After some months of trying, I have finally got a job offer. I have for a while now been thinking it’s time I moved on from the NGO I’ve been working and been associated with for the last four years. While I am ever grateful to its founder and staff for helping me get to where I am professionally and personally – sometimes you have to venture further to be of better service because you have outgrown what made you what you have become.
I am terribly grateful to Almighty that I have been given what I have been seeking. It is not entirely everything I wished for but enough that it should get me by until something closer to my dreams comes along.
Yet I often doubt my decision to continue my line of work. Some days I am so convinced what I am doing is right. Other days I am so unsure. Some days I think well, I have to do this as I need to be a participant in all that I read in the World section of the newspapers. Rather than sitting in yet another cosy corner complaining and crying foul the demons that walk the earth. Other days I wonder whether what I do and the sacrifices I make are making any difference to anyone but my own sanity.
I have for sometime been trying to come to terms with the sense of guilt I often feel when I am away or so occupied with my work. Today, I could relate to Nelson Mandela when he states in Long Walk to Freedom, “I wondered – not for the first time – whether one was ever justified in neglecting the welfare of one’s own family in order to fight for the welfare of others.”
Do I fight my guilt and critics of a system that sometimes does more harm than good in the hope that compassion will prevail? Do I continue to sink in further into myself when my surroundings disappoint me or fail to meet my idealistic reasoning? Should I simply give up and give in to a normality that has never been in me?
What if I am wrong? What if I do wrong? Then what will become of me?
So many questions. So little time. So much to do. So far to go.
Round and round I go, where I’ll stop, nobody knows.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
We Are All Under the Same Sky
(Thanks Brother M for giving me the courage to share my inner self)
I haven't really cried for sometime now. Not my atypical crying. I used to cry a lot because it always made me feel better. Some people get mad, hysterical, drunk...I simply cry my eyeballs out. I used to cry just about anywhere - most of the time on my own - as my thoughts drifted to old memories, regrets, loss, heartbreak, anger.
The last few months however have been dry. It's not that I haven't revisited memories nor because nothing bad has happened to me. I guess it was a case of being all cried out. I never quite understood what that meant until recently.
Two nights ago I bawled my heart out while sitting alone under the starry sky on a beach infront of my chalet in Langkawi. I had just had enough of some merciless teasing about my weight from a friend - a teasing I honestly didn't mind but which was simply getting downright rude.
And so...I took a chair out to the beach. I started listening to songs by Nelly Furtado (Why do all good things come to an end), Justin Timberlake (What goes around comes around), Joshua (May God's love be with you), Coldplay and Michael Stipes (cover of May God's love be with you) and Coldplay (Fix you) on my iPod and started smoking a Backwood Berry cigar.
I sat under the stars feeling like I needed a moment to reflect before going home the next day on what has been and what was to be. Before me was the dark sea lit by a row of fishing boats along the coast. Behind me were lights emanating from the chalets along the beach. Lights which unfortunately shielded the sky from showing all its glory. I had no particular thought in my head. I was simply chilling out.
I then realised that what I saw above me was a shadow of what I used to see everyday in Sudan. I suddenly remembered how beautifully the stars shone over Darfur and how I used to gaze at the sparkling diamonds in the sky with wonder and peace.
And suddenly, while I listened to music which I found both a comfort and a reminder of things lost, I cried from beneath my heart.
I cried for the love I had in Sudan - a love I never knew I could find. I cried for the people who I saw but didn't want to know because I couldn't do everything I should have to help them. I cried that I had lost a love I thought was stronger than the green eyed monster. I cried for all the people I left under the glittering stars who can still see the sky through their thatched roof waiting for intruders to steal their peace.
Most of all I cried because I cannot control what is not mine to have or mine to change.
I haven't really cried for sometime now. Not my atypical crying. I used to cry a lot because it always made me feel better. Some people get mad, hysterical, drunk...I simply cry my eyeballs out. I used to cry just about anywhere - most of the time on my own - as my thoughts drifted to old memories, regrets, loss, heartbreak, anger.
The last few months however have been dry. It's not that I haven't revisited memories nor because nothing bad has happened to me. I guess it was a case of being all cried out. I never quite understood what that meant until recently.
Two nights ago I bawled my heart out while sitting alone under the starry sky on a beach infront of my chalet in Langkawi. I had just had enough of some merciless teasing about my weight from a friend - a teasing I honestly didn't mind but which was simply getting downright rude.
And so...I took a chair out to the beach. I started listening to songs by Nelly Furtado (Why do all good things come to an end), Justin Timberlake (What goes around comes around), Joshua (May God's love be with you), Coldplay and Michael Stipes (cover of May God's love be with you) and Coldplay (Fix you) on my iPod and started smoking a Backwood Berry cigar.
I sat under the stars feeling like I needed a moment to reflect before going home the next day on what has been and what was to be. Before me was the dark sea lit by a row of fishing boats along the coast. Behind me were lights emanating from the chalets along the beach. Lights which unfortunately shielded the sky from showing all its glory. I had no particular thought in my head. I was simply chilling out.
I then realised that what I saw above me was a shadow of what I used to see everyday in Sudan. I suddenly remembered how beautifully the stars shone over Darfur and how I used to gaze at the sparkling diamonds in the sky with wonder and peace.
And suddenly, while I listened to music which I found both a comfort and a reminder of things lost, I cried from beneath my heart.
I cried for the love I had in Sudan - a love I never knew I could find. I cried for the people who I saw but didn't want to know because I couldn't do everything I should have to help them. I cried that I had lost a love I thought was stronger than the green eyed monster. I cried for all the people I left under the glittering stars who can still see the sky through their thatched roof waiting for intruders to steal their peace.
Most of all I cried because I cannot control what is not mine to have or mine to change.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Afghanistan: No You Can't Drive
In 2002, I volunteered and then was employed to work for an NGO on aid projects in Afghanistan. Although our projects were in the country, we lived in Pakistan very near the border. As the distance between where we lived and where our projects were, was not within walking distance and foreigners were not encouraged to walk in the streets due to security - we were usually driven to project sites by hired drivers in our van.
Our drivers were all Afghanis who were born in Afghanistan but had been brought up and educated in Pakistan, in an area where a large community of Afghanis like themselves lived and who mostly still held onto their strict values and culture. These drivers spoke some English and were young and full of spirit and I have to admit, rather good looking.
But their looks have nothing to do with this story. This story is about something else.
One day a group of us had a meeting with Pakistani army officials near the border. As usual, I sat in front, next to the driver. And no, it wasn't because of his looks (well, not entirely!) but because the front seat had the best view of the road. It was my first time in these two countries and there was always so much to see and observe that I always wanted the best seat.
As we left the army compound I told the driver "you know, back home, I drive a lot". He didn't quite respond and just sort of smiled like I was joking. So I said, "no, really, I drive back home. I even have my own car." He simply replied "no you don't. Women can't drive."
As usual, I, a woman quite easily scorned in such circumstances, told him, "Okay...I'll prove it to you that I, and other women, can drive. Stop the van and I'll show you." At first I thought I was playing along with what his "teasing" when he stopped the van and stepped out of the driver's seat to let me in. So I got in the driver's seat. Adjusted the rear view mirror and the seat so I was comfortable and revved the engine a little. My driver, who was in the passenger seat just looked on amused. I wish I could have taken a photo of his face when the van moved after I stepped on the clutch, got into gear and stepped on the accelerator quite comfortably without letting the engine die. He was genuinely shocked. He almost couldn't believe his eyes. A woman was actually driving!
I was almost as shocked too as I thought he was teasing when he said women can't drive. I think that was the very moment I realised that women in his part of Pakistan and Afghanistan were living in a completely shut off and conservative society. I had certainly heard and read the stories. I had Afghanis tell me the same but an experience like that kind of brought the fact home closer.
I continued to drive without much problem although I had never driven on small road road congested with trucks, cars, horse carts, children pushing wheelbarrows, pedestrians and three wheelers. All of whom didn't take much notice of me driving at first.
Not until I drove to "No Man's Land", a smugglers haven between the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan, that is. We stopped here to order some supplies for a food aid project. After about 5 minutes of waiting, a boy who had noticed me came up to the my driver who was still in the passenger seat talking animatedly in Pashto, the main local language in the area. My driver looked at me, smiled and responded to the boy, who then turned around and called other boys to come up to the van. Quite suddenly there were at least 10 or more people surrounding the front of van peering into the windscreen at me pointing and laughing. I got a bit nervous as they started getting more and more excited and shouting words I couldn't comprehend. And so I asked my driver what was going on? He told me that some of the people were asking whether I was a man or a woman because they could not believe that a woman was driving!
This went on for a number of minutes before more people came to look. I felt like a clown in a circus or more like a caged animal in a zoo as it was unlikely I could move the van. It soon got too uncomfortable for my liking so we drove off without any incident.
When we got back to our office and home, my driver complimented me on my driving - which I thought was rather nice of him! I asked him whether it would be safe to continue driving and he seemed to think so. So, from then on, I was known as the first woman to drive in Chaman (Pakistan) and Spin Boldak (Afghanistan). I would regularly drive around, never alone of course, but with at least a staff or volunteer in the car. I loved it. I felt it was also an opportunity to educate Afghanis and Pakistanis in the area just what a woman, particularly a Muslim woman, is capable of, given the chance. I don't think I changed their mindset, because as a foreign woman, I was expected to get away with doing certain things local women weren't allowed to do, but I hope I at least opened up their minds a little to some possibilities.
I know for certain that my drivers were more than happy to let me drive and that I had gained their confidence as a competent driver. Oh yes. I must have. Because one day, they let me drive for over two hours from the border to the nearest capital, while they all slept in the back seat.
Our drivers were all Afghanis who were born in Afghanistan but had been brought up and educated in Pakistan, in an area where a large community of Afghanis like themselves lived and who mostly still held onto their strict values and culture. These drivers spoke some English and were young and full of spirit and I have to admit, rather good looking.
But their looks have nothing to do with this story. This story is about something else.
One day a group of us had a meeting with Pakistani army officials near the border. As usual, I sat in front, next to the driver. And no, it wasn't because of his looks (well, not entirely!) but because the front seat had the best view of the road. It was my first time in these two countries and there was always so much to see and observe that I always wanted the best seat.
As we left the army compound I told the driver "you know, back home, I drive a lot". He didn't quite respond and just sort of smiled like I was joking. So I said, "no, really, I drive back home. I even have my own car." He simply replied "no you don't. Women can't drive."
As usual, I, a woman quite easily scorned in such circumstances, told him, "Okay...I'll prove it to you that I, and other women, can drive. Stop the van and I'll show you." At first I thought I was playing along with what his "teasing" when he stopped the van and stepped out of the driver's seat to let me in. So I got in the driver's seat. Adjusted the rear view mirror and the seat so I was comfortable and revved the engine a little. My driver, who was in the passenger seat just looked on amused. I wish I could have taken a photo of his face when the van moved after I stepped on the clutch, got into gear and stepped on the accelerator quite comfortably without letting the engine die. He was genuinely shocked. He almost couldn't believe his eyes. A woman was actually driving!
I was almost as shocked too as I thought he was teasing when he said women can't drive. I think that was the very moment I realised that women in his part of Pakistan and Afghanistan were living in a completely shut off and conservative society. I had certainly heard and read the stories. I had Afghanis tell me the same but an experience like that kind of brought the fact home closer.
I continued to drive without much problem although I had never driven on small road road congested with trucks, cars, horse carts, children pushing wheelbarrows, pedestrians and three wheelers. All of whom didn't take much notice of me driving at first.
Not until I drove to "No Man's Land", a smugglers haven between the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan, that is. We stopped here to order some supplies for a food aid project. After about 5 minutes of waiting, a boy who had noticed me came up to the my driver who was still in the passenger seat talking animatedly in Pashto, the main local language in the area. My driver looked at me, smiled and responded to the boy, who then turned around and called other boys to come up to the van. Quite suddenly there were at least 10 or more people surrounding the front of van peering into the windscreen at me pointing and laughing. I got a bit nervous as they started getting more and more excited and shouting words I couldn't comprehend. And so I asked my driver what was going on? He told me that some of the people were asking whether I was a man or a woman because they could not believe that a woman was driving!
This went on for a number of minutes before more people came to look. I felt like a clown in a circus or more like a caged animal in a zoo as it was unlikely I could move the van. It soon got too uncomfortable for my liking so we drove off without any incident.
When we got back to our office and home, my driver complimented me on my driving - which I thought was rather nice of him! I asked him whether it would be safe to continue driving and he seemed to think so. So, from then on, I was known as the first woman to drive in Chaman (Pakistan) and Spin Boldak (Afghanistan). I would regularly drive around, never alone of course, but with at least a staff or volunteer in the car. I loved it. I felt it was also an opportunity to educate Afghanis and Pakistanis in the area just what a woman, particularly a Muslim woman, is capable of, given the chance. I don't think I changed their mindset, because as a foreign woman, I was expected to get away with doing certain things local women weren't allowed to do, but I hope I at least opened up their minds a little to some possibilities.
I know for certain that my drivers were more than happy to let me drive and that I had gained their confidence as a competent driver. Oh yes. I must have. Because one day, they let me drive for over two hours from the border to the nearest capital, while they all slept in the back seat.
Compliments Everywhere but Home
Today as I was entering the loo in The Curve, a shopping mall, I heard a lady tell her friend "skinny is better than fat, so don't complain." I couldn't help but smile, because as a fat lady, I felt inclined to disagree.
Whenever I come home after a long trip, it always strikes me how most Malaysian women are tiny, boobless and buttless. And when they look like they have boobs, I suspect their molds are made from artificial material rather than flesh and blood. I always feel extra, extra, extra large in Malaysia.
I never think about my weight when I am away. As far as I am concerned (and according to my regular medical check-ups) I am healthy, enjoy my life fully and still have the ability to attract the opposite sex. Yet, I am often made to believe otherwise when I come home.
Let me provide some examples of some of the conversations I've had since coming home after sometime being away: a close relative starts telling me about all these new ways to lose weight - from herbal drinks to massages; my cousin - whom I only meet once a year during Eid - after talking about men and relationships suggests "you should lose a bit of weight"; and one of my bestfriend's father says "wah...you makan banyak ah" (wow, you eat a lot don't you - or something to that effect). I know that the first two examples were said with concern to my health and apparently dismal marital status respectively, while I suppose the last was said in jest (albeit in a rather insensitive manner - sorry S).
Never mind how I am suddenly popular with agents from Herbal Life, or other weight loss or nutrition programs who are keen to help me lose weight insisting I can lose so and so kg after only two weeks. Never mind as well that I never seem to go on dates in this country.
I must admit that such suggestions, remarks and occurrences affect my self confidence sometimes.
When I'm away however, no one makes any remarks or suggestions about my weight. NEVER. Certainly not to my face. Instead I often get compliments from people including strangers - whether men or women. Mind you I am talking about people from countries in the Middle East, South Asia, Europe and Africa where heavy set women are often the norm.
I remember now a strange advice I often receive from Malaysians before I travel. "You'd better be careful when you go to countries in Africa/South Asia/Middle East - the men from these countries like women who are big especially those with big boobs and bums". I never used to think much of it in the beginning - and in fact viewed such a "fact" as indeed a negative characteristic - perceiving that these men were particularly lascivious just because they liked ample women with ample assets.
So whenever a man from Africa/South Asia/Middle East used to compliment me - I used to instantly think that they were just trying to flatter me so they could get into my pants.
Thankfully after spending some time travelling in these continents and knowing their people better, I now think much more of myself and understand cultural behaviour much better to recognize that such assumptions weren't always right. Rather, I came to realise that Malaysians had smaller minds and that men from Africa/South Asia/Middle East had better taste!
Knowing that doesn't help my self confidence in Malaysia. I still feel conscious as I try to find suitable clothes that fit, or when one day I stood next to a girl in an alteration shop who complained that the smallest Levis she had bought was still too big, or when I feel men no longer look my way (except at my chest when they realise this fat woman has some specifically appealing assets).
Oh to wander the world and receive compliments from a restaurant staff who says to you as you pass "you are so beautiful" and then gives you an orange just before you leave the premises (Turkey). Or to receive compliments like "I was first attracted to you when I saw your bum and the way it jiggled as you walked" (India - from a man I got to know beforehand as a friend - not a stranger!). Or to be appreciated for my smile and the colour and the feel of my skin (Africa, Middle East, South Asia). Or to go places where people find you attractive enough that they flirt with you with a smile, with words, with gestures.
Yes, of course I don't depend on compliments to feel good about myself. But it's nice to be appreciated for who and what you are and not be reminded that you are not at par with other women just because of the size of your body.
I suppose that's partly why I always crave to leave Malaysia. Well one of the many reasons. I just feel pretty damn much better about myself!
Whenever I come home after a long trip, it always strikes me how most Malaysian women are tiny, boobless and buttless. And when they look like they have boobs, I suspect their molds are made from artificial material rather than flesh and blood. I always feel extra, extra, extra large in Malaysia.
I never think about my weight when I am away. As far as I am concerned (and according to my regular medical check-ups) I am healthy, enjoy my life fully and still have the ability to attract the opposite sex. Yet, I am often made to believe otherwise when I come home.
Let me provide some examples of some of the conversations I've had since coming home after sometime being away: a close relative starts telling me about all these new ways to lose weight - from herbal drinks to massages; my cousin - whom I only meet once a year during Eid - after talking about men and relationships suggests "you should lose a bit of weight"; and one of my bestfriend's father says "wah...you makan banyak ah" (wow, you eat a lot don't you - or something to that effect). I know that the first two examples were said with concern to my health and apparently dismal marital status respectively, while I suppose the last was said in jest (albeit in a rather insensitive manner - sorry S).
Never mind how I am suddenly popular with agents from Herbal Life, or other weight loss or nutrition programs who are keen to help me lose weight insisting I can lose so and so kg after only two weeks. Never mind as well that I never seem to go on dates in this country.
I must admit that such suggestions, remarks and occurrences affect my self confidence sometimes.
When I'm away however, no one makes any remarks or suggestions about my weight. NEVER. Certainly not to my face. Instead I often get compliments from people including strangers - whether men or women. Mind you I am talking about people from countries in the Middle East, South Asia, Europe and Africa where heavy set women are often the norm.
I remember now a strange advice I often receive from Malaysians before I travel. "You'd better be careful when you go to countries in Africa/South Asia/Middle East - the men from these countries like women who are big especially those with big boobs and bums". I never used to think much of it in the beginning - and in fact viewed such a "fact" as indeed a negative characteristic - perceiving that these men were particularly lascivious just because they liked ample women with ample assets.
So whenever a man from Africa/South Asia/Middle East used to compliment me - I used to instantly think that they were just trying to flatter me so they could get into my pants.
Thankfully after spending some time travelling in these continents and knowing their people better, I now think much more of myself and understand cultural behaviour much better to recognize that such assumptions weren't always right. Rather, I came to realise that Malaysians had smaller minds and that men from Africa/South Asia/Middle East had better taste!
Knowing that doesn't help my self confidence in Malaysia. I still feel conscious as I try to find suitable clothes that fit, or when one day I stood next to a girl in an alteration shop who complained that the smallest Levis she had bought was still too big, or when I feel men no longer look my way (except at my chest when they realise this fat woman has some specifically appealing assets).
Oh to wander the world and receive compliments from a restaurant staff who says to you as you pass "you are so beautiful" and then gives you an orange just before you leave the premises (Turkey). Or to receive compliments like "I was first attracted to you when I saw your bum and the way it jiggled as you walked" (India - from a man I got to know beforehand as a friend - not a stranger!). Or to be appreciated for my smile and the colour and the feel of my skin (Africa, Middle East, South Asia). Or to go places where people find you attractive enough that they flirt with you with a smile, with words, with gestures.
Yes, of course I don't depend on compliments to feel good about myself. But it's nice to be appreciated for who and what you are and not be reminded that you are not at par with other women just because of the size of your body.
I suppose that's partly why I always crave to leave Malaysia. Well one of the many reasons. I just feel pretty damn much better about myself!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
The Drifter...
Not so long ago, someone told me "Hey...it's not good to be drifting for so long you know". As usual I never react fast enough when some someone says something that takes me completely by surprise. So I didn't respond by asking why she thought I was drifting.
I get the impression she thinks so because I do not have a full time job and haven't had one for more than a year now.
It makes me sad and annoyed at the same time when a person chooses to label me as someone who is drifting without asking me beforehand what exactly it is I have been doing with my life just because I prefer to keep some information to myself. I guess I shouldn't care but apparently I do because I feel I need to get this whole thing off my chest.
So let's see...what have I been doing in the last one year or more to qualify me as a "drifter":
1. Jan-April 2006: Went to Egypt to study Arabic.
2. May 2006: Spent two weeks in Sudan working.
3. June-August 2006: Had a 3 month contract to work. Spent two weeks in Jogjakarta indentifying rehabilitation projects and a month in Syria working on Lebanese displaced projects. Plus travelled to Jordan and Sudan for work, and Egypt for a short holiday.
4. July 2006: Spent a week on a training course in Australia.
5. September 2006: Spent two weeks on a training course in Korea.
6. October 2006: Took the month off for Ramadan.
7. November 2006: Attended a few days training course in Bangi.
8. December 2006 - March 2007:
- Contracted to write two operational manuals for an NGO
- Went to Thailand to buy supplies to sell at a flea market
- Started selling household wares at a flea market on Sundays
- Did a number of voluntary work for two organizations in Johor and KL
- Conducted a training for an NGO
- Went for a ToT in India and travelled some
Oh yes...I have been drifting because I haven't been working full time and because I didn't sign a long term contract. I have been drifting because I refuse to work for the only organization in Malaysia that does the kind of humanitarian work I like, on a full time basis for personal reasons. I have been drifting because I have been spending the last 6 months applying for jobs overseas. I have been drifting because I refuse to give up my dream and passion of working in the field and because I want to experience working for a new organization. I have been drifting because I won't beg for help to get me a job somewhere.
If that's the case, then a drifter I am glad to be.
Hi. Ever Tried Spicy Cigarettes?
Yes, I confess. I smoke. But no, I am not a smoker. I suppose you could call me a social smoker of sorts.I remember my first cigarette. I was 5 and it was a Dunhill. My Mom was a smoker then and curiousity got the better of me. Tried it, didn't think anything of it until I (Photo by Amr Fekry, Egypt) was in university. I can still remember it clearly. It was 1995 and I was so stressed out because I was about to sit for my final exams. I had a headache having stayed up all night trying to remember all my cases. As I was walking towards the exam hall I saw some friends hanging around. And Oh My God...they looked so calm and cool, like they had no worries in the world - and yes, they each had a cigarette in their hand. I thought, damn...maybe I need to start taking those.
But still I resisted. I snuck a puff or two from my Mom's and some friends. However there was always this fear that I'd get addicted or found out by my Mom (who always forbade us to smoke lest we get hooked like she was at the time).
Finally I gave in. It was 2003 and I was in Jordan feeling highly stressed again. Iraq was about to fall in the hands of the US and I was in charge of identifying projects in Jordan in anticipation of the influx of refugees. I also had to manage a bunch of volunteers and was greatly concerned for the future of Iraqi people. Plus I had to prove myself as a field staff. And there was my local interpreter smoking away at his Marlboro Lights looking jolly well relaxed when I felt like the burden of the world was on my shoulders. So I caved. Can't say I enjoyed it much. Can't say it helped calm my nerves. But I guess it offered some comfort. It was also something I did on my own. I never smoked infront of anyone else because it didn't seem appropriate for a woman in a hijab to do so. Plus I was with a bunch of doctors who I knew would not approve.
I even snuck off to have a cigarette while in Baghdad. My team and I had been caught in a crossfire and we were stuck in the delapitated Sheraton hotel trying to figure out how to leave the country safely. The hotel was crowded; there was little electricity; you could hear bombs going off; you could see aid workers, reporters and American soldiers walking in and out; and the hotel was surrounded by tanks. I just had to find a corner somewhere, take a deep puff of the Malboro Lights I got from my interpreter, calm my nerves and try to comprehend the events around me.
Thankfully I didn't become a regular smoker after that. I would take the occasional one or two when I started feeling burdened with work back home. By this time I had discovered Sampoerna Mild & Menthol - Indonesian cigarettes with a clove flavour and a sweet taste on the bud. I actually started to like its taste and from then on never smoked any other kinds of cigarettes. I could never take more than one as I found it too strong. But the occasional (which I still smoked in private) was comforting.After some months, I quit my job to study my masters' in England. I started hanging with friends who drank regularly in pubs. As a non-drinker I found that holding on to your glass of juice just didn't hack it. I still didn't feel comfortable smoking in public but decided that hey, maybe this will help me blend in a little. So while people 'chummied' with each other talking about the different types of alcohol they enjoy, I started conversations with "have you ever tried these kind of cigarettes?" And it worked! It suddenly began to be slightly easier to bond with fellow pubbers (who smoked). I didn't get to do it all the time as some of my friends abhor smoking.
Smoking then began to have its advantages. And in the most surprising way. Suddenly I found I could even bond with Arab women! I remember back in January 2004, I was travelling on my own in Lebanon and had decided to go up to Tripoli to have the best sweets in the country. I stumbled across a CD shop where I could buy some music for my sister. There I sat listening to different songs trying to decide which CDs to buy when the owner's mother came in and offered me a cigarette and a Turkish coffee. I was shocked. This was an elderly woman in a Hijab offering me a cigarette (not of the mild kind either!) We couldn't communicate much because I didn't know Arabic at the time but there we were bonding over cigarettes and coffee in the middle of the cold winter.
In 2006, once again I bonded over cigarettes with some Arab ladies. I was on the Syrian side of the Syrian-Lebanese border in the north with my colleagues distributing hygiene kits to returnees. While resting I sat with a bunch of women in Hijab who were waiting for the male members of their family to pick them up and take them back to Lebanon. By this time I could speak a little Arabic. I noticed some of them smoking and offered one of the ladies a cigarette. I asked whether they ever smoked before the war and they said no. I asked why they were smoking now. They said because they were worried about their husbands, brothers and their home and that cigarettes helped to calm their nerves somewhat. After about an hour, two men came to pick them up. I then realised that the male members of their family were fighters with the Hezbollahs. I will never forget the look of complete relief and happiness on their faces when the families reunited.
I know cigarettes are unhealthy. That's why I make sure that I don't become a regular smoker. I smoke maybe once in two or three weeks. The number increases to once a week when I am particularly worried about something. While I recognise its vices, I can't deny it has its advantages. Yes, you don't have to succumb to a bad habit just to bond with people. Sometimes however, it can create a special moment and a special memory. Like moments I shared Sampoernas with my South African angel in Edinburgh and in Cairo because we both love the taste so much. Or when I shared one with an army officer in India after we had experienced a wonderful intimate moment. Or those times with those Arab ladies. I wouldn't trade those memories for anything.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Random Acts of Kindness
I am the receiver of many random acts of kindness. Random acts of kindness makes me feel good, gives me hope that this world doesn't suck so much, makes me look forward to a new day with new surprises.
The wonderful thing about random acts of kindness (ROK) is that it can come at anytime, anyday, anywhere. My last experience with a ROK was a few days ago at a craft exposition where I was volunteering for a few hours. A person, who I knew by reputation for his work with the local indigenous community and his no-nonsense approach, bought me a local handicraft, after knowing me for only a couple of hours. We hadn't spoken much in that short time, I knew he didn't "fancy" me, nor were we ever likely to meet again. Yet, he knew I liked this beautiful object, knew I hadn't had enough money to pay for it at the time, but had insisted I "take it because I've learnt that you should always buy something you like immediately or else it will be gone". The memory of
that ROK still makes me smile.
This ROK was especially significant as it was my first in Malaysia. I've experienced many outside of the country. I have received numerous invitations to eat and sleep at strangers' homes (Central/South Asia and the Middle East), I've even had a stranger walk with me for miles just to be sure I got on the right bus (Beirut), I've had a stranger search the whole city for a safe and cheap hotel for me to stay in (also Beirut), and so many other ROK I now regret I have forgotten.
I am not sure whether I have practised ROK. Perhaps I have. I certainly advocate it. It just simply makes the world a nicer place to live in.
The wonderful thing about random acts of kindness (ROK) is that it can come at anytime, anyday, anywhere. My last experience with a ROK was a few days ago at a craft exposition where I was volunteering for a few hours. A person, who I knew by reputation for his work with the local indigenous community and his no-nonsense approach, bought me a local handicraft, after knowing me for only a couple of hours. We hadn't spoken much in that short time, I knew he didn't "fancy" me, nor were we ever likely to meet again. Yet, he knew I liked this beautiful object, knew I hadn't had enough money to pay for it at the time, but had insisted I "take it because I've learnt that you should always buy something you like immediately or else it will be gone". The memory of
that ROK still makes me smile.This ROK was especially significant as it was my first in Malaysia. I've experienced many outside of the country. I have received numerous invitations to eat and sleep at strangers' homes (Central/South Asia and the Middle East), I've even had a stranger walk with me for miles just to be sure I got on the right bus (Beirut), I've had a stranger search the whole city for a safe and cheap hotel for me to stay in (also Beirut), and so many other ROK I now regret I have forgotten.
I am not sure whether I have practised ROK. Perhaps I have. I certainly advocate it. It just simply makes the world a nicer place to live in.
Meeting People Who Have Killed
I was thinking what else to write about. For some strange reason the first thing that popped in my head (while sitting in a cafe in Hartamas Shopping Center) was the image of a kindly old man working in the garden in Pakistan near the border to Afghanistan.
I still remember his name, his gentle smile and his fondness for plants. We never really spoke except for a few words through an interpreter. I never felt threatened in his company nor intimidated. In some strange ways, he reminded me of my grandfather - someone who I never really knew but whom my Mom said was a kind and gentle old man.
Yet, I had been told that the old man, who in his old age made sure that our garden was cared for, used to fight for the muhajideens. I suppose what I was told was true. And that was to be the first man I met whom I was told had killed for a cause he believed in.
Since then I have met others. All of whom who were fighting for some ideology they believed in - whether or not they were labelled by the world as terrorists, cowards or patriots. I got on with all of them. I fancied one. I had a short love affair with another. I had compared one to my own grandfather who never in his life hurt a soul. At each of those times I didn't think about what they did or had done. All I cared I suppose was that I got along with them on some level or the other.
Then I thought about it some more. Am I supposed to feel disgusted by these people? How is it that I can hate war and work as a humanitarian aid worker and be involved at any level with people who commit the very acts I am suppose to be absolutely against. Am I so accepting of people's right to be as they choose that I can accept anyone as they are?
I am still unsure of the answer. The only thing I can think of for now is that all these people had done what they did because they felt it was their duty to do so in the name of their country, their leaders, their people or their religion. And that I too do what I do for my beliefs and sense of duty, and perhaps in some strange way, I share something in common with these people after all. That because of my strong sense of duty to the people I saw suffer in the world namely Iraq, Afghanistan and Sudan, I too, like them had been willing to put myself in a position where I could have been killed. No doubt, unlike them, I hadn't killed for my beliefs - but like them, I had put myself in extreme risks to champion something I really believed in. And perhaps that's why I can befriend people who I know have killed people.
I still remember his name, his gentle smile and his fondness for plants. We never really spoke except for a few words through an interpreter. I never felt threatened in his company nor intimidated. In some strange ways, he reminded me of my grandfather - someone who I never really knew but whom my Mom said was a kind and gentle old man.
Yet, I had been told that the old man, who in his old age made sure that our garden was cared for, used to fight for the muhajideens. I suppose what I was told was true. And that was to be the first man I met whom I was told had killed for a cause he believed in.
Since then I have met others. All of whom who were fighting for some ideology they believed in - whether or not they were labelled by the world as terrorists, cowards or patriots. I got on with all of them. I fancied one. I had a short love affair with another. I had compared one to my own grandfather who never in his life hurt a soul. At each of those times I didn't think about what they did or had done. All I cared I suppose was that I got along with them on some level or the other.
Then I thought about it some more. Am I supposed to feel disgusted by these people? How is it that I can hate war and work as a humanitarian aid worker and be involved at any level with people who commit the very acts I am suppose to be absolutely against. Am I so accepting of people's right to be as they choose that I can accept anyone as they are?
I am still unsure of the answer. The only thing I can think of for now is that all these people had done what they did because they felt it was their duty to do so in the name of their country, their leaders, their people or their religion. And that I too do what I do for my beliefs and sense of duty, and perhaps in some strange way, I share something in common with these people after all. That because of my strong sense of duty to the people I saw suffer in the world namely Iraq, Afghanistan and Sudan, I too, like them had been willing to put myself in a position where I could have been killed. No doubt, unlike them, I hadn't killed for my beliefs - but like them, I had put myself in extreme risks to champion something I really believed in. And perhaps that's why I can befriend people who I know have killed people.
Why I Don't Like Talking About What I Do
Last January I was in Singapore visiting a friend. I stayed with her and her husband in a really nice apartment in Bedok. I was in a relaxed mood most of the time because their place was rather like a resort - palm trees, gentle breeze, swimming pool and an apartment that was spacious and had nice wooden flooring and furnishing.
I hadn't met my friend's husband in a while. As expected he asked me questions about what I do, as most would once they found out I had worked as an aid worker in countries like Sudan, Afghanistan and Iraq. As soon as he asked me the first question - I literally felt my whole body stiffen. I began to feel stiffled and uncomfortable. And the more he asked the more defensive I got. His questions varied from, what's it like working there, did you see any Janjaweeds to do they put spies in each NGO? The conversation ended when I snapped at him saying "you watch way too much TV!"
I know I was being harsh. But really, talking about what I've seen in conflict ridden countries is hard. I guess I find it hard because talking about it only makes me feel that everything I saw was too real and worse, reminds me that I had to leave before I could really do anything to make the situation better. I could do what I could do and that was it. I feel whatever anyone has to ask me is irrelevant. Because what I did there was so small in relative to everything else going on in the country.
I understand people want to know more from someone who has seen things that they can only read about in the papers or watch in the news. I know it makes it feel more real for them. It helps them qualify or disqualify whatever they may have assumed.
But for me, it only reopens that feeling of helplessness that made me become a humanitarian aid worker in the first place. So when I go home, I no longer want to talk or think about the people I saw and left behind. If I did, I wouldn't be able to live normally, being the sensitive soul I can be. Because I've seen too many realities that the world is truly messed up.
So don't ask anymore about what I do, what I saw, what it was like. Let me tell my story when I am ready. If I ever can be.
I hadn't met my friend's husband in a while. As expected he asked me questions about what I do, as most would once they found out I had worked as an aid worker in countries like Sudan, Afghanistan and Iraq. As soon as he asked me the first question - I literally felt my whole body stiffen. I began to feel stiffled and uncomfortable. And the more he asked the more defensive I got. His questions varied from, what's it like working there, did you see any Janjaweeds to do they put spies in each NGO? The conversation ended when I snapped at him saying "you watch way too much TV!"
I know I was being harsh. But really, talking about what I've seen in conflict ridden countries is hard. I guess I find it hard because talking about it only makes me feel that everything I saw was too real and worse, reminds me that I had to leave before I could really do anything to make the situation better. I could do what I could do and that was it. I feel whatever anyone has to ask me is irrelevant. Because what I did there was so small in relative to everything else going on in the country.
I understand people want to know more from someone who has seen things that they can only read about in the papers or watch in the news. I know it makes it feel more real for them. It helps them qualify or disqualify whatever they may have assumed.
But for me, it only reopens that feeling of helplessness that made me become a humanitarian aid worker in the first place. So when I go home, I no longer want to talk or think about the people I saw and left behind. If I did, I wouldn't be able to live normally, being the sensitive soul I can be. Because I've seen too many realities that the world is truly messed up.
So don't ask anymore about what I do, what I saw, what it was like. Let me tell my story when I am ready. If I ever can be.
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