Inspired By Isymam: A Talaqqi Story

Six years after I'd retired, I received two academic certificates.

One conferred by Masjid Sultan Salahudin Abdul Aziz Shah in Shah Alam for completing its one-year Talaqqi/Tajwid Course. The other one for attending a four-month Tajwid class at Rehal Islamic Studies Centre.

No, no, these are not fake PhD's. Hahaha.

The Shah Alam certificate was a sheer beauty. It's inscribed 100% in Jawi calligraphy, including my name. When was the last time I'd my name written in Jawi? Standard Six, 1965. That long ago. So I'll keep this certificate for the rest of my natural life, for both its intrinsic and extrinsic value.

Everybody knows the blue-hue Masjid Sultan Abdul Aziz Shah. But not many have heard of Rehal. It's a small, privately-run Talaqqi centre in Kota Damansara. The owner and mentor-in-chief is one Dr Surur Shihabudin, a two-time PhD who also lectures at UIA. Dr Surur has written a widely read text entitled  "Ilmu Tajwid" (pink hard cover, 342 pages). The book is about, hold your breath, Tajwid. What do you expect?

Religious gurus are never known for marketing craft and guile. Their books all look drab and dreary. And the titles leave very little to imagination. They should take a leaf out of literary frauds with funky titles like Blue Ocean or Freakonomics that have sold millions. "Talk Tajwid And Get A Second Wife In Two Weeks" would have been a runaway bestseller. Anyway I'd been using Dr Surur's "Ilmu Tajwid" for some time now and I've to admit that I was motivated to attend the course on the weight of this book and its author. Nothing beats the horse's mouth.

I'm immensely proud to receive these certificates, even at the tender age of 62. I've lost count of all the certificates I'd received for all kinds of courses I attended when I was with Petronas. Lateral Thinking, High-Impact Speaking, Finance For Finance Haters, Business Leadership, 7 Habits, 5 Asses, you name it. But none really compares with these two humble certificates.
   

I'm writing this not to show off any religious fixation and credentials. I'm in fact exposing my failure and frailty. Children as young as six now learn the Quran and know all the finer points of Tajwid. At my age, I'm supposed to teach.

So what's the point? In short, I want to share my late-life learning journey and joys.. And if I can get one more person to just think about learning Tajwid, I'd consider this blog entry a major triumph.

Tajwid is, admittedly, a very dry subject matter. Think theoretical Physics. Or Cost Accounting. It's highly technical and more potent than some sleeping pills. Some of the charts and pictographs used are suspiciously similar to the periodic table.  You can't compare Tajwid with, say, Sirah, where you get turned on by our Prophet's love life with wife Aisyah, or marvel at the bravery of Khalid Al Walid and awe at the exploits of my favourite all-conquering warrior-archer-wanderer Saad Abi Waqqas.

One of my friends knows an awful lot about Syiah and Wahabbi, which, I think, are both juicier than Tajwid. He can expound on Nikah Mutaah, or contract marriage, in the way that E Channel explains the premise behind the much-celebrated gender migration from Bruce to Caitlyn.

When I completed early Quran reading classes in standard six, I thought I'd mastered Quran reading. Mom could just pick any page and I'd read it loud and clear. I had this mistaken belief that Tajwid was just an option, and only mandatory for those who want to win the international Quran reading competition and the lucrative prizes. So it was left on the back burner for fifty years. Fifty years! When I took on Tajwid,  I  rudely discovered that, for fifty years, I hadn't been reading the Quran the right way. I'd been reading the Quran not in Arabic, but in Kelantanese.

How did I "discover" Tajwid? It wasn't exactly Fleming and penicillin, but it was similarly fortuitous. Or serendipitous, if you don't mind. The story is screenplay stuff and wrote itself.

It was mid-Ramadhan in 2002 when about 20 of us, close classmates who went to Tiger Lane in 1966, descended for a reunion and Iftar. We decided to have a brief tazkirah, where, by default, the most religiously enlightened among us would lead. He reminded us of the intricacies of Quran reading, and, to prove his point, he picked out Isymam, a Tajwid rule applied at Ayat 11 Surah Yusuf. We've to purse (muncung) our lips when we recite ta'- man-n-na.  Man, this is something, I thought. I'd been missing tons of fun !

From then on, I began to sniff around for basic Tajwid books. "For my son" I told the bookseller. He'd heard this routine before, so he just nodded. Reading the books was uphill. Tolstoy's two-volume War and Peace was easier and faster.

I finally retired in 2009, but it wasn't until two years later that I made some inroads after a chance encounter with a Tajwid teacher. I attended his weekly classes with a few other like-minded "late bloomers" I met at the local masjid. The teacher was a godsend. He turned a good part of his house into a private college. Every Tajwid lesson he delivered was a sobering self-discovery. Our learning curve was slow, flat and painful, but he took it all in his stride and rewarded us with home-made pastry and free-flowing coffee after every class. In my book people like this will go straight to heaven when they die.

We completed the syllabus after two years, but there was still plenty of fire in my belly. I was so inspired by what I'd learned that I decided to enrol in a one-year Talaqqi/Tajwid program at Masjid Sultan Abd Aziz in Shah Alam, and a four-month Tajwid classes at Rehal the following year.  At the same time, my Tiger Lane group were having our monthly usrah, led by, yes, the Isymam imam. The half-day session would include Quran reading with friendly Tajwid tips. So effectively I was learning not from one, but four, different teachers. Had I been this serious in Form Five, I would've aced Biology and Chemistry and performed brain surgeries.

I found out that learning at my age is extremely challenging for three reasons. One, I'd lost most of my thinking skills (not a lot to begin with). So it took me longer than forever to get the hang of the strange concepts and to memorize new names. Two, I was among the oldest, if not the oldest, in class. My Shah Alam and Rehal classmates were mostly half my age, mentally sharper and, worst, they all had more hair. Three, most Tajwid teachers had very little talent in the complex art of teaching. The Rehal program, in particular, was stressful not only because the classroom felt like a Cambodian sweatshop but also because the teacher (Dr Surur) used a teaching technique made popular by the Japanese army during their brief occupation of the old Malaya. He didn't believe in soft sell. He'd drill and grill, regardless of your age. If you're the sensitive sort, you'd drop out and declare yourself a "syahid" before the third week.

But after the initial jitters, I began to enjoy the Tajwid classes. Even Dr Surur's hard-hitting military style didn't scare me. With age advantage, I could ask any question I like, like why huruf "Dhod" is Rokhowah and not Syiddah? I always believe everything has its soft and sweet side. In a class of 20 students, you'll listen to 20 different ways of reading. High notes, low notes, poor pitch, terrible tone. I can tell you it's more fun than Akademi Fantasia audition.

We learned from our teachers and from each other, driven by one common and singular ambition: to read the Quran the way our beloved Prophet read it 1400 years ago. What's not to like?

The test of Tajwid is not in the terms and theories, but in putting it to practice. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, remember? Not the prettiest of parallels, but you get my point. Mastering the Makhraj, Mad and the stuff is only the starting point. It's how I apply it when I get down to actually doing it. It was mentally and physically draining, tougher than treadmill. But once I get in the groove, it's hard to stop. You could even get high. Try the graceful Surah Maryam, and you'd soon find yourself doped and drowned in the rhyming verses. Reading the Quran would never be the same.

So I've mastered Tajwid. No, no, no. Not even close. Never. There's still a lot left to learn. Dr Surur kept reminding us "Bergurulah walaupun kita seorang guru".  It's not possible to unlearn and relearn 50 years of work in six short years. The trick is to train. Serena Williams has won 23 Grand Slams and she still trains with a coach, six hours a day. Now you're excited.

The best way to train is to read in groups, Tadarus style. The Kenyans run and pace in groups, and they break all world marathon records. Our group of "late bloomers" meet five days a week to read and pace each other. Every one of us leads, learns and motivates, all at the same time. We are not world champions, but we are better today than we were yesterday. You're welcome to join us. No annual fee, and loads of fun. I promise.

There's no stopping this. I'll keep on learning: twisting and turning my tongue, tweaking my speed and breath, and even trying out a new tune. The divine virtues and rewards of reading the Quran are never in question. But I can promise you one immediate payoff when you read the Quran the right way: your wife loves you a lot more.  

Shenzhen, Caution

The landing was faultless. But the moment I stepped into the airport and looked around, my stomach dropped. Everyone here except us was a Chinese. I'd nothing against the Chinese as a people or a concept, it's just that I'd never seen so many Chinese in my entire life. My wife sensed my abeyance and pressed my shoulder. "Come on, this is China. Not Italy". I knew, but, I mean, all these Chinese and so many. "China, Chinese la" She reasoned out. This line of logic left me with very little to argue.

Last month I was in Shenzhen and nearby Guangzhou. Nearby was actually 150 km away. These two cities are now China's boom towns, growing at breakneck rates, and home to 23 million people, all Chinese (What do you expect? 23 million Italians?).

It's hard to find another place more sanguine than Shenzhen. And so devoid of character and charisma. If you love museums, castles and art houses, don't go down to Shenzhen. Go to Leuven. Or Leiden. Nobody here has time for contemplation. Culture and theatre are a waste of space. This is the soulless motherland of finance, factories and fakes feeding off world's rapacious greed and relentless consumption. Only 50 years ago the mantra was fish, farm and fight for the country. Now? Let's make more money.

I was part of a touring party of 17 fine-looking people, all my family members, including wife and daughter Aida. The youngest was nephew Umar, 10 years old. We'd been travelling around together quite a bit to whet the wanderlust. Well, not to Las Vegas or Las Palmas, but mostly the more affordable local and regional hotspots. This time we broke our long-held tradition of self-styled backpacking and bespoke itinerary by taking a guided tour. Backpacking with a guide? Now that's embarrassing. Why? Because this is China, that's why.

In case you've forgotten, China is officially a communist state, you know, Marxist-Leninist, Mao Zedong, Falun Gong, Gang of Four, Shaolin Temple, and all the scary stuff. We heard that government officials in China are summarily shot even for corruption, which, in our country, isn't really a crime. So quite naturally, we were worried. Who knew, we could get jail term in China for laughing or reading. We'd to agree with Ronald Reagan's pearl of wisdom: Why take chances?

Our Chinese tour guide, named Felix, could speak English and a smattering of Malay. He was a native Shenzhenian or Shenzhenese or simply Chinese and very proud of his city. According to him,  the average age of the Shenzhen population was only 31 years. I knew I was the oldest person in my group. Now I was also the oldest person in the whole city of Shenzhen. I quickly told wife that she was technically the second oldest person in Shenzhen. She dismissed it offhand, accusing me of conspiracy, hangover, late-life lapses and so on. All too familiar, if you know what I mean.

After five days and four nights in Shenzhen and Guangzhou, we came away mixed. Well, no place in the world has all pluses. Not even Paris. And certainly not Ottawa. (One of my brothers-in-law still thinks Ottawa is in Japan). You'd always end up with a bone or two to pick. So there's this nagging and uneasy feeling that we might not have seen and done enough. Or, in Obama's language, we weren't getting the biggest bang for the buck. Guangzhou especially deserves more time. The jury is still out, so to speak and I hate this phrase. We've to really sit back and think hard before passing a verdict.

In the meantime, I've put together some takeaways from our tour, if you're interested. If you're not, then just scroll ahead for some Android-quality photos. This list is strictly my opinion.  The 10-year old nephew may have other ideas. PM him if you want to know. 

1. A Guided Tour Is A Time-Waster.

A guided tour of any part of China requires that you visit a number of state-sponsored "craft or cultural centres". The Shenzhen jade factory that we were taken to had the uncanny feel and atmosphere of Hotel California. Yes, that part "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave..." and the searing guitar licks.  Lucky thing a sister-in-law bought something. That probably was enough to save us and let us live to fight another day. Hahaha.

What's worse than one jade factory? Two jade factories. We'd to visit another jade factory, in Guangzhou. Same bloody scripts and tricks. But this time around we were all prepared to fight back, communist or not. It all ended peacefully though, with nobody buying anything. 

Then there was this Chinese herbal medicine centre or clinic in Guangzhou, where they had a professor from Beijing touch our hands and size up our state of health. Apparently everybody seemed to be down with at least one chronic condition. A sister-in-law seemed to be critically short of oxygen. Hahaha, thanks prof, finally we knew why she was what she was. But no worry, because the kind professor, as expected, would prescribe the necessary (and expensive) concoction. I know a scam when I see one.

We'd easily wasted precious eight hours on these state tours, which we could have easily spent exploring Guangzhou's Muslim quarter, fruit markets, the subway, and the old city with its narrow alleys and quaint shops. Both Shenzhen and Guangzhou were safer than Subang Jaya and taxi drivers eat and live by their meters. We would survive on our own.

Felix the tour guide was a part-time bait-and-switch artist. He was so good at his trade that he managed to lure us into buying bags of nuts, Longchamp purses, and watches from him.

Hwang He, the Chinese River of Sorrow, shall be my witness as I promised myself to never ever again take guided tours and go near tour guides.

2. Muslim Meals Are Marvellous

Chinese Halal food or Halal Chinese food? Doesn't matter. Heaps of horror stories about this. Bland, tasteless, sticky and so on. Don't listen. The food was glorious and out of this world. It was vegetable based, with superb soy and only touches of meat and fish. Very healthful. My weight and pulse rate fell after two days.

3. Fakes Are Fine

Shenzhen and Guangzhou are full of fake stuff, with miles of malls plying the bogus high styles. I'm all for this counterfeiting and bootlegging. I think for far too long the much celebrated European haute couture are getting away with exploiting unsuspecting Asians through clever marketing and subtle branding. Those designer labels are never worth their extortionate prices. They are the real fakes, not the fakes. A fat girl flagging a 100,000 dollar Hermes bag is still a fat girl.

Louhu Mall near Shenzheng railway station was a five-storey affair choked with fakes and knock-offs. The action here was thick and fast. The goods were excellent value, at less than 5% of the "real" thing. The Chinese "designers" have really come a long way. The stitching and sewing was splendid and it'd tough to separate the wheat from the chaff. If your friends can still tell it's not Chanel, you're the problem. Not the bag.

Bargaining here was more intense than watching Lee Chong Wei. Price of anything starts at 850 Yuan (RM 500). You must poke back with only 50 Yuan and then watch the sales girl feigning (or actually going into) fits or short comatose. You must hold your ground and walk away. She'd bolt after you and this fast furious sequence should last for ten minutes before you and the girl finally settle for 100 Yuan, a discount of 80%. The process takes plenty of energy. But well worth it. You get a fake bag and lose 400 calories of real fat. What's not to love.

4. The Magnificent Mosque Of Saad Abi Waqqas

The name alone conjures up the mystique. You simply have to see this old mosque in Guangzhou, a shoo-in in traveller's bucket list. The blatant collision of Arabic and Chinese architecture, set among lush gardens, will just blow you away. The dark red panels and pillars were bold, defiant but delightful.

Saad was Nabi Muhammad's close companion and relative, warrior, archer, traveller and diplomat extraordinaire, all in one. He purportedly travelled all the way to China with his kabilah in the 7th century to propagate the Islamic faith, 700 years before Marco Polo and his gay brothers.

Climbing up the steps, I hesitated. I was overcome by the poignant thought of the old mosque of Kg Laut, where I grew up. It's  not as old, but the warmth and welcome were strikingly similar. I could still picture the mosque standing triumphantly where it was 50 years ago, just like this very mosque in Guangzhou.

5. Beijing Street, Dongmen Market, Baima Wholesale Market, Mangrove Park (or Whatever).

A standard tour will happily drop you off at these (in)famous places. These are duds and dreadful and should be officially certified as state tourist traps. My lawn is bigger than the Mangrove Park, and more birds. Skip if you can. That jade racket was more fun. Go to Sungai Wang instead, when you come back.

6. Finally, Oh My English!

The Chinese love the English language. They've a long way to go. But, believe me, pretty soon they'll speak English better than our public university graduates. Notices and signs everywhere carry the English translations. The intention is noble enough, but you'll almost always end up bemused and amused. You've probably read and heard loads of cruel jokes about this. I can confirm they are all real, not a joke. Here's a selection. Enjoy !      

     

Whatever It Is, Just Don't Do It.

             

Warm Prompt? Heat Spout? Mirror Burst? Be Afraid.

So Profound. Haha

If You Don't Brush, The Door Won't Open

Take Your Time To Rise.  Man, Never Thought Of This. Thanks. 

Kg Pandan Backpackers In Action (Plus A Tour Guide)

 The Great Warrior Was Here

  

Tiap Hari Sayur Dan Air Kosong. Tak Ada Milo Ke? Aparaa.

This Big Guy Is Blocking My View. Wait I'll Tell My Husband.

The Girls Were Laughing At Jade Jokes

"You've Too Little Oxygen, But Too Many WhatsApp Groups" 

Feels Like Taiping. Please Take Us To Jade Factory.

Just In Case You Don't Believe We were In Shenzhen

The Oldest Couple In Shenzhen

 

Dalam Kenangan: Yusof Dohab (1953 - 2016)

I lost a friend last week.

A very good friend, and a quietly remarkable person. I thought I'd write a few words in memory of our friendship and the good times we'd had over the years.

I met him for the first time on the very first day we checked into UKM campus way back in 1975. His room was next to mine. We hit it off in no time. Not sure how, but we just bonded and blended.

We shared the same name, so our fathers had to come in. Our old IC both started with 44. Beyond that, we'd nothing much in common. He was from Kedah, and me, well, you know. I loved football and music and books, while he could never hit a decent tune. I stayed up late, he'd sack out at 9.30. But I could pass along in perfect Kedah tongue. That probably rubbed his sweet spot and sealed the deal.

But there's one more thing that we both passionately shared right to the end: Sense of humour. I'd never met a guy with a sharper sense of humour. Nothing that he couldn't joke about. He had this special talent of seeing the lighter side of anything. His friends, lecturers, brothers, food, sugar readings, and even me, and himself. Nothing escaped his perceptive mind.

When we last met, at a class reunion at Shah Alam, we were making fun of, you've to believe this, Waze. I knew he'd problem locating the venue, but he took it all in his stride "Senang cari tempat ni?" I provoked him. "Senang sangat. Aku pakai Waze". We burst out laughing. He was old-school to the bone, literally scared of  gadgetry and  anything technically complicated. His secretary turned on his desktop and did the emails for him. He'd be the last person in the world to use Waze or any GPS. 

It's hard to be serious whenever we met. There was always something to laugh about. Nothing offensive, just pure, clean fun.       

During those "dark" college days, he'd contrive to occasionally bring a group of Tabligh guys in full garb and gear from the nearby Masjid Al Rahman to my room. He'd call me out as if it was life and death or more than that. Then he'd stand well behind to watch my reaction as the men-in-white launched into a full-blown sermon. He'd nod repeatedly and smile when I said "In Sya Allah". When it was all over, he'd slip back into my room, trying his best to appear apologetic "Sorry la tadi, tapi aku suka la tengok hang serious dok dengak depa tu lecture", and we both roared with laughter. Nobody else could pull off pranks like this.
 
We stayed off campus in the second year.  Our lair was a spacious four-room real estate at Lorong Maarof, Bangsar we shared with six or maybe seven other students. He had a sexy Vespa for class commutes and occasional getaways to the old Lake Gardens. I was his PO1 (pembonceng number one).

For some strange reason, I still remember the Vespa's number to this day: KF 5278. The old workhorse is still around at his house in Kedah, tip-top, raring and ready. I'd never expected it to outlive its master.

He didn't graduate first-class or first in class. Neither did I. But he found his true calling as a "government servant", turning in first-rate performance that deserved not one but two Datukship (three if you count the grandchildren, haha). I heard his boss, the minister, just couldn't operate without him in the mix. Of course, he could operate without the minister.

I think what set him apart was his humility. You didn't have to deal with his ego because he didn't have any. The only thing he "bragged" about was his massive cocktail of medications, which, according to him, the doctors prescribed in kilograms. Even with his social standing, he'd remained faithful to his simple tastes and minimal sophistication, no airs and graces, and no fancy philosophies to flaunt. Showy stuff like culture and architecture would never motivate him. He was driven more by his rural and religious roots. With him, you only get what you see. No wonder he was so easy to like and enjoy.

Last year he did me a favour. Although retired, he still had useful connection in high places. My daughter had applied for a Mara loan to do a degree in UK. It was turned down outright. I thought she had a solid case because she was accepted straight into the second year.

So my last resort was to appeal to the minister, incidentally his former boss. He got me an appointment with the minister's personal assistant (his friend). The minister approved and signed, not one question asked. The following week the minister was sacked. No, not because of that appeal letter, but because of 1MDB.

If you want to know, my daughter is now at KDU College, in Damansara, not England. What happened to the letter? Use all your imagination.

A few weeks before the fasting month, he called me just to catch up. He was all over, up and running about his little orchard around his house in Kedah. I accepted his invitation to a fruit-picking and sleep-over at his house after Hari Raya. This time we were serious. I was all game and looking forward to this exciting event. Who knew, we might even get randy enough and hit the road again. Yes, a retro ride on that old Vespa. Man, I couldn't wait.

It was not to be.

I had very little sleep that night of 16 July. Tossing and turning, my thoughts were with his family. He was very ill and had been under intensive care since afternoon. I woke up at 3.30 am. At about 4.30 the message came in, from his phone. His wife Ani wrote.

My heart sank as I looked on, speechless, shaken and swamped by a deep sense of loss and despair.

                     

Happy And Hippie Hairdays. YD And Me (Back)

  

  

In The Land Of Brooke And Honey

                                                                           
I was in Kuching for four days early this month.

Nothing new or ground-breaking about that. I mean, Sarawak is still part of Malaysia. And Kuching isn't Dubrovnik. Or Mostar. I've been literally at the receiving end of lots of real-time photos and footage of old city Dubrovnik and new old Mostar bridge from unsuspecting fellow retirees lured into technical tours of the Balkan states. I'm happy enough to be on the mind of these well-meaning friends. The only gripe is that the pics tend to pop up at two in the morning. The last thing I want to see at 2 am is an old bridge.

Now back to this subject of Kuching. My youngest, Sarah, was enrolling in the Asasi Sains program at Unimas. For the less initiated, Unimas is short for Universiti Malaysia Sarawak, not another PAS offshoot. It's the country's eighth public university, with a sprawling campus at Kota Samarahan, just outside Kuching. Well, it's not as renowned or revered as UM or UKM, but it's a fit and proper university nonetheless, with a fit and proper chancellor, medical school, logo, colour, university song and other frills. Unimas has been ranked 200-250th in Asia by QS, higher than any university in Mongolia. All QS rankings are borderline fraud. So don't bother. 

Sarah was 17. She'd never gone to any school further than 500 metres from home. So Kuching felt like Kunming. I went to a school more than 500 km away from home when I was only twelve. I could feel the sense of separation. Sarah's mom and I just thought we should be there with her, at least for the one-day registration. But like all vintage parents, we brought along enough shirts, socks and some cash to hang around in Kota Samarahan for another couple of months, if it ever came to that. I could still picture baby Sarah sleeping tightly in my arms. It all seemed like yesterday. Now I'd to leave her on her own. Sad.  

I've only fond memories of Kuching. My first flight ever was to Kuching, way back in June 1979, just two months into Petronas job. My boss knew it was my very first flight and he had a dandy time watching me gripping the seat whenever the plane jerked. We checked in at the Holiday Inn, now renamed Grand Margherita, right on the banks of the Sarawak River. Back then, Kuching was just a sleepy backwater still struggling to free itself from the clutches of Brookes the crooks.  Shops were few and far between. Kuching had, in total, one Malay restaurant.

I'd to fly to Kuching a few more times, the last one was in 1999. But it never occurred to me that one day I'd be sending my daughter off to study here. No, I'd no grudge against Kuching or Satok or Sarawak River. It's just that I couldn't come to terms with the idea of Sarah not coming home for lunch. 

Apart from the much-celebrated waterfront and three more Malay restaurants, I must say that Kuching hadn't really changed all that much, even with two full-time mayors running the city. To their credit, the city's old charm and character was untouched, and there had been no attempt to build the world's sexiest structure here despite the oil and gas riches. The town remained relatively unhurried and understated, a stark contrast to, say, the fast-pace USJ, where I'm now, barely breathing, with dust and noise and break-ins every single day since 1991.

A lazy stroll along the waterfront was decidedly liberating without merry migrants hovering and crowding us out. I heard the all-conquering state immigration would deport them on sight, the way they would bundle off Nurul Izzah and the Penang DAP hustlers on arrival before every election. Kuching can now claim to be the only city in the world with two mayors but no Bangladeshis.

How did Sarah end up here? Well, Malaysian higher education is more complex and cruel than crude oil blends. If you don't rack up enough A in your SPM, you've to navigate your way through literally hundreds of public and private and fake universities offering hundreds of diploma and foundation courses. Only those with 10 A+ or more are deemed clever and socially competent and given scholarships to study at Warwick. It's ok if you don' t know where Warwick is.

Getting into private universities is easy. You just show up with your money. Applying to the public universities, on the other hand, can be unnerving. You must select and rank eight courses from some twenty universities with rapping names (UM, UMP, UPM, UPNM etc) and pray that UPU doesn't get them all mixed up and accept your hipster son for a nursing program. The process is simple enough but a wrong course or university choice means your talented child will study to be a lonely radiographer instead of a lonely radiologist.

Sarah took all of ten minutes to decide. She ticked Unimas as her top pick, breaking down the 500-metre barrier. Bravo, girl. 

Why? Why not? Think Leicester City winning the English Premier League. Shock, adventure, romance, intrigue. We knew this place wasn't in the league of UPM, the old agricultural college. But it's just a one-year foundation program, not a degree in low-temperature Physics. So, what the hell. And we thought there'd be plenty of, you know, culture and nature on offer.

True enough, smack in the middle of Unimas campus, there's a 140 million-year old virgin jungle with a live and active Iban village. Don't ask me how a jungle can remain virgin after 140 million years.

The registration Friday morning was over in a jiffy. In 1975 I'd to stand up for two hours to register at UKM, with horny seniors all over us. Sarah got to meet her roommate for the first time. I thought and hoped that she'd be from Bau or Bario. She was from Bangi. So much for nature and culture.

The advantage of being my age (60+) and in my profession (retiring) is that I could just go around talking and working the crowd with virtually zero risk of being taken too seriously. With 50 years experience in almost anything, I could immediately sense that something wasn't quite right here: nobody spoke Kelantanese. Not one student from Kelantan out of 1000 new students in this foundation program? This really pained me.

In 1975 all incoming students in UKM were from Kelantan. Fine, not all, but you get the idea. Seriously, this is a travesty of justice. Unimas is an equal-opportunity university with a world-class campus. It was set up not just for Sarawakians, but for the worthy and willing minds from all states and all corners of the world. 

Even with three airlines flying into Kuching twenty times daily, logistics is still prohibitive for the average Kelantanese household. This is sad. How about free one-time return airfare for these students then? Forget it. This is neither important nor urgent for our leaders. There are more important matters, like forming new parties, slandering one another, suing the Wall Street Journal etc.


                                                                               II


We flew into Kuching on Wednesday, 1 June, without realizing that it's Gawai holiday in Sarawak. There are now 151 public holidays in Malaysia, and it's impossible for a retiree to keep track. My small entourage included my wife, Sarah, Aida and wife's sister, and only six bags (hey).  These people had never been to Sarawak, and all they knew about Sarawak was the Sarawak Report.

Kuching was deserted. We decided that we needed a few more items to turn Sarah's dorm into a Ritz Carlton. We were lugging away Sarah's pillow, bolster and extension plug at a Parkson when a girl appeared out of nowhere and stopped us on our tracks.

"Pakcik nak daftar kat Unimas?" She enquired.  It had to be the extension plug.

"Bukan saya. Anak saya ni" I pulled Sarah over.

She's a local and a Chemistry undergraduate at Unimas. (For the record, I had P8 for Chemistry in Form Five). We immediately blitzed her with the usual and unusual questions. She tried her best to encourage and assure us that Unimas was a good choice. Her survival tip for Sarah: "Ko orang jangan lewat".

This girl really warmed our hearts. I forgot her name, you know, one of those modern names that tend to slip off your random access memory faster than five minutes. But we won't forget her. We wouldn't have done in KL what she'd done here: helping total strangers.

We were about to exit when a lady with four or five children in tow greeted us with the same question. "Nak daftar kat Unimas?"  Either I'm good-looking or the Sarawak people are all God-sent angels. Or both. And the extension plug.

Her name was Sa'diah. A classic and original Malay name like this is hard to come by these days. She happened to work in Unimas HR. She gave us her number and offered us a ride to Unimas campus for registration Friday morning, "but we've to be very early" she added. At the mere mention of the word "early", we quickly declined. Our notion of early is roughly 9.30 am.

The next day (Thursday) was still a Gawai holiday. Those guys really need time to come around. Sa'diah called us. She wanted to show us around Kuching and sample the local cuisine, buy kek lapis, ikan terubok etc. Again we declined. But she called again in the afternoon, and we'd run out of excuses. So we relented. I decided to stay back and Whats App. But the rest were just happy to hit the town and savour mee kolok and see all the must-see-before-you-die landmarks. Sarah's mom was particularly impressed with the Astana, the official and historical (and probably romantic) residence of the 80-year old Governor (and his 30-year old consort).

Sa'diah came to see us Friday morning during registration to help Sarah settle down. The next day she insisted on taking us on another round of sightseeing. Not even a token resistance this time since we had eight hours to kill before our late evening flight. The trip was shorter than the Balkan technical, but it was pleasant enough.  We veered as far out as Damai Beach passing the iconic Gunung Santubong along the way before swinging back to the airport for our flight to KL. I just stood by, overwhelmed and deeply moved, as the ladies hugged and bid goodbye.  

On board the idle mind had to work overtime as the undercover economist in me was struggling to make sense of it all. What had we remotely done to deserve the random kindness and extraordinary generosity from a complete stranger? We're nothing special. I'm no Prime Minister and, by extension, my wife is not Prime Minister's wife. We're plain and pedestrian, duller than ditch water. So what exactly had driven Sa'diah to go out of her way to make our Kuching visit fun and memorable, leaving her four young children at home to fend for themselves?

Forget all the fancy theories. She's simply a true and virtuous Muslim blessed with a gift of giving. (Gift of giving? For giving? Not sure about this expression. But sounds good). The message for me here can't be any more subtler: I've to be kinder, gentler, and ever more gracious. And always grateful, yes. Aida, Sarah, you read it here first.

I was losing all hope when 1MDB was being investigated in seven countries. But this sweet and selfless Sarawak lady has restored my belief in this country.

                                                                                 III

Sarah has been away from us for more than two weeks now. Everything's fine with her. She's loving her new life. Unimas is every bit what she'd imagined. Wifi could be faster though. Fasting away from USJ is fun. Kak Di (Sa'diah) brought loads of food last weekend. "Ayah, my Bio teacher is a riot. Teka dia orang mana, ha ha?". She posted a pic, with a Bidayuh friend named Myra Ridu. A classmate from Kedah keeps calling her "hang" or "hangpa". Now that looks like culture.                       
   

                  

A Clever Girl

Today I met a clever girl.

I was waiting for Aida at KDU when I caught a Malay girl sitting alone, waiting for somebody or something. She was fidgeting, like most modern girls do.

She was 18 or 19. I'm way past 60.  I just thought she wouldn't mind talking to a man this old.

So I kicked off with something standard and superfluous:

Old Man: You're a student here?

Clever Girl: Yeah. I'm a student here. (Do I look like a pkr member of parliament?)

Old Man: Where're you from? (Please, not Kelantan)

Clever Girl: Puchong

Old Man: Puchong. OK. Dulu sekolah kat Puchong? (Totally unimpressed with anything Puchong).

Clever Girl (Smiling): Aahaa

Old man (Sadist): Ada sekolah kat Puchong ya.

Clever Girl (Smiling): Hahaha, eh ada, ada.

Old Man: What're you doing here? Business Studies? Nursing?

Clever Girl: No, I'm doing my A Levels.

Old Man: That's good. JPA, Mara, Mama?

Clever Girl: No. Petronas.

Old Man : Where are you going after your A Levels? (Sustainable Nursing?)

Clever Girl: Chemical Engineering in Toronto.

Old Man: Tronoh?

Clever Girl: Toronto, Canada.

Old Man: Oh, Toronto, ok. Wow. You must've done very well in your SPM. Straight A's?

Clever Girl (Smiling): Well, mmmmm, ok la

Old Man:  How many? Nine?

Clever Girl : Eleven.

Old man (Stunned, Shocked): Eleven A's?

Clever Girl: Yes. Erhmmmm ..... Eleven A+

Old Man (Catching his breath): Eleven A Plus? You're so clever.

Clever Girl (Laughed): Alhamdulillah.

My concept of clever is prosaic. Anybody who does better than my form five Add Maths and Chemistry grades is clever. This Puchong punk has racked up A+ in Add Maths and Chemistry, and nine other subjects. Should I hate her?

   

A Reunion Of Fine English Speakers

Ah, reunions. Such sweet sorrow.
 

A reunion of campus classmates recently was a low-key, lovely affair. Ripples of all those years ago came flooding back, and old, long-lost friends were finally reunited. I love reunions, and this one didn't disappoint. Thirty-five of us with a combined age of at least 2000 years, some I'd not met or even heard about since I left campus in early 1979. Man, thirty seven years, can you believe it? I'd to pinch and punch myself.

We first met and hit it off as young undergrads way back in 1975. Or was it 1875? It's such a long time ago. On good days we'd crash the lecture halls and stagger out all dazed and doped trying to make sense of all the fuzzy economic thoughts and theories. You know, sexy stuff like laissez-faire, Malthusian model and Sweezy's curves. People call Economics the dismal science probably for this reason.

But it's hard to figure who's who now. Time really has a way of catching up, and the ravages left in its wake are all too clear. The Afro-hair is now zero-hair. Macho whiskers are but grey patches. Waistlines have all but disappeared. But who cares. We're now all here and together. Weight and shape can wait. 

Admittedly we're a group in a hurry now that we're on the last lap. But there's plenty of imagination left. We named our group MF 101, a cheeky homage to our alma mater. This offbeat moniker is actually the subject code for the basic English course all of us had to pass in the first semester. It's close to our heart. Why? Because if we failed MF, we didn't graduate. That's why.

Days of Daisies And Freshies                                                

There's plenty of precious MF memories to go around. The English teachers assured us that if we got through MF we would be able to read and speak English better than any Welshman. Not too many of us were actually inspired by the smooth talk. We had a seizure every time we stepped into MF classes, you know, singular and plural, nouns and pronouns, gender and gander. You can imagine the trial and trauma of switching from Kelantanese to English. I often overheard my two roommates drilling each other with graceful lines like "That is my shirt. That Shirt is mine". University can  be a humbling experience.
                                                             
My first day at the makeshift campus at Jalan Pantai Baru was a non-event. The old Sri Jaya bus dropped me off at the crowded bus stand. The bus ride from KL Foch Avenue cost 30 sen but it was so slow it felt longer than forever. The campus was crawling with seniors waiting to pounce on the helpless freshies but I just strode by with an air of defiance. I strongly felt that student orientation was the last relic of the defunct British empire.

The next day there was a half-page coverage of UKM student orientation in Utusan Malaysia, with pictures, interviews and all. Those days political scandals and slanders weren't yet a sport, so registration of new university students was big news.

My campus transition was smooth, no culture shocks to speak of. With eight years of hostel life behind me, I knew exactly what not to expect. But I certainly loved the new-found freedom of expression. We could now go to classes in bell-bottoms. Or we could choose to stay back and sleep. We could smoke just about anywhere and anytime. We could grow long and ugly hair and beard just to make a statement (pictured below, gorgeous).

My  first class was Maths or Statistics or something. The hall was full because it was a core subject like the dreaded MF. I could feel a whiff of sweet air as female students floated in and took their seats. I was stunned but quickly recovered. After so many years in all-boys school, I'd almost forgotten that girls also went to schools and universities. I sat very far back but I could still see the lecturer. He weighed no less than 200 lbs and sported a loud and flashy shirt. I later learned that he'd graduated from University of Hawaii.

Ladies And Hippies                                                    

After a few weeks, things began to unravel. I was familiar with Form Six Economics, and I thought it was all straightforward supply and demand. No, it wasn't. As we delved deeper, some subjects simply turned nasty, with all sorts of curves and kinks. It was absolute mayhem when the lecturers threw in strange Malay terms in the mix. Just imagine, Kelok, Anjal, Kelok Tak Anjal, Kos Melepas, Kos Sut, Terakru, Kerbeda, Lompang, Merembak, Komputa. Yes, these were all  Malay words accepted even  in the court of law. Komputa was so cute.
                                                   
I thought the girls were really smarter and sharper than most of us in bell-bottoms, I mean, the way they articulated and expressed their ideas. So impressive. They were, like, forever in the library. Maybe even now, who knows.  I'd scraped through my form six with only two lowly principals. So the prospect of pitting myself against these clever divas was really intimidating. I thought coming here might've been a big mistake.

And the lecturers, well, they were all young and such good-looking people, brimming with boundless energy, mostly graduates of some foreign universities. They had, how should I say it, their unique ways of coping with geniuses like us. I can readily recall a few standouts.

One was a Harvard hippie and closet socialist who let us mark and grade our own exam. And there was this overzealous La Trobe lady who vented all her anger with the world by failing more than half of the class. And the Otago easy-goer who allowed us to "discuss" during exams. The maverick MBAs from Cornell and UCLA business schools tried their best to remind us that they were from Cornell and UCLA, and not from Hawaii. The Komputa class sold out every time because the teacher was model of the year.

Where there's a will, there's a way, so to speak. Our assignments all looked conveniently similar because we somehow "had the same ideas and philosophies". By then the lecturers had all wised up to our repertoire of tricks, but they'd just look the other way. Thank you, teachers.
                                                                
Bangi Band Of Brothers

Things happened thick and fast from the third year on, after we'd migrated en masse to our spanking new campus nestling along Bangi hill-slopes. Bangi was nothing more than a jungle clearing. The nearest town was Kajang, which was actually a bigger jungle clearing. But you could hardly see the town because it was shrouded in heavy smoke spewed out by the satay industry. I had a room all to myself, overlooking virgin .......... jungle. You could write plenty of poetry if you had enough talent.

We were done with the basics, so for the final two years we were allowed to major or specialize. No, it's not Ear, Nose and Throat or Kidney kind of specialization.  Economics, dismal as it was, has its own sub-sets. We could now actually choose what not to study. I immediately avoided Statistics. A few of us, for some unknown reason, chose Accounting. As a field of study, Accounting is exciting in the way that Kidney is exciting. A close friend had the foresight to plump for subjects without any numbers, like Rural Development or Land Reform or Asian Drama. He found his true calling and went on to become a ranking administrator at the Ministry of Rural Development.  

Despite the early jitters, I prevailed and did enough to graduate. So did everybody else. I'm not sure now how many of us altogether in our class, 100 or maybe slightly more. Nobody that I knew dropped out. Everybody passed MF 101. Hooray ! We're all, technically, English speakers.  

It sounds so cliched and corny, but, really, I made a lot of friends along the way. I can give you their full names if you're interested and I can promise you'd instantly fall for their cool charisma. It was fun learning together and about each other. For example, a friend came from Kg Bok Bok, which I never knew existed.

Seriously, I can't imagine toiling away on my own without good friends to spread around the stress. Good thing that we were about even academically, I mean, no one could strut around boasting a CGPA of 3.85, not even the library-loving ladies. If you got a D, it wasn't a disaster because there would be like-minded friends who also "scored" a D, or worse. So nobody had any reason to break down or go mad.

It was blithe and bliss all the way to March or April 1979, or was it February, when we graduated. Sorry I'm too old to remember the month. We received our degrees in a glittering convocation ceremony carried live by Radio Malaysia. The whole class, garbed in heavy gowns, lined up to receive our scrolls.  When my name was called, the whole country and Prime Minister knew I graduated that day.

It had been a life-changing experience. Four glorious years just flew. After graduation, we parted and left campus. A good friend returned to sweet home Kelantan and didn't get to speak English ever again.
                                                                    
Yesterday Once More

Ah, yes, our reunion. Sorry. So here we were again, back together after.... how many years? Really? The venue (Hotel UiTM Shah Alam) and the setting were minimalist. No red carpet, no Birkin bags, nothing over the top. The guy who organised this should score himself an A. The food and mood were good, and we were all fired up. Some of us were breathless with anticipation.

We broke for a moment of quiet contemplation while our competent kiyai read a moving tribute and doa. A number of friends and lecturers were no longer with us, including my first-year room-mate, a second-year house-mate, and a lecturer (and good friend) who wrote a glowing recommendation for my postgraduate application. I knew he'd struggled to find the right words to flatter an average achiever. I can never thank him enough. (I was accepted. It's not University of Hawaii).

What a memorable and heart-warming evening, a fitting celebration and testament to our lasting friendship. We were way past our peak, we know, but at heart we were pretty much those young freshies of 40 years ago. The air was seething with nostalgia as old campus jokes were retold, and refreshed with new grandfather-and-his-very-young-second-wife tales.

It was easy enough to lose yourself in the thick of the excitement and commotion, leaving a grandmother nail-biting at home. We could go on reliving and reminiscing right into the small hours, but there was no way of catching up on all the lost years. Everybody agreed that we should meet again, and it had to sooner rather than later.  A group in a hurry, remember?

Just one more thing, before I forget. We found out during this reunion that half of us could speak Javanese!

  




          

The Not-Very-Curious Case of Starving Students And The Very Curious Case Of A Billion Donation

Sorry for the lavish and longish title, but, really, our university students are starving.

A recent survey of 25,632 students in six public universities revealed that more than half are actually living on RM 5 a day, while three-quarters have been in situations where they're too broke to eat.

The very next morning, the Ministry of Higher Education dismissed these survey results as nonsense. 

A "Freemeals" program at UKM recently saw all 100 free food packs gone in 600 seconds. A similar program at UPM produced similar results, only faster. Another "Freemeals" variety called "Suspended Meals"  is ongoing at UPM.

In the wake of widespread outcry, the voluntary groups who organised these free-food programs were harassed by the universities. They were hauled up and quizzed and questioned. Apparently the authorities weren't too happy because the name "Suspended Meals" meals sounded like suspender meals.

"No students will go hungry on my watch", declared the Minister of Higher Education on 10 January. Brave words. "On my watch"! Wow. This guy sounds like President Donald Trump. Our ministers are all masters of the atmospherics. You could almost feel the hot air and the hollow ring. He forayed further by suggesting that students should seek part-time jobs. Like what? Housemaids? Uber grabber?

Another minister, this time a blue blood, rejected offhand the whole notion as sensationalism and theatrics. According to him, nobody's starving in this great country, not even the homeless. Hard to believe that a minister for youths can be so out of touch with the youths. Maybe he's still busy consoling last year's SEA Games female gymnasts.

If these ministers don't already know, students go to universities and colleges to do one and only one simple job: study. That's why they're called students, and not surgeons. If they have to study AND work at the same time, we have a problem. Just imagine a surgeon who has to cook while doing a coronary bypass. Or a chef doing a coronary bypass while cooking. Either way, the food wouldn't turn out good. I can't find a better analogy, but you get my point.

The public are again divided on this.

Why I said again? Because people are already divided. We're already divided over the RM 2.6 billion donation. We're literally, figuratively, badly beaten, shaken, broken. It's like a big fat hole, with those who believe on one side and those who don't believe on the other side.

Going by the social media dynamics and statistics, the ratio of believers to disbelievers is roughly 1 to 99.  Loudly lopsided, I know. But don't be discouraged by that 1%.  If you understand mathematics, 1% of 30 million population is actually 300,000, including some newborns and Nepalese. This is one hell lot of people, equivalent to the entire population of Kuala Terengganu. Imagine the whole boring people of Kuala Terengganu believe that an Arab has donated RM2.6 billion, while the rest of the country don't.

In my 60 over years, we're never this divided. 300,000 people believe, 29,700,000 people don't believe.

On this case of starving students, we're again split into believers and disbelievers. The line is less clear though. Those who believe that students are starving are mostly those who don't believe that there's an Arab somewhere throwing away RM 2.6 billion, while those who doubt students are starving are mostly those who believe in mad Arabs.

Believers are naturally sympathetic and very angry. They felt that the government had wasted loads of money on floating submarines, illegal speed traps and Mongolia mines, starving the students of funds in the process. They also believed that the RM 2.6 billion from mad Arab or dead Arab could've been mobilised to feed the students for the next 100 years.

While the doubters or disbelievers came down hard on the students themselves, levelling the blame squarely on the students for their financial profligacy, you know, things like iPhones, prepaids, Starbucks, girl friends and so on.

If you asked me, I think there's a strong and valid case of hungry students. Even if you didn't ask me, I still think there's a strong case.  A couple of old classmates with children in public universities are grappling with the classic opportunity cost dilemma: anak vs mamak. More money for anak means less for mamak. With cruel cutbacks on Mara and PTPTN handouts, the parents have to fill the void. We'd never know whether the students would starve without their parents' financial lifeline. No parents would run a trial to find out.

I went to UKM for my degree way back in 1975. A local bank fell for my charisma and handed me a handsome scholarship of RM 2400 a year. I won't shame and name this unfortunate bank. The government scholarship was about  RM 2000.  I thought could live like a king. 

After one semester, I discovered that I was actually a king on a shoestring. At the time, a full-blown breakfast cost under RM 2.00. No smart or stupid phones to make you go mad. Water was free from water cooler. We used payphones and public transport. We ate pretty much what the prehistoric men ate. But still there were days when we'd to dig deep and dip below United Nation's recommended daily dietary intake. I stayed off campus, ten or maybe fifteen of us in one house. Yes, we pioneered this communal concept, not the Banglas. It's a basic and spartan lifestyle. Lifestyle, yeah. At the end of every day, I only had enough left to fight another day.

So I'm the least surprised that some students are hungry now. Education is mentally and financially draining, even in the heavily subsidised public universities. Private colleges are even more intimidating. Premium brands like Sunway, Taylor's, Nottingham, Monash etc charge upwards of RM 90,000 for a 4-year degree. QS recently ranked our private tertiary education the fifth most expensive in the world (cost relative to income). Father PTPTN will never give you enough to cover your fees, let alone your feed. If you go to these colleges, you'd die of starvation.

Thing is, university life is not supposed to be a walk in the park, at least not for most of us. Occasionally missing meals is no big deal.  It's par for the course during my time and more so now with GST in full flight and Ringgit in freefall. Plain roti canai is RM1.60 a pop now and you've to compete with the cash-rich Bangladeshis and Indonesians.

So I'm not sure why the ministers or the universities or just about anybody would've to be up in arms and deny this. Just accept this as part of education. It preps the students up for later life. I know you can pinpoint a lot of ugly things to Umno, but starving students isn't Umno's doing. The grand old party has done a lot of good, building 20 public universities in the country, with another five new ones if they win big-time in 2018. It's unfair to expect them to feed the students as well.

Hungry students are pretty much everywhere, in India, in Mongolia, in Malaysia, and  even in richer countries like the US.

Which reminds me of the inspiring story of Indra K Nooyi, the CEO of PepsiCo. She's championing the "performance for a purpose" management mantra, which espouses responsible business. Pepsi now has less calories than Coke. She left Tamil Nadu for Yale to do her MBA in 1978, and, in her own words, "I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I was totally, completely broke. I'd no money to buy clothes". She worked on campus on minimum wage and probably survived because she's a vegetarian.

She's quite rich now, of course, and has been generously giving back to her university. Yale is just happy to reciprocate her generosity with a Classroom and a Deanship named after her (Nooyi Classroom, Nooyi Dean). "My gift to Yale pales in comparison to the gift that Yale gave me". Such humility. I'm sure there are fewer hungry students in Yale now because of her gift. She gave again early this month, her biggest so far. No numbers were disclosed, but it's thought to be between 20 to 30 million. US Dollars!

It would be nice if our own ex-starving students who make good take a leaf out of Indra Nooyi's playbook and give back to their universities. They may start with RM2 and work all the way up to RM 20 million.

I must admit that, with depleting retained earnings and a girl deep in college and another very soon, I can't afford much. Maybe Ahmad Maslan, a fellow UKM alumnus, can. I don't think he was starving when he did his MBA at UKM. No hungry students would graduate with 3.85 CGPA. I'm sure he's fairly rich, I mean, he's a deputy minister with three or four jobs, and Umno, don't forget. If he wanted to, he could start his own legacy in UKM with Ahmad Maslan Suspender Meals!

Believe me, there's hardly a cause greater and godlier than giving. Donate to your alma mater. Don't donate to your prime minister.