http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMAN_Memoriesaremadeofthese/Article#ixzz1175tNF6x</a></div></div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-2242137845527128762010-08-10T09:55:00.000+01:002014-02-04T00:06:40.024+00:00Lingering memories of train journeys<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>IN a few minutes</b>, the 1235 from Paddington will leave for Paignton, and that is somewhere in the south west of England. I was supposed to be on the 10.35 but as fate would have it, I missed it, not because I was late in purchasing the ticket, but because I was too early.<br />
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I had bought the tickets a day earlier as I didn't want the hassle of queuing up. But Mr Murphy had to be right, as always. If things want to go wrong, it will go wrong, even the best laid plans.<br />
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The tickets I bought from the machine was apparently valid only for one day and I was turned back at the ticket barrier to join the long queue of backpackers and families with children escaping London to enjoy the last few days of summer.<br />
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I have always loved train journeys as they give me the luxury of being with myself and my thoughts.<br />
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I am now on the First Great Western train, one of Britain's national train networks. It is fascinating to watch the English countryside whiz past my window. This being a weekend, people are enjoying barbecues with their friends out in the back garden. The English, they do love their gardens: Neatly trimmed hedges with beautiful flower beds and hanging baskets in a riot of summer colours.<br />
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The suburbs soon make way for vast green fields - cows grazing and sheep looking like small cotton balls, dot the vast fields now turning brown after quite a harsh summer. I note that some of the cows are sitting down. It will rain, says my husband, if cows sit down. And true enough, rain starts pelting on the windows as we criss-cross along the British countryside.<br />
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Being a creature of habit, I never leave the station without two - not one - mushroom parcels and a cup of piping hot coffee from Delice de France. And after drowning my sorrows of losing the price of one train ticket, in what inevitably became cold coffee, I allow my thoughts to turn to Mak.<br />
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Mak too loved train journeys. When we were young, train journeys during school holidays were a treat. We'd talk about nothing else in school about the impending adventure from Yan to Johor Baru.<br />
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We used to take train journeys from Alor Setar to Johor where Kak and Abang were stationed. An announcement of a train journey was welcomed with sighs of relief as it meant not the usual trips to Penang or Pantai Merdeka.<br />
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From the first whisper of the holiday plans, we spent sleepless nights, too excited to do anything else. And Mak would start packing things she'd bring to her firstborn who had followed her husband to what could only be considered as the furthest point south from where we were in Kedah. There would be food and things she thought her eldest daughter was going without. Mothers are like that. Now I understand.<br />
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But most importantly, I remember how she'd wake up in the morning and prepare food for us that would last us through the long journey from north to the south of the peninsula. There'd be rice and chicken dishes carefully packed in tiffin carriers and drinks in flasks and towel-wrapped containers. Boiled eggs were almost mandatory - we never left on long journeys without boiled eggs.<br />
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I remember most the early morning drive from Yan to Alor Setar where we'd patiently wait for the train and then the short ride to Bukit Mertajam. Now, this is the bit which I could never forget. Whether this part of my memory had been exaggerated by time gone by, I don't know. But I remember the rush - bags, tiffin carriers and more bags up the overhead bridge to the waiting southward bound train. It seemed to me than that the train would only stop for five minutes and no more!<br />
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Then the search for seats. By then most coaches would be full of tired soldiers on home leave, other families also going on holidays, screaming babies in sarong hammocks suspended from the ceiling of the train... it was chaotic.<br />
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The highlight of the train journey must be the stop in Ipoh when we were stirred from our sleep by sales pitches of food vendors plying up and down the platform skillfully balancing their food stuff on their heads.<br />
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Never mind the food Mak had painfully prepared for us, buying from the vendors was more exciting.<br />
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As we pull into Pewsey, a small village in Wiltshire with its small quaint station, I remember the train journeys criss-crossing Europe to as far as Budapest, journeys along the beautiful Rhine with chateaux and castles dotting the mesmerising landscapes that usually brings me back again to those childhood days reading about princesses in captivities and charming princes coming to their rescue.<br />
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Oh well, the train has stopped and so has the rain. But beautiful memories of train journeys linger on.</div>
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Those article first appeared in my column in NST <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMAN_Lingeringmemoriesoftrainjourneys/Article">here. </a></div>
Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-76404732179028687472010-07-28T06:17:00.002+01:002010-07-29T10:52:23.994+01:00The Legacy of Dalilah Tamrin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TE-8kb1YZvI/AAAAAAAABqo/ddW0Gxmzbh0/s1600/dalilah+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TE-8kb1YZvI/AAAAAAAABqo/ddW0Gxmzbh0/s320/dalilah+1.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">WE were totally lost in that place called 1 Utama. Shahieda from Cape Town was depending on me to find the place where the mak cik Bloggers were meeting but even after numerous phone calls for directions, we were still nowhere near. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally we were told to stay put as someone was sent to rescue us. Within minutes, we saw our saviour, her face breaking into the biggest, most cheerful smile and arms outstretched she embraced us, one after another. This saviour, who walked the distance from the eatery to find us, was Dalilah Tamrin or better known as Raden Galoh of the now hugely popular blog onebreastbouncing.blogspot.com.<br />
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Dalilah left us exactly a week today after succumbing to the dreaded C.</div><div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
But she didn’t go without a fight. She fought to her last breath and left behind a legacy precious and educational. The walk that she took to “rescue” us was indicative of what Dalilah was — not one to sit back and wallow in self pity. No such thing as “I am the one suffering, so come to me”.<br />
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Indeed, as many had pointed out, looking at Dalilah and her glowing smile, her infectious positive attitude and, most of all, her fighting spirit, there was no sign at all that she was a cancer sufferer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Different people deal with adversities in different ways.<br />
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When a friend Ruby Ahmad passed away from cancer, it took me a long time to reconcile the vivacious, active and forever positive Ruby with the person who had succumbed to cancer. She never talked about it and I only found out via a long email from her husband. She chose to deal with it quietly but, at the same time, she tirelessly gave talks, networked and gave her all before passing on. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dalilah chose to share her experience, the highs and lows that had benefitted not only sufferers but also carers of sufferers and those close to them, for they too suffer.<br />
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This mother of two young boys would have been 43 last week. Paralysed by fear of the dreaded disease and the attendant problems as well as what is now the inevitable outcome, Dalilah started a blog that would act as a catharsis to the turmoil within, a journal that had taken its readers on a rollercoaster ride of emotions and a painful but meaningful diary of a dedicated and loving mother and wife. Onebreastbouncing was indicative of the humorous nature of someone who refused to be defeated. Breast or no breast, she soldiered on.<br />
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She had and still has a huge following.<br />
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She appeared on TV shows, gave talks and created awareness about the disease.<br />
As if that wasn’t enough, she wrote a book: Kanser Payudara Ku: Perjuangan Dan Kesedaran (My Breast Cancer: The Fight And The Realisation).<br />
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According to Nasirah Aris, a close friend of Dalilah and advisor to the Pride Foundation, a charity supporting cancer sufferers, most cancer sufferers are positive in sharing their experiences to create awareness and participating in programmes such as walks and mountain climbing.<br />
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Dalilah seemed to have that boundless energy. During her last few months, she seemed preoccupied with her own project, a charity project for cancer sufferers. Gifted with words, she penned down what would seem her final message, in preparation for her last journey.<br />
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The cyberworld offered a helping hand in the form of a songwriter friend, Intan Nazrah, who lives in Dubai, who helped out with the lyrics and eventually sang the piece that is now resonating in blogs and Facebooks of her followers.<br />
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For Intan Nazrah, who writes for the likes of Anuar Zain, it was a painful journey too as her own mother had died of breast cancer.<br />
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The song was ready just before Dalilah left to fulfil her last wish. Whether she had listened to it was still uncertain.<br />
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Dalilah wanted to perform the umrah, the mini Haj. She was high in spirits before she left but it wasn’t the same Dalilah who returned. Her last status on her Facebook reflected the feelings of someone who was reconciled with her fate.<br />
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Despite her pain and discomfort, Dalilah, who was being looked after by her mother, worried more about interrupting the latter’s sleep with her tossing and turning. She knew that she was at the end of her journey, and all she asked for before her last breath, was for the taming of the raging pain within. Goodye Dalilah, you’ve been a source of inspiration and your legacy will live on.<br />
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The mak cik blogger world will be a less cheerful place without you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">AL FATEHAH </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Picture of Dalilah Tamrin reproduced in NST and in this blog with kind permission of Datin Mamasita.</span><br />
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</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-367707313714116162010-07-16T16:00:00.004+01:002010-07-16T16:17:51.851+01:00Coffee with Constance Haslam<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TEB2LKlTrrI/AAAAAAAABqg/QCzJXgC2YqM/s1600/constance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TEB2LKlTrrI/AAAAAAAABqg/QCzJXgC2YqM/s320/constance.jpg" /></a></div>FOR most of us over a certain age, our growing up years would have been touched by the dulcet tones of Constance Haslam; cheerful and chirpy while delivering request programmes, professional and informative when delivering the news, and warm and friendly during chat shows. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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Hers was the voice you’d like to wake up to or have as a soothing companion during the dai battle with the traffic to work. I remember Constance well from those Bakat TV years and enjoyed, and envied her tremendously as she was so versatile and talented.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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Like thousands of her listeners, I felt I knew her as she was in my living room, morning and night. And so, when a few years ago I met her in Paris, it was without any hesitation that I walked up to her to continue a friendship which started with her Good Morning programme. She was my “Good Morning” girl! <br />
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Constance Haslam, or now Constance Behr, has made France her home for the past 10 years. Having left the world of broadcasting, Constance, better known as Connie, is enjoying life and doing things she never had the chance of doing when she was working. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TEBzOodUGBI/AAAAAAAABqY/eQiBOAFGCLE/s1600/Constance+with+two+of+her+porcelain+plates.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TEBzOodUGBI/AAAAAAAABqY/eQiBOAFGCLE/s320/Constance+with+two+of+her+porcelain+plates.JPG" /></a></div>“I’ve done a lot of things that I never had a chance of doing when I was in Malaysia. I’ve joined the Women’s International Club in Paris, learnt French and German, played tennis and bridge and do porcelain painting,” says Connie when we met again recently in Versailles where she and husband Erwin Behr have made their home. <br />
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Over coffee and croissant at a quaint French cafe, to her apartment and later over lunch at Chateau Versailles, Connie reflected on her broadcasting days in RTM, the move to Singapore with her husband and later to France.<br />
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“I opted out of government service in 1990 and then joined Redifussion for two years working in the PR division. I opted out at the age of 45 after 26 years of service,” she said of the career that started in programme operations. It was only when the English service was short of people that Connie was asked to get behind the microphone where she began reaching out to a lot of people in both Malay and English.<br />
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She was the voice among other well-known voices such as Patrick Teoh, Alan Zachariah and Yahya Long Chik, Razali Hussein and Connie Ee — the Forces’ favourite.<br />
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“Broadcasting in those days was interesting. I always found radio more challenging than TV because I could express myself in my voice. My love of debate, elocution contests and concerts helped although we did have people from the BBC who came to train us at RTM.<br />
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“When TV started, I became the first non-Malay compere, in fact the first female compere for Bakat TV. That was the time when I actually felt like a film star. There were cameras everywhere and, for the first time too, people put the name to the face and with a name like Haslam, I suppose I became interesting. It sounded like a Malay name but I didn’t speak like a Malay,” she said with a laugh. <br />
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Connie was a Jane of all trades, but admitted that her favourite was the morning show. <br />
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“I had to get up at 4.30am and never knew what breakfast was. But I psyched myself up, did exercises and had a cup of coffee before driving through the quiet roads of Damansara through Petaling Jaya to get to the office.”<br />
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Once in the cubicle, Connie spoke to the whole of Malaysia.<br />
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“Initially, we always had somebody opposite us, and we’d instruct that person what songs to play, but later we had to learn to play the records at exactly the point we want the music to start,” explained Connie who had interviewed Gloria Estafan, Dionne Warwick, Jose Feliciano, Bjorn Borg, the Bee Gees and even Omar Sharif.<br />
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The fact that Connie became a household name and a well-known face was not without its disadvantages. She had many fans but one took to stalking her at the office. <br />
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“I was contacted by the reception who told me that someone was there to see me. I went down and saw this guy whom I didn’t know. I asked him who he was and he was angry that I didn’t recognise him,” she recalled. <br />
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“He said, ‘You don’t recognise me? But whenever you read the news, you always wink at me!’. He was instantly removed.”<br />
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Connie can now remember those episodes with a smile. In the little town that Connie calls The Noisy King in Versailles, Connie and her husband take regular walks and travel a lot, attend cultural shows and exhibitions. She looks forward to a visit by her only granddaughter on whom she dotes, and visits her mother in Malaysia twice a year. <br />
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Connie is leading a full life in retirement, enjoying everything that she had missed during the years she had dedicated her time to work. <br />
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“Living in the countryside, yet not too far away from a city is something I now enjoy and the thought that I have made time for myself to do other things in life is a great fulfillment. <br />
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“I was very prepared for retirement and that is why I didn’t miss doing what I did. I learnt a lot of new things and learnt what I didn’t know I could do like porcelain painting.” <br />
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Although Connie has left her broadcasting days, she still remembers her theme tune — I Am What I Am by Gloria Gaynor. <br />
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“A friend Dr (now Datuk) Ridzwan Bakar brought back from England a 45rmp single. He said the song describes me. I then used it for my programme.”<br />
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</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-91044465019109633862010-06-24T08:49:00.001+01:002010-06-24T09:01:36.367+01:00World Cup FeverWHEN I saw a big package lying in the middle of the living room in a friend’s house, I suspected this was a bad case of World Cup fever.<br />
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I guessed it to be a widescreen TV. All this while, the family had been content with a second hand model, with grainy visuals. On certain days, it only served as a radio as there was only audio, no visual. <br />
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But World Cup 2010 changed all that — a new 46-inch HD TV dominated the living room. <br />
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Our family life, save for the the boys’ fascination with the clubs of their choice, had so far been untouched by the World Cup. The eldest, an Arsenal fan and on holiday in Portugal, had sms-ed to say he hadn’t bothered to watch England’s dismal game with USA. As Robert Green watched the ball literally slip from his grasp into the net, our youngest (a Barcelona fan) was working in the kitchen of a friend’s restaurant, earning money for his tuition fees. <br />
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</div>This lack of interest was perhaps due to England’s continuous failure to bring the cup back. <br />
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All around us, St George flags waved from rooftops, car tops and tow trucks, and also adorned the faces of fanatic fans singing Engerland, on their way to pubs and restaurants to watch the game. An hour before kickoff time, as we made our way to our weekly religious class, the road was eerily quiet and empty. <br />
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We were non-committal about the whole thing — I couldn’t even name one player and was surprised to learn that England had a new captain, whose face crumpled as Green’s blunder allowed the equaliser with USA. <br />
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The husband, I must admit, had improved dramatically his knowledge about football and footballers but not enough to make me worry about becomign a World Cup widow. One year, when France was hosting the World Cup, he was in Paris and he must have been the only one trying to get out of the city when most people would have killed just to be there. <br />
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Another World Cup year, we took a visiting cousin on a tour of London, which seemed extraordinarily quiet. We even apologised for the lack of life in the city. But our cousin, on his first visit here, didn’t seem too keen on the tour, looking a tad restless as we showed him the historic sites. Finally, he found the courage to ask whether we could perhaps go home as he wanted to watch the World Cup final on TV. <br />
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“How could anyone travel all the way here and just want to watch TV?” was the quizzical look on my husband’s face. <br />
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Anyway, on the day England met USA last week, we were all assembled in the friend’s living room with the new widescreen TV properly installed. <br />
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Kick-off was 1930 hours. So was the scheduled weekly religious class. While waiting for the young ustaz and some other members of our small congregation, we played some trivia game as the TV showed ads and promos. So, the last time England won the World Cup was in 1966, denying Germany the cup by two goals! A friend wearing an England jacket, proudly pointed to the one star above the lions, which meant one World Cup cup so far. When USA met England in 1950, England was defeated 1-0. So what are the chances for England this year? <br />
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The late arrival of our ustaz meant that we saw the kick-off on the widescreen, beamed all the way from South Africa. The field looked so green, the roar of the crowd seemed to echo forever in your ears and suddenly, the game was interrupted by an advertisement. How strange, even for someone who had never followed football on screen. The husband, sitting right in front of the screen, was woken up from his slumber by chorus of protests. <br />
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When we were brought back to the match, England had already scored and we had missed the moment. In fact, everyone watching the game on TV missed it and no matter how many times it was repeated, in slow motion and from all angles, that brief interruption had spoilt it for us. <br />
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“But England always started well only to lose in the last minute”, quipped a friend, watching the door for the appearance of the ustaz. And true enough, when the ustaz finally made his appearance, we saw Green diving for the ball, grappling with it and the torturous moment when the ball slipped from his hands into the net. <br />
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There was a heart-rending groan from the apartment across the street as we switched off the new widescreen TV and turned our attention to ustaz. <br />
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The St George was still flying proudly from rooftops and car tops as we drove back that night along empty motorways. No celebrations on the streets, save for some drunkards, their faces depicting a crumpled St George, making their own merriment outside empty pubs. <br />
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We survived the England match that night. For us , it was an equaliser as well: One to World Cup, one to ustaz.<br />
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</div><div style="background-color: transparent; border: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">This column was based on England's first game against USA and was published in the NST on 22nd June 2010.</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-92091042026069005882010-05-31T20:49:00.001+01:002010-05-31T20:52:48.904+01:00Name dropping in Milan<div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TAQRJbZWdfI/AAAAAAAABp4/FTy-LZBsCkw/s1600/P5290955.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TAQRJbZWdfI/AAAAAAAABp4/FTy-LZBsCkw/s200/P5290955.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">ON our first day in Milan, our Italian guide kindly offered to take us to Montenapoleone. That’s the place, he said, where rich people, like rich Malaysians, shop.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My first instinct was to say no for obvious reasons, but my curiosity got the better of me. A picture of that famous street with those famous names would make a good Facebook update, I thought. And who knows, I may even bump into the who’s who of Malaysia’s A-list. After taking in the imposing Duomo Cathedral, we walked past the Ferrari shop into a relatively quiet road leading up to the bustling Montenapoleone. A Lamborghini parked at the top of the road was enough to tell me that we were in the right place.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Milan is that kind of a city — brand names scream at you from every nook and corner. Gucci tempts you from across the road, Versace dares you from around the corner, Prada lures with dignified silence. Crossing the road the Italian way, dodging Vespas and taxis, I remembered when I was about eight crossing busy Orchard Road in Singapore to look at Robinson’s. That was the place to shop if you were a somebody during the 1960s. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I recalled holding on to Pak Lang’s hand tightly, asking him for the umpteenth time: “Where are we going?” He said simply: “We’re going to see where the rich shop.” Forty-odd years on, I was to experience that same feeling — standing outside Armani, Ferragamo, LV and other names with funny jumbled-up letters, shocked at their price tags.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Those without a price tagsa, usually you can’ta afforda!” our companion offered kindly, with a shrug of his broad Italian shoulders. Well, that was subtle enough. But it didn’t dent my ego at all as I hadn’t come to Milan to shop. Besides, my husband had advised: “Don’t buy until you can pronounce them!” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But what about those who gloated about their DIKNEY bags (DKNY) and OINX (Onyx) tables? It’s almost sinful, isn’t it? I still remember the time when I received a fax from a friend to check the price of a Ferragamo. I wondered why would someone sitting in her office in Kuala Lumpur want to know about the price of an Italian dish in London! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TAQShVzjYhI/AAAAAAAABqA/H2Ax3P7GOHI/s1600/the+sunflower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TAQShVzjYhI/AAAAAAAABqA/H2Ax3P7GOHI/s200/the+sunflower.jpg" width="150" /></a>Well, I had since progressed, and there were many more famous Italian names that I had come to see. It started last month, when during a visit to Paris, in between appointments, I told a friend that I just needed to see Mona Lisa. Ten years ago, I had queued for half-hour under the French summer sun, only to come face to face with a stamp-sized portrait of the lady with the mysterious smile. In my mind, it was a picture larger than life, but the disappointment didn’t last long. I had returned to Paris to get reacquainted with the famous lady. Leaving The Louvre with several portraits of Mona Lisa, I promised to start a collection of famous paintings by famous names — on fridge magnets, of course! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TAQOiMDx3cI/AAAAAAAABpo/9AWxPIjuKrI/s1600/Monet%27s+Water+Lillies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TAQOiMDx3cI/AAAAAAAABpo/9AWxPIjuKrI/s200/Monet%27s+Water+Lillies.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few days ago, I visited museums in Munich which housed Rubens, Van Goghs and Picassos, among other famous names, enough to last me a lifetime. Van Gogh’s Sunflower nearly had me in spasms of delight in that sedate, dignified gallery of the New Art Museum. The same could be said when I came eye to eye with Monet’s Water Lillies. Suffice to say, I left clutching a few Monets and Van Goghs to adorn my fridge. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">On this maiden Milan visit, I was thrilled to visit more museums with more national treasures hanging on their walls. Yesterday, it was Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. The guide’s explanation of Da Vinci’s mathematical approach to his famous artwork left almost everyone speechless. Every little detail of expression: a frown on the forehead, a curl of a finger, all tell a story. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TAQPESeWDNI/AAAAAAAABpw/l7hSyyS9XW4/s1600/Sir+Richard+Brandson%27s++Villa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/TAQPESeWDNI/AAAAAAAABpw/l7hSyyS9XW4/s200/Sir+Richard+Brandson%27s++Villa.jpg" width="200" /></a>Next, we headed to Lake Como, Italy’s third-largest lake. A cruise across the lake to Bellagio, a paradise for lovers of silk and leather goods, gave us a sweeping view of the Italian landscape, with clusters of villas with intriguing frescos dotting the hillsides. Once in a while, the boat would slow down so we could feast our eyes on villas belonging to George Clooney, Versace and Sir Richard Branson. One villa, with a garden of palm trees and cascading greenery, had been a location for a James Bond movie, I was told. How’s that for name dropping?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This article first appeared <a href="http://www.nst.com.my/nst/articles/I__8217_MEVERYWOMAN_NamedroppinginMilan/Article" style="color: red;">here </a></div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-52068266283600533152010-04-13T14:59:00.002+01:002010-04-13T15:12:30.734+01:00Crazy Cravings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S8R6fJtKf_I/AAAAAAAABo4/uKcqXx9PUcU/s1600/craving1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S8R6fJtKf_I/AAAAAAAABo4/uKcqXx9PUcU/s200/craving1.jpg" width="175" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>CRAVINGS during pregnancy </b>is something I have long forgotten and banished to the dusty archives of my mind. </div><center> </center> <div style="text-align: justify;">But it came hurtling back recently when I met an elegantly pregnant woman who had travelled all the way from a far-flung corner of the British Isle, in search of cincaluk. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, cincaluk. To have a craving is something, but to have a craving for something that is almost impossible to get, is another thing altogether. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Before venturing out to London where Oriental supermarkets store almost everything on their chaotic shelves, she had sent me a message to point her in the direction of the coveted item. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I, the least adventurous person where food is concerned, could only point her in the direction of Chinatown, to which she dutifully went with hopes of bringing cincaluk back to grace her dinner table. Alas, after going in and out of several shops there, she had to leave empty-handed and disappointed. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">She had been disappointed once before when all the postman delivered to her front door was a letter from the Customs to say that they had confiscated the bottle of precious cincaluk that her mother attempted to post. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">But she wasn’t about to give up, or rather her hormones dictated that the normally intelligent and reasonable person with a pretty sensible head properly screwed onto her shoulders, shouldn’t give up. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">These hormones can make a Jekyll and Hyde out of the most placid person on earth. They can change tastebuds overnight, making a meat-loving person into a vegetarian and cause a normally diet-conscious person to throw caution to the wind and eat stuff that she would usually throw out the window. They can reduce a professional and tough decision-maker into a weeping wreck or a monster just because she can’t get what she craves for. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could certainly identify with these people. During my first pregnancy, I cried buckets because I couldn’t get the correct mee goreng mamak — correct being the way it was cooked by the mamak pushing his cart at exactly 5pm along Light Street in Penang. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I sulked throughout the night just because my husband mentioned salt beef and chopped liver and there was no way he could pacify me because it was already midnight. He watched helplessly as I sat crying before a container full of prawn sambal that was flown in all the way from that a particular stall in Kampung Baru, KL, but had gone off during the 12-hour flight. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">During another pregnancy, attempting to make the keropok that I was craving for, he gallantly rolled up his sleeves for the culinary feat, only for it to turn out to be keropok lekor, which I totally disliked. Why couldn’t I just crave for asam boi or some pickle that could be easily obtained from Chinatown? </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="3" class="pix" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Sure, there have been studies to suggest that the body craves what the body lacks but why does this render one to be almost obsessive especially in the quest for the forbidden? </div><div style="text-align: justify;">A friend knew what coffee beans would do to her and the baby in the womb, but throughout two pregnancies, she chewed handfuls of coffee beans as she would peanuts. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">One baby turned out to be hyperactive and the other had a skin allergy although this was not conclusively linked to the coffee beans. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">My eldest sister pined for duck hanging on the rack in a non-halal restaurant. All she wanted was a bite of the meat dripping with fat. This is nothing compared to the woman who ate charcoal and another who chewed pencils. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Looking at some studies carried out in attempts to explain why women had different foods cravings, I came across one conducted in Sri Lanka and published in the Indian Journal Of Public Health. A total of 1,000 women took part in the study which noted that “pregnancy cravings were significantly higher in women who married after a love affair than in those who had an arranged marriage” as well as in “women who were superstitious (e.g. believed in devil dancing) than in those who were not.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Considering how inconsiderate and ridiculous some of the demands made on the helpless husbands are, I am inclined to support the finding linking love marriages to pregnancy cravings. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">What else can explain the long journey into London and the futile search for cincaluk?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This piece was first published <b style="color: #990000;"><a href="http://nst.com.my/Current_News/NST/articles/20100413001725/Article/index_html">here</a>.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Kak Teh's other Obsessions:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><a href="http://kakteh.blogspot.com/2005/08/obsessions.html" style="color: #cc0000;">Obsessions</a></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Picture from Connie Martin's.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="pix2"></table></center>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-46099994676244981652010-04-05T21:01:00.009+01:002010-04-05T21:29:05.180+01:00More notes from under the duvet<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S7pEbmQmyAI/AAAAAAAABoo/0thqfH9DOa0/s1600/9780141021232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S7pEbmQmyAI/AAAAAAAABoo/0thqfH9DOa0/s200/9780141021232.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br />
<b>The boiler seems to be on the blink again </b>and as it is Bank Holiday here, no one can be persuaded to come and have a look at it. So the duvet seems to offer the warmest place as I oscillate from FB to Blog stopping to read news online somewhere in between; anything at all to stall my long overdue article from completion. <br />
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I must admit that I have been lured back to FB, a place I swore I'd never put a foot in again. A friend suggested that I reactivate my account to retrieve some photographs from her and once I pressed the button, there was no turning back. There I discovered the place where friends congregate: friends who had been slowly disappearing from my comment box and from my beloved rantauan.com: a virtual village which was once ringing with laughter over pantun wars, is now quiet. Initially, I had problems putting names to faces as in FB most except Mekyam, use their real names. <br />
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I found old classmates and I even found my mother!!! My nephews and nieces, siblings and relatives are there as well. Our family members used to meet up in www.myfamily.com but some bright spark decided that FB is a more convenient place to meet. She even ghosted my mother's account!<br />
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And guess who else I met there? Our wedding photographer!! Zubir, or Tok Bet as he is affectionately known, is an old family friend who is related to my brother-in-law and by marriage, related to Puteri Kama. FB is indeed a small world. Being in touch with him brought back memories of that fateful day - 9th December 1979. Tok Bet is almost a brother to us, bunking in with my brother most nights when we were living in Yan. After our simple bersanding, he ushered us to the bedroom for the standard 'sitting on the bed' pose. The room wasn't big enough for him to move around, and as he walked backwards to get a good picture, he tripped backwards into the bathroom!! <br />
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The virtual world, through all these social networking sites, is forever interested to know what we are doing, what we are thinking. I wonder why. So, in a haste, and still procrastinating over the article I am supposed to write, I wrote: ZO's dilema: should I write for blog or cari makan? This prompted quite a few suggestions. <br />
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Now, I had considered myself quite a veteran in this cyberworld, but it never ceased to amaze me how the online written word could be misconstrued and misinterpreted. What I had in my head and transfered onto the page, was not what was received. My dilema was whether I should write an entry for the blog or to write a piece for the newspaper. Nevertheless, its quite an interesting study of how a written word is read and perceived. I had failed to convey what was in my head at that point in time.<br />
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And as you can see, the blog wins hands down and I will now write to cari makan.<br />
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Over and out.<br />
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Kak Teh's also wrote from under the duvet here:<br />
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<b><a href="http://kakteh.blogspot.com/2009/01/notes-from-under-duvet.html" style="color: #990000;">Notes from under the duvet</a></b></div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-31644181270515784672010-04-01T21:14:00.005+01:002010-04-01T21:49:28.407+01:00One Spring Morning in the life of a Mak Cik in London<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>It wasn't the kind of spring morning </b>that one would like to get up to. Given the choice, you know where I'd rather be. The promised sunshine never came but instead more forecast of gloom and even doom. I left the house well before eight, the spirit somewhat lifted only by the sight of pretty yellow daffodils by the front door. And with that and Wordsworth's ryhmes playing in my head in no particular order, I made my way to the station this spring morning sans any spring in my steps whatsoever! I was about to start the day without ryhme or spring.<br />
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(Cue violin)<br />
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Oh, daffodils, is it really spring when all I feel is perpetual autumn with the onset of permanent winter? (Ignore this)<br />
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The station seemed a long way away and as I passed the green, the empty green, I imagined poor <b style="color: #990000;"><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/8592163.stm">Sofyen</a></b><span style="color: #990000;"> </span>playing football with the local boys, my Taufiq included. At 15, his life was cruelly taken away by a group of schoolboys and girls who attacked him at Victoria Station last week. <br />
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I passed by Betsie's but no cheerful hello from her as she must be in bed still under her comfortable duvet. Eventually, after what must have been a thousand hours, I made it, swiped my Oyster and climbed up the steps. The tube was crowded and my plan to read was aborted as I didn't have a f ree hand to hold an open book. No one looked up from their free Metro newspaper or their Blackberries and Iphones, to offer this Mak Cik a seat. Self pity was fast setting in. If, by the time I reached Nottinghill Gate and still no seats, I thought, I 'd take the Circle Line, which of course is no longer a Circle Line as it doesn't go in a circle anymore. (Drat!) And of course, still no seats (more drat!) and I stumbled out with the rest on to the platform at Nottinghill Gate and climbed more steps with more self pity setting in at full speed by the time I reached Baker Street.<br />
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I was in a foul mood by the time I saw some ray of sunshine outside the station and dodging tourists and enthusiastic parents pulling their even more enthusiastic children to join the queue at Madame Tussaude, I finally reached my destination.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S7T8Wd76CJI/AAAAAAAABog/tWuJ5RBmjAg/s1600/regents+park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S7T8Wd76CJI/AAAAAAAABog/tWuJ5RBmjAg/s320/regents+park.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Regent's Park and the serenity at that time of the morning was a world away from the madness that was about to unfold just a few streets away. Regent's Park and its early morning joggers was a welcome sight to this tired, restless mind.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Regent's Park and its ducks swimming merrily in the canal and its empty benches evoked memories of a beautiful forbidden romance. Regent's Park and its <a href="http://bangkai.wordpress.com/2008/08/19/blue-bench-at-regents-park/"><b style="color: #990000;">Blue Bench</b></a> were silent witnesses and accomplice of two lovers who met and sat on the blue bench and contemplated their futile future together. As I crossed the bridge and scanned the place for any blue benches around, I thought of Azhar and Sarah sharing more than just a flask of coffee together during one of their many illicit rendezvous.<br />
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As I reached the corner, turning into the big building where I was to spend most part of the day, I wondered whatever happened to the couple; their marriages to their respective spouses and even the originator of the deliciously woven plots. <br />
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Taking more steps up to the meeting room, I found myself wishing I could come up with something as intriguing from something as mundane as a blue bench. <br />
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The room was still empty when I got there and sitting down, I pulled out my documents which were about to be scrutinised and torn apart during the best part of the day.<br />
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Reading the first few lines, I knew I had better keep to my day job, as the saying goes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S7T8Wd76CJI/AAAAAAAABog/tWuJ5RBmjAg/s1600/regents+park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Mak Cik also rambles here:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://kakteh.blogspot.com/2008/11/one-autumn-day-in-life-of-malay-mak-cik.html"><b>One Autumn day in the life of a Mak Cik </b></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-493904482131823352010-03-29T22:08:00.000+01:002010-03-29T22:08:02.110+01:00Goodbye, Ruby AhmadThis tribute to Ruby Ahmad appeared in my column today (29th March 2010) <a href="http://nst.com.my/Current_News/NST/articles/20100329232307/Article/index_html">here</a>.<br />
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<h1><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I’M EVERY WOMAN: </b>Goodbye Ruby Ahmad</span></h1><div class="artpic"> </div>2010/03/29<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>ZAHARAH OTHMAN</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S7EWR2OV1EI/AAAAAAAABoQ/lYPPMOCJr1c/s1600/Ruby+Ahmad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S7EWR2OV1EI/AAAAAAAABoQ/lYPPMOCJr1c/s200/Ruby+Ahmad.jpg" width="144" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Last week, the blogosphere was stunned by news of the sudden passing of one if its gems, Ruby Ahmad. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><center> </center> <div style="text-align: justify;">It took everyone by surprise as there, still staring from her eponymous blog rubyahmad.blogspot.com, is Ruby Ahmad, with her famous ravishing smile, the epitome of optimism and exuberance. Sms-es were coming from all corners of the world, from shocked and stunned friends in cyberspace. After a few phonecalls and messages, I cried myself to sleep and woke up hoping it had been just a bad dream. But more messages on my handphone confirmed the sad truth.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
By morning here, entries dedicated to the late Ruby had sprouted in the many blogs of those whose lives Ruby had touched — those who had known her through her writing and “meetings” online and those who had actually met and enjoyed a friendship with her, no matter how brief. There were many.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
But who was Ruby Ahmad? The brief description on her blog simply says: “I’m a ‘go for it!’ kind of person. I act on impulse and am a great believer in tackling any problem head-on. Being an eternal optimist, I believe the nitty-gritties will sort itself out at the end! “I place great faith in the positive aspects of human nature and that we should all work in this light so as to live in a humane and just society.” </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ruby was one of many bloggers who had no qualms revealing her identity. Her pictures of networking with her former Tunku Kurshiah college mates, socialising at charity events, promotions and concerts tell us she enjoyed life to the fullest. She gave as much as she could offer and in this she was almost tireless and selfless. In most of her writings as in her media interviews, she propounded and expounded her belief that we should strive to live in a humane society. She shared whatever she had to motivate the young, gave her input on cluster schools and many more. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Through her writing and pictures, her readers had the impression of a person who had acquired her wisdom through travels far and wide. She rubbed shoulders with people in the corridors of power, and those in the periphery. We know more of Ruby from her interactions online and in comment boxes. Her continuous banter with Uncle Lee in Toronto, her wise and considered advice to student Daphne Ling and words of sympathy and motivation to cancer sufferers. The nature of online interactions is such that it makes it possible for us to piece together the tracks one leaves behind in comment boxes and put together the person behind the writing. But we could be wrong.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Last week I realised that I did not know Ruby yet like others, I also felt I had somehow known her for a long time. This was the contradiction that was hard to take, and my heart ached as if I had lost someone very close. Ruby Ahmad, the blogger, qualified architect, wife, mother and grandmother, had managed to hide something from all of us right until the end. She had the dreaded breast cancer, which had spread to her liver. This was what took her away from us. On receiving the news, we scoured our mail boxes and comment boxes and even her entries to see whether she had left any clues. Nothing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S7EWR2OV1EI/AAAAAAAABoQ/lYPPMOCJr1c/s1600/Ruby+Ahmad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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I met Ruby in early 2007 after countless interactions online and by phone. She was exactly as I had imagined: outgoing, exuberant, gracious and impeccably dressed. We met many times during my visits home and during these meetings, she revealed a bit more of herself to me. I had seen her work the Ruby Ahmad magic. We were at a dinner table after a concert and she chatted and listened to someone everyone else seemed to be ignoring. She gave this person her time, which I believe, was much appreciated. At a gala night, like two naughty schoolgirls, we approached a minister who had somewhat admonished women bloggers, and introduced ourselves: “Datuk Seri, we are women bloggers,” after which we ran off and had a good giggle. This and more is the Ruby I want to remember.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Last week, she was taken away from us. But in a special corner of my heart, she will always be there, urging me “Kak Teh, go for it!” Goodbye my friend.</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-72720673422895585532010-03-24T02:54:00.001+00:002010-03-24T03:11:51.027+00:00The Big Rice Jar<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Often times,</b> Mak would take us to Lorong Pintu Sepuluh and point to a dilapidated wooden house where, she said, I was born. I couldnt imagine living there, for when I saw it, it was almost leaning dangerously to one side. And much later, of course, it was bulldozed to the ground to make way for some big buildings. But I do remember the house with the iron gates next door. It was painted yellow with brown shutters. It had an iron swing and lots of guava trees. I remember this house well because this was where I used to play and be doted on by the kind couple who, I was told were childless. I remember the sweets, the kind words and most importantly the big gold medalion that they bought me and which I wore proudly around my neck to pose for a studio photograph. I remember too the big rice jar, by the window in the kitchen. On our visits there, Mak always said, "Look at the jar. It is always full. Their rezki is always full." Until today, I am always mindful never to leave the rice jar empty.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Pak Mat and Mak Teh were my foster parents. I was always their 'cek' and 'sayang' and in their eyes, I could do no wrong. Apparently, before I came into their lives and into their house, a brother a little older than me, had been their frequent visitor. He was their ray of sunshine. Pak Mat even promised to buy a car to take the three year old around the small town of Alor Star. But it was not meant to be for my brother, Izham, was taken away one night and Pak Mat and Mak Teh were inconsoleable. Pak Mat took delivery of his new car, ripped open the top and took the small coffin in his car for a final ride around the small town of Alor Star.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, it was after his sudden death that I took his place in their hearts. And even after we moved to the house that Pak built the other side of town, we'd make frequent visits and I'd play on the swing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, when Pak Mat died, Mak Teh was cared for by some of her relatives. We kept visiting her, and even after my move here, I never forgot the couple who gave me so much love and treated me like their own child. But during one visit, I was told that she no longer lived in that house with the iron gates. She had been taken away somewhere. Her rice jar, apparently was completely empty, so to speak. I was distraught and when we found her, she was in a house, very much similar to the house that I was born in. In fact it was worse. I found her lying very flat on the floor, unable to move because of old age. And she couldn't see me. But upon hearing my voice in between sobs, she asked, "Bila cek balik, sayang?" Suffice to say, I couldn't say much. I couldn't talk but held her frail hands until she fell asleep. We left and that was the last time I saw her. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">On this important day in my life, apart from remembering my mother and late father, I also want to remember Pak Mat and Mak Teh, neighbours who became family and gave me so much love. When I see a full rice jar, I always remember Mak Teh. Sadly, towards the end, hers was left empty.</div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9776295.post-42628168286091743522010-03-20T11:12:00.010+00:002010-03-20T15:04:40.507+00:00And I was there too! (2) - skyping all the way to the wedding!<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>It was way past six am</b> and I was already late for the wedding. Grabbed a tudung, (what is fashionably known as the emergency tudung), slid under the duvet again and turned on the Skpe. <br />
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So, there I was in my baju kelawar, under the duvet and yet at the wedding of my nephew Zhafri, in Bangi. Within minutes, I was in my sister's lounge. Saloma was singing the song 'Selamat Pengantin Baru", the children were running around, my siblings were making themselves busy and I was just a fly on the wall, watching it all happen.<br />
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And a feeling of sadness crept in as I watched the merriment and the banterings. It would have been too costly to go and we had just been back. But we sent a representative and her friends to the wedding. Rehana and two friends arrived a few days before the wedding and spent at least three days shopping for the right clothes for the wedding.<br />
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One by one, siblings and uncles and aunties came to the screen to talk to us in London. Such is the wonders of technology. Then, Mak slowly entered the frame, at which point, I choked back my tears. She called my name out loud several times but obviously couldnt hear my reply. Then she said she was at a wedding and was about to go home. She thought she was just visiting.<br />
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That is Mak. She is so forgetful now. Rehana said she asked her 'Mana Mak?' We have come to the conclusion that Mak in her old age is the most diplomatic person to walk this earth. She asks general questions and yet, people think she remembers. When my friends visited me when I was home, she'd say, "Laaaa, lama tak nampak!" which is of course true. But Pak Lang came online to me to say that she repeatedly asked Pak Lang (her brother) when he arrived. But that is Mak. And I am so happy to see her standing upright and enjoying yet another kenduri of another cucu.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6SsFgj1SqI/AAAAAAAABmw/e9KbfUxSUlU/s1600-h/Video+call+snapshot+8.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I had missed the bersanding, the newly weds oblidged by sitting on the simple dias again, just so I could take photographs.<br />
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Aaaah, I was there too, witnessed the bersanding, took pictures, heard the wedding songs and felt the excitement in the air. BUT I didnt get to eat the nasi kenduri!!</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">SELAMAT PENGANTIN BARU ZHAFRI DAN FIZAH!!!<br />
Fizah, welcome to the family! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6SsFgj1SqI/AAAAAAAABmw/e9KbfUxSUlU/s1600-h/Video+call+snapshot+8.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6SsFgj1SqI/AAAAAAAABmw/e9KbfUxSUlU/s320/Video+call+snapshot+8.png" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6Ssp0ZYNxI/AAAAAAAABm4/Pw6M3NCTgDE/s1600-h/Video+call+snapshot+11.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6Ssp0ZYNxI/AAAAAAAABm4/Pw6M3NCTgDE/s320/Video+call+snapshot+11.png" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6Ss4wLbtxI/AAAAAAAABnA/PEYsQhO3mX0/s1600-h/Video+call+snapshot+18.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6Ss4wLbtxI/AAAAAAAABnA/PEYsQhO3mX0/s320/Video+call+snapshot+18.png" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6SsFgj1SqI/AAAAAAAABmw/e9KbfUxSUlU/s1600-h/Video+call+snapshot+8.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6StG0T9_mI/AAAAAAAABnI/O17iqGTs-1U/s1600-h/Video+call+snapshot+22.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_PbaJl16c3VI/S6StG0T9_mI/AAAAAAAABnI/O17iqGTs-1U/s320/Video+call+snapshot+22.png" /></a></div> Pengantin, Mak, Rehana and the family wedding photographer Am)<br />
Mak pengantin waving at us - dah hilang stress?<br />
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All pictures taken via Skype camera. Syokkan?<br />
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Kak Teh Skyped here too:<br />
<div style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="http://kakteh.blogspot.com/2006/04/and-i-was-there-too.html"><b>And I was there too (1)</b></a></div><div style="color: #990000;"><b><a href="http://kakteh.blogspot.com/2008/10/bohong-sunat-di-pagi-raya.html">Bohong Sunat Di Pagi Raya</a></b></div>Kak Tehhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00856864485917633260noreply@blogger.com32