The Devil's Color is White

     Originally written on February 15th 2013


     There was once a town, where everything was white. The houses, the schools, the grass, the flowers, the clothes, everything. White was pure, clean, pristine. White was beautiful. White was Right. No one questioned this rule, as children grew up seeing white on their parents and the parents grew old seeing white on their parents. It was engraved, it was accepted and it was expected.

     And yet, the day came when a foreigner arrived. He was a traveller, looking for a place to settle down. He came in a red car, wearing a blue shirt and brown pants. He slung a bright orange backpack on his back and his slippers were neon green. 

   “Ugly!”

   “Hideous!”

   “Disgusting!”

     The locals voiced their confusion and disgust. They were shocked, horrified and afraid. This man was nothing they had ever seen before, different.

     The traveller, unaware of how his vibrant colours were somehow defiling the beauty of white, walked into a nearby inn. He stood at the counter, a sharp contrast to the pure white surrounding and asked for a room. The innkeeper wrinkled her nose in disgust and showed him the way out.

   “No coloured man will defile the whites of my inn. There is no place for tainted people here!”

     He walked out, confused and deeply saddened. Was it so bad that he was different? Was his colours Wrong? Was it a sin to be different? Maybe he needed some white clothes, a white pair of slippers, a white backpack. He needed to blend in, to belong. To be one of them.

    Suddenly, a spark ignited. Maybe there were others like him? Or maybe someone who didn’t mind his colourful ensemble? Those who would accept him for what he was, an individual.

     So, he wandered the streets, knocking on white doors, asking for a family to accept him, in exchange for some different colours that he considered beautiful. His optimism backfired. The nicer ones politely declined while some shut their doors to his face. And the ones so unwaveringly devoted to their pure and beautiful white threw white paint, water and even acid on his face and clothes, screaming words filled with hatred and malice. He would run from them, his spark of hope slowly dying each time it happened.

      One day, as he was sitting under a tree, nursing his fingers, bleeding from scorching acid thrown at him a few seconds ago, a little boy came to the traveller, carrying a white puppy with him.

   “Would you like to touch it, Mister?” the boy asked, flashing an innocent smile. The traveller smiled as brightly as he could, and stretched his bleeding fingers towards the beautiful, white pup. A drop of crimson blood fell on its ears and staining its fur. The boy gasped, not from horror, but from surprise, as the red on his puppy was something he had never seen before. It enthralled him. The traveller smiled sadly. At least a child could find wonder in his foreignness, he thought. Will acceptance come soon after? He played with the boy and his puppy, his spark of hope growing into a small fire. When he finally closed his eyes to sleep that day, the fire was burning slowly, but firmly. Orange flames dancing in his mind’s eye.

     When he opened his eyes later, the sight that greeted him was one of pure terror and heartbreak. A mangled lump of white smeared with red lay in front of him, remnants of what became of the little puppy. The white puppy he tainted red. Before his mind could even respond to the terror in front of him, he felt a sharp thud at the back of his head and hot liquid ran down his head and into his eyes giving him the visions of a bleeding red. As his knees, palms and finally his cheeks touched the ground, he heard them.

   “We knocked out the coloured man! He’s unconscious!”

   “Carry him to the town hall! We’ll burn him there for everyone to see. That’ll teach him for tainting my son and the dog with his ugly colour!”

     Ugly. Tainted. That was what he was to them. And as his consciousness began to drift away, he wondered about the pure, pristine and ever so beautiful white and how the white that everyone else idolized was the one he would forever deem the Devil’s colour.  

   

Waiting for the End

Originally written on February 2nd 2013


     It was certainly exciting, I couldn’t deny it. My heart raced as my eyes followed the steady pace of my blue pen on the crisp white of the exam paper. It was nearing the end, and every one of us, the Form Five students were eagerly anticipating it.

The nerve wrecking minutes before freedom.

All around me, pens danced on papers, each stroke much more urgent than the one before. It was the last battle. One that would bring an end to three weeks of war. A war we spent two years preparing for. As my pen made the last inky dot, ending my personal battle, I felt it again, the anticipation, eagerness, the thumping of an excited heart threatening to break out of my chest.

Four minutes left.

Papers were being shoved aside to the furthest possible corner of the small fold-able desks, their writers ready to hand them over. The clunky trots of the female invigilator on her heels we dubbed the Kung Fu shoes reminded me of the passing seconds that felt agonizingly slow. My mind was adrift. Dwelling on the school days that was only a few minutes from ending.

Another two minutes.

The hall was a restless mix of rustling papers, shoes shuffling against dusty floor, nervous giggles and bored sighs. Invigilators began their hushed discussion. Students began their noisy packing. It was the tap of pens against pencils, the thud of erasers falling onto floors and into pencil cases and the zips and clicks of closing pencil cases.

Forty-five seconds.

Invigilators began trotting across the hall, the Kung Fu shoes lady’s being the most audible footsteps. Giggles escaped the girls, euphoria was in the air. The sudden screeching of the microphone took our breaths away. And we held the ones forming.

Ten.

“Attention candidates,” the Head Invigilator began. ”Please put down your pens and paper.”

Five.

“The invigilators will be collecting your papers.”

Four.

A pin could have dropped and everyone would hear it.

Three.

“The time allocated for Biology Paper 3…”

Two.

“…is over.”

One.

The hall erupted in a sea of cheers and laughter, sighs of relief and exhaustion. I laughed and smiled and before I knew it, there were tears. Of relief, exhaustion and sadness. Our battles, our biggest war, our school lives was over. Wiping my eyes, I picked up my pencil case and took a slow step towards the exit, where many others were already running to.

Alicia and the Possibility of Wonderland

     Originally written in March 2012   


     As Alicia was walking home from school that day, she began thinking of interesting things that could, but did not happen to her that day. The list was endless, ranging from getting an A for the ridiculously mind boggling Chemistry test to the most impossible things like having her crush return her feelings or having an awesome fairy tale adventure.

  Right on cue, a fluffy white rabbit with a green watch strapped onto its hind leg ran past the bewildered Alicia. That, definitely stopped Alicia in her tracks. Her eyes followed the fluffy ball of white until it disappeared behind a cluster of bushes. Contemplating on the chances of an Alice in Wonderland adventure, she took a step towards the bushes which now looked oddly suspicious. Was there a chance of a dark rabbit hole? A passage to Wonderland?

    Suddenly, a young girl-probably in her mid-teen- yanked Alicia’s sleeves. The girl was wearing a dress that looked like it came from the Victorian era. Her hair was a wave of blonde curls cascading down her back. With a blue ribbon holding back her bangs from obscuring her small face, she seemed to be Alice herself. No questions asked, she began a long, winding explanation involving a runaway pet rabbit and her brother’s green watch. Long story short, her class was doing a play on Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland and she lost her pet rabbit along with the green watch she ‘borrowed’ from her brother. Alicia continued nodding and shaking her head despite her losing interest. Well, there goes my adventure in Wonderland, she thought. Hoping for the rabbit to finally show itself, she looked at the bushes again. 

      And as if the rabbit’s thought were synchronized with hers, it dashed pass them, leaving a trail of green plastic pieces which Alicia suspected were the sad remains of the brother’s watch. Before a witty remark could be made, little  Alice was on the ball of fluff’s heel, screaming strings of profanities which Alicia felt was a little too advanced for a thirteen year old. Unless she knew the Internet.

  Alicia stood there, next to a clump of bushes that might have been concealing the gateway to Wonderland but actually did not. With a sigh, Alicia turned around and continued her walk home, thinking of Alice and her runaway rabbit which she hoped hadn’t fallen down any holes to Wonderland. That was definitely an interesting encounter. Now, she needed a nap, preferably under a tree after reading a book and an afternoon tea in their backyard. Hopefully her sister would remember to wake her up.

A Study of Feelings: Loneliness

You can be sitting on your own

book in loving hands 

while lips form words

that echo softly in the quiet mind.

Alone, not lonely.

You can be suffocating in

the burning passion of human sounds

as bodies clash in fervent worship

of the screaming chaos of a dance floor.

Lonely, not alone.

Loneliness,

is not always

the product of

being alone.

Dictionaries Make Perfect Gifts.

I think I was seven or eight.
My dad gave me a dictionary.
A perfect gift.
English to Malay, Malay to English.
Maybe it wasn't anything special, since my brother got one too
Maybe I made it special, when I first cracked its spine.


There were long, long words scribbled across the inside cover,
Which he lovingly wrote in terrible, terrible, handwriting.
These were the only ones I remembered.
These were the only ones that mattered.

I

Something about how I could look up words I don't understand
and I did,
I used those words, and made them my own
I spun tales in my head, and unwound them as I dreamt
I spilled words on paper, and slipped them between textbooks
He never got to read those
He will never read these.

II

Something about studying hard and making him proud
 and I did,
I watched him crying on the stage when I was twelve
I watched him holding it in when I was fifteen
I now watch him in fading memories.
I can only imagine him announcing so proudly when I was seventeen
That's my daughter up there to anyone who'd listen
I can only imagine him talking to his friends, showing them pictures
See here, she's my daughter, off to the States, to be an engineer.
I can only imagine.

III

Something about living spectacular dreams
This, I did not do.
His dreams,
not mine
I was not meant for white coats and silent corridors smelling of antiseptic
I was not meant for stitching skin and healing flesh.
I may not know yet the dreams I am meant for, but not those.
Daughters are not meant to dream their fathers' dreams
We dream on our own while they protect us from nightmares
I am still dreaming.
I'd like to hope that he'd understand.


He gave me a tiny dictionary,
I took from it the words I could carry,
Things I could make my own, but nothing more.
Dictionaries make perfect gifts, not perfect daughters.

Mom, you are not perfect and I love you.

      In the 20 years of bearing the name that means ‘our happiness’ in Arabic, I often wonder if I had done the name justice. To me, to be happy is to not worry and I would often wonder if my parents are happy with what I chose to do with my life. Are they happy that I have somewhat managed to navigate the rough waters of life from childhood to adolescence and finally young adulthood without much of the angst and drama that is expected when raising a daughter? Have I succeeded in not making myself another burden my mother must carry, especially after my father’s untimely death years ago and she is left alone as the sole breadwinner of our family? For as long as I remember, I always try to never ask my parents for the things that I know I can do for myself or I believe are a waste of time and money. Mom told me that I was the least fussy of her children. Even now as a scholarship student, I can’t help but wince whenever she asks me whether I have enough money for the week. As weird as it sounds, I find it extremely hard to ask my parents for help, especially my mother. I cannot help but hate the feeling of needing or wanting help. I would rather take what they are willing to give me and nothing else. 

      

      As sons and daughters, we are told to look at our parents, specifically our mothers for guidance. We should not hesitate in asking for their help in anything we do. As children, we would ask our mothers for help in answering the simplest maths equation, forcing them to come running from their busy kitchens. We would cry and call for her when we bruise a knee or cut our lip over silly fights. Mothers would give the longest lecture while tending to our bruises. As teenagers, we confide in them our deepest secrets and troubles while they furrows their brows in worry – further deepening the already visible creases on ageing foreheads. As young adults, we come running to them whenever we are served the harsh reality of growing older, yet not one of us seem to realize that their own shoulders are sagging with age. It is a scary thing, this dependence on our mothers. We shove our hands towards them, handing all our wants and needs without ever stopping to look at the creases on their foreheads and the slump of their weary shoulders. I was always afraid that one day, everything would be just a little too much.

   

      When I was seven, I had made a pretty simple request. I needed wrapping papers for my textbooks. I asked for it a few days earlier but she had forgotten to buy it until the last possible minute, the day we had a textbook inspection. Out of childish anger I put on a show of trying to wrap my textbooks with old newspaper I found lying around the house. My mother screamed at me, forcing me to stop. When I think back about that incident, I wanted to laugh at my stupidity and weep at my utter cruelty. My mother actually stopped by a mini market on the way to school and bought me my wrappers. She threw them onto my lap and let out a long desperate sigh. I had never heard her sigh before. She was always all smiles and happy nods in front of us, especially my father. It was a frightening thing, the long draw of breath that felt like forever and the heavy sound of air rushing out of her chest as if it had been there for quite a long time, slowly breaking her bones and now wiping off her smile. I remember this frighteningly real moment, but not the exact words she said – words that she would never say to me under normal circumstances. I was now a priest in a confessional box, listening to her fears, her insecurities, all of her parts and pieces she hid from the world. Then she cried silently as I sat beside her at the passenger’s seat. As a child, I was scared and confused. What did I do wrong? She was the one who didn’t keep her promise. She was the one who had forgotten no matter how many times I reminded her about it. She was the one who’d rather run around the town picking up things for my father, or work on her ‘teacher things’ for school, or spend at least an hour everyday trying to prepare the perfect dinner for the family. She was my mother. She was supposed to make me happy. Why? It was such a simple task. And then it dawned on me. It was supposed to be a simple task. Any capable mother could do it. How could she not be able to do it? I had done the worst thing possible. I had made my mother feel guilty and helpless by forgetting that simple thing of a roll of wrapping paper.  In that sudden moment of realization, my eyes pooled with tears of guilt and regret. What have I done?  We sat there crying in that small car that smelled of fake flowers and overdue test papers – mother and daughter.  When she stopped crying and finally looked me in the eyes, I was scared. It felt like she was asking me these impossible questions. It’s my fault isn’t it? Am I a failure as a mother? I am haunted by those eyes whenever the thought of asking my mother for help crosses my mind. I think, that was the day I began choosing what to say and what to keep silent about when talking to my parents.

      As children we are made to believe that parents are the epitome of perfection. They can do no wrong and their words are absolute. They are capable of even the most impossible of tasks and failure is never an option for them. Even now, some of my friends still rely on their parents’ judgement, failing to notice that they are very much human in making their choices – capable of errors. I am somewhat envious of their blissful naiveté and ignorance. On that day I saw my mother as another human being. She makes mistakes. She doubts her capabilities as much as the next person. She too can be overwhelmed by the endless requests from both her husband and four children. I do not think she meant to show me that side of her. After all, parents pride themselves in being seen as the heroes of their children’s stories. Years later, I found out from my uncle – her older brother – that she believed I had forgotten about the whole episode. “She was still so young,” my mother told him. “She won’t think much about it.” This is another mistake my mother and many other adults have made: underestimating a child’s perception and understanding of the world.  In the twelve years after that incident, I began stringing together the bits and pieces of my mother’s life and now, I can finally see her as she saw herself that day. She is so very delicate. She was a fairly young woman in her late twenties trying to make sense of everything that’s happening around her. The husband she truly loved dearly who expected nothing short of perfection from her, the children who saw her trembling shoulders yet believed that those small shoulder could bear the burden of the world, and the seven year old daughter whose impression of her as a mother was probably worsening by the second they spent in front of a mini market crying over a roll of wrapping paper.

 When we finally pulled out of that parking space and made our way to school where I took an earful from my teacher for my unwrapped textbooks, I held on to this small piece of mind shattering secret – my mother is not perfect. She never was and she never will be. Is she a lesser person for that? No. After all, she is only human. 

Broken Glass: a 100 word free verse poem.

She stares at the girl, the spineless little thing.

 Always cowering. Always crying. Always bruising.

She stares at the girl’s split lips, the black and blue coloring the skin under her shirt.

When they lock eyes, she offers a small smile.

The girl does not see.

Her eyes are empty.

Dead.

She sees red.

A flash of movement- bony fists against cold smooth surface- and the mirror breaks.

She looks down and sees.

 Her own bloody fists.

Her own bruised body.

She sees herself.

Something breaks.

A single thought crosses her mind.

I am powerless.

And now she truly is.

I wrote this for the Cooler Lumpur event, 100hundred. I don't know if they'll accept this submission tho. Well, fingers crossed.

Privilege and Rights of a Bumiputra in Malaysia

Let's talk a bit about privilege.

Before I was offered a MARA scholarship, I attended Kolej Matrikulasi Labuan for a total of 3 days. One night, on the balcony in front of my room, I had a conversation with one of my friends who attended a group session with the rest of the non muslim students (the muslim students had a separate session in the college mosque) that made me just THINK.

During their session, students were called onto the stage according to their SPM results. Predictably, many of the students standing on the stage when straight A students were called were non-Malays/Bumiputeras.
I remember listening to her describe the shame when comparing herself to them. I remember thinking that even the SPM result of my school's best student was not as good as half the non Malay/Bumiputra students here.

All these non malay/bumi student whose qualifications are definitely better than my own, what were the possibilities offered to them? I had applied for UPU, JPA and MARA scholarships. I had already been rejected by all but MARA. Still, I had the comfort of hoping for the quota set for former MRSM students for MARA scholarships. What did these other students have? JPA, and other private institution scholarships like Shell, Petronas, Maybank and heck, Sime Darby. I never applied for any of these scholarship because I knew how competitive it was and how well rounded I had to be to secure a spot. I did not allow myself enough time to entertain the thought that many of those straight A students had applied for those scholarships, and was rejected. I knew, that when compared to all these amazing students, I was nothing special. So, I took the easy way in. I chose MARA.

That same night, I received my MARA offer letter. I laughed, I jumped and I cried while my friends congratulated me, telling me that I had worked hard and I deserved it.

That night, I stayed up all night thinking about that balcony conversation I had with my friend and I wondered, did I really, really deserve this?

There has not been a single day since I've been here in the United States that I do not remind myself that had I not been under a MARA scholarship, had I taken my chances with other more competitive scholarships, a non Malay/Bumiputra student of infinitely better qualifications would have been the one sitting in my place, learning from all these wonderful professors.
Had I not been born a Bumiputra, my success would have been entirely dependant on a life long struggle in a pool of very limited resources in which I may or may not have survived.
I was born a Bumiputra and along with that title, I had received my very own walking stick, before I even knew I needed to walk.

Some will say that it is among my rights. The constitution clearly states so.
However, I will not deny the existence of the easy road that this 'right' has paved for me.
And as unfortunate as it is, many Malay/Bumiputra students have abused the privileges offered to them. The recent cases involving overseas scholarship students is enough proof of how ungrateful some of us have become. I have seen friends not attending and failing classes, failing to maintain their GPA not because they could not, but DID NOT try at all. Again and again they are given second chances, only to squander it all away.

I was born into privilege, and I acknowledge that fact.
And I believe that those who deserve it should have these rights/privilege as well.