Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Hello Again

I have not published anything ever since I moved out of my old department in August. I did write some of my thoughts on some issues but perhaps they are not suitable materials to publish. Well, let me put it this way, they would buy me an instant one-way ticket to at least 2 years of solitude in the red room in Kamunting, if you get my drift.

Do I have the right to say what I want to say at any time? In this country, I would say, yes and no. Yes, I have the rights to do whatever I like and say whatever I feel is the right thing to say, but if I do exercise my rights, no, it would not be right. Somebody could and they would exercise their rights to do whatever they have been granted the rights to do.

Honestly, things are beginning to get very weird around here. I can't help it but worry on the wellbeing of the country and its people. Everyone is talking about some kind of violations of human rights, and demonstrations and pickets seem to be the only way out of expressing themselves. But what are human rights to us?

BERSIH thinks human rights would be violated if the Malaysian citizens were not guaranteed a clean and transparent electoral process by SPR with no ‘phantom voters’, no usage of Government machineries by the ruling coalition parties, among others.

HINDRAF thinks human rights would be compromised if Indians continued to be put in some kind of self-claimed ‘ethnic cleansing’ by the UMNO-led Government. To them, human rights would be preserved if each and every Indian were given RM1 million each, for the sins committed by the British Government of the Ice Age for bringing their ancestors to the-then Malaya.

To NUBE, human rights would mean that MCBA agree on their demand for a 30% pay hike with existing benefits including the sacred 2-month contractual bonus remained in the CA.

What are human rights to others? To Mat Rempits, perhaps human rights would mean something if they were allowed to convert all the streets in every city, every town and every kampung into tracks for their no-holds-barred night racing spree (come to think of it, the idea for Singapore to have F1 racing at night doesn’t sound that original after all). To drug addicts, they would achieve the highest level of human rights (they would die happy) if the Government or concerned GLCs came forward to their rescue to provide subsidized or rebate scheme for whatever toxic waste substance they are taking, on top of the free syringes supplied by the AIDS Council.

What else? The list of what constitutes human rights is endless. Well, we are human beings for one. We maybe the same species but each and every one of us are unique individuals, regardless of whatever separate us (race, religion, gender, home state or our favourite food or lucky numbers or whatever else we based our judgement against another human beings) and we do have different needs and dreams. And, the first step to understand human rights is to understand and surrender to our differences. How about our willingness to go up or down from where we see ourselves, to be in the same level and start listening to each other for a start?


Chazz

My Journey : An Honest Reflection

(From Personal Archives)
As I stepped my feet through the big wooden door, I saw the beautiful meadows covered with long green grass. I could see it as far as my eyes could see. I instantly felt the sense of relief, as I saw the grass dancing passionately, in complete synchronisation to rhythmic motions of the song of the wind.

I knew I was there for the first time, but somehow, I felt something intriguingly familiar about the place. As if I had been there before. As if I had seen the place in my dream.

I could see from afar, rows of trees at the end of the meadows. I saw the big and strong branches full stood out so gallantly. I saw the leaves were waving seductively at me. I felt the wind blowing softly on my face and I could smell its freshness and purity. I felt a certain kind of calmness and comfort surrounding my body.

I felt the bright sunlight on my naked skin. It was bright but it wasn’t hot. It was pleasant, much like a morning sun. It was the light that gave the life to the meadows and to the trees. I could feel the burning sensation in my nerves. As if it was giving me the energy and power, and I could feel the strength so overwhelming that made me believe I could take the journey to the end.

As I took my first little step, I found myself standing on a path that cut through the meadow. It was a narrow path covered with small shrubs with little yellow and purple flowers on both sides. And as I was walking through the path, I felt the touches of virgin dewdrops carressing my feet. And I said to myself, “This is the place I want to be. I am going to continue until I get to the end. I am sure it’s going to be something great waiting for me at the end of the journey”.

And as I continued to walk further, the path was narrowing down on me. I found myself continuing my journey with great difficulties, struggling to get myself through. I saw the dark clouds moving in as if they were following my trail. And, before I realised what it was doing, the lights had slowly faded away and it was suddenly getting darker and darker. I could not see a thing. I could not see where I was going and what was in front of me. I could feel the air was tickening and I could not breath. I continued to walk until I could no longer move.

It was something in front of me that prevented me from stepping further. As I reached my hands out, I could feel that I was touching something. It was a hard flat surface but I couldn’t find the edges, as if it was a wall without ends. And there I was, standing there, completely isolated, confused, annoyed, frustrated and helpless.

I was ready to succumb to the fate that I was a failure when I realised: “I am a human being and when God created me, He blessed me with a gift of choice. I do have choices. I am the captain of my own ship and I am in perfect control of where this ship is going.”

But, then again, I could very well switch on my survival mode and stay there, continue being a victim and feeling sorry for myself but I repeatedly asked myself, “What’s the point?” I could but I wouldn’t let it happen. Not here. Not now. Not in my space.

As I gathered what was left of my energy, I started to pull myself together. I brought the light from within to the surface to conquer the darkness around me. I released the power of mind to overcome the confusion. I revealed the power of my heart to triumph over the unpleasant feelings. I gathered the power of love to defeat my loneliness.

In the end, I found out that all walls have edges.


Chazz

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Saturday with Paulo

Kids were away on their own brand of adventure courtesy of my brother in-law. And just when I had the craziest idea of spending the day being a ‘mermaid’- my very own term for cuddling in bed until the sun rises straight up my head and being a slimy squid in front of the TV for the second half of the daylight- and very excited about it, my Roze suggested that I should drive her to her facial at Ampang Point.

“You know the place would be jam-packed with people and if I were driving, I would be late for my appointment because I would have to drive around to look for parking. If you drive, you can just drop me off.”

It made perfect sense to me but I was a bit apprehensive at first nonetheless, knowing that I had to spend 2 hours of loafing around. And with kids not with me, I knew it wouldn’t be easy to spend all those times waiting. But I said yes anyway, not out of duty to Roze but to myself as I came to a realization that I need all those times to be alone by myself and be free.

After making a number of circles around the block in pursuits to secure a parking spot, I finally managed to complete my mission. It was a short victory and I wasted no time in celebration when I realized I had a far bigger mission: I have 2 hours to waste. “But then, where do I go?” I said to myself. And, there I was, in the middle of a crowded place and nowhere to go.

I was running around with no sense of purpose until I looked up to 3rd Floor and saw the bookstore. At that very moment, I saw clear images of Paulo Coelho in my head and I was in an almost revelation-like experience when I stepped my feet inside the bookstore. I knew what I wanted and my mission was clear: a Paulo Coelho’s book. I finally knew why I was there. It happened very fast and in 5 minutes flat, I was holding “The Zahir” in my hand.

A few minutes later, I was sitting down at Frisco Coffee on the Ground Floor with a large X (Extreme Mocha) on the table and my eyes and fingers glued on to “The Zahir”. Running through pages of “The Zahir” in between sips of the heavenly X was a journey in itself. And, Paulo Coelho, as in his other books I have read, has nothing short of magical power to suck me deep in the storyline, making me feel as if I were the main character. The delivery was brilliant and the plot was full of unexpected twists and turns, curves here and there, and ups and downs everywhere.

The spontaneity and the fluidness of the storyline were so phenomenal although I could feel the story was moving slower than what I would like it to be. The frequent change of stage setting offered a different yet refreshing experience for me. As the setting moved from Paris to Spain (Santiago and others), Croatia and ended in Kazakhstan steppes, I was also carrying my luggage from one place to another.

I loved Coelho’s analogies used throughout the book and I think they were so relevant and meaningful. And, he used the encounters with the beggars and nomads to demonstrate their different brands of philosophy of life, which perfectly made sense to me.

Needless to say, I was so deep in the storyline that I managed to ignore what happened around me except for a few minutes of having to listen to a group of screaming Arabs sitting at the next table. Otherwise, I was in the world of my own enjoying the time to myself. And, 2 hours later, after emptying 1 large X and another regular X and puffing away 5 sticks of Sempoerna, I completed almost half of the book.

(Just for the record, I completed the whole book that day. A must-read for those of you who’s still searching for the meaning of life.)


Chazz

Thursday, July 5, 2007

Pemusnah Impian??

“Assalamualaikum”,

Terpacul ungkapan keramat yang di dalamnya merangkumi ucap selamat dan doa tulus dan kudus. Aku membuka mataku perlahan-lahan. Mataku masih perit lantaran menerima pancaran cahaya secara mendadak. Terasa seakan mataku menyedut masuk segala cahaya dari dalam bilik dingin itu. Pedih dan perit sekali.

“Dari mana suara itu?”, bisikku pada diriku sambil bola mataku mengimbas ke sekeliling mencari-cari arah datangnya suara itu. Terasa suara itu terlalu dekat.

“Wa alaikumussalam”. Dalam kebingungan salamnya bersambut jua.

Mata saling berpandangan. Seakan ada sekelumit rasa kemesraan walau dalam keterasingan. Seakan ada secebis rasa persaudaraan yang mendekatkan jarak dan menghilangkan sempadan di antara kami.

“Seperti pernah kulihat orang ni”, desis hatiku.

Bola mataku berpusing-pusing dan naik turun, merenung orang tua yang kurus melidi dengan pakaian compang-camping. Bau hapak dan hamisnya menusuk lubang deria bau ku. Dan, janggut dan kumisnya dibiar tumbuh meliar, tak terurus.

“Tapi…”, terpacul satu perkataan dari mulutku, berbaur dengan rasa kehairanan. Keningku bagai diangkat-angkat oleh rasa keghairahan ingin tahu yang berbuak-buak.

“Aku tahu. Kau tak mengenali aku kan?”Senyum sumbing. Dalam ertinya. Matanya merenung mataku. Tajam dan penuh pengertian.

“Aku adalah sebahagian dari kau.”
“Malah aku adalah kau.”

“Ah! Masa kan engkau adalah aku? Mana mungkin. Maafkan aku, orang tua. Memang rupa kau seiras ku tapi kau tak mungkin aku. Tidak kah kau lihat perbezaan kita?”

“Dan, kalau benar sekalipun, perlu apa kau datang kemari? Apa yang kau mahu dari ku?”

Ketawanya mengekek bagai mengejek dan memperlekehkan aku. Matanya menelanjangkan tubuhku.

“Aku datang untuk menuntut hak aku.”

“Hak kau? Tapi, aku tidak berhutang apa-apa dengan sesiapa. Apa hak yang kau ada ke atas diriku?”

Ketawa lagi. Bingit telingaku. Ku rasa semacam mahu saja aku jeritkan ke telinganya, biar dia dapat rasakan apa yang ku rasa.

“Aku adalah janji-janjimu.”
“Aku adalah impian mu.”
“Aku adalah tanggungjawabmu.”
“Aku adalah kesetiaanmu.”

Dia berhenti seketika dan menarik nafas dalam-dalam. Aku semacam menunggu dia menyambung. Payah untuk ku menangkap dan memahami butir-butir cakapnya. Pelik.

“Kau telah terlalu jauh menyimpang dari hakikat kejiwaanmu. Hakikat yang menjadikan kau itu kau. Kau telah lupakan aku dan kau telah lupakan dirimu.”

“Masih kau ingat janji-janjimu? Kau berjanji ingin menjaga Ayah dan Ibu. Adik-adikmu.”

“Kau masih ingat ketika kau berlutut di pusara Ayah yang ketika itu tanahnya masih merah. Kau berjanji ingin meneruskan tanggungjawab Ayah menjaga Ibu dan membantu adik-adikmu.”
“Tapi…” suaraku seakan tersekat.

“Tapi apa? Apa alasan mu?” bentaknya keras.

“Kau mahu menyalahkan masa kau yang sempit lantaran kesibukan kau bekerja? Lantaran melayan karenah anak-anak mu? Lantaran mengulit isterimu yang gebu?”

“Lantas kau tiada kelapangan untuk menjenguk ibu tua mu atau menelefonnya bertanya khabar. Lantas kau terlalai untuk menziarahi dan membasahi pusara ayahmu dengan air mawar. Lantas kau tidak sempat untuk mengotorkan tanganmu mencabut anak-anak lalang dan rumput yang tumbuh meliar.”

“Terlalu sibukkah kau sehingga engkau tidak sempat untuk menghadiahkan Al fatihah dan selawat untuk ayahmu?”

“Ada kau hubungi adik-adikmu? Pernah kau tanyakan keadaan mereka? Berduitkan mereka? Atau, adakah mereka hidup dengan berlaukkan kicap? Atau mee segera sebagai satapan makan malam mereka yang paling istimewa?”

Aku terdiam. Terpaku. Seakan hilang suaraku untuk berkata-kata. Peluh dingin merembes keluar dari liang romaku. Takut dan malu bagai menjadi satu rasa yang kini menghuni dadaku. Kesalku berada di puncak. Aku rasa seperti aku telah ditelanjangkan.

“Kau yang menyebabkan aku begini. Dulu kau manusia yang keras dan tegas. Tekadmu bagai satu tunjang yang kukuh. Kau bagai pokok yang rimbun, melindungi dan menguatkan orang-orang di sekelilingmu.”

“Zon keselesaanmu yang terlalu melalaikan kau. Terlalu enak dan terlalu selamat. Tiada cabaran. Lantas auramu terlalu lemah lagi melemahkan. Orang di sekelilingmu tidak mendapat apa-apa dari mu melainkan kelemahan mu.”

“Masih ingatkah engkau akan cita-citamu. Engkau mahu menjadi seorang yang terkenal. Kau mahu jadi penulis. Mana tekadmu? Mana cita-citamu? Mana impianmu? Mana bukumu?”

‘Kau mahu uruskan rumah kebajikan untuk anak yatim. Seperti Ustazah Salimah yang menguruskan rumah anak yatim yang kau selalu kunjungi saban minggu. Masih kau ingat hilai ketawa anak-anak malang itu setiap kali ketika kau tiba? Dan tangis sedih mereka ketika kau mahu pulang?”

“Kau tak lagi mengunjungi rumah anak yatim itu. Anak-anak kecil itu tidak lagi kau hiraukan. Berlaukkah makan mereka? Berselimutkah tidur mereka? Sempurnakah pembelajaran mereka? Berbukukah mereka? Apakah mereka masih makan 3 kali sehari dan minum petang bersama pisang dan keledek goreng? Apa kau peduli? Itu nasib mereka.”

“Kau yang memusnahkan impian mu sendiri. Mimpimu hitam kelam bagai malam tiada berbintang. Impian mu terperosok jauh di bawah aras bumi sehingga terlalu jauh untuk kau sendiri merangkak keluar dari situ.”

“Sedarlah.”

Sayup-sayup kedengaran suara-suara manusia yang ku rasakan terlalu asing. Cahaya semakin terang. Ku rasakan tubuhku kejang dan lemah. Seakan tiada upaya aku untuk membuka mataku. Seluruh badanku sakit. Dan, peluh dingin tambah membekukan anggota badanku. Aku dapat merasakan mata dan pipiku bergenang air mata.

“Syukurlah, abang selamat. Anak-anak kita dalam perjalanan ke mari. Pembedahan abang tadi tu berjaya. Ini Dr. Kamil. Pakar bedah dalam pembedahan tadi.”

Chazz - ketika kemelayuanku datang menyapa

Sunday, July 1, 2007

A Day To Remember

4th of July is always a day to remember. Not because I celebrate the Independence Day of the United States of America, although I flipped through enough pages of American History books to understand what it means to the Americans. Not that it matters to me nor do I care about it but everytime when somebody mentioned the date, I could feel the adrenalin came rushing through every single veins in my body. 4th of July 1989, that was the day to remember. That was the day why 4th of July means so much to me.

Like every 1st of July, that year, downtown St Louis, from Market Street through Olive Street and all the way to Riverfront and historic site of Laclede’s Landing and especially the areas surrounding Jefferson Memorial and the Gateway Arch were crowded with people.

The whole city was filled with spirit of celebrations as everybody anxiously waiting for 4th of July in party mood. For 4 days in a year starting from 1st through 4th of July, the city changes its character, color and sound. The ever tame and innocent downtown St. Louis began to show the other side of it. Perhaps, a little more adventurous and a twist of boldness were showing in every corners of downtown. The whole downtown glowed with colorful atmosphere with decorations everywhere and filled with music and sounds of joy and happiness.

It was like the whole city was just awakened from her long sleep. And, it was all because of Veiled Prophet Fair or V.P. Fair (from 1992 onwards, it is called Fair Saint Louis) where the city hosted a celebration with non-stop music, entertainment and fireworks. Some called it "America's largest birthday party" as the event showcased a variety of attractions including air shows, educational activities, a barbecue competition, stage performances featuring popular entertainers, and an enormous fireworks display held nightly enough to attract crowds from in and out of the state. The city was never so full of life except perhaps when the Cardinals won the World Series and the Rams (the Ram was still in LA when I left St. Louis) won the Superbowl and especially if the Blues could win Stanley Cup (which they have consistently failed to do from the dawn of time until present).

There I was, an outcast even to my fellow countrymen to add to my usual ‘stinking curry-smelled foreigner’ tag to the rest of the Americans. Just because I was a huge Jazz fan. Just because I was drawn more to Kenny G, Earl Klugh, George Benson, Grover Washington Jr., Stanley Jordan, Chick Corea, the Marsailis Brothers and David Sanborn (to name a few, names that I still have on top of my head) rather than to the moonwalker Michael you-know-who and the ‘hair’ generation of rockers, Guns & Roses, Metallica, Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and the teenage sensations at the time, the New Kids On The Block, which people in the main stream like them fancied. Put all of them aside, I was hungry and looking for some saucy yet soothing sounds of Jazz music so I dragged myself to the Fair because I knew there were gonna be open-air Jazz performances by Jazz bands, either quartets or fusion, playing classical or modern Jazz, the solo saxophonist and guitarist, and Jazz singers. Best of all, they would took turns to perform round the clock for 4 days. Yes, you read it right, the performances and concerts were non-stop for 4 days.

I booked one of those small tents that were erected along side of the streets and empty spaces around Riverfront areas to provide shelters for the visitors, especially people from out of town. For those 4 days, many people including the weird 21-year old me were at the same social class as the homeless except maybe our clothes and the fact that we were homeless by choice. It was still summer so I didn't really mind being outdoor and sleeping on the grass and pavement as long as I was close enough to the stage to see the performances.

The stage was erected on the bank of the Mississippi River and the exhibition booths were lined up all the way to the historic site of Laclede’s Landing. I am not sure whether I am right but I think Laclede’s Landing was the place where Louis Laclede landed when he took the historic trip on the small plane named Spirit of St Louis from Paris, hence called Laclede’s Landing. A popular attraction in St. Louis and located just north of the Eads Bridge on the Mississippi Riverfront, the Landing is a multi-block collection of cobblestone streets and vintage brick-and-cast-iron warehouses dating from 1850 through 1900, now converted into shops, restaurants, and bars. It was the centre of crowds especially during weekends where St. Louisans come to chill out and have a beer or two after a grueling and painful week of hard work.

Needless to say, I was having the time of my life by myself. For 2 full days (except for a few minutes a day at home for showers and such), I was alone in the ocean of people, enjoying the performances while lying down and sleeping under the moon and stars of St. Louis’ skies. I didn’t know a single soul although there were times when I was involved in unofficial interviews by curious tenants of the neighboring tents. I still think that until today, I was at the peak of my happiness that day. I didn’t feel any pressure from anyone. No one can tell me what to do and I felt that at that very moment, I didn’t need anyone, not my family, not my friends, not the government and not my country. I felt that I could live there forever, even under a tent. Even if I would be the loneliest guy alive, I wouldn’t mind. And, at that point in time, I pledged to myself that I would call St. Louis my home and spend the rest of my living life there. I was ready to pledge allegiance to the US of A, "the land of the free and the home of the braves". I decided that if I ever go back to Malaysia, it would be only to visit my family.

The third day came as a surprise and drastically changed the whole experience. Maybe God decided that I was not meant to be alone although He was kind enough to let me have the feel of it for 2 whole days. I was walking around the Landing when I met a college friend, Christobal or Chris as he was fondly known.

I first met Chris when he was in the same class with me in Fall’88 semester. He was a Graduate student but he had to take the undergraduate class to comply with the university’s elective requirement. Oh yeah, it was Latin American Economics, the class that brought us closer to Latin American countries and their economy. Being a Hispanic, Chris was often mistaken as an Asian as he looked like a typical Malay with tan skin and stood only 5 ft 5 inches tall.

We hang out a lot, especially after class either to discuss on our assignments or studied for other classes. And, often, our meeting place was at our unofficial HQ, a smoking room on 5th Floor of the University Library. The quorum wouldn’t be complete without 5 other foreign students : Ali Kareem, a 30-something Somalian graduate student who always introduced himself as "I am Ali Kareem: Ali as in Mohamad Ali, the boxer and Kareem as in Kareem Abdul Jabbars, the basketball player" who smoke the not-so-famous, yellow-box Merit; a Spanish guy named Carlos who was a part-time model and dated a Black girl; another Spanish guy who stayed across the hall from Carlos’s apartment whom I forgot his name; and 2 Japanese guys whom I totally forgot until today and ofcourse, I didn’t remember their names. And together, we were 7 wonders of the world, sharing the space in the smokey room on 5th Floor where not many others would dare to enter. From our small chats, I learned a little bit of their backgrounds, enough for me to know them personally to call them on first name basis.

For the next 2 days at the VP Fair, I spent enough quality time to get to know Chris even closer. We talked and talked while listening to the music from the stage. We shared about our countries and what was special about it, the people, the culture, and the life we had when we were growing up. I was cracking jokes on my parts but I realized that he talked in a different tone when he started talking about himself.

I almost jumped when he said, “I am actually a Cuban.”

“What do you mean? I thought you are an American, I mean I knew you are a Cuban-American but I thought you were born here?”

“Yes, I am, technically, American. On paper, I am an American citizen but I wasn’t born here.” he paused for 5 second breather before continued, “I came to America when I was 10 years old. I was put on a boat ride from Havana and after a few rough days, she landed in Miami (Florida). Practically, my whole family were there on the boat including my parents, my grandparents, my uncles and aunties and cousins. The whole enchiladas.”

“Even at that tender age, I knew and understood why my father brought our family here. I knew he was concerned about our lives and our future. You know, to live in Cuba under Fidel Castro’s Communist regime was terrible. Life was really tough. There were days when we had no food to eat. And all of us sat around the table and stared at each other and then my mom started crying and we all cried together.”, he told me with teary eyes before continued with his childhood stories when they started building back their lives in Miami, all from scratch and how he ended up travelling half way across the continent to St. Louis to follow his dreams.

“Hope brought us here and hope will bring us back there. All these years, I can’t help it but hope that the situation in my country would be better. I am still waiting for that day. The day that I will rewind my life journey and find myself in Cuba again. I am still hoping that one day I’ll go back to Cuba and help them rebuild the nation”, he continued.

“I love Cuba, with all my heart. I would remain a Cuban, wherever I am.”

On 4th of July that year, I learned about love and loyalty, and the words from Chris that day stuck to my mind until today like they were hard-coded into my brain. All those words came into play in November 1990 when I woke up one day and decided to come home, only after almost 1 year after my graduation.

I’ve never heard from Chris again after I left St Louis in April 1990. I ‘d never know if he’s still in the US or Cuba, but I know that his heart is big enough to have all of Cuba in it. And until today, I celebrated every 4th of July with pride and joy, that I’m home, now surrounded by my family and friends in my own country. Deep in my heart, I know that things are not perfect here but I’m happy because I know that my freedom is here, at home.

Chris, muchos gracias, amigo!


Chazz

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Kunta Kinte Is Alive!

I have been preaching about "Slave Mentality" for a few days now. It is not due to my ill feelings towards anyone in particular. Rather, it was all out of frustration. And, this writing is not intended to put blame on any specific person or persons and I mean no harm to anyone (or maybe I do). I am just angry about the whole enchiladas, the society as a whole. It’s just that it’s becoming a stumbling block to any progress that we are working hard for. All the sweats and tears of some people means nothing and worth not even a cent with the people that subscribe to the mentality around. What more if they are the leaders. It’s counter productive to the max, to say the least.

Surprisingly, it happens in a work place surrounded with self-proclaimed high performance culture like mine. And, for some pathetic reasons, it even exists in our so-called modern society, in our beloved nation that has been a free and independent state for half a century.

All these while, even without the assistance of a sophisticated refrigeration system in the early days, the mentality has been well-preserved. We still keep it intact until today even when the Portuguese, English and Japanese colonials are long gone.

Come to think of it, the pre-requisite is rather simple. If you are a Malaysian, no matter what your origin and race is, chances are you have this mentality. Either it comes to a surface or submerges under your thick skin cover, that's another story. It is hereditary or genetically being passed down by our fathers who got it from their fathers who got it from their fathers. Maybe it started way back in 1511 when the Portuguese armada set down their sails, lowered down their anchors and decided that they should colonize and take possession of the Malay kingdom of Malacca.

Being Malaysians, it's this mentality that stands in our way to be extraordinary person and our ability to create extraordinary results and achieve greatness. It's this slave mentality that prevents each one of us from standing tall as a free and independent man. With this mentality clinging on to our minds and blocking our view of ourselves, we always play ourselves small and at the same time, appear small and weak in the eyes of others.

We worship certain people of certain race and we bow down to people born with certain color of skin or hair. With the mentality, we are deprived of our ability to make our own decision without having to think what others think about it.

If we are not born with blonde hair and blue eyes, are we of lesser beings? For all that matters, all men are created equal in the eyes of God. And, no matter what shapes, sizes and colors we are, we breathe the same air. And, we have the same color of blood flowing underneath our skins.

Whoever we are, it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee. It’s time to wake up and look in the mirror and be proud of who we are. It’s time for us to stand up and be counted. And, pinch yourselves hard and believe it: the colonial era is over.

Chazz

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Death and Dying

I guess no matter who you are, we are still humans after all. No matter what background you came from, who you are in society or in corporate world and who your circles of friends are, you are still a human being. Whether you are a member of a royal family, a super rich corporate figure, an award-winning movie star or a powerful politician, deep down you are still the same human being. Even if you are surrounded by tons of gold or world’s best doctors and surgeons, you still cannot escape death. Nothing is certain except death. That I totally agree.

Reading through thoughts and experience of Allahyarham Zulrushdi (Al Fatihah) in his blog zulrushdi.net has got me thinking about it. God, I am afraid of death. And for that, I admire his strength and courage to accept and face the fact that he’s dying. I’m too small compared to him. I mean I know that I will die some day and I know that there’s nothing that can stop death from getting to me. But somehow, I always think that death is far, perhaps too far from me. Not me. Not today, at least. I have a lot more to do. I have tons of things I want to achieve. I have a lot of unfinished businesses I have to handle. I need more time. The inner part of me cries,”Oh God, don’t make me die today. My kids are still in school. My kids are not married. I have to see my grandchildren before I die. I have not told my mother, my wife, my kids and people around me that I love them. I have a lot more to achieve. And, my book…oh no, not today.” Then, I realize that I don’t have the power to either stop or delay death. And that I have to accept when and how it comes.

The most difficult part of dying is to part us with our worldly affairs. It’s our money, our job, our wives, our children, our friends, our bungalows, our cars, our investment portfolios and the list goes on and on. All those things hold us back and prevent us from accepting that death is just around the corner. Unlike Zulrushdi, we are not willing to let go all those. And unlike Zulrushdi, we don’t have enough strength to accept death. If today, I know that I would only one month to live, honestly, I wouldn’t know what to do.

The world has trapped us in our own little games. We are enslaved by the pressure to satisfy ourselves to the standards, which we think the world has set us to achieve. And every time, without fail, for some funny humanly reasons, we always think what others are getting is more than what we have. We always look out for greatness in other people. We never appreciate what we already have. And, we end up spending the rest of our life pushing ourselves to get more. And as we have more money, more power, higher status and higher ranks, we realize that we don’t have enough and there are a lot more that we want. And we work for more. At the same time, we develop stronger love to the world and we form unbreakable tie to the worldly things. We love this world too much to let it go.

Little that we realize, the world doesn’t really need us. When we die, we are gonna be forgotten unless we left something for people to remember us by. And, the love and contributions (good deeds) that we have given others, those will survive the test of time and stay forever.

ZulRushdi, Thank you for allowing me to be in your space. Thank you for teaching me to remember death. Thank you for making me realize the value of life.

Chazz

Thursday, May 3, 2007

Do I look dumb in maroon?

(From Personal Archives)
I was walking down the street, thinking how cool I was, in the Bank’s white-and-maroon “Formula-1” shirt when I stumbled upon a fellow staff of the Bank on the bridge linking Jalan Melayu and PUTRA’s Masjid Jamek station. He gave me that look, you know, the deep yet puzzling what-in-the-name-of-God-is-this-guy-doing look. I thought it was nothing, so like always, I said hi and gave him a sincere have-a-nice-day smile. Then he said something. The words came rushing into my ears, pushing their ways into my bloodlines and before you know it, my brain was drained. I felt like I was run over by a huge fully loaded 16-wheeler truck.

“You look really dumb in that shirt.” he said. I could feel my brain froze for moments but I managed to push out a simple innocent answer,”Oh, this shirt? Almost everyone in my department wear this shirt today”. Then came the reply, “Oh, I don’t know that there are other dumb people in the bank?” I didn’t say anything but I gave him a smile and walked away.

I could not sleep peacefully a few days after that incident. The incident kept on playing in my mind like the old Peyton Place reruns that I hated most as a kid. Have I sinned to wear the shirt? Have I committed a crime for just trying to show that I belong somewhere? If it was, why it felt so good to wear the shirt knowing I have actually advertised to the whole world that I actually work for the Bank?

I realised that the importance of sense of belonging to a human being when I saw a bunch of Malay Neo-Nazis or Skinheads as they preferred to be called, walking tall in their Swastika T-shirts, leather jackets and high-cut boots. Irrespective of who you are, a human needs to belong to his or her peers. Even the young Skinheads who barely know what Nazi is all about, let alone to fully understand the principles and ideology behind the movement.

I spent almost 400 ringgit on my son’s Manchester United’s replica jersey complete with his favourite player’s number and his name just to give him a sense of belonging. That is more than my helper’s monthly payroll. Just for him to proudly say that he belongs to one of the greatest football clubs the world has ever seen. You could see the manifestation of confidence and pride with the glow in his eyes, and I could honestly verify that it was not me who lifted his spirits. It was that red jersey that did the job.

And, if we are willing to spent our money and proudly wear the jersey to support the team that never knew we existed, why not the free white-and-maroon shirt to identify the team we already belong to.

I saw that guy again, on the afternoon of 22nd February, proudly holding his maroon card in the middle of a long queue at the ATM. And, even with all the colours of money he took out from the machine that day, maroon seemed to be the colour of the day.

Deep in my heart, I know I look good in any colour, knowing that I belong somewhere.

Chazz - Jalan Melaka

Of Pets and Furballs

I am getting a pet. I am sure about it more than ever. I am still thinking about what to get, though. Maybe I’ll get myself a Persian cat or maybe a pair of rabbits or hamsters? Or if I were adventurous enough, maybe I would get a ferret or even an iguana? That’s a big maybe.
And then again, there’s a big why too. Maybe I am coming of age? Maybe I am in a midst of midlife crisis? Yeah, midlife crisis or what I always term it as menopause for men. I kinda like the term. It has the right ring to it. It has a commercial value, perhaps in a sick kinda way. Imagine a TV ad for the newest cologne in the market, specially made for men above 40. “Here’s to the values that stay on forever. Here’s to eternal youth. Menopause for Men, from Calvin Klien”. (Haha…)
Deep down, I have always loved animals. As a boy scout, it was my pledge. A boy scout loves animals. To some extent, I do. But I have never wanted to have pets, not in recent years at least. I didn’t know why until 2 years back. It took a closed-eye reflection exercise in AW’s Basic Training to make me realize what has long been forgotten.
The five rabbits I had when I was a kid came to me with tales from my past. Well, my dad didn’t give them to me. Not officially, at least and they were not mine, exclusively. They were family pets. But, my dad, he put me in charge of taking care of them and that was as close as I could get to calling them ‘mine’.
I remember we had collections of animals at our house. I don’t know where they came from but we used to have turkeys, pigeons and some exotic and rare birds. We even had Ayam Serama, long before they became a hit in late 90s. They were just chickens to us back then. Long before the craze came into play and the price of the tiny little thing went up to thousands of ringgit.
Did I tell you what happened to the poor rabbits? Well, they all died. All five of them died because of me, the irresponsible kid that I was. I was 9 years old at the time and I was too caught up with my life as a kid, sport practices and football games after school and all, and I neglected the most important part of living, food. The cute and cuddly little fur balls died because I forgot to feed them. And I realized during the session that the event had great effects on me. Because of the event, I never forgave myself for letting them to die. Because of the event, I never trusted myself enough to take up any responsibility to care for pets. I realized that it was the guilt that has actually prevented me from having pets and successful at keeping them, although I have tried.
Back in college days, in good'ol St. Louis, I remember we had cats in our apartment. They came in a package when my housemates and I responded to an ad at a supermarket’s bulletin board. It was not me who suggested but I went along with the decision. We went to a house within a few blocks from the supermarket and the nice lady presented with 3 lovable little kittens. That was when One Spot, Everest and Butterscotch came aboard to become our housemates. We decided to keep their birth names, the names that were given to them by the lady. One Spot was all white except for a little black spot on his head. The most active one, Everest was all black and liked to climb. Butterscotch was what else, butterscotch. There was nothing special about Butterscotch except for the fact that he was mine and officially mine.
We were okay with the arrangement for a few months until we decided not to keep them. That was when we realized that it was not easy to keep them in a small, one-bedroom apartment on 11th floor. And, we had to spare not a small fraction of our skimpy allowance for food and care for them. And they gobbled nothing else but Friskies and Whiskas, which cost more than a box of spaghetti. So, we gave them away. Ok, we technically did that. If you consider leaving the poor cats on the doorstep of the cat lady is the same as giving them away. It was for the good of the lovely creatures. It was done out of love. If it was all that, why did I feel so guilty about it?
I never had other pet after that. Nor have I wanted any. Even after I realized the real reason why I didn’t want any pet. Not until now. Not until today. And I know it is not due to my coming of age or having midlife crisis. It is because I am ready to bury the ghosts from my past. I am ready to forgive myself and I am ready to take up the responsibility.
Now, the most difficult part is to decide on which animal…

Chazz

Loyalty: The Cokeman Story

(From Personal Archives)
Unlike policies, guidelines and procedures, loyalty is something that you cannot enforce. It has to come voluntarily and from within our hearts. To an organisation, loyalty of the employees means higher commitment and increased productivity, which translate to higher generation of revenues and profit.

But, does it exist these days? Are we too self-centred to be loyal to anything? In the era when people are willing to step on other people’s toes to reach the top, does it pay to be loyal? Is it worth it to stay and slave yourself in an organisation when the rest of the world hop from one job to another and while doing that, securing higher pays and climbing up the corporate ladder faster than you are? Are our lives driven only by dollars and cents that we are only loyal to an organisation that rewards us with promotion, hefty performance bonuses and exponential salary adjustments?

I didn’t have the answers to those questions until I met a forty-something Executive from one of the most successful MNCs, Coca Cola Corporation. He has been working with the company for 10 years, now heading the Asia Pacific Regional Headquarters in Indonesia, which covers 9 countries including Australia, New Zealand, Thailand, Papua New Guinea and Indonesia.

He was wearing a collared Coca Cola polo shirt, a Coke-labelled denim and a blue sport wristwatch with Coca Cola logo when we met.

“This is what I always wear. I seldom wear clothing that does not have Coke labels. Even at parties, I would wear shirts that have Coke logo on them and my Coke dress watches presented by the President of Coca Cola Corporation, USA when he visited our Indonesian office.”

As if that did not give me enough shock, with a huge grin, he added, “I don’t eat at restaurants that serve Pepsi or those under Pepsi account. If my kids want to go to KFC, I would order a take-out and we would eat at home.”

“At our house, I have all the Coca Cola souvenirs on display and that includes all the merchandise and collectives dated from as early as the 50s. I even have the tiles for swimming pool, which make up a big Coke bottle on the bottom of the pool.”

When we teased him about his being a fanatic, he replied, ”Come on, Coca Cola pays for everything I took home to the family. The least I could do is to support the Company.”

And, guess what he gave me as a souvenir? A black round-collared Coke t-shirt!

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Adibah Amin & As I Was Passing

I have to thank my daughter for the gift. Not because she gave me anything but because of her persuasive ability and persistence to get me out of the house and taking her along on our father-daughter’s hanging out session at Ampang Point. The sessions that always start with Sushi at the Octopus and end with a visit to the Popular Bookstore and they wouldn’t be complete until we spend at least 2 hours lingering in the bookstore. I never complained though. I am happy and proud to have kids that are willing to sit on the floor of a bookstore for hours. And, I won’t panic if they are lost in a bookstore. I mean, what’s the worst thing that could happen in a bookstore? Your kid won’t be bullied by a rotten-to-roots spoiled book. Your kid won’t be kidnapped by a gang of bad-assed books. Unless, the Myanmar couple moved their operations from Sogo to the bookstores. If that really happened, the worst thing that could happen is I would have a daughter with a Skinhead hair-do (Ooopss…did I say that?). More than anything else, I want my kids to love books more than they love their PS2 and Barbie dolls. And, thank God, because of her fascination for books, I was reunited with my childhood idol. Not in person but through her books.

Because of my daughter, I had a privilege of picking up Khalidah Adibah Binti Amin a.k.a. Adibah Amin’s As I Was Passing and As I was Passing II, the 2-volumed precious collections from her column of the same title. I must have read them earlier. I knew I have. After all, I was the biggest fan of hers. Maybe I read them straight from the newspaper or maybe from the earlier collections. I knew I have read them all. After all, I was her biggest fan.

As I was going through sentence by sentence and line by line of the books, I could smell Adibah’s writings although I didn’t remember reading any of them before. A weird but amazing feeling indeed, much like being with your wife of 15 years but feeling like it was your first night together.

It’s funny how a book can affect you. Any innocent little book could be the ‘Fitness First’ and aprodisiac for your brains and memory banks. As I Was Passing series were simply magical, even to a 40-year old brain like mine.

As I was going through the pages, I remembered when I was growing up. Reading was always my favourite past time. And every time, the newspaper man arrived on his motorbike, no matter where I was, no matter what I was doing, I would run to the front door and jump down to meet ‘Pakcik Suratkhabar’. He was my superhero. He was the saviour that save me from my boredom. And, one time, when he had an accident and missed a few days of his delivery, I was having the worst time of my life.

Well, I was a kampung kid. I grew up in a farmers’ village with huge padi fields, about 10 miles from Kota Bharu. But, unlike other kids who were drawn to kampung boys’ activities like making and flying kites, hunting and trapping birds, fish-fighting or having natural 'mandi lulur' (mud-bathing) side by side with a gang of buffaloes in the padi fields, I was attracted to books, comics and newpapers instead. And, Adibah Amin was always my favourite writer. To me, she was the goddess.

I never knew Shakespeare like I knew Adibah Amin. Well, I was never exposed to English literature when I was growing up. Not where I was from, anyway. I did know who Shakespeare was, though. I knew Shakespeare not through his ‘Hamlet’, ‘Romeo & Juliet’ and his other masterpieces. I knew Shakespeare as Shakespeare. I knew that Shakespeare was a writer, and, that’s pretty much it. And, throughout my pre-adolescence years, the image of Adibah was always bigger than that of Shakespeare. It still is, even today.

I have high respect for her ability to write. Her stories were always about things that happen around us, although I must admit that I couldn’t relate to some of her stories when I was a kid. Not because of the stories but because who I was and where I was from. I was just a naïve and plain kampung boy who was never exposed to or experienced some of things she wrote about. Or, maybe because I was too little to understand some of the things. Nonetheless, her magic touch never failed to suck me in to her world through her stories. Armed with a thick Longman’s dictionary, I was a boy on a mission.

I learned English through her other column, too. Long before I knew Betty S. Azar. Long before I was in Dr. Whittfeld’s Linguistic 101 class. In a way, she was one of my first English teachers I remembered, besides Cikgu Nik Rosni who gave me 3 books, ‘Cinderella’, ‘Rapunzel’ and ‘Beauty and the Beast’ as a present for getting the highest marks when I was in Standard 1 or 2 and Mr. Chung Han Teik who taught me songs when I was in Standard 3 and whom I met again when I was in Form 5 at Sek Men Ismail Petra.

Adibah Amin was a big part of my life growing up and with the two books that I bought, she will always be. Reading products of her creativity is a great pleasure to me. And, I will always be her biggest fan.

Thank you, Adibah and may God bless you with happiness and great health for years to come, Amen.

Chazz

Monday, April 23, 2007

Tulsa, Zulrushdi & St. Louis

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Friday, April 13, 2007

Bye Bye baby

Friday
It was Good Friday. A public holiday for certain states. Even, my son’s school, St John’s Institution was closed to observe the holiday. It was certainly not a good Friday for Roze when she started complaining about the pain and the heavy discharge she was experiencing. At that point, she was nothing else but certain that she had lost the baby. I knew she was worried about it. That was Roze, being herself. That was Roze whom I married 14 years ago. “Okay, never mind if we lost it. Just don’t worry about it. We’ll go back to Pantai (Medical Center) today and confirm that”, I said to her.
Roze started experiencing slight bleeding on Wednesday, a day after we met Dr. Idris, the gynecologist that was recommended to her by a Doctor friend. Well, he was a polite, soft-spoken middle-aged Doctor, a character that fits perfectly to image of a male gynecologist I always had in my mind. Perhaps, I was thinking of Dr. Onny, a gynecologist who handled Roze’s previous pregnancies.
“Slight discomfort that you are experiencing is normal, and don’t worry about the discharge. The baby is still intact. Each pregnancy is different. I had a patient who had discharge for the whole 9 months, and her baby was born normal”, Dr. Idris explained while performing an ultra-sound scan on her. I looked at Roze with a smile all over my face. Well, I proved that she was wrong.
“Just take the pills that I’m gonna give you and I’m sure we would be able to save the baby”, he added and we went home. I could see the relief on Roze’s face. The worry suddenly wiped off her face.

Saturday
Just like Friday, the same thing reoccurred. I went through a Déjà vu, more like a dramatization of the series of events that occurred on Friday and we took another trip to Dr. Idris’s clinic in the morning. Again, after an ultra-sound scan, he confirmed that the baby was still intact. He also recommended an increased dosage on Roze’s prescriptions. “If the pregnancy is okay, no matter what happens, even if you experience the pain and discharge, the baby is gonna be fine. But, if the baby is not strong, no matter what we do, no matter what medication we take, it will still be gone”, Dr. Idris explained further. It was a lesson about life and fate from the Doctor that caught my attention and instantly gained my concurrence. On our trip home, I reminded Roze about it. Yes, it’s all about fate. And, we could only do so much, but we couldn’t control fate.

Monday
The fate finally knocked on our door. Roze complained about the heavy bleeding she experienced at 7 p.m. last night (which she didn’t tell me earlier) and another one at 2 a.m. She believed that the baby was finally gone, judging from the bleeding and the pain she suffered. It was real blood. And, the pain was out of this world. To her, it was labor pain.
I was panicking and in a state of disbelief. I didn’t accept what she told me about the baby. Not that easily, at least. I needed proof. I needed to be told officially. But, seeing her suffering from the pain was the last thing I wanted to do. And, the only solution was to go back to Pantai. I drove her straight to the Pantai’s Emergency room because it was still early (Dr. Idris’s clinic only opens at 9:00 a.m.) and I wanted Roze’s pain and suffering to go away. We were met by a middle-aged ER employee at the entrance who quickly put Roze on a wheelchair and wheeled her in. I had to move my car from obstructing others to a designated parking space about 10 meters from the entrance. When I went in the room, she was already on bed and was attended by 2 nurses and a doctor.
After registering her at the reception counter, I went back to see Roze. She was calm but still combating with the pain. “Dr. Idris requested you to go and see him”, the nice Indian doctor told us. “No worries, we’ll send you there in a moment”, he continued while instructing his assistant to get the wheelchair and send Roze to Dr. Idris’s clinic, which was located on Block A.
We reached there in less than 5 minutes only to find out there were people waiting to see the doctor. I was expecting that she would be called in right away to see the doctor. I was in perfect control of myself until I realized that Roze was not gonna be given special treatment. To see her suffering from the pain and the waiting game they were playing drove me off the edge. I didn’t have other choice but to stand up and make myself heard. I walked into the counter where the assistants were sitting and called one of them.
“We came from the Emergency Room because the doctor wanted to see her. She is in pain and if I knew that we have to wait for our turn, I wouldn’t have come here. I would let her stay in ER or put her in the ward instead”, I stated my case loud and clear. I could feel the resistance from her from the look that she gave me but I didn’t really care. I was the Superhero that I was destined to be. She called the other patient in, perhaps in retaliation to my behavior. I gave her a stare to make my stand even stronger.
We were finally called in. At last, my fight was victorious. The doctor quickly performed the ultra-sound scan the moment Roze lied on bed. And, finally, the moment of truth was there. Finally, the words from the Doctor’s mouth matched those words that I had been hearing from Roze for the past few days but I chose to ignore them. “If you look here, this is the baby. It’s different from the last time we scanned it. I don’t think the baby is in healthy condition to continue. I think we’ve lost the baby.”, Dr. Idris confirmed what I refused to believe earlier. “Let’s do the D&C today, perhaps at 11:00 am.”, he continued. “Have you eaten anything this morning?”, he asked before went on to explain the detailed procedure that he was going to perform.
He instructed one of the assistant to send Roze to Admission to arrange for a room in which she could rest before the operation. I filled in a few forms and after less than 10 minutes, Roze was wheeled to Room C431, a single room she requested for. I agreed to her request because of the horrendous experience we had earlier with the room with multiple occupants.
Room C431. I looked at my watch and the time was 9:30 a.m. Well, we still had an hour and thirty minutes to go. Roze was resting quite comfortably despite the pains. I switched on the TV and flipped through the channels to check the programs that they had, knowing that I would have to spend a night in the room. “Is the discovery channel okay with you?”, I asked her, asking for approval. I knew she would prefer Travel & Living channel but it was not one of the programs available. She just nodded while continued to be in silence. I knew she was nervous about the operation and at the same time, frustrated and still mourning over the lost of our third baby.

Chazz-Room C431, Pantai Medical Centre

A letter to my wife

(From Personal Archives)
To my beloved wife,
I may have said it and I may have expressed it somehow, but until this very moment, I feel that I have done nothing. Even if there is, I know it is too small to match the love, happiness and greatness of life you have been giving me.
This letter is a celebration of my love and appreciation for you. And, I want you to know how grateful I am to share my life with you and to be blessed with your love.
My love,
From the day you came to my life and every moment after, when I am with you, you touch my heart and enrich my life with the softness and tenderness of a great woman.
You give me life and you give me every reason there is in the world to continue living and to continue stepping forward.
You walk with me all the way through, even if the path I choose may not be beds of roses. But, knowing that you are always there by my side, gives me strength and courage because I know I am not alone.
I know there is a torch with me to guide me through in my darkest nights. I saw it in you, my love. You are the torch that brightens my nights.
I was half a man that I really am before you came and completed me. I was not a believer when they told me that love is so many splendor things but seeing the way you filled my empty heart with your love brought me back the hope that I once lost and the trust that was once betrayed.
My love,
I have seen everything that is to see through your eyes in 12 years we are together. I learn and I grow in every moment you glow. What I see in you is a sheer beauty wrapped around a pure, loving, giving and caring heart, truly a bouquet of gifts and blessings from God. And just by looking at you, I know I am blessed. I know I am loved.
I see beneath the softness of your skins lies strength, beneath the tenderness of your kisses lies courage and beneath the gentleness of your touches lies the energy of confidence. Your smiles are blessings, your grins are sense of accomplishment and your tears are honesty. That’s you, my love. That’s how I see you.
You are everything I ever wanted. You are everything in one: a lover, a soul mate, a friend and more. I don’t even have to look further because you are here with me, now and forever. I feel at home when I am with you or even when I am away because I know your love is always there, for me.
I may have not said it, because words will never be enough to describe my feelings, my admiration and my love for you, but I want you to know that every time my heart beats is how much I am grateful, every kiss is how much I acknowledge you and every hug is how much I appreciate you.
My love,
I didn’t know how to love until the day you opened your heart and took the whole of me in. You gave me back the gift of love and for that, I am grateful.
I didn’t know that to love and be loved are the easiest things in the world until the day you came to my life. You taught me that love is beautiful and for that, I am grateful.
I didn’t know how to trust until the day I held your hands and I felt the whole world was on my side, and for that, I am grateful.
I didn’t even know the meaning of sacrifice until the day you sacrificed yourself to give me the greatest gifts of all, the two wonderful children that will continue our legacy and love, and for that, I am grateful.
I acknowledge all the love and trust you gave and all sacrifices you made through all these years and I’ll cherish them for the rest of my life. And most of all, I want you to know that I love you and I will always love you, and if I had a chance to do it all over again, I won’t change a thing. You are truly, the greatest thing that ever happen to me.

Luv,
Chazz

Ginza Walk

(From Personal Archives)
An evening walk from streets of Shimbashi, where the Bank’s branch was located, to Ginza was an experience of being inside of a complete-cycle of metamorphosis. It felt like I was sucked from a dull dimension to a totally different dimension, full of life and character, from a more quiet office complex to an elegant and stylish city where the retro-modern atmosphere still lingered in the air. Lined with old department stores with history and tradition and prestigious boutiques, Ginza was a flamboyant city even for sophisticated, fashion-conscious Japanese and even more so for people like me.
To me, Ginza was definitely the breath and brain of Tokyo and for the first time, I was showered with bright lights of the mega city that never sleeps. Ginza 4-chome intersection and its distinctive architecture, surrounding the intersection of Chuo-Dori Street and Harumi-Dori Street greeted me with its warm welcome, the perfect place to start my Ginza walk.
Walking in Ginza was like being in a never-ending fashion show and I felt like I was sitting in a VIP row, so close to the runway that showcased designer brands, from Prada to Burberry to Salvatore Ferragamo to Louis Vitton. Ginza was an eye-opener for me to the exciting and fascinating world of fashion and I meant it literally, especially when it came to the price tags that were enough to make my eyes go wide.
I strolled the streets of Ginza without clear intention to buy anything considering the price and exchange rate. Well, to tell the truth, I was hoping to find something that fits my wallet. Other than that, I was more drawn to get the feel of what Ginza has to offer for a foreigner like me and to get the understanding of the people, the culture and the colors of Tokyo.
What amazed me was how people of Tokyo treated me. I got the kind of respect I deserved, as their guest. And, the Japanese, they were down right polite. I could feel the warmness everywhere even though I didn’t understand the language. At times, I felt like they were saying something just to mock me because I was a non-Japanese speaking foreigner, but still, I could feel their honesty.
And, I also found out that even the back lanes of Ginza were not scary at all, a place I could walk safely without fear of getting mugged or pick pocketed. The feeling was amazing. I could feel safe even if I was in a foreign land, the feelings that I couldn’t get in New York or Chicago, or even Kuala Lumpur.
At 12:00 am, you could still find well-dressed, fully suited men holding briefcases and women in fashionable outfits, enjoying the drinks with friends after work. Laughter and conversation filled the atmosphere. Trains were packed especially after 12:00 am. Ginza line was only one of many train lines that transported commuters from suburban Tokyo and even outskirt areas. Perhaps limited parking spaces and high cost of parking fees made the traveling via trains a more cost effective alternative. And, if you look at the map and guide to train services in Tokyo, you can see extensive network of train lines that would make our train lines look more like a kindergarten’s school project.

Chazz - Ginza, Tokyo

All about Superman


(From Personal Archives)
I was chilling out on a Friday night with an old friend from high school over a few rounds of teh tariks when he popped up a very simple question. You know, one of those questions that sounds rather funny at first, but then, when you think about it, it goes deeper and deeper in your head and then, if you think hard enough, it continues to dwell in your sleeps and your wakes, for weeks, then when you finally get the answer, it is so simple that you think that it’s not worth spending the time to think about it at all. (To tell you the truth, whoever can say the sentence in one breath without taking the oxygen breaks, you should consider taking part in this year’s Malay Mail Big Walk!)
“If you were Superman, what would you do?” he asked.
A whole lot of things came into my mind. The evil side of me came into play. Hmm…if I have those superpowers, what would I do to benefit the good old me, myself and I?
Maybe I could go and rob Ted Turner or Bill Gates. But then, what do I need the money for? With the power that I have, I could just go and take anything I want. Who would stop me? Or rather, who could stop me?
Maybe I could dump people that I don’t like out of this planet, and the nearest would be Alaska, if today were my mother’s birthday? But, with the power that I have, they could not do anything to bother me. Who are these weak humans? I don’t want to dirty my hands on those good-for-nothing scumbags.
So, what do I want?
Beautiful women? What do I want Catherine Zeta-Jones and J.Lo for, when they’re just another cars in APAC’s Storeyard?
Luxury sports cars? Aren’t you forgetting something? I can fly for God’s sake. Evo8 is nothing when you can even smoke a B-2.
Expensive vacations? Again, I can fly. Anywhere. Who needs breakfast in Paris, lunch in South Africa and dinner in Moscow when you could have them in Mars, Venus and Jupiter? Let alone the Bank’s apartments in Cameron Highlands? Huh… I could even relocate them to Cameroon.
Education? What do I need Harvard’s MBA for? Do I want a PhD from MIT or Oxford? CIA? CCP? Nah!
Business? Why do I want to own a Fortune 500 Company? So that I can get more money? I don’t need money, you hear?
Major League Baseball team? EPL team? Nope, not when I am Superman.
More ESOS? No, but thanks anyway for the offer. But, I’ll frame the offer letter if that’s fine with you, Mr. Chairman.
When the evil devil’s advocate side of me finally surrendered, the good side came to my senses.
Ok, I want to dedicate my life to doing good deeds. Like saving people’s life, for example. First, I’ll save Tsunami victims in Acheh. But then, there are people in other places too. What about the victims in Kuala Muda, Langkawi, India, Bangladesh, Myanmar, Thailand and Ceylon?
What about the war victims like the Iraqis and others? Don’t tell me they are not worth saving?
And then, I have to stop poverty, hunger, human pains and sufferings, deadly diseases like Cancer and AIDS, and other disasters like earthquakes, draughts, floods, volcano eruptions, snow storms, accidents during festive seasons, Samy Vellu’s flyovers from falling off, corruptions, crimes, Malaysian soccer team from losing their home games, power-crazy world leaders, Governments’ cover-ups, Enron-like scandals, frauds, the Bank’s deteriorating asset quality, AFTA, PMS, another merger…. and my list is growing longer and longer.
Then, my realistic almost-selfish side came in.
What about my family? With all the tasks in my KPI, would I have the time to take my wife shopping or rather, window-shopping every weekends, spend ‘quality’ time with her waiting for her to finish her shopping or window-shopping and carry all those shopping bags, call my mother at least once a week, drive home to visit her 5-6 times a year, visit and pray at my dad’s grave, play basketball with my son, take him to his tuition twice a week, take my daughter to the playground every now and then, take her to her favourite sushi place every Saturdays, take them to the Club every shopping-free weekends, cook for them once in a blue moon, take them for vacations every school holidays, attend all their schools’ activities like Sports Day, Canteen Day, School Carnival, Report Card Day, Prize-giving Ceremony and those boring monthly PIBG Committee meetings, celebrate all their birthdays but mine, celebrate my wedding anniversary, listen to my brothers’ problems once in awhile and have I mentioned, take my wife shopping? (If you can say this one non-stop, you can even go for a marathon or even triathlon.)
And, would I have time to visits my friends and gossip about other friends, talk to my neighbours and gossip about the other neighbours, visit all the relatives during Raya and gossip about the other relatives and attend all the kenduris and gossip about everybody else?
Would I have the time to watch all those sporting activities on TV ~ EPL, NBA, MLB and World Series, NFL and Super Bowl, NCAA, summer and winter Olympics, Tennis Grand Slams, Michael Schumacher and not to forget my all-time favourite, women’s beach volleyball games?
And, what about the tarik sessions? Would I have the time to waste at the teh tarik joints at least once a week? And then, spend one week thinking about becoming Superman? Do I have the time to even think?
To take responsibility of all the things that are happening around you, to set the priorities when everything is too important to be left out, to choose one thing over another, to be in a few places at the same time, and to take care of the people close to you when you have the whole world to think about, it’s a tall order even for Superman. Even Spiderman knows that “with great power comes great responsibility.” And, with the amount of sacrifices that you have to make, who needs the super power? Not me, I don’t.
“I don’t want to be Superman,” I answered before adding on, “Even if I choose to be one, where do I change into my red-and-blue Superman suit when all the phone booths in KL, besides having out-of-order phones, don’t even have doors?” I got a big laugh as a present, and he paid for everything on our table including the two Teh Tariks and a can of 100 Plus I have emptied into my stomach.
Now, let’s change the question, if you were the Bank’s CEO, what would you do?

Chazz-Teh Tarik Joint, Tmn Melati

The Coach

(From Personal Archives)
People say that more business deals were closed on golf courses rather than in the meeting rooms. But, big ending sometimes came from a humble beginning. Little that we realize, some of the mega business plans were actually drawn up from ideas gathered at the teh tarik stalls.
Being a teh tarik addict, I can verify that the teh tarik stalls are not just the place to chill out and satisfy your urge for some fattening drinks. It actually opens up the window of opportunity to meet people and to observe and talk about life. I was on my quest to understanding life when I met a bubbly nice guy everybody called “Coach”. I didn’t even get his name but from a glance I knew that he was in his 50’s.
After a brief introduction, we were off to a familiar territory, an open-ended, no-holds-barred chat when he started off with a statement, “We will never be good in sports.” “And, why is that so?”, I asked with curiosity written all over my face. In my eyes he seemed like your average guy but when he mentioned about his job as a Coaching staff of BAM, I forced myself to devote all my attentions to what the Coach had to say. Being an authority in sports, he deserved the chance.
He took a deep breath before answering my question, “It’s hard for our sports to evolve. Year after year, with millions and millions of money spent, we are still the same as 20 years ago, if not worse. We may have all the facilities, no doubt, but we don’t have the platform for sports to grow, to improve and to soar beyond expectation. And to compete with others seems to be an almost-impossible task.”
“Our society is never a fair society, at least, not to sports. It’s not that we discourage sports totally and directly, but the perception built around it, gives our children a different message. In our society, success is measured on how many A’s you get in your exams. Not how many medals you have and definitely, not how many certificates you get from your participation in extra-curricular activities.”
He paused, sipped his teh tarik and continued, “We are telling them that the future only opens up its door to people that are successful in their studies. Of all the thin lines or gray areas that we have, this one stands out. We have a very clear line that divides studies and sports or other extra-curricular activities for that matter. Little that we realize, in the process, we ignore the fact that human beings are different and so are their talents and capabilities.”
“In school, for example, they need the students that are active in sports and extra-curricular activities. With the little things that they do, they actually help boost the school in the Education Ministry’s popularity chart similar for those who parade their A’s. In actual fact, extra curricular activities don’t really count. It’s like these people are being taken for a granted, a joy ride for everyone else but the poor children. At the end of the day, people ask you about your A’s. The teacher would always say that there would be the bright lights at the end of the tunnel on top of other 1001 empty promises. They are telling the kids that it’s good to work extra hard, doing extra things that nobody else wants to do, when at the end, in life after school, it doesn’t really matter. Sports and the extra things don’t pay.”
Emotions were running high but our teh tariks were running a bit low. So, we ordered another round of drinks. “I salute these kids. They definitely deserve better. It takes sacrifices and tremendous amount of efforts to take up sports and extra-curricular activities on top of their studies. They are working extra hard to elevate their potentials and translate them into achievements. They sacrifice their energy training days and nights, and on top of that, their sleeps, to be able for them to be the best they can be in two distinctive worlds.”
“Of course we let them to taste the glory. We put them on top of the world. We let them feel that they are important, that they are the cream of the crop and we brag about their achievement. Two seconds later, we are back to the ‘right’ perspective and they are left with 10 cent worth of glory and RM10-medals and RM15-trophies.”
He looked directly at my eyes as if he was looking for my approval and continued, “I don’t blame the parents if they would rather choose to send their children to tuitions and extra classes rather than to enroll them in soccer academy. I don’t blame them if they tell their children not to be involved in sports and extra-curricular activities. We don’t have the admiration for the people’s commitment and ability to balance between school and other things. Why bother to sacrifice yourself if at the end of the day, your efforts are not acknowledged and you will be judged on the same terms as other people?”
“In fact, if you see closely, chances are you will find the successful names in sports here, are there as a result of strong family supports and approvals. With that comes the encouragement and understanding and in most of the cases, financial assistance, from their parents. The message that we are sending out to the rest is simple: You have to be rich to have kids who excel in sports”
I nodded in agreement. The Coach was on his roll. “I understand why being active in sports and extra-curricular activities are not encouraged. While other parts of the world offers the future for these special and talented people, we don’t.”
“What do you mean, Coach?” I interrupted and to that he continued, “Others recognize them. In US, for example, education is still regarded as the most important thing, and so are sports and extra-curricular activities. After they finish their studies, they can continue to do what they do best, not as a mere hobby but as a profession. They can be successful and they are very well compensated doing what they like to do and are meant to do. Sometimes, they can be more successful in life compares to their friends who are caught in between those thick books all their lives. Not in Malaysia, we don’t.”, he added with despair.
“But, what can we do? Like you said, sports don’t pay”, I said it openly without even a spit of prejudice. To that he added, “Well, like I said, the society has to change its traditional views and values. Don’t blame the sportsmen if we failed to win anything. We have to ask ourselves: Do we give them a chance? Do we give the sports a chance to grow? Just think about it. For all you know, all the best God-given talents have lost their ways because of our wrong emphasis. We don’t know where to look for them, we don’t develop them and we don’t allow them to grow. In the end, for all you know, we are stuck with the second bests.”
The conversations were drawn to a close at last when the Warung owner finally gave the I-don’t-know-about-you-but-I-need-to-go-to-bed-soon-before-the-sun-is-up signal. OK, we saw his big yawns and we knew our game was over. He did all the talking and to compensate the “extra-curricular activities” he had performed so well, I put the Coach’s teh tariks on my tab.
I spend the rest of the night thinking about the extra-curricular activities. A question came to my mind, if all the Bank’s staff take up the “extra-curricular activities” i.e. tasks or activities that are beyond our KPIs and Job Descriptions, where would the Bank be? And, then again, do we give them what’s due to them if they do?

Chazz-Teh Tarik Joint, Tmn Melewar

Why am I here?

I have not been writing for quite a while now. Nonetheless, the passion is burning still in my blood veins.
I have always wanted to write. I have always wanted to publish a book. A book with my name on it. A book with special dedications and acknowledgement for people in my life. Ever since I was 11. Almost 30 years later, I am still without one.
Well, since the Nanorimo thingy in 2005 (1-30 November 2005), I have not done anything big. I did blurt out about 11,000 words for that word diarrhea challenge but then, that's about it. Maybe once or twice, I went thru the project in my laptop and ended up playing Championship Manager instead.
An innocent Sunday evening visit to AWC for MB107 graduation turned out to be an amazing wake-up call from G. There, surprisingly I met a guy from my MB97 small group that I staffed. I was almost fainted when I saw the word "Bounce", which is the working title of my book project on his LP T-Shirt. That was freaky! And, the message was very loud! A freaking big slap on my sorry face. It was almost a revelation from High Above.
I went to AWC again 2 days after to do ALI and I met Juara, one of the Seniors in my LP. The first question he asked, "How's your book coming along?" "Not too well, I guess but I am back on now" was my comment and I told Juara about the LP103 T-shirt. He laughed and asked me, "Do you know what all the big-time and famous writers have in common?" To that I said," Well, their creativity maybe?" He quipped,"No, not the big ideas, not the creativity...they all write every day. They make it their habits."
And, here I am...

Chazz