Your Story, My Story

Kids get arthritis too? You've got to be kidding!

2012-12-10T08:57:00.004-08:00

The last weekend was a whirlwind of activity as Dr Tang Swee Ping (Malaysia's only paediatrician specialising in rheumatology) and I concluded the JIA Independence Camp for teenagers, our third camp. The first camp was held in 2006 at Awana Resort, followed by another in 2008 at the Kuala Selangor Nature Park.

JIA means Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis, which simply means childhood arthritis. See the word Idiopathic in the middle? Sounds idiotic, right? Rightly so, because no one knows why it happens. I was shocked too when I first heard about it many years ago.

How in the world did I get involved in JIA? It all began with my involvement with the Arthritis Foundation Malaysia in 2003. Two years later, AFM founded the JIA Junior Club, headed by Dr Tang who had just returned from UK then. The first activity we conducted was a visit to Shah Alam's Breadtown, where I encountered JIA patients for the first time.

Some looked normal, others had disfigured fingers, knees or hands. Some were extraordinarily small for their age, an effect of long-term use of steroids as a result of late diagnosis and treatment. It was heart-breaking to know these kids have a lifetime of challenges ahead of them.

Many of them rely on heavy medications to stay normal (get out of bed, go to school, walk, meet people, etc), some taking as many as 9 pills/tablets a day. Others need regular injections in Selayang Hospital where Dr Tang practises. Imagine living in Kota Baru or Alor Setar, and having to come to KL for your child's treatment every other month. I feel for both the parents and the patients.

When Dr Tang suggested having the Independence Camp similar to the ones done in UK, I was intrigued. These kids are often deprived of the chance to partake in any form of outdoor activities because parents and teachers were afraid they would get hurt or suffer the consequences (more pain from strain) afterwards. Our camps always included activities such as horse-riding, flying fox, telematches. Under the watchful eyes of doctors and nurses (plus a bagful of medications, just in case!), parents agreed to leave their special child in our hands for 3 days.

That was how we ended up being long-term 'partners in crime'. With hectic schedules, we were often like mad women during the months prior to the camp, as we got everything organised from scratch, keeping costs as low as possible to avoid draining the NGO of its precious resources. With each camp, we promised we'll never do anything as crazy again.

BUT with each camp, our commitment seemed to grow instead. It was not hard to see why- we had seen with our own eyes how each kid who attended the camp changed- developing self-confidence, assurance and independence.

The recent camp was indeed the cherry on the cake when we met many of the patients who had been attending our camps since 2006.

The sweetest part was seeing how they had grown physically and emotionally: lost their shyness, became more vocal and matured, had better postures. The fact that they could prepare a powerpoint presentation in a jiffy, sms to say 'thank you' to us after the camp and join us in a FB page are promising signs that they have gained part, if not all, of the independence skills we tried so hard to impart.

Afterall, they will be living with arthritis for a lifetime. They need to know how to manage their own disease, lifestyle and medications because their parents cannot be looking after them for a lifetime.

During a Q&A session at the 2nd camp in 2008, I was awakened to the fact that these kids have needs and desires just like any other kid, as they asked questions such as - "can I work? can I have boyfriends/get married? can I have children? will my children in inherit my condition? do I have to take my medications forever?"

Many of the kids who joined us last weekend will probably not join us again, as they reach adulthood and continue their treatment with rheumatologists who handle adult arthritis. Our only hope is that our camps have helped them realise JIA does not hamper their progress, as long as they know how to manage their disease well from young.

As they say, teach a man to fish and he eats for a day. We hope the fishing rods we've been handing out will come in handy, both for the patients and the kids, for a lifetime.

The next time you meet a child who says he/she has arthritis, don't be surprised or skeptical. It happens. Be supportive and encouraging, even when they look or move differently. They have been through a lot of pain, discrimination, prejudice and tears to get to where they are today. Give them a break!

If plants could talk...

2012-04-20T03:39:00.001-07:00

There are days when I feel that life is like a Sisyphean task. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was a crafty king who was given a life-long punishment of pushing a large rock up a hill.

When he reached the top, the rock would roll down the hill, and Sisyphus would have to roll it up the hill again, only to have it roll down again. The cycle would repeat itself for all eternity, which gave rise to the term ‘Sisyphean task’ for tasks that are endless and meaningless.

In many ways, many aspects of life are like that, aren’t they? No matter how hard we try, often it seems that many of our efforts are in vain. Yet, we feel compelled to do it, over and over again, for reasons too complicated to decipher.

In my life as a writer, I know many people who feel the same way. Examples are those who are caring for a chronically ill loved one, working in a job they loathe, trying new business ventures despite repeated failures, loving an unfaithful partner or others. Like Sisyphus, we feel trapped in our circumstances, as if life itself was a cruel punishment.

Fortunately, I’ve now found a way to evade my Sisyphean cloud of gloom.

On days when I feel blue, nothing beats heading outdoors and getting close to Nature. Whether it is digging, weeding, pruning or planting, gardening helps me put things in its proper perspective, allowing me to see life in all its simplicity.

The thing is, plants don’t lie.

They grow when the conditions are right, thrive when they are given what they need; wilt and die when they lack the basics such as water and sunlight. Give them more tender, loving care and they reward you with delightful flowers and fruits.

You can forget about KPIs, deadlines, expectations, standard operating procedures, performance indexes and the lot. Nature laughs at these man-made regulations that only serve to complicate our lives.

Try planting a shade-lover in a sunny spot and tell it ‘challenge yourself to take the heat!’.

Or load fertilizers on a tree and command it to fruit overnight.

Or tell your flowers not to wilt for another month when your mother-in-law comes to visit.

Calm and uncomplaining, the plant or flowers will still wilt and die. No pretenses, no Herculean effort to break out of the plant cycle to become what it is not.

That’s why plant and animal life are the barometers of environmental pollution in many parts of the world. Scientists and environmentalists have every reason to be alarmed when a plant that used to grow in abundance in a particular area has suddenly disappeared, because it shows that the surrounding environment have become too toxic for their survival.

How does it relate to us as humans, you ask?

As the superior species, humans have inevitably made our lives more complex than necessary. We don’t live for the day; we linger in yesterday’s memories and project plans for future. All these accumulate into one big burden, not unlike Sisyphus’ rock. Yes, it helps us adapt to our ever-changing environment, but at what price? Stress, pain, disease, unhappiness perhaps?

So the next time life gets you down, try talking to a plant or a tree. Seriously.

It may not be able to reply you in human language, but you may just get the answers you seek. Call it going back to basics, answering the call of Mother Earth or whatever you wish, but there’s no denying it: Nature knows best.

The Tattoo

2012-03-24T09:50:00.002-07:00

She was waiting under that tall assam jawa tree just outside the surau, just as he had told her to.

Hassan smiled to himself as he caught sight of her in her characteristic torn jeans and collared T-shirt, sitting on the discarded old sofa they had dragged there together just a week ago. It didn’t matter that the springs were poking out from the seats and the whole wretched sofa showed signs that the previous owner kept many cats as pets. Under that assam jawa tree, it became a throne of sorts for them, a sacred place where they shared their deepest secrets and embraced their forbidden love.

He could never figure out what attracted her to him in the first place.

Aisyah was the infamous tomboy of Kampung Bakar Batu and no self-respecting elder would allow their young sons to go near her, for fear that she would extend her ill-influence to them. An orphran since her parents died in a road accident when she was a baby, she was brought up by her aging grandparents, with occassional help from her aunties.

Deprived of parental guidance and pampered by her doting half-blind grandparents, Aisyah grew up to be an aggressive, defiant young lady who learnt from a young age that she had to fight her way through in order not to be taken advantage of by others. She shortened her name to ‘Shah’, the male equivalent of ‘Aisyah’,and wore only pants and T-shirts, never donning a skirt or baju kurung no matter what the occassion.

When she was only fifteen, she persuaded her grandparents to buy her a motorcycle to make it easier for her to travel to school daily. What they didn’t know was that she was hardly in school and that she spent all her time with a group of dropouts, to the point that she even formed her own girl gang.

With her new motorcyle, she zoomed around the village, taking part in races and teaching her gang members how to smoke and look cool. Shah led a life frowned upon by the rest of the villagers and didn’t care what others thought of her. Her grandparents were too old to control her and her relatives disassociated themselves with her, not wanting to taint their family name with the girl gangster.

Hassan couldn’t be more different. He came from a respectable family of teachers and his father was the headmaster of the largest secondary school in the district of Batu. Being the eldest child among a family of five children, Hassan was a born leader and grew up caring for his younger siblings the way a big brother should.

He excelled in his studies and was awarded a scholarship to continue his studies in UiTM in Shah Alam. Despite the two-hour journey, he still made it a point to come home during the weekends to be with his parents, particularly to help his father prepare reports and screen term papers before the examination period.

Good-looking and always cheerful, Hassan had known Aisyah all his life from the terrible stories he had been hearing from the villagers and his parents. He had caught sight of her a few times when he was still in secondary school, when she sped past him with her group of friends, and he had found himself to be strangely attracted to her wild, unsuppressed nature. With his studies taking first priority, he had not taken any further action to get to know her better.

When he moved to Shah Alam and only came home for weekends, he saw her again several times and felt that he had to make a move. Now that he also had a motorcycle, he felt that the time was right for him to approach her.

He rode right up to her when she was laughing away at some crude jokes her girlfriends had made. Extending his hand to her, he introduced himself and announced to everyone present that he would be so honoured if she would ride on his motorcycle with him.

Ignoring the loud guffaws around him as she blew cigarette smoke into his face, he grabbed her hand and scribbled his phone number on her palm, telling her that she could call him anytime she changed her mind.

She called alright- to invite him to a race. Afterall, she was known as ‘Aisyah Angin’, reputedly the fastest, albeit the most daredevil, rider in the village. How could she ride with him if he couldn’t ride at the speed she was accustomed to?

He agreed- and the date was fixed. He turned up, bringing a bunch of flowers and tickets to the midnight show at the town cinema. The race was forgotten, they got to talking and there was no looking back ever since.

Opposites attract, they say, and Hassan and Aisyah were soon madly in love. Perhaps they both found that they fulfilled each others inner needs. Aisyah needed the love and security she lacked from birth, Hassan sought some excitement and freedom in his regimented life.

Naturally their love met with many obstacles, particularly from Hassan’s family who were aghast that their beloved son is dating the wild gal of the village. So they resorted to meeting secretly, which only served to enhance the magic and thrill of their relationship.

After they have been together for a year, Aisyah suggested one day that they do something which represented their ever-lasting love for each other. Holding out a business card, she excitedly told Hassan about the new tattoo shop in the neighbouring town. She wanted a tattoo with his name on it, and she wanted Hassan to have her name on him.

Although apprehensive about it, Hassan went with her anyway, and had her name embossed on his left arm while she had his embossed on her right arm, so that the two names would meet when they were sitting together. They both knew the consequences, that it was against Islam to perforate the body with unnatural designs, but they were too thrilled at the aspect of being united in name to care.

“What’s the worse that could happen?” Aisyah argued. “It’s just for fun. It isn’t as if we were drawing Nazi signs or Christian crosses on our limbs”, she added.

From that point on, they were unseparable during the weekends when he came home. He no longer spent time with his parents or siblings; he only wanted to spend every precious moment with her.

That was how she came to be waiting for him that dusky evening when the muezzin at the surau was just preparing to call believers to the mahgrib prayers. The purple and pink shades in the sky cast a deep shadow upon the assam jawa tree and she looked almost ghostly in the reclining twilight.

‘What’s up? You don’t look too well, Shah...’ Hassan was, as usual, full of concern for his beloved Aisyah.

She was quiet for awhile and Hassan could sense that she was not her normal self that day. They chatted for awhile before Aisyah finally decided to speak her mind.

‘Hass, you know our tattoos? We should never have done them....’

Hassan remained quiet, waiting for her to resume, wanting to know what had made her change her mind and what had subdued this normally gay, chatty girl. What happened next took him by surprise as she whipped out a rusty old blade from her jeans pocket.

‘Hass, take it off for me right now. I don’t want it anymore. Take it off, take it off!!!’ Aisyah became more agitated as she waved the blade madly in front of him.

“Why, what has happened?? !! Calm down, Shah, you’ll hurt yourself with that blade...”

“No one would help me...no one!! I went to the hospital but they all ran away when they saw me coming! I went to Makcik Rozmah’s house but she fainted when she opened the door. I must get this thing off, I must, I must!!”

She was inconsolable and the next thing he knew, she had put one cold, quivering hand on his and cut off her skin at her arm where the tattoo was. Blood started to drip from the wound and Hassan was so shocked he couldn’t say or do anything.

She stood up suddenly, with the blood still flowing down her fingers and started walking away, disappearing into the dim shadows of the coconut and fruit trees nearby. Still shaking, he mounted his motorcycle and went home to find a small crowd waiting for him at his home.

“What happened? Has something happened to my father or mother? Why are you all here?”

“ It’s about Shah, Hass. Her bike skidded last night during the race and she got banged up badly...We’re here to talk to you about her, Hass....”

Hassan felt his knees go weak as he sat down numbly on the stairs of his home.

“She was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital. But two hours later, her body was missing when we went to the hospital with her grandparents to perform final rites. Her auntie said she fainted when she saw Shah at her house this afternoon. She has been seen, walking around like a zombie.”

“Something seems to be stopping her from getting her final rest and we’re here to ask you if you know anything...”

Their voices trailed off into silence as they began to notice his blood-splattered shirt and hands.

167

2011-07-26T08:49:00.000-07:00

Mosquitoes swarmed around as I sat on the swing at Pa's house at 167, watching the sun set and the birds fly home. I breathed in the warm evening air, soaking in the surroundings- the sights, sounds, smells. This is probably my last chance to be at 167.

Since I moved and started a new life in Kuala Lumpur 2 decades ago, I've not had the chance to stay for long at the family home. Now I find myself staying an entire week, despite a tight work schedule and leaving four kids back home in KL in the care of their father. I will not get this chance again, because 167 will be changing hands soon. The family home has been sold. Along with the place we called home for the last 30 over years, we will be handing over a lifetime of memories to the new owner.

I wonder if he knows what 167 had meant to us. We moved here in the early 1970s, when the place was considered remote and no one wanted the property here. I was about 4, Kor 7 and sis 3. Another sis and little bro weren't even born yet. It was my parent's first own home, and he described the early years as the happiest moments of his life.

It's easy to see why- he felt his life was complete, he said. With a beautiful wife, 3 equally beautiful kids, his own home, his own car (a Renault), a stable job at BBC, there was nothing else he wanted. He was content to live that peaceful life forever...until Ma passed away 4 years later and things changed forever. Not that my stepmother didn't make the house the home- she did a perfect job. She's just...different from Ma.

And thus,167 continued evolving through the years.

I remember the Christmas tree Ma planted right smack in the middle of the lawn. We used to jump over it year after year, until it grew too tall for us. Before we realised it, it was a soaring tree. The same applied to the fruit trees in the backyard- we didn't notice them growing, but it wasn't long before the rambutan, soarsop, mango, orange and lime trees were fruiting.

I remember climbing the rambutan tree to pluck fruits and watching the bats hanging upside-down from the soursop tree. There was a starfruit tree where we used to tie chickens for a few days until it was time for the Big Feast. As they awaited their last days, they helped fertilise the tree with their droppings and acted as alarm clocks in the mornings. What I didn't like was helping in the slaughter. No wonder I'm not a doctor or nurse today - still can't stand the sight of blood.

Then there was the hedge that I tirelessly trimmed every year. It was a torture and God alone knows what kept me going till I finished the entire hedge that encompassed 167,a semi-D. Callouses and cuts did nothing to stop me from attacking them with vigour, ensuring they stayed in shape.

The gates and swing- we scraped and painted them every Chinese New Year. Pa's favourite colour was always khaki green, perhaps for its practicality and ability to cover dirt. Not to mention the windows and grills that we were forced to clean every other week. Disciplinary training, you say? You bet!

I must admit a big part of me died the day they decided to renovate the house in the early 1990s. It was the toughest period of my life, trying to find my own identity and seeking a new life in KL - and coming home to the mess of a home in renovation did nothing to relieve the pain. I cried buckets the day sis called to say they chopped down the Christmas tree.

167 was never the same again.

Yes, it was more spacious, modern, comfy...but it seemed to have lost something. It took me another 20 years to get used to the modern interiors and cemented lawn. I missed the flowers, the trees, the vegetable plots, the little nooks and corners where we used to play. There was even a spot where Kor used to tell us that if we dug deep enough, we could reach China. And yes, I really believed him then.

We all had mixed feelings when told 167 had been sold. In a way, I'm glad the transaction went though, because Pa had been worrying about it being a white elephant since he bought his new Setia home.But yes, there's the sadness that comes with knowing that yet another (big) chapter of our lives has come to an end- the 167 chapter.

Why did he choose to move out if we were so comfy here for the last almost 4 decades? First there was the new highway that's coming up right in front of the area. There'll be noise, carbon monoxide, heavy traffic. Then there's the fortune teller's prophecy that this area has lost its glory in the 21st century, so youngsters (eg little bro) will never prosper if they persisted in this area. In short, bad fengshui.

I hear the new owner is a young man on the verge of starting a new life with his fiancee. He doesn't know yet that he picked up a gem of a home. What he gets is all the laughter, tears, hopes, fears, hopes of four generations- a family who pulled through some major thicks and thins for the last 40 years.

As 167 goes to this lucky man, I wish for him all the joys and wonders we had ever experienced in this home. May he have happy children whose laughter and tears enliven the home, and lots of love from his family and friends who will pass by or stay under the same roof.

167 Pasir Pelangi will always be a part of us, even though we no longer own the home. It's time to move on, but the memories is something we can never forget. Sayonara...our Home Sweet Home.

Two keys in a pocket

2011-06-19T01:35:00.000-07:00

I woke up feeling blessed today.

It's Father's Day and already my family back home had been abuzz since I dedicated a story to my Pa in last week's Starmag.

(If you missed it, here's the link:
http://thestar.com.my/lifestyle/story.asp?file=/2011/6/12/lifefocus/8849264&sec=lifefocus)

How often do you get the chance to tell the world about how your parent's contributions made you who you are today? My father was very cool about it though- he just laughed it off, saying that it is 'just another one of my daughter's stories- and you do know she's tells good stories, don't you?'.

I feel lucky to have come from a complete family, with both parents around, a good relationship with all my siblings and more. The irony is that I didn't always feel this way. I grew up feeling (or rather griping) about how dysfunctional our family is, with a stepmother who doesn't think and speak the same language, a father who keeps siding her, a grandmother who fanned the flames while she lived.

The worse was when the family almost fell apart because of my marriage to a non-Chinese. My father had said then he regretted marrying my stepmom because 'two keys in a pocket tend to clang', meaning my natural mom would probably have been more understanding if she was still around.

Today, I thank God they had not fallen apart because of me, because my stepmom takes care of my father really well, far better than we will ever do (even far better than the way we care for our husbands).

Maybe you see the world differently after the age of 40. Maybe it's being a mum. Maybe it's because I've seen much worse scenarios of broken families in my line of work that I now know our family is more 'normal' than I used to think.

Then there's the editors who agreed to run my story, the PR fellas who didn't disagree when I proposed my story, the photographer who saw to things even though I wasn't present to give directions on what kind of shot I wanted for my story. In a nutshell, it all turned out beautifully, as it should.

Makes me wonder how many of our kids will be paying us tribute 20 years down the line. I'm not sure if we're getting it right with the kiddoes now- but I do hope that simply trying is good enough, as opposed to sitting around and hoping that it will happen automatically. Society today is unlike that before- and I'm not confident they will turn out right without proper guidance, the way we did in the past.

My Pa said he really didn't do much...in a way it's true. All he did was to be there when we needed him. That alone was good enough for us back then. Would the same apply for our kids today? I really don't know.

All I know is that life is good, alhumdulilah. There's more to look forward to. Can't wait!

Could this be the Law Of Attraction?

2011-03-20T03:28:00.000-07:00

If you were born in the 70s, you would surely know the popular movie 'The Sinking Of Japan' where a huge tsunami came and wiped the country off the map. Ultraman cartoons are always portraying monsters who came and ripped off nuclear power stations, sending people running helter-skelter.

That's not all; the Japanese government are world leaders in disaster management: every year, they send experts to tsunami and earthquake prone areas to provide training to children and populations on what to do in the event of a natural disaster. Huge amounts of government money are spent in these goodwill missions to share their knowledge and experience, as a country highly vulnerable to natural disasters themself.

Yet it seems like nothing could have prepared them for what is happening at this moment in time in Japan. My heart goes out to the people of Japan, who after being hit by earthquakes, tsunamis and nuclear power plant disasters, are now faced with snow and biting-cold weather. I pray it will be over soon, in one way or another. This is surely the greatest test of human resilence in the history of mankind. Makes me wonder if any other country would have managed the situation as well if it had happened anywhere else on this planet.

What hits me as the biggest irony is that this is what every Japanese had been trained for, all their lives. They are primed for natural disaster. They expect it. They knew it was coming.

With an entire population expecting this to happen, would it have garnered enough momentum to get the Universe to set it in motion? It really didn't matter whether your thoughts are positive or negative- but once you have it in mind, you have given it the possibility (however remote) of coming true somehow. With monthly tsunami drills, nuclear power disasters-inspired cartoons, even a blockbuster movie about the country being wiped off the map and sinking under the sea, it's almost as though they had unconsciously 'thought' it into reality.

It's scary to know powerful the human mind really is. I remember going to Pangkor Laut Resort last year for a 3-day trip with my battery-loaded camera. On the luxurious yatch enroute the island, my sponsor asked if I brought my camera charger, and I'd confidently replied that my battery could safely last for the next 3 days.

"Are you sure?" she'd asked skeptically. Her concern drove into my bones, as a tiny voice whispered to me that perhaps she was right. My battery usually lasts for 3 days, no doubt about it, I nervously said. But deep down, I had started to share her fear.

True enough, my camera charger died after the second night, something which I'd not expected. I came up with various excuses when I had to switch from my SLR to a compact on the last day. The experience left me shaken- when two strong-minded people thought of something (the possibility of my battery running flat), it had actually happened.

Chance, you say? Possibly. But what if it was not? Could we have possibly 'attracted' the battery to die on me?

We'll never know...but this I know for certain - one should never underestimate the power of Thought. This is what they call Personal Mastery: controlling the way you think because your thoughts define your action,and your action determines your destiny.

What are you thinking about today?

Have you ever regretted being a freelancer?

2011-01-04T07:57:00.000-08:00

Li Shian, a fellow journalist from a malay publication, threw this question at me today. Strangely enough, I never stopped to think about it that way. Not in terms of regrets anyway, since every path we take in life will have its ups and downs.

But yes, being a freelancer- what do I miss about working full-time? How about these:

1) Job perks. No one will offer you promotions, medical benefits, annual leave, annual bonus, company trips. You've got to create your own job perks to stay motivated.

2) Colleagues. Freelancing is a very lonely world; you don't get people coming over to say hello, invite you for lunch, sharing the latest gossip or birthday cake. If you're getting too much of these at your workplace, you'll probably say good riddance to all these- but try working solo for two decades and you'll see what I mean. Freelancers seldom get a chance to form deep friendships the way full-time staff do over lunch or tea.

3) Nice freebies. You know what I mean. We all know suppliers, clients and business associates send gifts to whoever is holding certain portfolios as goodwill gestures. Quit your job today and all your freebies will be going to the person taking over your position. Freelancers never even get a sniff of these....because you are not representing any important organisation and are not in a decision-making position. In fact, when you attend meetings, don't be surprised to overhear not-so-subdued remarks of : Who's that again? Oh, just a freelancer/supplier.

4) Mental stimulation/interaction. Not from colleagues, but the rest of the industry. People don't forward you the latest happenings in the industry to keep you updated or invite you along for industry-related events. You'd need to be on the ball constantly so as not to miss out on what's new. Even then, you'll never quite catch up, unless you are an excellent networker.

5) Team assistance. Computer trouble? Got a splitting headache? Need input on a project you're working on? Hard luck- it's all DIY.

6) Recognition and feedback. The only way you can now whether your work is any good is when your clients keep coming back or you start getting referrals. I've been lucky on this though, as I happen to work with some really caring editors and clients (you know who you are if you're reading this!), who take the trouble to tell me how an article can be improved and when they like a certain piece.

So have I ever considered working for others? Yes, of course, for all the reasons above. But then again, I've come to realise that I'd be giving up more than I bargained for if I ever trade my freelance job for full-time employment. I don't want to give up:

- Long chats and loud laughter over the phone
- Gardening
- Morning walks
- The flexi-hours
- Working without having someone breathing down my neck

Am I lucky to be a successful freelancer? Perhaps...but luck is only one percent of the equation. To make freelancing to work, you must really want it to. Are you prepared to give up those perks I mentioned (and those I didn't, like getting to wear pretty clothes to work, shopping during long Friday lunches, carrying impressive positons on your call-card)?

It's not always about the money. It's the quality of life you want. The more you want it to work, the higher the likelihood it will. Sure enough I've got my fair share of regrets, but it'll take more than a super-duper salary to make me a full-timer.

Tara Barker

2011-01-01T03:20:00.000-08:00

It was 2000, the year when Malaysian Women's Weekly (MWW) was newly introduced to the stores. It was one of the many women's magazines competing for readership, alongside a whole host of magazines on beauty, health, travel, cars, gadgets, you-name-it.

I was thirty, have just had my third baby and was in a state of depression, not post-natal but more because of the financial state we were in. Three children, no job, nothing to look forward to.

I knew things were bad because I had started to recognise each of my neighbours' car sounds. At 8am, one neighbour will be starting her car to go to work. This lady came back at 6pm daily, while her husband leaves for the office a little later and came home close to midnight.

Another car sound meant that another neighbour was getting ready to send his wife to work. This guy had opted for early retirement at the age of 40 after a bad accident, hence he gets to enjoy insurance benefits even without having to work. His wife worked at a supermarket just down the hill where we stayed.

And so on it went. All I could think of in those days was 'everyone is doing something and going somewhere- except me'. I felt trapped and helpless.

That was when I decided to learn how to use the computer. The Word document was a daily experiment, as I struggled to type as fast as I thought. More so when I had to juggle computer 'lessons' with caring for 3 little kids in the background.

I surfed the internet for ways on how to make a living with freelance writing. The top 2 tips were almost always the same- study the publication and get in touch with the editor.

When I read MWW for the first time, deep down I knew I wanted to write for them. I emailed several story ideas to the magazine editor, as recommended by online sources. But no reply came. It was a disappointing start.

When I bought my next issue of MWW, I noticed an ad inside about some workshop that the magazine was organising. It struck me that this would be the perfect chance for me to meet the editor-in-chief, Tara Barker! My application form and payment was sent within 24 hours.

It was an excellent workshop, by any standards, yet all I did was try to ascertain which one was Tara. And I was shaking, partly due to the cold air-conditioning system, partly because I was scared out of my wits! I've never met an editor before and I had no idea what to say!

During a tea-break, I nervously asked a girl holding a camera (Elizabeth Soong) whether she worked for MWW and which one was Tara. She kindly pointed out a Caucasian lady who was talking to someone. When I told her I wanted to write for MWW, Elizabeth led me over to Tara and introduced me to her.

Very nervously I stammered, "I'm a freelance writer and I love MWW. I'd.. l'd love to write for you."

Tara gazed at me for a moment (probably because I looked ashen!) before asking if I had experience. I told her I was new to writing but I had many story ideas and was a fast-learner. When I mentioned that my emails to her had gone unnoticed, she was very apologetic. Handing me her call card, she told me to write to her using her direct email, promising to get back to me with a reply.

To cut a long story short, Tara replied my emails following that incident. They didn't take many of the story ideas I pitched to them, but she started giving me stories instead.

The assignments grew and grew, until 2003 when Tara finally told me she was tired of micro-managing my ad-hoc invoices.

"How about becoming our contract writer? This way, you'd get to take care of your babies and yet have a regular income writing for us," she said on the phone.

She probably did not realise the impact those words had on me. They meant a sense of security, a promise of monthly revenue without having to sacrifice my maternal responsibilities.

It was the perfect solution for any work-from-home mom, one that was not easily available in Malaysia where employers still see the need to have staff in the office 5 days a week to ensure work gets done. Tara had trusted me like no other, giving me an opportunity to turn my life around.

Fast forward to 2011.

I terminated my retainer contract with MWW just a year ago when I felt I should perhaps give way to someone who needed retainer work more than I did. Ten years of writing had helped in establishing myself as a freelance writer and I want other freelancers to enjoy the privilege I once did.

But I'll never forget the first time I met Tara and the way she changed my life. Truth be told, I never knew her personally because we met less than 5 times over the last decade; yet she always has a kind word for me when we met.

I hear she's a strict boss who is a stickler for discipline and deadlines, so in a way, I'm glad I'm not a full-time staff. But that's what made it all the more meaningful. She never knew me, but she gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. How many people would do that for a total stranger?

If you're a MWW fan/reader, you may know that MWW's slogan is 'For women who want it all'. What you may not know is that Tara, as the editor-in-chief, embraces this philosophy by encouraging women to strive for their full potential. That's why MWW often features inspirational stories of women- so that readers will also be inspired to do things they never knew they could.

Are you another Tara Barker? If you are someone in authority, remember you have the power to make a difference in someone else's life. Like Tara, you could have saved a marriage and a family from falling apart. You could have given another woman the much-needed self-confidence to move into uncharted waters.

For all the Tara's out there, I salute you. For the rest of us, we'll never know if something we did had made us a Tara of sorts. Perhaps there's a hidden Tara in each of us, waiting to be let out.

Happy New Year and may 2011 be a glorious year ahead!

The starfish on the beach

2011-01-01T02:05:00.000-08:00

Ever read about the guy who walks on the beach picking up starfish that were washed up to shore? Every time he finds one, he picks it up and throws it back into the sea.

One fellow who saw him doing this decided to stop him and ask, "Why are you doing this?"

The starfish picker said ,"They'll dry up and die if we don't toss them back into the sea."

"But there are thousands of starfish on the beach. How can you make a difference to all of them?"

The starfish guy looked at the starfish he just picked up. As he threw it into the sea, he said,"Well, it makes a difference to this one."

I've always loved this tale because it reminds me that the small things we do can make a huge difference to someone's life. We may not be able to save the world- but by a small action, we would have saved someone's world.

This will be my leading resolution for 2011 (alongside others like waking up earlier, sticking to my exercise programme, taking 5 minutes for self-affirmation daily)- picking up starfish on the beach.

It's easy to get discouraged when the things we do does not get feedback or does not seem to work. Sometimes all we need is just one teenie weenee boost- whether a phone call, text message, hard-written note tucked away somewhere. What I'm going to do in 2011 is to blog about people who are an inspiration in some way or other.

Some people inspire others through their work; others through their strong fighting spirit; still others just by being who they are. I've met so many along my life travels, yet only now I realise I'm not giving them full credit by highlighting their impact on my life.

What has been holding me back? Well....they might be embarrassed. Or annoyed. Even angry...who knows? But a good story deserves to be told, even when it goes against the grain.

Perhaps their story will inspire you too. Perhaps it might push you to do something for someone that will change their lives. Perhaps it will ignite you to do something that gets you one step closer to your dreams.

If and when that happens, I'd have successfully saved one more starfish on the beach.

Life's Countdown

2010-12-22T07:24:00.000-08:00

In another 2 weeks, there'll be fireworks and rejoicing as another year comes to an end and another new one begins. Ever wondered if this is your last Auld Lang Syne?

Today marks Ma's 32 th anniversary. Seems like yesterday when we were at the funeral parlour, running around and wondering why was everyone so sombre. We knew something terrible had happened, but as kids, it was difficult to know how ma's death would impact us.

I was eight then, while Kor was 11, little Sum just turned 6 and Ping was just a baby of 2. Did I grow up overnight, being Big Sister? Or did I get caught in a time warp, forever trapped in that fateful moment of losing ma? Because since then, death has become a shadow that haunted me. I grew up believing I'd be next. Of course, everyone dies someday, but I thought I knew when my time would be- 1994.

Why 1994? The child back then made some calculations - apparently my grandmother died at the tender age of 30, while my ma died at 32. It sounds ridiculous now (since I safely survived that age), but my 8-year-old mind back then firmly concluded that my turn would be at 34.

This has resulted in both good and bad repercussions, of course. Knowing (or guessing ) that my days were numbered made me critically aware of passing time. With each year, I asked myself if I'd fulfilled my resolutions, whether I'm better off than the year before. It became a mad race- against myself.

So it came to be that I embraced carpe diem as my life philosophy. I got married young and had children quickly, thinking or fearing that if I didn't, I'd miss out on the chance to experience what was touted as a woman's rite of passage. And I bought my first house, car, insurance plans, etc early...believing that if I didn't, I might never have the chance later.

2004 was a year of much apprehension. I left careful instructions with my husband and children every time I left for a trip, always thinking I might not come back alive. Yet I always did.

And so my 34th year passed me by uneventfully. So did my 34th, 35th, 36th birthdays....till today. At 40 this year, I've even stopped counting. Why bother? I almost feel like Superwoman, ready to do the things I never did, ready to save the world!

Yet, it all came back to me today when I heard about a friend, Anna B's passing. We went to her house in Ampang this morning, only to find that they have left for the burial ground in Seremban. Suddenly I'm reminded of my earlier days, the countdown syndrome I used to have. Could it be that I lived a more meaningful life when I thought my days were numbered?

Perhaps I forgave faster? Or was kinder in my thoughts and deeds? Or had better priorities? Or injected more passion into whatever I did? Or spent more time with people and things that mattered?

In the last few years, I've even developed the tendency to think/say 'This can wait'. Like calling Anna B during this year's Hari Raya if I'd known it was her last. Like visiting her family last night instead of waiting till this morning. Like sending an email to someone to say I forgive him/her. Like writing this blog so that others can read, learn, laugh or cry. How much time DO I have?

I asked MM, a close friend who has worked at hospitals for the last 2 decades, whether she feels people will live better lives if they knew their days were numbered. Surprisingly, she disagreed. "I see it all the time. Cancer patients who've been given a time frame tend to focus more on dying than living the best of their remaining days. It's human nature," she said.

Just live each day as if it was your last, she said. Make everyday a countdown. Make everyday matter.

I'm going to sleep over that thought tonight. Ma and Anna B, may you both rest in peace.

Anyway - Martina McBride

2010-12-20T05:55:00.000-08:00

Goodbye 2010, Hello 2011!

I love this song- it epitomises everything I believe in. On days when you feel you're at crossroads, when you're torn between two loves, when you wonder if anything will ever change, when you feel you're stuck in a rut- turn up the volume and soak in the lyrics.

Afterall, what could be the worse that could happen? Just do it ANYWAY!

Write away

2010-12-15T07:08:00.000-08:00

So you're a writer! What's your blog- can't wait to read it...

Err..my blog is kinda pathetic at the moment; there's nothing substantial in there.

How come? Since writing comes so easily to you, surely you can blog with one, no, make that both, eyes closed!

Good point. But how can I explain that I spend so much time glued to the computer that most days (or rather nights), I can't wait to shut down and do something else apart from writing? At times, it almost feels like my laptop and I have merged into one, considering we now share almost everything - from my work to family photos to upcoming projects and everything in between.

Hence the sad state of my blog. Blogging (read, more writing) needs time (even if done half-asleep). Precious, precious time. Can I afford it?

But it seems like the choice is no longer mine. Why and how is a long story, which explains my blog title. So many stories need to be told, so many voices plead to be heard. Not just mine, but from every corner of the world.

Time to bring those voices out.
Time to be brave.
Time for change.
Are you with me?

VISION KERAJAAN MSIA EMPOWER FOR CHANGE

2010-12-10T04:46:00.000-08:00

KESAKSAMAAN UNTUK WANITA

Allowance for Home Ministers
Flexible working hours
Work from home arrangement
Nurseries at work places
Implementation of minimal wages
Quality education
Community spirit

PERSEKITARAN YANG SELAMAT

Basic rights
Eradication of corruption
Quality public transportation system
Safe homes for all
Less dependance on foreign workforce -domestic helpers and contractors
Eradication of ISA

The world of politics

2010-12-10T02:29:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not in politics. Not yet anyhow. Yet this 4-day session at the Menjana Kuasa Wanita (EMPOWER) seminar is threatening to drag me into uncharted waters.

Shall I test waters first...or just dive in the deep, hopefully to come afloat and teach more people to swim? Only time shall tell...

But it has been an interesting two days- so far. The crowd consists of women who are keen to dabble in politics. Yes, the idea is to train enough women who are keen to enter politics and make a difference in the lives of others.

Some are already local councillors; others are actively involved in their own political parties; still others are just trying it out for size. What's obvious is this is a selection process. Afterall, it takes a woman of substance to endure the cruelties of political life. The country, the people need leaders who can stand up to those challenges, without crumbling under the tremendous emotional and societal pressures.

One thing I must say- women in politics (or wannabes) seem to have some things in common: they're loud, highly-charged, often angry. Angry in the good way though. Afterall, how can anything be done without having enough fire in the belly?

So yes, there has been a lot of disagreements (beautifully masked as constructive debate), creative ideas, learning, sharing and more. Anfd lots of noise, noise and more noise. Enough to last me for the rest of the year, thank you.

But more later. Let's talk about our imaginary country's Mission and Vision first...

Identity Crisis

2010-11-28T23:32:00.000-08:00

I now officially proclaim myself as Jin Doe.

Don't ask me who I am and where I came from, because my identity is now a mystery. I didn't say that myself; the banks did. Every bank I went to had trouble reading my thumbprint with the Mykad reader device. Couldn't even open a new account with Public Bank last month- until I drove home to bring my passport and birth certificate. So my IC is defunct. Also my identity.

What happened, you ask? Well, blame it on the harsh chemicals that we all use for cleaning. It could've been the detergent, dishwashing liquid, laundry cleanser- or all three. Whatever it was, it cleaned so well that even my identity has been wiped off.

As a concerned and responsible citizen, I went to Jabatan Pendaftaran Negara to see what can be done. Hey, it's no joke losing your thumbprints- I'd have trouble withdrawing money, getting through immigrations, even getting my dead body identified if something happened to me!

The lady at the JPN was really professional- she said she'd check my Mykad first to see if the chip had malfunctioned. Nope, OK lagi, she said. Then she checked my thumbprints. Again and again. Yep, goners indeed. The only saving grace is that there's still some inkling of markings on my left thumb, but they were so poor most banks couldn't pick it up. Still, the canggih device at JPN could trace my entire history, from my first IC till this third one. She even showed me the monitor, where I saw my progression from a young teen to a young lady to a mid-aged old bird.

So how now, I asked? Tak boleh buat apa, Puan (Can't do anything about it, Ma'am). If you ever get into trouble, just go to the nearest JPN counter and ask for a print out of your Mykad. What if I was overseas? Hmmm...even she had no answer, except to say I should keep out of trouble then.

Keep out of trouble, huh? What's life without some excitement?

Next stop- to see a dermatologist. Would be interesting to see what a skin specialist has to say. Will I be cured? Or will I stay Jin Doe for the rest of my life?

To think babies start developing their thumbprints when they are a feotus of 4 or 5 months. So now I'm back to feotal stage. Perhaps this is a sign that I should start life afresh, at this tender age of 40? Develop a new set of thumbprints. And a brand new identity.

Everybody has a story to tell

2009-10-31T07:55:00.000-07:00

I'm a late starter. Have always been.

When Father brought home our first computer in the 1980s, I hardly looked at it. While the rest of the family pored over the new toy and eventually found multiple uses of it (Big Bro went on to become a computer expert, Younger sis 1 and 2, Younger Bro, even Ah Yi played games on it), I viewed it with contempt and happily joined Grandma as the only two people who were IT-illiterate.

When the rest of the world are already into the wonders of the internet, I had my babies and started my family, first with two, and later 4 kids. At the age of 30 when everyone else were already IT-savvy, only then did I start to learn how to use the computer.

And when e-buddy Krista first told me about this exciting new thing called blogging in the early 2000, I hardly took notice.

Only now, as the decade comes to an end, I starting my own blog, after numerous requests from various quarters. Late by many years, as usual. But better late than never, I'm sure.

With so many stories to tell, I hardly know where to begin! And with another 1001 things competing for my time, I'm not sure if this blog will be active. But at least I've tried.

So stay with this Ah Moi, as the stories unravel. If nothing else, I hope my stories will move you to laugh, cry, frown, think...or drop me an email in utter disgust.

That's what good stories are for, aren't they?