MOVED

Dear all,

Durian Democracy has moved to http://www.duriandemocracy.com/.

Thank you and I look forward to seeing you there!

Best,
Kar Jin

Table For One

It's Friday night. There are families and couples and bands of friends seated at various tables in the crowded restaurant. The lights are dim enough to obscure faces, but remain bright enough for me to recognize the flash of smiles, the opening of mouths, the tilting of heads and wine glasses. There is an unceasing background orchestra: the quiet staccato of plate against cutlery, the crescendo and diminuendo of conversations rising and fading, the chords of polite laughter and the occasional chuckle.

I am an island of silence in such a sea of conversational symphonies. There is one set of cutlery, one wine glass, one napkin at my table. I dine alone tonight.

I do this occasionally, taking time off to dine on my own. I am the only person in the fifty table restaurant dining sans companions. The waiter who showed me to my seat most definitely had a look of confusion, then politely masked pity after he asked me: "How many are you dining with today sir?" Some diners' gazes wander to the empty chair in front of me, probably wondering if my date had abandoned me. Little do they know I do this out of choice. 

At first, years ago, it was out of necessity, the consequences of odd hours, a fussy palate and the absence of friends, most of them studying overseas. Why would anyone choose to eat alone?

True, eating alone is, initially, a deeply uncomfortable experience. A seeping loneliness tends to drench you, like a raw egg cracked over your head, cold and cloying and all over you. You drain your bowl of soup only to realize that slowly as you hear the laughter and the multitude of conversations that the clientele is emptying your heart as well, absorbing your silence and turning it into oh so vacuous alienation.

The irony of such solitude is that it occurs in the midst of so many people. It is quite unlike any other sort of being alone. Driving alone tends to be distracted by music, the bastard who overtook you without signalling, the flurry of motorcycles weaving in left and right. Constant vigilance is required. Reading, watching TV or playing video games is a profoundly connective sort of seclusion, for while we are by ourselves we constantly feel, relate, attempt to understand and follow the lives of those others. And then all the rest of the solo activity list can be checked off as either necessity or distraction.

A meal with oneself is different. Precisely because you are in the midst of so many others, you are constantly being reminded of the companionship you are missing out on. You are forced to reckon with the fact that you are truly alone. It is perhaps an event of true loneliness.

Of course, most people resort to distraction. Always the iPhone to cook up some Instagram photo and Facebook status, garnished with an excess of hashtags and sprinkled with a selfie or two to assuage the asinine ego. Or the absent minded turning of a coffee stained newspaper, pretending to pore over the news that reports the same corruption, same celebrities, same old circus of a country over and over again. And if idle pursuits fail then comes haste, a swift devouring of the required sustenance without tasting, and an impatient tapping on the table as the bill comes far too slowly, before beating a retreat back into the world of known people, however fickle and superficial those interactions may be. 

"Ah yes John, how are you? I'm fine hope you're good too! Oh that thing... Oh that was Leonard's project, not mine. Oh no, it's quite alright, how are the er... ah yes, the two girls! Oh, in primary school already? Jessica must be proud. Oh right, sorry, I always get your ex and her mixed up, so sorry! Myself I'm doing fine...er yes I'm still at that company, all is good and well! (but really I just got fired but I'm not going to waste your time, you don't really want to know)"

So yes, deeply uncomfortable. But I have learned to enjoy these moments. I come from a family that has always insisted on meal time as a communal act with all the force of tradition, and a circle of friends that has always pitied the poor sod eating alone in a crowded restaurant. My friends are puzzled over the fact that I do in fact enjoy eating alone, and insist that I call them along to the next meal so I need not dine solo. It's understandable. 

Now I enjoy company as much as any other person, but there is a certain... peace of mind that comes when I dine alone. Over time, I've learned to discard the distractions, the expectations, the stares. And what is left is something that gives me a profound grounding.

Dining alone is one of the few activities that allows myself to simply be. I am in the moment. The here and now. There is a certain hyper-awareness that washes over me. Colours and smells become more vibrant. The ever so slight vibrations in my knife as I slice into a steak. The hint of herbs in the spagghetti before me. The firm but moist texture of risotto as I slowly chew and savor. Actions become more deliberate, movements measured.

Then there is the observing. To look around a restaurant, and realize it's like an exhibition of so many worlds, little bubbles of society that are so evanescent and fragile they only last as long as the food continue and is popped at the ding of the cash register. To see the sweat on the brows of waiters scurrying back and forth, the hidden scowls of waitresses as they deal with yet another change of mind, the bemused expression on a bartender as he indulges a child demanding to know why she cannot drink the beverages on display, as a hapless papa hovers protectively. I suppose it is almost voyeuristic. But a writer thrives on such observations.

By far the most observed is the self. When I eat alone, I am left with only myself as company. It is a ritual of self examination that I withdraw into in moments of confusion or crisis. The restaurant becomes a hall of mirrors, with every customer, waiter, and chef metamorphosing into reflecting glasses. I see myself through them. Perhaps this is the true reason why dining alone is so uncomfortable. Because everybody is to a certain degree insecure with themselves ... and you are never truly alone even when nobody is around, you are always facing your own demons and personalities and dreams and frustrations and perversions. 

It's Friday night, and I am dining on my own, but not alone.

Mmm. That piece of meat was really juicy. 

"Meeting" Taken December 2013, NY. OKJ.
Click for larger image.

Eat, Pray, Gov

A plate of plain, simple nasi lemak is sitting before me. The other customers around me are wolfing the coconut rice down, bits of egg, sambal and fried ikan bilis disappearing into chomping mouths. Chomp chomp gulp, goes the rhythm, alternated by giant swigs of iced Milo. Within minutes, the plate is emptied.

Nasi lemak. Image from wikipedia.

I turn back to my own plate of nasi lemak. I appraise it, observing the ratio of sambal to rice, how crispy the fried anchovies look, how the sunny side up egg glistens in the amber light, how fluffy each grain of rice seems, how there are wafts of steam rising from the plate. I smell it, a deep breath, a lover inhaling perfume within another's embrace. I smell the fragrance of fresh coconut milk, a hint of onion from the rice, and then I'm assaulted by the spice of the sambal, the subtle fishiness coming from the anchovies. 

And then I have a sip of water. Cleanse the mouth of any residual tastes before diving in. I first try the rice, slowly letting each granule dissolve in my mouth while soaking in the coconut flavors. A sip of water. Then the sambal. Another sip of water. The process continues until finally, I eat nasi lemak the way it was supposed to be eaten: a wonderful mix of nuts, sambal, rice, cucumber, the yolk of the just fried egg oozing onto everything and bringing everything together. 

I'm guessing this scenario seems pretty ridiculous to you. Indeed, ever since primary school, my friends have often been rather amused or annoyed with my food antics. But as anyone who knows me will tell you, I love food, and I take food very seriously. 

Food is more than food to me. It is not just sustenance, it's not just entertainment or socializing, it's not just something you put in your mouth and wonderful things happen, it is a way of life. I'm a very firm believer in the importance of food, and its influence on the way we live, the way we look at things, the way we approach people. 

Look at some of the most explosive political shenanigans that have happened in Malaysia for example. There is the most recent scandal, where Cadbury chocolates apparently contained pig-DNA and the religious authorities went berserk on the report. Then of course, there was the infamous cow head protest, when protestors against a Hindu temple gravely offended everybody by marching down the road with a bloody cow head, an animal that Hindus do not consume as it is considered sacred. And then there are minor tussles here and there over halal status, about the segregation that happens in certain facilities, the complaints over organ donors being pork-eaters so on and so forth. Just think about it, among the worst insults one can suffer in the Malay language is being called babi, pig. 

Apparently comes in roast pork flavor too. (Yes I know it's been cleared up now just a joke). Image from VenusBuzz.

Malaysians complain about a lack of unity and national identity. I think there is nowhere you see this clearer than in the food industry. The kopitiam, which used to be the de facto community centre, always with Malay, Indian and Chinese food stalls has become the domain of the Chinese community. People like to shout a lot about appreciating Malaysian food, but rarely does this go beyond the mamak staples of nasi lemak, roti canai and such standard fare. Increasingly, Chinese stick to Chinese/ Western/ mamak food at best. 

Malaysia is blessed with such incredible diversity. Yet we rarely if ever take advantage of it. I frequently find myself being the only Malaysian Chinese at many Malay or Indianrun joints, whether it be eating mee udang, or nasi padang, lontong, tandoori, banana leaf or some bubur cha cha. And I know far too many people for whom lontong and ayam varuval are as foreign as foie gras and paella, despite these things being right on their doorstep. Maybe I haven't seen enough, or maybe I just happen to run around in rather unadventurous circles, but I fear that this is a greater trend in Malaysian society. 

Curry laksa. Image from wikimedia.

I liken it to curry laksa. Curry laksa is a great dish not only because it tastes great, but because it's a wonderful coming together of cultures that make something truly Malaysian: noodles from the Chinese, curry from the Indians, the spices and sambal from the Malays, and with every state having their own unique spin on it. Yet, what seems to be happening in Malaysian society is that we're not coming together. The ingredients are all there, but they aren't mixed together to create a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.

Maybe I'm taking it all too far, this the world through food lens of mine. But I've often heard it said that a family that eats together stays together. And what about the Malaysian family? 

Heh. All this talk of food and politics is making me depressed and hungry. Oh well. Nothing a bowl of curry laksa won't cure. 

Malaysian terms

nasi lemak- coconut rice served with condiments. Considered perhaps the most iconic Malaysian dish.

sambal- a light chilli paste of sorts. Often served with anchovies.

ikan bilis- anchovies.

Milo- a chocolate-flavored drink.

babi- pig

kopitiam- a Malaysian cafe. Thus the kopi/ coffee.

mamak - restaurant serving standard Malaysian fare that are often open 24 hours and are halal.

mee udang- prawn noodles.

curry laksa- curry noodles.

lontong- rice with a light broth. ugh. it's hard to explain. search them up! 

Presence

It's still there.

The plastic bag caught on a twig, dangling in the tree right before me. It's been there for almost a week now, or at least for as long as I have noticed it. 

That flimsy white piece of plastic has been holding on despite the winds, the rain, the booms coming from Spring Fling, the drunkards shaking on the tree, the chattering and goings of L-Dub courtyard. 

It looks worse and worse everyday. The plastic shows tiny tears, the color turns a little more grey, the green spots fade out into the white that it once was. One day it will probably the torn to bits, the plastic shreds floating in the breeze like little artificial snowflakes, and its alabaster shade will turn to muck and grime as it is trodden on and forgotten like the grass on Old Campus after a night of partying. 

I wonder whether anyone notices. Whether anyone else sees this puny plastic bag that is clinging to this branch, an outcast in the white spring blossoms that surround it. What do they think of it? As a abomination? A blight on what is for the most part a beautiful tree? Some sort of sad cooked up symbol for some environmentalist gobbledygook? An allegory for the human condition? 

More likely no one notices. No one cares.

It's still there.

"Apathy and Abomination" Taken in New York, October 2013.
Click for larger image. OKJ All rights reserved.

Ungloved

It is cold.

It is 3am, and once more I find myself, alone in a sea of sleeping lives, on Old Campus. It seems like my melancholy can only express itself in solitude, with no one watching, no one listening, no one judging. I walk, mind intensely aware of the sounds I make as my shoes trudge across the snow-laden ground.

Snow. Such a peculiar thing. It's hard for my mind to grasp that it is simply frozen rain. Hardened water. My tracks stop and I look up. The flakes even as they fall and caress my face, threaten to hurt my eyes. The snow even as it covers Yale with a blanket, threatens to smother it and choke it beyond recognition. 

Perhaps it is no coincidence that such beauty comes with such coldness.

I attempt to catch a tiny bit of that beauty but the little flakes disappear in the warmth of my hands. No matter. I reach into a pile of snow but feel nothing. The senses of the world seem not to have been made for protected hands. 

Without gloves, I clutch at the snow. The cold hurts. And quickly whatever beauty the cold held is melting away in my grasp. Trying to save it, tightening my grip only hurts myself and makes the moment even more evanescent. 

Protected, I cannot feel. And uncovered, I cannot bear the pain. True tragedy is perhaps not when a fate is inevitable, when there is no free will, but when there is a choice but all the choices can only lead to unfulfilled desires. The words of Hamlet spring to mind. "To be or not to be."

My hands are sore and numb.They can no longer feel, like they have been gloved over. Maybe this is my body's way of protecting myself, of telling me that to feel any more would be too unbearable. And so it shuts off. It withdraws. It feels no more. 

Abraham Pierson's statue is pelted with snowflakes. Some of them are dropping on his face, trickling down and melting as they touch him. I wonder what he weeps for. 

In the end, the snow is probably best observed from a distance. In the security and warmth of a heated room, wrapped up in a dozen layers, mind and body insulated from the elements. 

Yet it begs the question: Why then am I out here in the alabaster blindness of it all? Why reach out knowing full well the outcome? Why expose myself? 

Indoors, I feel the blood creeping back into my limbs. The frigidness is fading. My hands are there. My hands exist. My hands are alive. Not feeling them has allowed me to feel them anew. The warmth of the suite is inviting, welcoming, safe. 

And yet despite all the heat in the world, I cannot help but stare outside, beyond the window. 

And despite the dozen layers, despite the radiator before me, despite the hot coffee that runs through me...

It is cold. 

Photograph by Alexey Kljatov.  See more of his work on:
http://chaoticmind75.blogspot.com/

Nostos

"Do you miss home?"
"Yeah well, of course I do, I mean... yeah... of course I do."

My voice quivers ever so slightly, lips recoiling almost defensively as I speak the words. I cannot help but feel a pang of guilt. It's a question I am asked often, and short of giving a lengthy explanation, I opt for the much simpler, cookie cutter reply of "Who wouldn't?" and launch into a even lengthier panegyric on the beauty of Malaysian cuisine.

Occasionally though, I cannot bear to hide beneath a flurry of superfluous words.

"Do you miss home?"
"Not really."

Every single time I say this I feel like I am being judged, like I am admitting that I am a horrible person wracked with familial problems, or worse yet, an ungrateful brat who can't be bothered to remember my parents.

What is home anyway?

Sure, I miss my family. I miss driving with my father in one of his old cars, just the road and some Lynyrd Skynyrd playing on the stereo. I miss my mother's cooking, which is the strangest thing, because when I was at home I wanted nothing more than to escape from it. I miss my brother bothering me in the midst of a movie or reading a book to show me his latest cool magic trick or the latest Youtube fad he has discovered.

I miss my bed, my dog, my house. I miss the lonely walks beneath the stars to the abandoned playground, just sitting on the swing and contemplating life in solitude. I miss the colorful and vibrant food, the sweet-as-sin milk tea in the morning and the fragrance of fried rice at 3am at night.

But it's far more complicated than that. With "home", there is also chaos. There are the frantic 2am rushes to get a press statement prepared on time. There are the heart-stopping moments as you look into a riot police officer's visor and see your own reflection staring back at you. There are the speeches that come rolling, one after another, until they all blend and mix and form this amorphous, all-encompassing ball of lies that devours everything in its path. There is that fear, that anger, that disappointment that permeates the air, the front page of the newspapers, the websites, the cyberspace, the conversations at coffeehouses.

For most people, "home" is this place of refuge. This place of shelter, where everything becomes OK and life stands still. Whatever storm, quake, disaster stops at that invisible wall people call "home" and whatever exciting, crazy ups and downs go away for a monotony that most people decry but I crave.

For me, "home" is the storm. Home is the embodiment of chaos, of messiness, of burden. Yale, for all its "stress" and "commitments" and "assignments" is a safe haven for me. At least here I know I can close my eyes, I can fall asleep, I can let go of myself and life goes on. I am not constantly bombarded by an insidious hopelessness, assaulted by the egotism or stupidity of politicians, weighed upon to take upon the mantle of a fighter.

Not all people share my sentiments of course. Many can ignore, forget, forgive what happens on a daily basis in Malaysia. As much as I would like to, I cannot. I feel a sense of responsibility, of duty that does not permit me to pretend like all is fine and good with the system when it is clearly not.

Malaysia is like family to me I suppose. No matter how bad things get, I cannot let go of it.

"Do you miss home?"
"No. I don't."

Perhaps there is a better question to be asked then.

"Do you love home?"
"Yes."

"Lost Home". Taken in New Haven, December 2013. OKJ All rights reserved.
Click for larger image.

Cold Hands

"And who's that guy over there? Another college president?"
"Nah, he's Nathan Hale, this guy who got caught spying on the British. His last words are pretty famous."
"What are they?"
"My only regret is that I have but one life to give to this country."

It's late at night. Old campus is silent but for a few drunken stragglers, and the sound of my footsteps crunching on heavy snow. There is no one to greet me, no one to ask me for money, no one to stare at me sideways as I mutter nothings to myself in the solitude of it all.

My only companions are Woolsey, Pierson and Nathan Hale. There's the usual chuckle as I walk by Woolsey's golden foot and as always I simply ignore poor Abraham Pierson and his Latin inscriptions. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't even spare a second glance at Nathan Hale but tonight I stop right in front of the man.

The odd one out. The youngest. The spy. I look up to him and his eyes remain as distant as ever.

There are four things that are incredibly important to me. I've often thought about them and I neatly organized them into an acronym of sorts, something I called wisdom for the AGES.

A- Acceptance. The ability to accept that there are things beyond my control, that I am far from a perfect being, and that there are times when I will hate myself but those times are alright.
G- Generosity. To give without thought. To do little things for people that brighten up their day. To let your heart and world to expand to include the people around you and beyond.
E- Empathy. To understand others, including their circumstances, their mistakes, their quirks and faults. To put myself in their shoes and to move beyond the me and to consider the feelings of others as my own.
S- Sacrifice.

I don't always live up to these standards. In fact, I rarely do. But I try my best. And tonight as I'm staring into the face of Nathan Hale, it's Sacrifice I ponder upon.

Perhaps the reason why Nathan Hale sits among the presidents, intellectuals, millionaires of Yale is because he gave the most. Others give their time, their money, their mind... But Nathan Hale gave himself. I close my eyes and I imagine the last moments of the young man. Did he know his words would be immortalized? Did he say them only to infuriate his captors, to deny them the final satisfaction? Was it only youthful bravado, a middle finger to his torturers?

Did he truly mean them?

Nathan Hale's statue turns towards me, draws a gun and shoots me in the heart.

I open my eyes and the statue remains, as still as ever. The stillness stirs the workings of my mind.

Can I make that sacrifice? Can I impale myself for another, knowing full well such a sacrifice may never, no, should never be found out? When you take away the fame, the bravado and the admiration surrounding Nathan Hale, what are you left with?

I edge forward and slowly reach out for Nathan Hale's hand.

It is as cold as mine.

"Sacrifice" Taken November 2011, New Zealand. OKJ All rights reserved.
Click for larger image. 

Reject the Stadium Solution

Every single time an NGO wants to stage a protest, the immediate reaction is to first deny permission and then to suggest that the protest be held in a stadium.  This stadium knee jerk reaction has become the hue and cry of many a commentator, and surprisingly, even some who are for the cause of such protests also support the stadium solution. 

The common refrain comes in three forms. First, critics point to the convenient nature of stadiums that can hold large capacities of people without causing obstructions on the road, or having the risk of car accidents. Second, critics look no further than the successful Kelana Jaya Stadium and Stadium Negara protests and say: “There you go, everybody is happy that way.” Last but certainly not least, there are supporters of the cause who prefer not to break the law or whatever arbitrary regulation the authorities have thrown at people, and thus say: “Aiya…Just follow law la. They let us protest there, so let’s just protest there la.”

Protest organizers have been more or less quite adamant in not giving in to such demands, with exception of the immediate post-GE 13 stadium rallies. And every time organizers reject the “Stadium Solution” (I call it the SS), there’s a huge backlash from ordinary citizens who view their constant rejections of government “compromises” as unreasonable. Yet, for all this hue and cry, there has never been an articulation, a strategic evaluation of why it is so important for protests to be held on the streets and not in a stadium. As someone who has been an organizer of protests, this is very frustrating. So this piece sets out to articulate such a position and hopefully the rakyat will be more supportive and understanding of organizer’s woes when the next street demonstration comes along. 

The post-election Kelana Jaya Stadium Rally. From Harakah Daily.

1. Stadiums are limiting factors

By their very nature, stadiums limit the number of participants. If a stadium’s capacity is 120,000 people, then you are surely not going to get more than that number of participants. Any excess crowd will gather on the outside of the stadium, and not being able to enter the stadium to hear the speeches, or participate in any collective action, will eventually just subside away. This runs counter to the number one objective of any protest: which is to get as much mass support as possible. Simply put, it’s like going to a buffet, and being told you can only have one plate of food, that’s all. Add that to the fact that you never know for sure how many people are going to turn up, and that’s a big problem. 

Numbers are the lifeblood of protests. The more people that turn up, the more powerful the impact of a protest. Many people point to Kelana Jaya and tout it as a success. I beg to differ. Kelana Jaya reached perhaps 120,000 people, but there were thousands more stuck in traffic jams or milling about outside the stadium. Had it been held on the streets, with multiple meeting points converging on a large urban space, it potentially could have had the impact of a BERSIH. 

Not only are the number of protestors limited, the other most important factor in a successful demonstration, media coverage is also limited. Going back to the Kelana Jaya stadium protest, the Al-Jazeera reporter was stuck outside the stadium, doing live coverage of basically a few people milling about outside. Imagine the media impact lost because of that. Media impact is particularly important for protests to garner awareness, not just internationally, but also to inspire and to spur on fellow citizens who may be sitting at home wondering whether it was worth going. 

Stadiums are also a geographically limiting factor, because, let’s face it, there are not that many that can comfortably hold more than a hundred thousand people. Many stadiums also fall under the purview of federal government agencies or private corporations, for which letting an “anti-government” organization hold a demonstration is a big no-no. So the stadiums that are viable, are often those in opposition held states, where public transport is less well developed, and are often magnets for traffic jams even on the best of days. They also tend to spill out into residential areas. So if you did not want to join a protest in the heart of the city, you simply stayed back home and relaxed. Now, because the only viable stadium is in Petaling Jaya, it now restricts access for residents themselves. 

The 2012 Bersih 3.0 Rally. From Global Bersih.

2. Street protests may be inconvenient, but that is part of the point

This is in response to those who would rather follow police directions and stick to stadiums if need be. A protest, especially in an authoritarian political setting, is by its very nature an act of civil disobedience. Civil disobedience is a purposeful act of breaking a particular law, in order to expose its arbitrary and unfair nature. This is what Mahatma Gandhi did in leading the Great Salt March from Sabarmati to Dandi, and making salt in defiance of the British Raj Salt Laws that outlawed any such endeavor. By doing so, he sought to show the injustice of the salt laws and demonstrate that salt belonged to all Indians. By protesting on the streets, Malaysians demonstrate the injustice of SOSMA and the Peaceful Assembly Act.

Of course, each one of Gandhi’s protests presented huge inconveniences to both the authorities and ordinary citizens. His call for a national day of prayer and fasting to protest the Rowlatt Act, put into context, was more than a massive inconvenience. Imagine, one man essentially declared a public holiday, and put the entire nation on standstill. Trains stopped working, shops closed, packages and deliveries delayed. 

A ruling coalition only stands up and takes notice when it is hit where it hurts. The inconvenience of it all is a purposeful material and symbolic signal to the government to take heed of the rakyat and “Listen, listen, listen”. If street protests were so easy and free of consequences, then activists could protest 365 days a year without any effect, and the government could afford to ignore such pleas. 

By making stadium protests a contained event, the ruling government also contains the impact of any such action. 

People arrested at a parliament protest I was present at. Luckily it was not an enclosed space.
 From Keow Wee Loong Photography.

3. Stadium protests are not only limiting, but downright dangerous

By far the most important reason to avoid a stadium, or any enclosed area at all costs, is the potential danger such spaces entail. Look no further than the annual deaths during the Haj in Mecca on the risks huge crowds in small spaces bring. Not to forget the various stampedes in football stadiums from the 2009 Houphouët-Boigny Arena stampede where 19 people died, to the 2013 Stade Félix Houphouët-Boigny New Year stampede where 60 people died. 

The above are religious and sports festivals, but imagine how much more tense the situation is at protests, where the threat of police action is always over the heads of protestors. Emotions run high, and the slightest spark can trigger panic. Imagine if police fired tear gas into Kelana Jaya stadium that night. Thousands of people, rushing to get away from the debilitating gas might have trampled all over each other. Or what if there is a threat of a bomb, some unbased rumor as is common in such incidents? This is exactly what happened when 147 people were killed during the Chamunda Devi stampede at the Chamunda Devi temple in India, caused by a rumor that a bomb was planted in the temple complex.

Unlike street protests where participants have dozens of avenues of escape should there be any incidents, stadium often only have a few narrow exits. The slopes and benches do not help either. Unlike street protests where the only obstacle might be a road block (and this can be circumvented too), all that needs to be done to hem protestors in is to simply lock the doors. 

This risk to human lives is by far the most concerning facet about the Stadium Solution. It is an unacceptable risk that should be avoided at all costs.

Reject the Stadium Solution

No doubt, the ruling government is probably perfectly aware of how stadium protests are limited, less impactful and more dangerous than street protests. Like a noose that seeks to strangle, the stadium is a tool of encirclement that seeks to corral the efforts of protestors.

I hope, especially for those who have always wondered “What’s wrong with a stadium?”that this articles lays it out clearly and concisely why the stadium is an ineffective and risky venue for any sort of mass demonstration. Reject the Stadium Solution. The streets are paid for by the blood, sweat and tears of all Malaysians, it is high time we claimed them to assert our independence from unjust laws. In the words of St. Augustine: “An unjust law is no law at all.” 

Also published on Loyarburok, MalaysiaKini, Malaysia Today, The Malay Mail, Malaysian Insider, MSN News Malaysia, and Yahoo! News Malaysia.

Sore

Like a moth to a light
I glide to my irresistible doom
Blinking off in electricity and singed wings.
An Icarus of another age.

Why do I fly?
When the destination is only down
and the solace of the sun lies only in its consuming fire?
Yet
In burning there is the briefest flash
Of warmth before the pain.

I soar.

Shades of Solace. Taken in November 2013, Yale University, New Haven. OKJ All rights reserved.
Click for larger image.

Nikmat Padat

Segala yang dihasrat
Tapi tak dapat
Adalah nikmat
yang paling padat.
- A. Samad Said.

Benarkah ini? Adakah sesuatu yang diidami tetapi tidak mungkin diperolehi dapat memberi kebahagiaan kepada seseorang?

Pada permukaannya fikiran ini langsung tidak masuk akal. Kan sepatutnya kita berasa resah? Kan keinginan yang tidak tercapai akan meresap dalam sanubari kita dan meracuni emosi kita? Kan kita semua diajar sejak kecil lagi bahawa tiada benda yang tidak dapat didapati, bahawa di mana ada kemahuan di situ ada jalan, bahawa kegagalan untuk mengambil apa yang kita inginkan merupakan salah sendiri?

Namun makin lama aku merenungi puisi ini, maka makin ku rasa ku dapat menghayati isinya. Aku memerhati sekelilingku. Ku lihat segala yang dihasrat olehku.

Mungkin nikmat itu merupakan suatu perasaan yang lebih mendalam. Mungkin wujudnya suatu kegembiraan dalam memahami bahawa ada benda dalam dunia ini yang kita tidak berupaya untuk mengawal. Mungkin wujudnya sejenis kepuasan dalam menatapi seseorang atau sesuatu dan tidak menyentuh atau mengalaminya, bagaikan merenung ke langit dan menikmati bintang-bintang dari beribu-ribu batu.

Apa yang dingini dan dilihat dari jauh dapat mengekalkan kejelitaannya, keindahannya, kesempurnaannya. Selama ia kekal sebagai teori, dalam minda ia menjadi segala yang murni.

Keupayaan untuk berpura-pura bahawa sesuatu itu adalah sempurna, untuk percaya dunia ini mempunyai sesuatu yang suci dan tidak dicemari, untuk merendam diri dalam satu pelarian dari realiti, mungkin inilah merupakan nikmat yang paling padat.

"The Window Above". Taken in NYC, November 2013. OKJ All rights reserved.
Click for larger image.

Broken Reflections

When I was about 9 years old, my grandmother passed away. At the time of her passing I was at my godparents house, having fun with computer games and just fooling around. My godfather tried to convey the news to me lightly, by telling me that grandma had gone to a better place. A better place without suffering, where everyone was happy all the time and lead blissful lives.

I knew what he was talking about. It was not heaven or some sort of paradise that sprang to my mind but death. I had seen my fish dead, floating right side up in a murky bowl of water clouded by fish pellets and droppings. I had witnessed hens slaughtered at the wet market, their necks choked by clenched fists while a clean cleaver slit their throats, their blood spilling onto the concrete floor mixing with the rainwater and scattered bits of vegetable. I had observed ants, by the hundreds carrying dead cockroaches murdered by pesticide, back in a cannibalistic funeral procession. 

Somehow, I had been acutely aware, from a very young age, that death was natural, universal, and inevitable. Yet I seemed to have no fear of it. It occurred to me as futile to fear something that was so ... part of the way the world functioned. I often imagined myself dying in various ways, from cancer, from a car accident, from drowning. 

In fact, I still remember an incident where I very nearly drowned myself. And by Jove it was such an incredibly stupid way to drown too. My younger brother and I both took swimming classes together, and after class we would fool around in the pool just having fun. One day, I had the bright idea of giving my brother a piggyback just like my dad usually did. It was pretty fun up until the point when I waded into the deeper end of the pool. Can't really remember why but it was something about trying to allay my brother's fears of the water by immersion and crap like that. And boy did I get immersed.

The moment his head went near the water line, my brother panicked and in attempting to get higher, pushed on the only surface he could find: my head. This of course, caused me, his support to simply go deeper into the pool, and he panicked more and more. I remember desperately shouting "LET GO! LET GO! YOU WON'T DROWN!", the words in between lost in gulps of water. I laugh when I think of it now, drowning in 6 feet of water. I tried to push off my brother so that I could save the both of us, but this only caused him to panic more and wrap his legs around my neck ever tighter.

Halfway through the ordeal, which seemed like the longest time ever, I stopped struggling. It wasn't that I had run out of breath. I just realized the futility of the whole situation and felt this impending sense of doom. Somehow everything seemed sharper in that moment, like one of those super High-Definition videos where it all seems so incredibly detailed as to be unreal. And I just let go. I closed my eyes, and let myself drift-drown like a metal pin dropped into water, rolling gently as it falls, almost without resistance. 

The swimming instructor eventually fished us both out of the water. I just lay down on the floor like a limp fish. Maybe I was in shock. But thinking back to it now the experience seemed almost serene, almost meditative in nature. I knew I could have died. It hung over me like that phantom indent on your head after wearing a head band for a long time then taking it off. It sometimes still hangs over me. But I never associated the whole incident with fear.

"Death Over The Hill" Taken in Auckland, NZ 2011. OKJ All rights reserved.
Click for larger image.

There are few things that truly scare me. Sure, there is the occasional ghost jumping out at the screen in horror movies and the moment when a roller coaster dips from a gravity defying loop, but true terror? The kind of fear that seeps into your very being, that paralyzes you even as it panics you, that shadows your moves and thoughts and dreams and sinks its teeth into you while never letting go?

Only two things have managed to invoke this sort of foreboding doom in my heart, and they are in some ways diametrically opposed. The first was a fear of being forgotten. History had always fascinated me and the deeds and legacies of great men like Alexander, Saladin, Washington and Gandhi struck me as something to aspire to. To be remembered, to be spoken after one's passing, to become, in a way, immortal. I had read somewhere that the poet Keats epitaph had been "Here lies he whose name was writ in water", and I was determined to have my name carved in stone. I wanted to leave a mark in the world, to do something great and be remembered for it. 

Yet there was something extremely disquieting about such a fear. I didn't only admire the Mandelas and St. Francis' of the world; increasingly I found myself drawn to figures like Hitler, Qin Shi Huang, Caesar and Stalin.  These were the giant who were great, but also terrible ( #Voldemort). I was slowly coming to a realization there was very little I would not do to be remembered, be it great evil or great good. Or as Milton puts it in Paradise Lost: "Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven". Perhaps the acceptance of the inevitability of death made me infatuated of living after death by leaving a legacy. Maybe this was my way of dealing with the specter of the end of life, the sense of mortality that I grew up with. 

This was the fear of my high school years. But as I grew older, a new fear emerged. I feared myself. 

I came to the realization that fundamentally, I was not a good person. I could be very selfish, I could very incredibly self-centered, and had a supreme sense of self-preservation. I craved attention, thought myself very smart indeed, and reveled the freedom that came with positions of authority. I could be abrasive, temperamental and capable of much dishonesty. Increasingly, I viewed my fascination with fame and legacy and the martial as something repugnant, something corrupting and dangerous. I have done bad things, things that at the time I thought were justified, or dismiss-able in the name of some higher cause. But as they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. 

This process of realization took a long time. It felt like an egg being cracked over my head while still sleeping. First you don't notice it, simply thinking it cold. Then it somehow incorporates itself into your dream, weaving in and out, droplets of egg white and yolk stringing over your hair. Finally comes the awakening, the touching, and then the horror of realizing that a life that could have been was shattered on you, the liquids of the womb dripping over your face, your neck, your T-shirt emblazoned with self-righteous quotes. 

The horror of realizing that even as you woke, you had the power, and perhaps even a desire, to crush yet more lives and eggs. The fear that pervades you as you look into the mirror, and recognize but refuse to acknowledge that the person staring back is you. 

It was a moment of truth for me because I had always believed myself essentially a good person. Yet my desires, my ambitions, my actions often contradicted with the self-image I had forged in the fires of egotism. And as fear of myself surpassed my fear of anonymity, I entered a phase of extreme self-examination. 

That process continues today, every waking hour, every passing moment. I subject my actions to scrutiny, I criticize myself, I question my own motives for doing the things I do. It's why so many of my blog posts including this one are self-deprecatory, reflective, and sobering. They serve to provide a counterbalance to my natural tendencies to think myself all-knowing and all-powerful, and anchor me with an open confession of my vulnerabilities, bared for all the world to see, so I never fall into the trap of thinking myself above others. A friend once described my writing as agonizingly self-aware while at the same time indulgent. I think of it as almost like trying to get drunk while in a cold shower. 

This blog post is perhaps the coldest of such "showers" yet. It has taken me a long time to confront these fears of mine, and to surmount perhaps another fear, the fear of being judged by others when this post is published. But I believe that it is necessary, at this crossroads of my life, to be brutally honest with myself, and to not only recognize but acknowledge, nay, shout out in a megaphone who I see in the mirror. I don't think I'm alone in recognizing there are parts of my own character that I am deeply uncomfortable with, and maybe sharing this odyssey will help others step up and face their own inner demons. 

I yearn for a day when I will be able to say confidently I believe I am a good person. (Yet, how will I know if it's not self-conceit?) I hope that I will have not only the strength to change, but also the strength to acknowledge my weakness. And I pray that one day, I will no longer be haunted by the fears of anonymity and myself.

Until then, I will continue to look into a cracked mirror stained by the splatter of shattered eggs, while drowning in the blood of slaughtered chickens and choking from the iron grip of tightening legs. 

"Staring Upon The Mind" Taken in New York, December 2013. OKJ All rights reserved.
Click for larger image.

Metempsychosis

Somehow, the parade and the block party of the President's Inaugural evoked in me a deep-seated, irrational fear.

At first there was the excitement, the thrill that came with trailing the jolly band, the colorful procession of trumpets, whistles and drums. President Salovey was in high spirits, waving to his bevy of followers, the faculty clad in full dress and regalia were prancing away, the whole scene was one of and joy and jubilation. I scrambled after the marching company, snapping away on my smartphone, tailing them like the paparazzi.

Then this overwhelming sense of deja vu crept in, like a raw egg cracked over a bare heart, the liquid coating it in an eerie coldness of life lost. It was not the first time I was doing this. I had been in this situation before, the intrepid, excited reporter seeking a snapshot of the band. The chasing after a marching company, the noises and beats of drum and fanfare, the beautiful chaos of the moment: these were familiar to me.

I had experienced all of it during my time in the protest movement. The excitement, the joy of seeing so many turn out to support the cause of free and fair elections, to see people power in the making! I had been there, documenting everything in my mind and my camera, running frantically after the tails of this or that prominent politician or activist. I still think about it and my heart swells with joy.

But such joy was always temporary. Something would always turn ugly. The police would crackdown, someone would be trampled by the crowds, a horrific car acccident would occur. I often thought of that momentary joy in the odd lens of tall building suicide. Jumping off a building, there is perhaps a moment when you feel the gust of wind against your cheeks, your arms spread like an eagle ready to soar, and maybe, just maybe you think ironically by descending you ascend the heights of ecstasy. But such a moment is always fleeting, and then you hit the ground and your body splatters against a hard concrete ground or somebody's Lamborghini and it's all over, you're literally brought back to a blood soaked earth.

As I followed the president's procession, a mounting sense of urgency overtook my joy. As I looked to President Salovey and the smile on his face, I had this sudden feeling that all was not well, and that at any moment shouts of joy would turn into screams of terror. My "Spider-Sense" went on high alert.

I tried to reassure myself nothing could possibly go wrong, walking backwards to capture the scene. Then I turned to walk forwards and was confronted with the sight of a police car. The officer smiled and lightly tapped my shoulder to direct me to the sides. I recoiled slightly from his touch.

It felt incredibly odd to see a smiling police officer. When I had been working in the protest movement as secretary to an NGO coalition, the police were people you avoided. They represented the authorities who were looking for any crack in your defenses, any excuse to clamp down and end it all.

I had witnessed with my own eyes police dragging people out on the streets, beating them to a pulp and narrowly escaped such a fate myself. I had evaded trailing police vans in the dead of night, trying to rendezvous with my colleagues just released from detainment for voicing their dissent, at one time even switching meeting points 3 times to slip out under the watchful eyes of the police. I had choked on tear gas, been bruised by a stray canister, run frantically away from them in a cat and mouse game in the narrow street alleys of Kuala Lumpur.

And now they were the good guys.

Trying to ignore the storm of emotions I turned to my usual refuge, food. Food trucks galore presented themselves and for the first time that day, in the midst of Snowcones, kettle corn and fried dough everything seemed better. Free food always makes me happy.

Despite it all, the specter of ruinous protests still lingered in the back of my mind. It was so ridiculously irrational yet it was something of an instinct I had developed. You needed to be constantly on high alert to survive. Surveying the scene, I couldn't help but notice how calm everything was. It was organized chaos. Images of destruction and mayhem flashed in my head in stark contrast.

The giant inflatable bulldog stood tall as a monument to the nature of the block party: full of a festive air, way over the top and comical.

I thought about the other "monuments" that I had encountered in protest. There were the barbed wire fences, hastily set up to prevent citizens from gathering, ironically enough, in Freedom Square. There were the ominous black vans, complete with cages in the back that transported away many a friend. And then there was the smashed up, overturned police car pounded to bits by angry protestors, and left as it was for hours into the aftermath, like some grotesque monument attesting to the ugliness of the mob, the chaos of what became a riot, the blurred lines between right and wrong.

I didn't have much time to ruminate as I was pulled along into a line of fawning students wanting a part in the event I called the SSS: Selfie Sunday with Salovey.

It was good fun and when I got back I thought about making it my profile picture, just for bragging rights and all. I'm not a fan of selfies so I don't take many photos of myself, I prefer to be the guy taking the photo or if I am already wielding the camera I prefer to take monochrome shots of inanimate objects like buildings or leaves or some abstract act piece.

So I looked through my previous profile pictures and stumbled upon one from a long time ago. There I was, getting my shot taken in front of a line of riot police. The two photos with two very different figures of authority.

I reflected long and hard on the day, and it's taken me weeks to be able to pen down some of the feelings I felt, and even then I don't feel like I'm doing them justice.

It took me a long while to realize I had nothing to fear. The police were not going to pull out a gun and start shooting into the crowd, the only smoke that appeared was from a fog machine not a tear gas canister, and President Salovey certainly wasn't going to go berserk and choke me with that  flashy looking necklace thing (though I can imagine such a scene in a future YSO Halloween show). As I calmed down and the ridiculousness of it all dawned upon me, I felt something else.

At first, I was confused at what I was feeling. It was a sensation alien to me especially at such events, when always I had to look over my shoulder, evaluate every street to assess its viability for a swift escape, or keep a wary distance between a police officer and myself. Then I realized what it was I was feeling.

For the first time in the longest time, I felt safe. I felt welcomed.

I felt free.

"Horizon Beyond Chains" Taken November 2011. Milford Sound, NZ.
Click to view higher quality photo.

Pantun Keseorangan

Angin dingin bertiup mencipta rima,
Dedaun pokok bergoyang mengikut lagu.
Dalam kesepian malam bertepuk dada,
Tanya minda apa isi hatiku.

Tupai bersantap di atas dahan,
Menikmati cuaca menjamu selera.
Bukanlah suatu kelaparan malah lebih mendalam,
Keinginan yang makin hari makin bergelora.

Kekasih berbaring di atas laman,
Berbisik-bisik berkongsi isi.
Berjalan sunyi tanpa teman,
Kekosongan memenuhi sanubari.

Monyet cuba memanjat tali,
Dihalang oleh suatu perangkap.
Imbas kembali sengsaranya hati,
Cuba lupamu tetapi kurasa tidak lengkap.

Kemarau melanda bagaikan gurun,
Bila datangnya hujan siapa tahu.
Tanpamu sesaat menjadi tahun,
Kedahagaan jiwa— inginku bersamamu.

"Solace" Taken at Queenstown, NZ, December 2011. Copyright of OKJ.
Click for larger image. 

Young & Beautiful?

Blogger's note: The following article is by Ahmed, a very good friend of mine who was 15 years old when he entered senior year in high school. His is the counterpart to my tale, that of being younger than everyone else in school. Enjoy.

I've always identified myself as a third culture kid, a TCK, a citizen of the world. Essentially, that means that I don’t belong to the culture of the country I was born in, nor do I belong to the culture of the country that I am living in now, but another, international third culture.

Yet it’s not the question “where are you from?” that I struggle with. It’s “how old are you?”

Instantly, the wheels click in my head when I hear those four dreaded words, the bane of my existence. I wonder how to answer the question. Most of the time, I just deflect, change the subject, and try to talk about something else. Occasionally, I tell the truth, that I am 17 (and in my second year of university). It’s a question that really tears me apart, because once you answer it and other people find out, it instantly becomes your only defining characteristic. You stop being that nice guy or that funny guy or that lively guy (I really flatter myself too much), but instantly turn into the guy that’s younger than everyone else. And with that comes its own set stereotypes.

The word “genius” is tossed around a lot. People expect you to possess unparalleled intelligence, they instantly think “oh, I read about this 14-year old kid in the news that’s doing a PhD in neuroscience, who must be like you, right?” No. Not even close.

People expect you to be immature. Those are people that I could never hang out with, people that every time you’d meet the first and only thing they would bring up was your age, and you’d have to sit there and watch them struggle to do math backwards to find out what year I was born.

Then, there were the people that always had it in the back of their minds. The people who, when you try to have a conversation with them, are giving you this blank stare, because you know they’re not even listening to you but thinking about how they could have possibly ended up in this situation where they’re having a serious conversation with someone who, to them, is a child.

To a lot of people, it was as if my age was the only explanation for all of my actions and accomplishments, not because I was smarter or had out-competed my classmates, but because of a number that I had grown to resent and distance myself from overtime. To be honest, I always dismissed these explanations as some underlying resentment or envy from my classmates, not willing to accept that I performed better in school because of factors that were within their control. They would use my age to reassure themselves that was the explanation, and so there was nothing they could do about it.

There are a few that managed to stay above the fray, to be able to accept me for being me and not a product of my age, and those are the people I would count among my closest and dearest friends. Those are the people who were never bothered by my age. They’d be shocked when I told them the first time, then you’d completely forget about it.

Kar Jin writes in his blog post, “At the same time, I also took on with ever greater fervor the perks of being young. Chatting away the wee hours of the morning on the merits of Games of Thrones, dancing and looking like a complete fool in the process, and just YOLO-ing the simple things in daily life.” Life will afford me those guilty pleasures. But then, once I do something that’s more traditionally “my age,” people will respond: ‘Ah, that’s so predictable. It’s because he’s younger than all of us.’ This really makes it difficult to revert back to the way I normally am, because people will just say ‘wait, go back to the silly person you were yesterday, that representation of you makes me more comfortable, because it’s how society has taught me to think you should be like, plus it makes me more comfortable about my own insecurities.’ I’m paraphrasing, of course.

Another thing I faced were girl issues. Girls would NEVER see me as date-able (at least in my grade), but rather as a little brother. This is especially compounded by the fact that girls mature faster than guys. And so, you might be wondering, “well Ahmed, why don’t you date someone your age who isn't in your grade?”

To that, I say that I can never hang out with people that are my own age anymore. That’s because I've spent my whole life surrounded by older people. I am an only child, so I had my parents in the early stages. Then when I went to school, my classmates were older than me, and it has been that way ever since. I've matured at the same speed and level of people that are two, three, heck sometimes four years older than me, and so now I find people my age unbearably childish, ironically just as people older than me sometimes find me incredibly childish. I’m sure this’ll be straightened out in my 20s when we’re all around the same maturity level, more or less, hopefully.

I've decided to tell no one at my university. No one knows my real age (although maybe if they manage to unearth this, my secret will be out). I feel like that’s made people take me more seriously, but I've lost what’s made me unique – I was the child prodigy in ISKL, both a blessing and a curse.

Now, I’ll have to find other avenues to be special. And hopefully, I will be able to find a way to be simply me.

"I've spent my whole life surrounded by older people..."
"Childhood", Taken December 2012 at Napier, NZ. Copyright of OKJ.
Click for larger image.

The Old And New

"Wait a minute… how old are you again?"

That's usually the standard reaction I get from most people when they realize that I'm a 20 year old freshman. That expression of incredulity is most swiftly followed by watching them struggle to do math backwards to find out what year I was born, along with some sort of slow revelation on their part, usually something along the lines of: "Woah... So you can get us booze next year?" Yeah that's right, looks like I might get a lot more popular come February next year.

Sometimes I do wonder though: What do people think of me when they find out how old I am? Does their opinion of me change? Am I some sort of walking fossil, a freak anomaly that somehow ended up in the wrong class?

To be honest, it's been something I have struggled with in the past few years. Spending time working for NGOs and activism in Malaysia, taking the unconventional route of doing the International Baccalaureate program under a scholarship, added to the already late nature of the idiosyncratic Malaysian education system made me a year or two older than many of my classmates.

When I was doing the IB in ISKL (International School of Kuala Lumpur), I felt almost defined by my age. At times, I found it difficult to let go, to let loose and just have some crazy, unfettered fun. At the back of my head, always there was a nagging feeling that there were larger things at stake, be it the economy, politics or some lofty ideal. There were times, especially when seeing friends of the same age go into higher education while I was still in high school, that I wondered deeply if I was making the right decision.

It came to a point when I almost felt embarrassed whenever someone asked me how old I was. I would skirt around the question, answer indirectly, allude, hint, imply, and just do anything short of actually stating flat out that I was 19 years old. And of course, the dreaded "Ah that explains it." Much of what I had done or achieved felt diminished because of it, that somehow it wasn't that I was out-competing people or studying harder than people but more because I was just older than people. It was as if my age had become the primary explanation for all my actions and accomplishments, my entire existence as a student stood upon a number I had grown to distance myself from. Most frustrating of all, was to see how some of my classmates would use age as a reason to reassure themselves they could not do anything about their own situation. I wanted to tell them that age should not matter, and that so many of them could do way better than I did if only they realized it.

Outside of school life, where I volunteered for NGO groups, wrote research papers and organized protests, I received the same reaction but to a different slant. In these activist groups, I would most often be the baby, the spring chicken of the group and people would be genuinely surprised that I was still in school and not a working adult. A lot of people responded positively to this, praising me effusively for "maturity beyond my years". Though well-intended, such comments often held somewhat disparaging assumptions about "people my age" and predicated a lot of merit based on my age.

Really though, I was just a conflicted teenager like everybody else. The two worlds collided frequently, and made me feel too young and too old at the same time. I felt like some kind of circus freak, walking on a tightrope, straddling a thin thread that divided two worlds, one a blistering inferno and the other a freezing arctic wasteland. In short, Katy Perry's “Hot & Cold”.

Initially, I found it rather difficult. Straddling both worlds as old and young; the two extremes pulling me apart created an underlying resentment. There was always this cloud hanging over me, pressuring me to "act my age". I tried to hide it. Suppress it. Pretend it was never there.

Things went by like that for a while, until I recognized there were others with the same struggle. In particular, there was this guy in debate, an Egyptian called Ahmed Elkady. Ahmed is a brilliant guy, funny, smart, and mature. The only thing was he was a senior, and he was 15 years old. Like myself, much of his high school experience had been defined by his age. We were in the same boat but at different ends. There were others like Ahmed, who by the way, I consider today one of my closest friends.

Gradually, I came to terms with my age. More than that, I embraced it. I took pride in my role as the default big brother (though not in the Orwellian sense). I played and teased on my "long years of worldly experience" (I can barely type this without laughing). I took it as a cue to be patient and humble, when so many people younger than myself were doing so many great things I would never have been able to do. I rejoiced in being chauffeur, driving people around and being able to introduce my friends the hidden secrets of Kuala Lumpur restaurant and bar life.

At the same time, I also took on with ever greater fervour the perks of being young. Chatting away the wee hours of the morning on the merits of Games of Thrones, dancing and looking like a complete fool in the process, and just YOLO-ing the simple things in daily life.

My age stopped becoming a rubber band that was being stretched by opposite forces. In the midst of the late night debates, the chauffeuring and the eating, the fire and ice had melded together to form a lukewarm pond, its waters tranquil but for the occasional foray of an animal or two.

I stopped conforming to what my age group was supposed to be. Oddly enough, the whole age crisis had spurred a change in me. It wasn't that I was more mature, or more happy-go-lucky or anything else. I'm not sure how to describe it, but I felt that for the first time in my life, I wasn't acting or behaving my age.

All my life, I had fought against categorization, from the issue of my race to gender to religion. I had faced all of them head on, confronted them, and exposed them in writing or in action. But my age, this was the elephant in the room I had not deigned to look at. Once I did though, I realized that age was another one of those social constructs imposed upon people to make them “behave”, to teach people to think what an ideal person of age so and so should be like. It was another lazy category to explain away things. “Ooh, Malala Yousafzai is so young!” Her deeds are incredible for any age of any circumstance, and though it truly is remarkable that one so young should be so strong, it’s not the sum total of who she is. It should never define or diminish her accomplishments.

By the end of it all, I was no longer 18 or 19 or 20. I was no longer old or young, a fossil or a baby. I was just, simply, me.

Somewhere, somehow, in the process of coming to terms with my age, I had broken free.

Straddling a thin thread that divided two worlds...
"Dichotomy", taken at Wellington, NZ, 19 January 2012. Copyright of OKJ.

Congratulations & Condolences

"Congratulations."

It's not that I'm not grateful but somehow there is a pang of bitterness that comes with winning the Freshman Prize Debate. Don't get me wrong, I could not be happier and I consider myself incredibly lucky to have such a great support group of friends that helped me win the prize. And I most definitely am not trying to diss anybody who participated, we all did our best and I don't have any right to lord it over anyone.

Yet every time somebody congratulates me I don't quite know how to respond except rejoice and feel that I'm supposed to be a lot more ecstatic about my speech. 

I spoke against the motion which was that responsibility ends at our borders. I used the example of the Westgate Mall Kenya massacre to demonstrate how our world is so interconnected that it was impossible and immoral to shirk from our responsibilities to every citizen of this Earth. 

But there's the problem, see? I used the Kenyan massacre. I distilled the tears and blood, the troubles and tragedies that affected real people into some simplistic didactic takeaway about the world. I felt almost soiled as I was speaking the words, like an actor wearing a blood-stained shirt and winning a prize for his performance, except that the blood was real and belonged to someone who had to die for him to win. 

The night before the debate, I had just attended a candlelight vigil for the victims of the massacre. A few Yale students had been personally affected. The ceremony was simple and solemn, but heartbreaking. It kept me awake, eyes staring at the ceiling for hours on end. It was all too real. 

I had grappled with my feelings when I spoke the words to my speech. I tried to attempt to express my sorrow and my empathy, I tried to do justice to the victims of the massacre and honor their memory, I tried to bring this great message of caring for one another, but everything seemed to fall short. My words felt hollow and meaningless. I felt like that politician who only appears at televised funerals during campaign season and who pretends to eulogize people he does not even know for publicity's sake. 

I consider myself an introspective person. I try to reflect on what I am doing, how I am doing it and why am I doing it every once in a while. And all the while, as I looked back upon that Freshman Debate, the prime motivation in place was simply to win.

How often do we, in the face of glory, forget the real impact of the issues we debate? How often do we reduce lives and livelihoods to plot devices and rhetorical questions? Is this what politicians do?

What does it say about me as a person?

I'm afraid I don't have any answers. All I know is that somewhere, while I'm eating away the hundred dollars someone is suffering from the very incidents I mentioned to win a prize with.

"My condolences."

Power

"Why are you so nice?"

"What do you mean?"

I turn around, carefully peeling off the price tag to a gift I had just bought. Two friends had just turned 18 and earlier during the day I had stopped by the bookstore to get them each a small gift.

"Well, it's not like you have to do this."

I pause, finger nails still futilely scratching at the Great Gatsby soundtrack CD case. I'm not exactly the best with compliments or positive comments of the sort. I grew up in a culture where the default response would have been to vehemently deny such a statement in a perhaps superficial sense of humility.

"Well.. They say generosity is a form of power." I deflect the statement.

"Hmph."

I wave goodbye as I twist the doorknob and leave the suite. I thought I had been terribly clever to quote Frank Underwood from the HBO series House of Cards. But as I delivered the presents, wished the recipients a happy birthday and returned to an empty suite, I pondered. I felt oddly happy despite having spent quite a bit of money.

The next day one of my suite mates had an intramural ping-pong match. I had missed the previous match and I had promised myself that I would make time to go and see him play. So despite the fact that I had a paper due in a few days (or maybe because of the fact, since I'm such a procrastinator, haha!) I went ahead and watched the match. It was a close fought, intense battle of stamina, strategy and plain old sweat. In the end my suite mate didn't win, and was pretty upset about it. He had initially been 7 points in the lead for the final set, so he was understandably rather disappointed in himself.

In the wee hours in the morning when he was sound asleep, I wrote some encouraging words on a few Post-It notes and included some Latin quotes since he was very much into ancient civilizations and languages. I distinctly remember going to sleep with a huge smile on my face.

Why bother? Why expend the effort?

I've been thinking about it a lot these past few days. And I think perhaps I know why. All of us here are leaving our homes, our families, coming to a new, exciting and unfamiliar place. I am 9387 miles away from my home, my family, my countrymen. I have never been to America before this, and now voila, here I am, this clueless guy from Malaysia whose conception of America is a hodgepodge construction of headline news and Hollywood movies.

Perhaps then, in the process of trying to find familiarity and comfort in this country, I have also come to grips with certain ideas. The other day as I was talking to someone, I told them I was going to back home to get a rest. The reply was "Oh you're flying back?"

It was then that it dawned upon me, so obvious yet so easy to miss. L-Dub suite C31 is my home. Ben, Miguel, David are my brothers. The people in Berkeley are my extended family, and heck all Yalies are some weird distant cousins or something. It sounds cheesy, but as I come to the realization that this is where I will spend the next 4 years of my life, it cannot be truer.

I'm sure in the course of the year, I will find people I don't like. I'll probably have an argument or two with my suite mates. We will all have our pet peeves with each other and at times we will not want to talk to each other. But that's what being family is about. That's why I will make time for my suite mates. That's why whatever the case is, if someone needs a shoulder to lean on, someone to lend an ear, I will try my utter best to be there.

I've made mistakes with my real family. Being apathetic, throwing tantrums, being inconsiderate and self-centered. I'd like to think being thrust into this whole new environment is a chance for me to make it up, to become a better family member and better human being.

Generosity has power. But perhaps not the kind of power imagined by Frank Underwood. It has the power to make bonds of friendship, to brighten a person's life, to lift somebody up when they are down.

Generosity has the power to create family.