When Bisyri is in her own, private world…

Friday, 17th April 2009

To my baby girl,

I should apologize. It was probably too sudden, the burst of emotion. I am sorry, but I have my own anxiety. Many times I told you I am not petty, but that’s for once or twice. When it happened too frequently, I got tired of not being petty. There is such a thing that they call the ‘last straw’. I had it. I am sorry I had to show you that I had it.

I could have stretched my patience if only I had more time, but I don’t. In any relationship, there are ups and downs and it takes a reasonable amount of time to reach a certain understanding. Ours is new but we do not have the leisure of time. The clock went ticking and so my patience wore thin. I am sorry.

I am not denying your concern for me. I know that was genuine. I am not trying to punish and I am not refusing your apologies. I acknowledge your remorse and I know that you miss me. I miss you too but I was not ready. I could not look at you again as long as there are little remains (of hurt). I want to see you again with the kind of ecstasy I used to have. I want to see you again with an expression that’s free of agony. Right now, I am starting over. I need to start anew so when I see you, I will still look at you as my baby. I want to touch and hug you again as if I was never displeased.

Please bear with me. I still love you. Wholeheartedly.

Thursday, 16th April 2009

I am saying this again. My mum is a survivor and genuinely compassionate. Her sacrifice was not only for us, but for others as well. Her own struggles are never reasons to turn away others who seek her help. I sometimes think that she gives too much of herself and I get angry when others take advantage of her but a part of me admires her altruism.

As I mentioned, our house is big and one or two rooms are rented out. Many times, friends or family members who need temporary accommodation would approach her. Some were genuine and stayed without giving trouble but some clearly took things for granted by capitalizing on mum’s giving nature. I would be consumed with rage but mum always forgives. She tells me to leave it to Allah to judge and punish if the person truly had bad intentions.

I have a cousin who has stayed with us for many years that I consider him my brother. He is a nice guy, well mannered, hardworking and has utmost respect for my mother. There’s only one problem. His addiction to drug abuse. At one point in time, he started hallucinating and behaved irrationally. I had no choice but to get the authorities involved so he could be institutionalized and treated. I got pretty mad and argued with mum over choosing to be compassionate with disregard to our safety.

My mum, however, was unrelenting. She prayed hard for his recovery and welcomed him back when he got well. She talks to him everyday, giving him encouragement with complete faith that he could overcome his addiction. Her love is unconditional. His own family members do not even show any concern. This cousin has a brother who recently became homeless as well and guess what? My mum welcomed him too. I told you, I often fault her for having a heart that is ‘too big’. I tend to get quite jealous too.

She gives too much, all her life. Since young, I have learnt to be considerate and not ask my mum for too much because I knew the hardships that were facing us. I have always tried to be independent and earn my own income to provide for myself, but whenever I asked mum for something, she would never refuse me. By hook or by crook, she would always try to fulfill my siblings’ needs or mine.

My little brother recently went into the Police Academy to do his National Service (compulsory for all guys in Singapore for 2 years unless exempted due to special reasons). He is away in camp during weekdays and comes home only during the weekends. My mum started baking cookies some weekends for him to bring to camp. Once, I woke up and told mum I dreamt of eating prawns and the next day, although she was on tight budget and prawns are not exactly cheap, she bought them and cooked prawn sambal (a spicy condiment) for me.

It is not just for us. She gets requests from many other family members from immediate family to some as distant as my dad’s sister’s in-laws. One morning I saw her cooking many pieces of thosai and she told me she was doing it for her customer who has a big family with many children. She did that just out of wanting to do something for them.

I could go on and on about my mother’s kind nature. I do realize that Allah has given me the best I could have and I would be a complete fool not to cherish her. I would never be able to requite her sacrifices. I have my shortcomings and I am not always kind to my mum but I love her so much. I love her so much. I love her so much.

Tuesday, 14th April 2009

I am guilty of under-appreciating my mum. Many times I have written about my friends, my teachers and especially my grandmother, but I rarely take time to reflect on the virtues of my own mother.

What triggered me to write about her today was the fish curry, which I had earlier. Last night, when she was cooking, I whined that she had been cooking fish too often and I went into my room without having any. After tasting it today, I had a twinge of conscience through my taste buds. The dish was beyond delectable and it spoke to me of the special ingredient that went into its preparation: love.

My mum is an extraordinary lady and has an amount of compassion I could not fathom how any person could gather. I often fault her for having a heart that is ‘too big’. Let me tell you stories.

My dad passed away in 1993, when I was ten, my sister eight and my brother six. He was only thirty-five and mum, two years younger. He was a kind man, the best son my grandma had and well liked by many but had financial troubles nearing his death so he left some huge amounts of debts for my mum to clear. Huge amounts, trust me.

Hear this. My mum is illiterate. At that time, she knew nothing much about most things. Imagine what a scary situation it must have been for her to bring up three young kids all by herself whilst trying to clean the mess my dad left behind. No offense or blame to my other family members, but I remember not having much support from many of them. In fact, many times, mum was a victim of vicious gossips. Single mothers are easy preys of contempt. Plus a lot of greedy men tried taking advantage of our situation. Allah was our Protector.

The four of us lived in a small two-room flat with only basic necessities. Most days, we had porridge and were all cramped into one room on one bed at night because the other room was given out for rent. Two months after dad’s demise, we moved in into a larger house which dad had signed for. However, because the insurance was not yet processed at the time of his death, mum did not get a waiver of payment for this house.

Our flat is what they call a ‘jumbo flat’, thus it is more expensive than the other flats. It costs more than half of mum’s salary each month and most people would have expected her to give this place up. She never did and till today, she’s still paying for it. Regardless of how much she struggled, she was determined to hold on to it because this was my dad’s dream. It was also the only asset she could ever fall back on in case we reached a dire situation. Mum’s sacrifice was for us, her children. My mum is a survivor.

Mum is used to working round the clock. She works as a shop assistant for my uncle (her older brother). Since 1993, she has been working for 7 days a week, for more than 12 hours each day. Except on Sunday, on which she works for half the usual number of hours. The only times the shop is closed are during Eidul Fitr and Eidul Adha.

Mum’s daily routine is like this: she wakes up in the morning, hurriedly does some house chores, cooks, goes to work and comes home late at night. Some nights, she does muruku (an Indian snack) or tairu (the Indian-style yoghurt) for extra cash (I just talked to her at 11.40p.m. and saw her starting on her muruku). When we were younger, our school fees were exorbitant since all three of us were in madrasah, non-governmental institutions. The bills are also not cheap considering the size of our flat. All these years, mum did not seek much external assistance because she was not aware the schemes. Even when she did apply when I got older and helped her with it, some were rejected on the basis that our flat is big.

I told you, she is illiterate. Her motivation was us. My mum is a survivor.

She managed through relentless hard work and renting out rooms to people. We had all sorts of tenants, most of who took advantage of mum’s naïve and generous nature. If I were to write about some of them, I would be consumed with anger and I do not want to get there.

There was a period of time when I did not make things any easier for her. For some reason, for about 5 years after dad’s demise, I detested mum and we often argued. Now that I look back, we were probably both coping with the loss and did not know how to manage it well. I think I had unjustly blamed mum for many things. I feel sorry for all that now, but the journey was probably necessary for us both. What’s important is that we learnt and Alhamdulillah, the relationship has improved considerably.

At this point, I realize I have a lot more to write about her but I don’t want to bore you readers with an entry that’s too lengthy so I shall continue with another post. Till then, I am going to further reflect on how wonderful my mum has been and why I should learn how to appreciate her better, insha’Allah…

Tuesday, 14th April 2009

This is about my two lovers.

The first one is very much unlike me but had declared its love for me. I trust because it’s a piece of cake to see through insincerity. With me, it is wildly indigent for my attention. It jumps frantically, it roars deafeningly and becomes almost barbarous. I am usually successful at taming it.

The second one is very much like me and had confessed its love for me. I believe because I am skilled at detecting mendacity. With me, it is willfully persistent for my approval. It sneaks in prudently, it purrs seductively and becomes almost assiduous. I am usually successful at refusing it.

I know I am their sanctuary and I do not know how to deny their love. So I run my fingers down their fluff. When I do so, my first lover becomes docile. When I do so, my second lover becomes resigned. It is easy. They are smitten.

I love my first lover but I am not in love but I am its lover. I love my second lover but I am not in love but I am its lover too.

I love a third lover and I am in love but I am not its lover. Tame me. Refuse me.

I like to abnormalize the ordinary. Don’t read too much into it.

Sunday, 12th April 2009

Today was meaningful. She woke up and almost immediately, called grandma who had been reminding her the past week about today’s date. They were both going to her alma mater for an annual event.

So she fetched grandma from Yishun and they made their way to Madrasah Wak Tanjong Al-Islamiah (the name of the school she was educated in for 11 years of her life). She was somewhat excited at the thought of meeting some of her former teachers.

Her asatizahs (plural for teachers in Arabic) will always have a special place in her heart. Whenever she completes a milestone in education, she has always thought that part of the success must have been the influenced by the prayers of her teachers. When she was in madrasah, among the traits they tried to infuse in the students were always to have complete faith in ALLAH, to seek HIM when faced with any difficulty and the value of respect for elders; parents, teachers, etc.

It was not easy and it still is not, to be a madrasah student. Students have to cope with both religious and academic studies, which plainly sums up to double the workload of the others who attend mainstream schools. Not only that, the students are sometimes victims of critics who think that being in such religious institution can be detrimental to an individual’s success in the future. Further, growing up in such an environment, means that they have the pressure of being ‘model’ Muslims or Muslimah to the society. Sometimes they are not allowed their mistakes and that can be tough considering the external influences of being in a multi-cultural and fairly open country like Singapore. She recollects dealing with her own struggles when she was part of the institution but given the choice, she would still choose to be in madrasah all over again.

Her opinion is that students who had the opportunity to be educated in madrasah are gifted. The education is well-rounded, albeit not perfect. No matter how defiant a person may be, how they might have hated being restricted in this and that in the name of religion, as they grow up, some of the things they learnt in madrasah would have an impact, however small. There are many who do not know much about Islam or being a Muslim but every student who was taught in madrasah can be an ambassador of Islam, however small their contribution. Probably just through a little query anyone may come up with.

Back to her visit…so she met her former principal, Ustaz Md Noor, who has now aged considerably, but Alhamdulillah, he was still as charming as ever when he lead in the recitation of du’a (supplication). She met her much loved teachers:

Ustazah Masnia, the lady whose optimism never runs out…literally. The most compassionate teacher of all.

Ustazah Esah, who hugged her immediately and chided her for not visiting more often. The one she remembers wanting to grow up to be like when she was young.

Ustazah Orfiyah, who excitedly asked if she was getting married (now where did that come from?).

Ustazah Ainon, the former disciplinary teacher who mentioned her name “Zeeeeeeeeennaaaaattttthhhhhhh” enthusiastically upon seeing her and the first thought that came to her mind was how often she troubled this teacher before because she was always late for school.

Teacher Zuraidah, who teased her after bumping into her more than once saying “Why do I keep seeing your face?” and added that she always loved teasing her.

Teacher Mazda, somewhat a little quiet than expected, who marvelled at the fact that she’s going to Oman to work. She remembers this teacher as the one who encouraged her and told her she was brave to venture out of the usual path madrasah students take.

Ustazah Habibah, the teacher she had since Primary 1 and whom she used to admire as a child. A strict teacher but because she was a good mannered child, she only remembers being praised.

Ustazah Sidah, the teacher who always have this innocent look donned on her. Saw her family of lovely looking individuals of Yemen origin.

Ustaz Halim, who had a short chat with her asking her what she’s up to, because as usual, he had that urgency air about him.

Ustaz Ibrahim, the funny one who refused to let her leave when she said goodbye and asked why the hell would she want to go to a country as far as Oman. She remembers him as one of the most curt in the most amusing ways.

Cikgu…(arrrr can’t recall her name!) who was also her teacher from Primary school who taught her Malay, thus the title Cikgu which means teacher in Malay.

She met the other teachers who never taught her, but whom she worked with when she did relief teaching there in 2006. Also bumped into some juniors. Too bad didn’t see any of her former classmates. Oh, and Kak Mun, who used to be the clerk in her childhood days. Whenever she sees Kak Mun, it reminds her of dad. Dad used to come to school to pay her fees and Kak Mun was the one who personally called her to the office whenever that happens. Kak Mun knew dad and was quite shocked when upon hearing about his death in 1993.

So she had fun catching up and being in the school by itself was nostalgic. Plus the fact that she was out with grandma, made the trip even more momentous.

Saturday, 11th April 2009

From the first day I met you, I was instantly attracted. Something about you made me feel familiar and safe. I never initiated a conversation because I usually don’t. Not towards someone I am attracted to. You seemed introverted too.

I loved watching you from far. You may not be the perfect hot-looking person with a face anyone would ogle at, but my eyes sinfully glare. Astaghfirullah. My illogic tells me I could look at this face forever. You are my fallacy.

Eventually we had to talk. Talk we did and amuse me much, you did. You. Always in a hurry. Always so busy. Always seem to worry. About this and that but when asked, your answer is that you are fine. I couldn’t quite figure. I made up the impression that you are fragile but always appearing strong. In my private space, I became the person who keeps you from breaking.

I had the fraction of a chance and we were acquainted. I gave myself every reason to not fall for you because that’s what I usually do. I almost always succeed when I do that. I thought once was enough but again, I am admiring imperfections. This time, your imperfections.

If it is you I am writing about, would you want to know?

What I do know, is that I would almost never say…

Friday, 10th April 2009

Her thoughts are convoluted. She has been meaning to write to untangle the sentiments but she could not point a finger to where she should begin.

Probably friends. Believe it or not…she has been thinking of a few individuals EVERYDAY since the past week. Yes everyday. Allah knows why.

Sahar. She has accepted Allah’s will, but ever since she got the news, Sahar is in her thoughts every now and then, especially when she is in spiritual mode. May Allah bless her soul. Zee loves Sahar!

Duaa. She thinks of Duaa because of Sahar. She was as close to Duaa when interning in Dubai as she was to Sahar…and she wonders how Duaa is coping. If she is in Dubai right now, she would go visit Duaa and give her a tight tight hug. (She will probably end up crying on Duaa’s shoulder). May Allah give Duaa the strength to overcome the grief. Zee loves Duaa!

Eunice & Mas. Her two closest friends (other than Yaya) in Singapore, since 2005. They have been her soccer mates since the first club she joined. Met Mas first (then Yaya) and Eunice a little later. Currently, both Eunice and Mas are away in Laos for a community service project. She realized how much they mean to her. She has never felt lonelier despite still having other friends around, going out for soccer trainings and catching up with SMU friends. She misses the two of them so much so that she sometimes hates being around the others. She doesn’t show it, but she can’t help feeling it. She is eagerly awaiting their return, hopefully tomorrow. Feels like forever. May Allah grant them both a safe journey home. Zee loves Eunice & Mas (and Yaya)!

Her Saudi friend who is in Singapore. The last time they communicated, the friend did not sound very happy. She has been worried for the friend since then. Hope the friend is coping find with the culture shock of being in a competitive country like Singapore. Singaporeans can admittedly be a cold bunch of people who are always so caught up with their own lives (mostly chasing certificates or money) that long term visitors to this country may feel overwhelmed. She is proud to not be one of those, although she too, was often sucked into the workaholics’ way of life. Alhamdulillah, Allah granted her with some compassion. She is meeting the friend this weekend, insha’Allah. May Allah grant the friend the strength to overcome the barriers and problems the friend is facing in this foreign country. Zee loves the Saudi friend.

Rozanna. Her best friend since Primary School. Rozanna is in Syria now, with hubby and baby Taqwa. Recently, she has been thinking about how out of touch she is with her madrasah friends since they all suddenly popped up in facebook. She imagines if she were to have a reunion of some sort with her old classmates, she would probably feel out of place. Rozanna has been the only one consistent in her life. May Allah keep Rozanna and her family safe in Syria. Zee loves the best friend.

Oddly, some friends she was close to at one point in time ‘came back’ into her life. She is happy they did, but the bond, which she used to have with them, has disappeared. Probably out of disappointment. Once upon a time, she used to try so hard with everyone she possibly loved but over time, she decided some are just not worth it. It took her a long way to come to a point of resignation but now that she has resigned, she finds it hard to turn back. As always, she is nice to whoever reaching out to her because that’s her nature, but her approach now is with full of cynicism. She feels that it shouldn’t be so, but the mind is now no more allowing the heart to rule. Maybe it is for the better. Maybe it is not for the better. Allah knows.

Zee has no problem loving. She only has difficulty trusting.

“To be trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.” George MacDonald.

Allah knows.

2nd April 2009

Death is grim. Death always wins. The final destination singled out yet another reminder. What have I observed?

Sahar. My colleague from May 2008 till early August 2008. The perfect complement to the majority of dull workaholics. Except few though none like her.

Stage One: Shock and emotional numbness.

3.30p.m.
I logged on to my google mail and read the dreaded news. She met with a horrible accident on Sunday and passed away. My instinct was to despairingly hope that it was the most cruel April fool’s joke on me. I knew the sender is not that sort, but I wanted to deny. I wanted to deny. I wanted to deny.

I was still-life.

Then began to act like fish out of water.

What should I do now? Go to grandma’s? She’s been calling. I have training. Skip it? What for? To indulge in grief? Is that the best option? Ah, I am responsible for a new player today. She is coming for training and knows only me. I can’t ditch her. (and accompanied by other senseless thoughts…)

I paced up and down the interior of my home.

Called my soccer mate with a crackled voice.  “I may still go for training.”

Stage Two: Yearning for the person

5p.m. – 6p.m.
(In the bus on my way to training)

She was always in black abaya, typical Arab lady dressing. Sometimes she had pins on her scarf; sometimes she tied them without those. She told me she preferred the latter, but uses pin because her husband preferred it. Her other stories along similar theme, made me admire her love for her hubby. In my mind’s eye, my very own impression, she was the perfect muslimah wife.

She was taller than most, probably the tallest lady in the office. She had a long face with dimples lengthier than mine. If I am not wrong, she told me she was Jordanian. She has the Arab beauty; beautiful eyes with long defined eyebrow and sharp features. Her personality made her even more gorgeous.

She was determined; she stuck to her diet for her brother’s wedding and told me about her walking exercises with her hubby. She was motivating; the one who would notice and comment on my weight loss, however insignificant. She was curious; always asking my Chinese friends who were also interns, about their culture and their belief. She had strong faith, her belief in Allah was deeply rooted and she felt sorry for those who do not believe. She asked me once, “who do they turn to when they are at their most desperate if they don’t believe in god?”

The one trait I love most about her is that she was fun loving. She was loud but not distracting. She brought life into the office each morning. Her presence was always grand, her morning greetings most enthusiastic. If we were the early ones and if I were not already at the pantry, I would tail her so I could steal some chitchat and laughter before work. She never failed to amuse me. Her sense of humour so cheeky.

“Ya maltoushah!” she would tease me. The confident voice is ringing in me. I would retort and say “laa, anti maltoushah!” Then she would pretend not to love me just so I would act that I was hurt. The best part was always the making up, when she would touch my cheeks and sometimes squeeze them while saying that she loves me. On days that I was luckier, I got a hug too. We would both declare it loud.

“I love you.”

“No, I love you.”

“Yes I know you love me. I love you too.”

“I love you forever.”

Stage Three: Onset of strong emotions

6p.m. – 9p.m.
I was at training. She flashed into my mind every now and then, but my soccer mates got me distracted enough.

9.30p.m. – 11.30p.m.
This was when the bouts of intense sadness crept into me. I was on my way home, alone in the train, and despite the crowd, I could not hold back my tears. My silent cry continued throughout my journey, except when I bumped into my friends for about 15 minutes. The weeping started again till I met another friend who wiped those tears away with her bare hands.

I came home and talked to mum and sis. My sister was struck with her own sadness, so I switched to being the listener instead of the one in grief. Mum too had her set of worries.

2.30a.m. – 8.30a.m.
In my room, I relived the memories again. Tears welled up a few times. My eyes got puffy and tired but I could not sleep. I began writing but it took me so long because the grief often slowed me down. I accept what has happened because I believe in Allah’s wills but it was hard to stop myself from feeling. I felt unthinkingly. In between, I did my prayers and I prayed for her. May Allah grant her peace in the hereafter, may Allah bestow his mercy on her and admit her to jannah.

An extract from Gut Symmetries by Jeanette Winterson

To each his own epidural. It does ease the pain but the pain persists, the dull ache, low down as though my back had been broken and not properly healed. Perhaps it would be better to lie on his grave like a dog. To howl out the plain fact that there is no comfort, no relief, that grief must be endured until it has exhausted itself on me. My mind repeats its exercises like a lesson-book. Over and over the same ground, memories, happiness, the said and the unsaid, the last hours, helplessness of the living, autonomy of the dead.

23rd March 2009

Between pinch and prick
…
Always the one that bleeds
…
Would rather be a freak
…
Not the conscience which creeps
.
Never torn, just forlorn
…