My School Days (Part Two)

(The article below is the second excerpt of "I Still Remember"that appeared on SMK Tengku Mahkota's school magazine.  I regret that Part Two appears first before Part One.  Enjoy reading maa...)

     Part One of 'My School Days' was my first experience attending school in Standard One.  In the second part of the article, I related about the first problem that I encountered as a Standard One fearful school boy at Primary Ismail School Two. Muar in the sixties.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

            That was the first day of school.  During that time, there were no nurseries or ‘Tadika’ or ‘Taski’ or Tadika Perpaduan’; therefore, we only started learning alphabets and numbers in Standard One.  One interesting thing was, we learned everything in English except Bahasa Malaysia (at that time it was called ‘National Language’), totally contrast to what my brother and sister did at the Malay school.  We learnt to say “Please teacher may I go out?” and so on.

            At school, everything went well until I started to get a wrong answer for my arithmetic sums.  Disappointed to see a cross made by the teacher on the page, I slashed the wrong answer with my pencil, again and again, making a black patch on it. 

After that, things seemed to go wrong with mathematics.  I found it difficult to understand the lessons taught.  The teacher seemed to go very fast with their lessons but timidity got the better of me; I did not have the courage to ask any questions.  I squirmed every time the Math teacher came.  I hated every homework given by him, felt very relieved whenever he was absent, hoped he would be absent again the next day.  And then, when I saw that he came the next day, I felt so disappointed I could have killed myself.

There was one day when Mr Gurnam Singh, the Headmaster himself came to our class.  He instructed all of us to stand up and recite the multiplication table.  The whole class recited in chorus.  Slowly he moved towards me and stopped in front of me.  Being a small boy, my eye level was only at his huge stomach.  I dared not look up as I was nervous.  My palms started to be clammy, my limbs were numb, cool sweat trickled down my spine.  Why he didn’t he walk off?  Why did he stop in front of me?  And stood right there?  A string of questions raced in my mind.  I had to relieve myself of my sufferings.  I had to see why he stood in front of me for ages.  Slowly I looked up at his face.  Wah! Blood drained away from my face.  My heart beat very fastHe was looking down at me!  Frowning!  He looked serious!  He was looking at my lips, to see whether I was reciting the correct table.  I stammered.  I couldn’t remember whether I was reciting the correct table or not.  My mind was blank.  Then he walked away.  I heaved a sigh of relief.  My God!  What an experience.

Could this be the Mr Gurnam Singh that I was telling the readers?  I'm not sure (he looks so young) as I found this picture on the internet.  Besides, it seems to me that all singhs look alike.  Sorry about that.  To Mr Singh, if you happen to read this article, I have always respected you and still do.

The problem changed from bad to worse.  As I could not pass mathematics in every every test, I began to hate the subject.  I envied my friends who always got good grades in every test and exam.  The marks in their report cards were always written in blue while those in mine were stained with red. 

I remember a friend of mine who faced the same problem.  He was so eager to present to his parents a report card where the marks were written beautifully in blue.  On one test, he happened to be absent for Math.  He thought that he would pass all the test without the subject that he hated.  Lo and behold! Suddenly he failed another subject.  How frustrated he was!  To make himself happy, he rubbed off the red mark and changed it with a blue one.  His father didn't find out the fraud, but his class teacher did.  The rest is history.

     How can I make myself pass my tests? I began to lose hope, did not know what to do.  I left it to destiny to decide.  

My School Days (Part One)

(The article below is an excerpt of an article which I wrote that appeared on SPEKTRUM 24th Edition, 2010, a magazine produced by SMK Tengku Mahkota Muar.  Immediately I made up my mind to post this piece of writing on this blog since it would save me some effort in updating it.  The item, bearing the same title "I Still Remember" made up of almost 1800 words.  Although it only filled one page of the magazine, I think it is too long to be posted on this site which, for that reason, I decided to break it up into a few parts.  The one below is, of course, Part One.  Enjoy reading.)

            In the sixties, some schools used the Malay language as a medium of instruction while others used English.  National schools such as ‘Sekolah Kebangsaan Bakri Batu 5’ used the Malay language; which means at that school, every subject was taught in Malay except the English language.  On the other hand, at ‘Sekolah Ismail Dua’, every subject was taught in English apart from Bahasa Malaysia and ‘Agama Islam’.

This is not Sek. Keb. Bakri Batu 5 in the 60s, but there was a resemblance

Being the third child in the family, I had an elder sister and an elder brother, both of them studied at a ‘Sekolah Kebangsaan’ (Dad referred to it as a ‘Malay school’) half a mile away from our home.  They walked to and from school each day with a lot of their friends.  Since they learnt everything except the English Language in Malay, I used to hear my elder brother reading loudly at home.  I thought to myself, when the time came for me to go to school, I would also be like him, reciting printed words at the top of my voice.

I still remember that day when I was lying in my father’s lap (I was quite small at that time) one late afternoon.  My mother was at the kitchen preparing dinner for the family.  Though still very young, I was already able to talk and understand some dialogues around me.

            “Do you want to go to a Malay school or an English school?” Dad asked me.

            I didn’t understand what he meant.  Since English school was mentioned last, straight away I answered “English!” without thinking.

            Consequently, Dad registered me at an English school when I was seven.  He took me to Ismail School Two in town (now Sekolah Ismail Dua) on his Vespa scooter and left me at the mercy of the teachers.  The class teacher (after that I learnt her name was Mrs. Chong) brought me to a classroom, “Standard One Suloh” where about forty boys were sitting behind oversized desks.  Mrs. Chong made me sit on a chair.  I looked around the classroom and saw two of my cousins also sitting in the same room.  We waved at each other, relieved to find someone whom we knew.

            Then there was a loud rang.  It was recess time.  Mrs. Chong made us line up two by two.  “Small boys in front, big boys behind”, she barked.  When she was satisfied with the line, we marched towards the canteen. 

On the way to the canteen, we passed two blocks of classroom buildings.  When we got near the canteen, sweet aroma met my nostrils, making me hungry.  Probably other boys in the group also felt the same.  I saw a lot of big boys; Malays, Chinese and Indians busy buying food and drinks.  Looking around, I saw piles and piles of food on a long and high counter, as high as my chin.  There were fried bananas, curry puffs, “kuih bom”, fried noodles, rambutans and a lot of other foods which I could not remember.   Apart from fried noodles, the kuihs cost five cents per piece.  In case some of the readers do not understand “kuih bom”, it was a kind of cake made from banana mixed with flour and shaped into a small ball, as big as a boy’s fist.  Nowadays, this type of ‘kuih’ is only as big as a child’s fist; more or less thirty sen per piece. 

A school premis in the 60s. 

I approached a big pan on which a mountain of fried bananas were placed and took one.  Actually, one piece of banana was sliced at one end.  Then another sliced banana was attached to it, dipped in flour mixture and fried.  The price was five cents.  Dad gave me ten cents that morning.  After eating the warm, soft and sweet fried banana, I drank a plastic glass of cool sweet drink, also costing me five cents.

            When it was time to go home, once more we were made to line up two by two.  Outside the school gate, I saw Dad waiting for me on his scooter.  Ahh, soon I would be home!   

Becoming A Form Six Student (Part Two)

The Private School where I registered as a form six student offered two medium of form six; Malay and English classes.  I decided to enroll in the English class as I had started with English since Standard One.

This dilapidated building could be once the private school where I enrolled as a student.

     Everything went well at first.  I enjoyed the lessons given by young and energetic teachers.  But it didn't shine until evening.  One day, a teacher was absent.  Then another one.  Then, another.  Later, we found out that these younger teachers were university students teaching part-time during their semester break.  They quit from teaching as they had to go back to campus for a new semester, deserting us like stray chickens.  We had to wait for another bunch of teachers to lead us the way to university.

This is another one.

     Time dragged slowly.  We waited for weeks, then months, for new teachers to come, but in vain.  We were left far behind in our lessons by the Malay class.  Eventually, the Headmaster came to see us.  We knew he had come to offer us a solution to our problem.

     "Students, the school is not able to find teachers for the English class.  It's already September.  You are free to make a choice.  If you join the Malay class, we won't charge you any fee until the end of the year.  If you want to choose another school, we can't stop you."  After that statement, the Headmaster left.  We were stunned and quiet for a few seconds, sad and at the same time, angry.

     Reluctantly, I entered the Malay class, worried as I, with a few other students from the English class was left far behind in our lessons, apart from having to familiarise ourselves with malay terms that we would find in our lessons.  Life had to continue.  As a student, I couldn't concentrate on the lessons.  I didn't quite remember the results of my End-of-year examination.  I wanted to get out of that place and my prayers were answered.  Hence, the end-of-year school holidays was the last school holiday for me at the school as I did not come back the next year.  How would my Sijil Tinggi Persekolahan examination be?

Kenang Daku Dalam Doamu (Forget Me Not)

    (I met this draft when I was browsing the dashboard.  I feel it's a waste of effort if I did not post it.  So, here it is.  I did not edit it again.  May be I will, some day)

     When I was small, I could not listen to the radio as my Dad's only antique radio was out of order.  However, that did not prevent me from listening to songs as most of my neighbours possessed a radio each.  Since at that time most of them owned transistor radios which when the volume was raised to maximum was very loud.  The sound reached my eager ears.  Through their radios I learned to listen to songs.  But I was brought up in the country where all of the villagers were malays, therefore the radio which was called 'Radio Malaysia' only broadcast malay songs.  One of the songs that I used to hear was 'Kenang Daku Dalam Doamu' (Forget Me Not).  In this song, the singer pleads to his beloved who has gone for good, not to forget him.  I didn't pay much attention to this song when it was aired on radio, but one day, after hearing it being sung by a cousin, it brought back sweet memories to me.  It reminded me of the good time when I was a kid.

               *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *      
    
      Dad's house where I was staying was situated along Jalan Bakri, the road leading to Johor Bahru, the capital of Johore State in Malaysia.  On its left was Mak Andak's (my auntie) house, on the left Mak Usu's (also my auntie; my mother's younger sister) house.   Behind Dad's house was Mak Itam's (another auntie; my mother's elder sister) house.  Since Mak Itam's house was about 150 metres behind Dad's, there was ample space for us small boys and girls to do our activities.  Another place that sometimes we gathered to do our activities was on the left of Mak Itam's house.
    

Becoming a Form Six Student (Part One)

The Pre University students had just ended their 'Academic Village for 2011'.  They commended the initiative by saying that the activities strengthened their skills towards facing their STPM examination which is only more or less a month away.  Before this, Form Six students had their gathering outside the school premise but due to tight budget, the venue had changed.  Whatever happened, the objectives of immersing them with activities to keep the momentum seemed to achieve its target.
     However, I did not intend to write about what the students had undergone in the 'village'.  I only want to share with the readers my experience being a pre university students after the MCE (Malaysia Certificate of Education) results came out.
     In the seventies, form three students who failed in their LCE (Lower Certificate of Education) was not permitted to continue their studies in form four.  Similarly, form five students who failed MCE had to take the examination again if they wanted to go to form six.  Those who got grade three couldn't register for form six in a government school, but they can study in a private school if they wanted to sit for HSC (High School Certificate).

This is a copy of my Certificate.  The results are not bad, it was not good to secure me a place in the government school.

     Due  to these criteria, I couldn't get a place in the government school to enroll in a form six class but I did not have to sit for MCE again and I didn't want to.  So, the best choice for me was to register in one of the only two private schools in Muar that offered form six courses.
     Physically, the school of my choice was quite a small one.  Offering forms three and five Malay and English classes in not so big two wooden buildings that were connected with a wooden a bridge caused the premis to be packed.  All classes could not fit into the two buildings at one time.  Therefore, we the form students had to have our classes in the afternoon.
     Studying in the afternoon was not a big problem for me as I had experienced doing so when I was at primary school and in forms one and two.  Furthermore, I accepted that as a blessing as I could start earning my own income since my father had allowed me to start tapping rubber at his one-acre rubber plantation.
One more interesting thing was, my father allowed me to ride his scooter to school, something that was very rare that occurred in our village.  This was so because at that time, out of  fifty families, only four villagers owned scooters (my father was one of them), none owned any car and the rest only owned bicycles.  A large number of primary school pupils walked to the primary school nearest their kampungs 'Sekolah Kebangsaan Bakri Batu 5 Muar'.  A lot of them started riding their bicycles to school only when they enrolled in secondary schools in the town five miles away.  Due to this reason, I felt a sense of satisfaction when I saw my friends wave to me when we met on the road; I on my way to school and they cycling home from school.
     But something happened while I was at form that made me decide to drop out of school.

This picture is my view of the once private school where I studied.  Now, the school was there no more.  The place had been turned into a futsal court

Prayer Room

      As a muslim, one of our duties is to say our prayers five times a day regardless of the situation we are in, as long as we are still conscious.  May be we feel unhealthy, we still have to say our prayers.  We are unable to get up from bed, we still have to say our prayers.  If you cannot stand while performing them, sit up, or sit down.  If you cannot sit, lie down.

     In the Malay version of my posting dated Monday, June 13, 2011,  I wrote about my surprise at finding that the prayer room that I had used a few minutes before was not the type of prayer rooms found in my home country.  In Malaysia, we call these prayer rooms 'surau' (the malay word which means a place where muslims perform their prayers five times a day.)  When I, or any other muslim traveller wants to perform our prayer at a RnR (an accronym for 'Rehat Dan Rawat' or stop to rest) on our journey along the PLUS highway, there is always a surau for us.  Non-muslim travellers do not go there or, if they happen to go, they do not perform their prayers in this place.  After seeing the prayer room in Changi Airport, I have opened my eyes wider.  Now, a prayer room in Malaysia may not serve the same function as a prayer room in Singapore, or probably many other countries around the globe.

Part of a praying room situated at the north-south highway

     Before writing about my experience at Changi Airport, let me explain about the 'prayers' I used to see Chinese people performing when I was small.  In the good old days, I used to see Chinese people waving a handful of burning sticks (now I know they joss sticks) in front of their shophouses while citing or mumbling something that I couldn't hear.  Soon they finished their prayers and put those still lit sticks (they produced a kind of typical smell, mind you) into a piece of container. 

Joss sticks

      Now let us go back to my experience at Changi Airport.  After performing my Maghrib and Isya' prayers in the praying room at the airport, I waited for my son who was still doing his duties.  While waiting, I looked around and soon my eyes fell on the noticeboard by the door of the room.  On it was written "Multi-Religion Prayer Room  1.  Passenger of any religion may use this room to pray or meditate..."  What I read surprised me because I realised that a prayer room in Singapore means a room where travellers of all faiths can use it either to perform their prayers or meditate.  I don't mind sharing the room with other travellers if they, who happen to be non-muslims meditate while I was performing my prayers.  However, I don't know whether I would feel comfortable when my Chinese co travellers acted out their prayers like what I have described above since the incense coming out from the stick would make my nostrils suffer and as a result, I would not be able to concentrate on what I was doing.

The notice board

   
     In addition, a place where muslims pray must not only be clean, it also should be cleaned according to the procedures required  in Islam.  This requirement is too abstract to be described, therefore I choose not to illustrate it in this limited space.  What I would like to suggest to fellow muslims is, probably we can bring along our praying mat where ever we go, and pray on that mat when the need arises.  Is that okay, dear brothers and sister?  Tarra for now.  Salam alaik!

A Mother's Love

     (Before writing this article, I would like to thank Tn. Hj Hassny for commenting on my posting.  I didn't realize that when I posted the malay version, it was already 'Mother's Day'.  Therefore, Hj Hassny's pledge is very relevant.  While our parents are still by our side, always face them, look at them (God Al Mighty has promised us, and He said is always true).  Talk to them nicely.  Treat them nicely, shower them with tender care and love, just like we treat our children.

     Just like looking at the quran and Ka'aba, we Insya Allah get 'pahala' just for looking at our parents.  What if we 'look after' our parents with gentle care and love?  Insya Allah we get a lot more if we are sincere.  Some people say, 'if we look at our parents' picture, we still get 'pahala'.  Wallahu a'lam bissawaab.

     Recently I was listening to radio Malaysia 'Klasik Nasional' while driving back to Muar from Segamat.  the Disk Jockey at that time was Hamami Yusof.  A few listeners called the radio and recited some poems praising their mothers.  (It was 'Mother's Day', remember?).  Some of the callers were emotional; in fact, a few were sobbing when talking about their mothers. But what attracted my attention most was a call from a mother.

     This unfortunate mother was very sad as her daughter (whose name she claimed as Norafikah bte Omar but called her by her nickname 'Adik') had left home without any news.  She only said

     "I'm going away, don't look for me.  I won't come back, although if you d*e!"

     The caller promised that if her 'Adik' came back,

     "I would embrace her tight, passionately.  I miss her and long to look at her face before I closed my eyes for good"

     Dear 'Adik', return to you momma before it's too late.  Forgive and forget.  Bury the spade.  Don't regret.!