There are people who come to visit us...students, doctors, people from religious organisations.....
They greater around my bed, and they watch me. I wonder what goes through their minds, maybe they are thanking god that its not them lying in this bed. Most of them pity me, i feel like a specimen under study. Why wont they touch me? Why wont they ask me about my dreams and hopes? Do they not see that i too, am human just like them?
I want to be touched. I reach out to hold their hand, but nobody would touch me. It is not my disease that will kill me, i will die because i yearn for love and acceptance. My family has abandoned me, is there hope that a friend or a stranger can find it in their heart to love me? Do i even matter in this world? Am i strong enough to change your life? Would you ever have the chance to know? Would you tell your friends that i exist?

How do we decide our priorities in life? Do these priorities only involve “i”? What about the rest?
We strive so hard to be independent individuals. We study hard, we get a degree, we find our perfect job, we buy a car, we find our perfect mate and alas.....we are independent individuals. Does being independent make us independent of our feelings?

I took part in a discussion today called “World Cafe-lights off”.
Imagine if the lights went off one night, and you look outside the window and you realised that the lights were off in the entire city. The next day you wake up, and through word of mouth, you find out that the lights had gone off in the entire country. On the third day, you come to know that the lights have been off in the entire Asia, and the whole world. God knows if there would be hope for electricity again...ever. People are panicking, what about food and communication?

The thing is, it ain’t such a big deal. Like our ancestors, its possible to survive through communal living. We work together, we live together. That's when you really matter. What you decide to do today, might determine if your neighbour would survive the next day. Your joy depends on the joy of your neighbour. That's when we are as human as human can be. When we learn to love the people around us, when we learn to love our neighbours as we learn to love ourselves.

Wheres the Independence? Was there really such a thing when they lived in caves? Independence came from our responsibility over society itself. But things have changed. We don't need someone else to keep us alive. Sadly, our values changed with time too. We got a lil bit disconcerted with the rest. We strayed away. And we fogot the role that we were born to play, we have forgotten our responsibility to love society, our responsibility to love our neighbors.

Who will hold their hand??? So entangled in the “I” “us” and “them”, what about the “we”?
Are we all human beings trying to be spiritual, or are we spiritual beings trying our best to be human?

NGOs hail plan to regulate social workers

PETALING JAYA: Several non-governmental organisations have welcomed the proposed enactment of the Social Workers Act and the move to establish standards for social workers.

Women’s Aid Organisation executive director Ivy Josiah said the contents of the draft bill, however, should be made public for input to be given before it was tabled in Parlia­ment.

“Our concern is the issue of confidentiality (of clients). We are keen to see how the Govern­ment deals with the issue,” she said.

Theresa Symons of Good Shepherd Welfare Centre urged the Government to include a provision to provide the opportunity for existing personnel to be trained as qualified social workers.

Women, Family and Community Develop­ment Minister Senator Datuk Seri Shahrizat Abdul Jalil, in a press statement, said social workers must be distinguished from charity workers.

“Introducing the National Social Work Competency Standards is well-timed. The increasing complexity of current social problems requires skilled and trained professionals to cater to the needs of target groups,” she said.

Maria Chin Abdullah of Women’s Develop­ment Collective was interested to see how the law would be enforced.

“We don’t want to have a nice act covering all aspects but failing in implementation,” she said, adding that welfare homes and old folks homes should be monitored to ensure that the operators would not only be interested in profit.

Social Institute of Malaysia director Prof Dr Mohamed Fadzil Che Din said regulating social work could deter bogus social workers because practitioners would have to be registered and licensed.

“This way, children and old folks in need of social care would not suffer due to negligence and malpractice.”

National Welfare Foundation chief executive officer Datuk Sayed Abdul Rahman Sayed Mohd said volunteers engaged by NGOs should be trained so that they could provide quality care, produce good reports and subsequently enhance the credibility of the organisations.


The Star, 6th May

Out of The Ordinary Day

It was an out of the ordinary day. Instead of my usual bar across the street where I head to enjoy a mug of beer after work and watch a band, I ended up at a club on Heritage row. It’s been ages since I went “clubbing” per say, and I don’t quite enjoy it anymore. Gone are my broke collage days when a cheep weekend would be a night out in Bangsar in the sluttiest tiny outfit downing free ladies night vodka Ribena. These days, my definition of Friday night fever would be a cold mug of beer, enjoyed in my favorite pair of jeans, accompanied by all the other regular customers in the bar, watching an awesome band and singing along to some reggae, Beetles, Begees, Elvis and good old Zainal Abidin songs doing the line dance. Some of my friends tease me because I patronize places like Wikikies, Old School, back yard and Cee Jays, but its so much easier to let loose and enjoy the night as compared to a night out in Zouk. I’m usually one of the youngest ones around, but somehow I feel like I fit rite in.

The sudden stray to Heritage Row was actually kinda like a favor to my sister. She had just arrived in KL and she was all hyped up for a crazy night out. I hurried home after work, put on an “extra happening’ costume and dragged myself to the heart of town. It was the launch of some new club, and we had a bottle of Goose on the house. We met up with eight other “to old to be clubbing” people and we occupied a sofa in a corner. The crowd was growing by the minute as the night got older, but somehow our corner made us oblivious to our surroundings. In the center of the club was a huge cage cum dance floor. Some girls we getting their freak on in the cage as they rubbed their bodies on the dance poles. From our little corner, we passed each other the “that’s so yesterday-been there done that” smirk. All we wanted to do was to laugh and have a good glass of vodka- the perfect night, in a not so perfect place. Once in a while we would move our bodies to the retro mixes, and as for the rest of the time, we were completely clueless about what was spinning in the jukebox.

The night faded slowly, and many of our “corner buddies” had headed back home. As soon as our little corner was bare, a bunch of elderly men found their way into our space and got themselves comfortable. They ordered a bottle of liquor and the scanned the dance floor as they smoked their cigar. One of these men smiled at me and invited me to dance. I gave him a polite rejection and I continued sipping on my glass of vodka. This man who was old enough to be my father was quite persistent in his pursuit. He reached out for my hand and tried to pull me to dance with him. At that moment, I had a brave intervention from one of the much more senior and veteran clubber who looked straight at him and said, “she doesn’t want to dance, so please leave her alone”. It was pretty awkward for a few seconds, but it was buried by a sense of relief. She had said what I would have never had the guts to say.

The rest of the night was relatively uncomfortable, and I couldn’t stop my eyes from wondering towards the bunch of old men. Laid back on the sofa, I noticed that the man that had approached me was talking to a very young girl. She was a petite girl, with very long hair, dressed in a short dress, pretty and barely 18. He spoke to her for about 15 minutes on the dance floor and she followed him to his seat. She was accompanied by another elderly woman in a black leather jacket who stood by her. They shared a few drinks, and he started dancing with this young girl.

At this point, the 3 remaining friends of mine were all laid back on the sofa curious and entertained by the mini “episode” that was going on in front of our eyes. What could a pretty young thing as such want with a sleazy drunk old man as such? He held her waist and pulled her closer to him. I caught him lifting up her dress and she panicked as she shoved his hands away. After that, his hands were slowly moving down south, and he gabbed her ass on a few occasions. I noticed that this girl was trying her best to shove his hands away every time he touched her inappropriately. She looked like she was miserable.

I didn’t quite understand the nature of their relationship. She didn’t like what he was doing to her, but yet she choose to stay. Then something crossed my mind…maybe this little young thing had gotten her self in a sticky situation and was too scared to walk out. My conscious was killing me, I couldn’t just sit back and watch a young girl being taken advantage off. I picked up all of my courage, and I walked towards them. The old man quickly got defensive over his new found toy and he blocked my path. I stood there and insisted to speak to this girl. The reaction I got from her was honestly quite shocking. She gave me this real unpleasant look, looked me from head to toe and told the bunch of old men that she didn’t know me. I needed to get something off my chest, and god knows that if I didn’t, I would be carrying a weird sense of guilt over assumed responsibility. She finally leaned forward and heard me out as I said, “ if you want to join us on our table, you may come over anytime’. She nodded her head and I scooted back to my seat.

I was fearful at that moment, these men looked pretty dangerous and there was only one man with me in a group of four. The bunch of old men kept on turning their heads one by one to take a glance at us. We were silent for a moment, and someone suggest that we finish up the vodka because it was getting late. We gulped down our drinks and headed towards the car. On the way back home, we spoke about the incident in the club. For some naïve reason, it never crossed my mind that she might have been on “duty”. Someone also mentioned that the lady in the black jacket was most likely her “guardian” who was keeping watch of her. It all made perfect sense.

It took some time to digest the information, and I played in my head for a few days. I felt so sad on behalf of the young girl. I wondered if she had a story to tell. I thought of the person that she might be outside of her “duty”. I wondered if she had a choice, or was she forced into it by someone or by her circumstances? To her, I may just be some psychotic stranger prying into her life. To me, I hoped her a bright future, and the strength to do things she never thought possible.

Sex edu.

I’ve been assigned to come up with a training toolkit for migrants on HIV & AIDS. So for the past two weeks, all I’ve seen on my lappie is sex sex, sex, anal, vaginal, oral, sex sex, sex!!! Pictures, research, sex, sex, sex!!!

One of the cleaning aunties passed by my table yesterday to clear out the trash, the look on her face when she saw the different stages of putting on a condom on my screen was priceless. I doubt she knows it’s part of my work…she probably thinks I’m a perve.

I’m imagining myself in front of more than 100 migrant men talking about safe sex, and alternative non-intercourse stimulation (which includes a partner’s thigh!!) , and flavored condoms and vaginal fluid, demonstrating how to put on a condom, and ohh, worst of all…anal sex!!! …. Santa maria, I’d probably faint from anxiety, or embarrassment.

All the hype about harm reduction and protection against HIV, but I’ve noticed that most of the information available does not stress on the dangers of unprotected oral sex. ORAL sex is the cause of most incidents of sexually transmitted diseases (STD) in the country.

There is a high chance of contracting HIV if the person performing the act has cuts or sores in his/her mouth, if ejaculation takes place in the mouth, and if the individual receiving oral sex has HIV. The risk is primarily for the person performing the oral sex. Unless a partner has significant amounts of blood in his/her mouth oral sex is unlikely to expose the receptive partner to HIV.

You know and I know, that young people hardly ever use protection when performing oral sex, especially when a man is performing oral sex on a woman. In a relationship, I guess it’s good to get to know your partner’s body and make sure that there are no wounds around the genitals that could transmit fluid. Other than that, also get to know your own body, check your mouth and genitals for sores, cuts or blisters. Avoid oral sex until the body has healed.

For one night stands and booty calls, avoid unprotected oral sex at all cost. In the midst of intoxication or the heat of the moment, I doubt one would want to kill the mood with a body check up…plus, you may come off as being creepy.

Always use condoms for blow jobs. If you hate the taste of latex, try the flavored ones. If a man wants to return the favor, one should always use a dental dam. A dental dam is a piece of thin latex that you place on the vagina before any contact with the mouth. It’s hard to find dental dams in regular shops in Malaysia, and the ones that are available are somewhat pricey.

There is, however, a way around this problem. Using a condom and scissors, you can make a dental dam yourself! Just cut off the tip of the condom and unroll it down. Cut down side one part of the condom until the end.
You now have a latex rectangle perfect for use during oral sex!

Sounds like a real mood kill huh? I guess it takes some getting use to, but it saves lives. Dental dams and condoms are bitches at the start, but once it has regulated to your body heat, its less distracting. You can also try using lubricant for the dental dams to create a more “natural” sensation. Who knows heh, might turn out to be fun for both you and your partner!!!! *CHEERS*

p/s: Mum, put down the phone. Take a deep breath. Deeper!!!
Now listen, its just for awareness. Doesn’t mean that I’m speaking from my
own experience *ahem* .........shudder...........

The Wall of Fame and Shame

I bumped into a girl last week. She looked rather familiar, but I just couldn’t place her in my thoughts. “Cleo..is that you?”. “OMG, from the camp rite??” As we held our hands forward for a shake, we locked eyes and suddenly it all came back……

We were young and had just discovered our new found freedom. 80 teenage boys and girls with raging hormones and boiling thirst for excitement were rounded up and dumped into a quiet house on the top of the hills for 5 days and nights. Two dormitories beside each other, unlocked. This was the camp that marked our passage towards adulthood. We were promised a fun and unforgettable experience, and that’s what we got… more so for some of us.

For the first two nights, people were still a tad bit shy and reserved, trying to portray their best behavior to their newly discovered friends. There were fun activities planned out for us, from plays to dance to a mud fights, which got us closer and closer to each other. During the night after lights off, the boys and girls would sneak out to the back of the wooden dorm to get to know each other and giggle and flirt while the mischievous ones would go around playing pranks on each other.

By the end of the fourth night, people were already starting to feel the separation anxiety. We have had the best weekend of our lives and it was almost time to go home. Many first kisses took place at that camp, many best friends were found on that weekend and many memories were found in that time. There were many gossips that were lingering around, and we were all curious to know about “who was dating who” and “who had a crush on who”. I still believe that the camp was basically a secret match making effort by the church to keep the Christian teenagers within the clan.

On the last day there, there was a little surprise planned out for us. The organizers had invited our parents for a little “sharing and public confession session”. There were many of the boys and girls that broke down in tears in front of the crowd for committing sins such as “kissing” and “dating”. The entire session was almost like a joke to my mum and I. There was nothing that I felt that I should have confessed, God knows I was doing much more at that time and enjoying every moment of it thus we sat at the corner of the room criticizing almost every one that walked up to that stage.

There was this elderly and dignified looking man that marched his way up stage. He was the only one who had no guilt or sorrow or anger to unleash. With pride, he told the crowd what a beautiful relationship he had with his son and how he was the luckiest dad on earth. The change in dimension caught my attention for a while, but I couldn’t hold it for long. Slowly, his voice drowned into the background as I was filling my mum in on the “who did what and where”. The entire church gave him a standing ovation. This man, stood on stage, and nodded his head to his son as an invitation to join him up stage to say a few words. Little did he know, that that invitation was about to be one of his biggest mistakes.

Lollipop head walked up to the stage as his father took a seat in front of the crowd. Lollipop head turned around to the priest and said “ I’m sorry father, if what I am going to say may upset you”. With a shakey voice he said “ I think my dad is a fucker!’. “Everything he aid was a lie, and he is a bastard”. “My father walks around with a mask, and pretends to be someone else so that people will like him, but I hate him”. He broke down in tears, and as he was dragged down by our fellow friends he ended his speech with … “ He is a fucker!!” pointing at the direction of his father. There was silence in the crowd, and everyone there tried their best to hold their tongues. Whispers were passed, and confusion were lingering. The priest quickly apologized on behalf of the drama that took place, and things resumed to what it was.

We all thought that Lollipop head would have been crowned king on the wall of fame for Camp 2004. Theres always this one incident that happens in camp that is usually remembered for life. Least did we expect, that there was another public confession that would steal the thunder and wow the crowd. Something worse than that? Is that even possible??

Up on stage walks one of our friends, an average looking girl that I would have never remembered if it had not been for her tragic confession. Call it being humbled upon by the Holy spirit or just plain stupidity, I think I would have rather be caught dead than to be caught in such a nightmare. Cleo walked up the stage, and since she was not associated with the “popular kids”, nobody paid much attention to her presence until she made her announcement “I AM ADDICTED TO MASTURBATION AND I HAVE BEEN ADDICTED FOR TWO YEARS NOW”.
…………………….
…………………………….
…………………….. *silence*
……………………..WTF???????????????????????!!!!


………..OMG OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!! She did not just do that………



None of us could believe it. It was hard to get over, we were feeling embarrassed and suicidal on behalf of her. When she decided to go up the stage and say IT, it was committing to a lifetime of embarrassment to more than 150 people and A PRIEST!!

The story of Lollipop soon faded, he was talked less and less about as the months went by. I regret to say, every time I bump into someone from the camp and we reminisce about the good old times, Cleo never fails to be mention. Talk about making an impression heh. Its been six years since the disastrous incident, yet as I held on to her hand, God knows I was thinking about all the possible places her hands could have been prior to the hand shake.

All in the name of God

Not many of us feel the pinch of the restrictive nature of our Malaysian law. Yes we hear about cases, and we sympathies with our fellow citizens that make it to the wall of disastrous fame due to some conflict with the law, and we are passionate about fighting for our rights and the rights of our people…. But it pretty much ends there unless you personally know someone who is a victim of our highly biased, discriminating and flawed law. Then we start to take notice of how personal the law can be, how it can affect all of our lives- even those who pay their tax on time, stand up straight to the NegaraKu and cast their ballads when they are summoned.

I want to talk about an issue that has somehow become rather personal to me over the past few months. We all know that converting into Islam in our country is a one way road. Even though the Quran had quoted “Let there be no compulsion in religion, no one can be compelled to embrace Islam”, but somehow our Syariah court had decided to overrule the teachings of the Quran in their strive towards religious domination. All in the name of God.

Under our Syariah court, marriage between a non-Muslim and a Muslim is forbidden. Conversion by one party in a marriage is not allowed unless both parties has agreed to convert into the religion. It’s surprising how our law can be courageously flexible when It comes to cases that benefit their side of the court. There have been cases in Malaysia where parents who are seeking custody of their children convert into Islam so that they would have the upper hand in the custody battle.

Cases such as these can not fully fall under out civil court because the newly convert is now subjected towards the Syariah court. Even though these Islamic laws are discriminatory towards the non-Muslims, we all know that the Syariah court and civil court can not interfere with each others jurisdiction and the Syariah court will eventually prevail above all. Not only do the newly converted parent receive full custody of the child, the non-Muslim parent will also loose all visitation rights towards his or her child.
Parents ripped apart from their flesh and blood and children crying for their parents love, all in the name of God.

For every battle that is heard, I’m sure there are hundreds of people out there that are struggling to get their voices heard. But they will step on you when you stand up, and they will kick your feet when you try to walk, and they will cage you up when you have the strength to fight.

Royal Gold Luxurious Interleaf Tissues, thicker, stronger for silky comfort, color tinted, 3 ply and 100 % pulp

I think I owe it to my fever to spare some time and space to acknowledge and salute her for all her hard work and effort to make my life a living hell. Kudos I must say, she made my flesh weak, but the spirit is still strong. I’m suppose to meet someone for lunch in a bit, I almost feel embarrassed to step out of my office. My hair looks like a hives nest, I have peeling skin flaking off my nose, my eyes look like I just smoked a bong, and the constant need to wipe snort off my face is not so appealing I must say.

I brought a small hankie that I stole from a hotel washroom to work today, I rotated it 360 degrees, flipped it over and navigated it well but it only took 30 minutes for me to cover the entire radius. So I walked down the spiral stairs, and fluttered around like a dying moth in search of some tissue- willing to settle for literal ass wipes, but apparently we have run out of funding to fund ass wipes. Just a random thought- do environmentalists use ass wipes? I’m sure that by the time you’re on your death bed (assuming that you lived the average lifespan), you would at least killed one full grown tree, which would have took more than 40 years to sprout through rough whether and provided shelter for parasite plants, ants, birds, and many other living beings…..just to wipe your ass. How mighty are we humans heh?

So I found a tissue box in the conference room, it says: Royal Gold Luxurious Interleaf Tissues, thicker, stronger for silky comfort, color tinted, 3 ply and 100 % pulp. Wow, just from the name, I feel like the luckiest woman alive. Its blue and feminine, with a lacy border, and it is thick n strong I have to stay. Tho, I think I kill the feminity of it every time I stick it up my nose to stop my snort from dripping over my keyboard and reports.

I hit the button, and I waited by the lift hoping that I wouldn’t bump into anyone. Crossed he road and ran into the shop. I’m not sure if it’s in my head, but I swear that the entire shop was starring at me. I wonder if they could see the skin peeling off my nose from two feet away. But I had my trusty Royal Gold Tissue with me, at least it was an indicator to my spectators that I was ill and THIS is not the way I usually look. Plus, I think my Royal Gold tissue would have added class to my appearance. I mean, how many people out there could have afforded Royal Gold Luxurious Interleaf Tissues, thicker, stronger for silky comfort, color tinted, 3 ply and 100 % pulp just to blow their nose??? It was tissue fit for the king, and it made me feel like royalty. Looks aside tho, I think my only saving grace was my well shaped eyebrows.

In the midst of lunch, I had one of my psychotic compulsions. It was to stuff as many tissues as I can up my nose. I hurried my lunch, and ran back into the office. So here I am, sitting at the top floor of Tenaganita along with my 3 other colleagues that are well scattered across the room, trying to stuff tissue up my nose. Current standing score- 8 Royal Gold Luxurious Interleaf Tissues, thicker, stronger for silky comfort, color tinted, 3 ply and 100 % pulp up my nose. If I hit 10, I’m rewarding myself with one Marlboro Light ciggie. I think it’s a fair trade.

Santa Maria, this fever is killing me. Just switched on Mix FM to listen to the winner of the “Pay your bill” competition. Me and my ass luck, I can’t believe that I’m still hoping for my name to be called out….. and this is coming from a girl that looses her underwear in public and has NEVER won a competition in her life. But honestly, I think my story was among one of the most pathetic cases all, it definitely beats that bimbo who spent all of her ang pau on cookies and was stuck with credit card bills, or hat A-hole that vacationed his savings away. Some people just have it all.

Just heard on the radio that earth hour is around the corner. All the publicity last year, it’s sad how the enthusiasm had simmered off a tad bit this year. I was surprised at the support it managed to rope in last year. I switched off the car lights on the highway and went on a first date for a salsa lesson in a dark room lit with candles. Besides the groping gatal boy that was lurking around the corner, it was a pretty awesome night. Everyone I knew were also doing something to commemorate the hour. Vigils, gatherings or simply just sitting in the dark.

Did the one hour of “lights off” really make a difference in the world or did we go back to slowly murdering our mother when the lights went on again? I think that earth hour was more symbolic rather than an effort to make a difference for most people. Were we saying sorry to mother earth, showing her that we cared but yet, we do not have the will and strength to change our habitual ways? Should we feel proud for observing earth hour or should we feel humiliated for the rest of the 8759 hours that follow in the year which we choose to remain traitors and hypocrites?

Should I take that extra mile and overcome my psychotic compulsion so that I can stop stuffing Royal Gold Luxurious Interleaf Tissues, thicker, stronger for silky comfort, color tinted, 3 ply and 100 % pulp up my nose? Its not about being a nature lover anymore, its not about taking in homeless animals, its not about abstaining from buying leather and all the other things that comes naturally to us. It’s about taking that extra mile and being conscious of our habitual ways………. It’s about putting down my Royal Golden tissue and carrying bigger hankies.

A confession of an NGOholic

All my life I grew up as a daughter of an NGO worker. We lived NGO, we spoke NGO and we ate NGO. Both my siblings ended up working in NGOs and naturally, I followed suit. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Somehow, the corporate world just didn’t seem like me- its scary, with money chasing mean people. Working in an NGO is a total different experience as compared to the usual 9-5 corporate world. We are supposedly paved with good intentions. All the people that I’ve met in the same line were all so lovely, sugar and spice and everything nice. I guess that’s the way we seem from a window. This is a confession of an NGOholic.

I think the main difference between us NGO workers and corporate workers is that work seems rather personal to us. It is almost impossible to stay professional. Work is not just work to us, it is our passion, and it is what we are. There is no clear definition between work and play. There is no clear definition between a colleague and a friend. In fact, I stumble over calling my colleagues by their name or aunty. When words or criticism are exchanged in an NGO, it is not constructive criticism but it is a personal attack. When you compliment someone’s work, it’s complementing the self. Our work makes us who we are.
.
I have stood in front of my boss with tears in my eyes as I was yelled at repeatedly in front a bunch of strangers for forgetting to photocopy the last page of a document. I have been asked by my boss, “Did you go to school?” in front of my colleague. Rather than treating you like any other working adult, bosses tend to treat you like their own children. It somewhat feels like walking into the discipline room every time you are called into the office. I get a shiver down my spine every time I am summoned; therefore I avoid him or her like a plague. Avoiding in return gets me in trouble, because of the lack of communication. It’s a vicious cycle, if you defend your self in front of your boss; you get shot down for the difference in opinion. If you remain quiet, you’re assumed incompetent. What the self defense say? – “FLIGHT”!!!

You would think that once you reach your mid life crisis, gossiping sort of looses its novelty. Well, in my working life, no doubt that it has been a short one, I have learnt, seen, taken part and also victimized by this gossiping cult. The things you get accused of are indeed funny. Among my top 4 accusations’ that I have been faced with in an NGO are: (*drum roll please*)
1) Calling my boss a type of fish ( too rude to mention) on a piece of paper
2) Feeding information to someone that wrote a hate mail against my organization
3) Falsely accusing someone of sexual abuse in the workplace
4) I wake up beside a different man every morning

The funny thing about gossips is that, no matter how severe the crime may sound, the accused will always remain the last one to know. It is a method to avoid all chances for the accused to seek justice or redemption. And people crave for gossip, I mean, who wouldn’t want to know what type of fish I supposedly called my boss? These are the news that will make it to my wall of fame one day. One more thing I realized about gossips that go around, you can’t just avoid it. The best way to stay on top of the game is to be the one spreading the gossip; I have noticed that some of my colleagues have been successful in gaining respect through this way. There is no such thing as confidentiality within the work place, all it needs for a rumor to spread like wild fire is one person to know or assume, or in most cases, fabricate a story. It’s hard to spot a gossip that’s travelling around, because people have a way of being so pleasant and nice to you, that its hard to even assume that such a person would be the Lucifer of the devil’s workshop.

Seniority presidents amongst everything. Experienced and elderly colleagues are very unwelcoming to new people in the organizations. Sometimes, it feels like they would do everything in their might to squeeze you out of the circle or just break your spirit. I admit, it is a great technique. Most of the times when I felt that going to work was the worst part of my day- it was thanks to people at work who were able to break my spirit. It makes you feel like someone had snipped your wings. They are groupish, they share gossip, they judge you and they make your life a living hell. The only way to go about this is by bootlicking. Anyone who has no issues with bootlicking shall flourish in their cult.

Rules and regulations usually work out to the benefit of the organization.
I remember not getting paid for 6 months, but I was required to receive a salary and give the money back to my organization one year after I quit my job so that they could use my salary as petty cash. That’s 6 months of travelling to the office, and 6 months of catching a taxi to the bank, and 6 months of getting harassed by my boss. I was promised a pay of Rm 2500 but I ended up getting paid Rm 1300 even though I was doing the exact same work as the rest of my colleagues. A lack of funding they say, though they could afford to employ another worker after me...i guess they split my pay in two. The pay is always an issue, if they can’t pay you what they promised, they should tell you up front rather than avoiding the question or shrugging it off every time you ask. Come in from 9 to 5, but overtime and time spent at home working goes under the rug. You are required to keep hush regarding any injustice that takes place at the workplace. Discussing/ questioning- even amongst close friends- may be considered a crime. Technically, you are expected to be zombies with no feelings when you commit to an organization; not allowed to talk about your feelings and you are also not allowed to address any sensitive issues with the management.

Sooooo…..how does one deal with issues as such? We don’t. It builds up within us over the months or years, and it eventually breaks you. I have noticed, almost everyone I know working in an NGO has had a nervous breakdown or gone through work depression at one point or the other in their life. Just a few days ago, I was talking to a young boy who was seriously contemplating of taking his life due to work stress in an NGO. I have seen family members that contribute their life’s time break down from betrayal. I have seen my own father who has committed the past 45 years of his life serving the community loose all hope after being accused of swindling money from his organization. If they only knew what his family had to sacrifice, and the amount of his personal money that went to putting a roof and feeding the drug users that he loved very dearly- but none the less, people believed it because it sounded interesting and it spiced up their lame life.

As accusations pile up, I somehow have lost my drive to defend my self. This is a side of me that I hate to be, the door mat that people take advantage of, just because they can. This can somehow be a good thing, or a bad thing…depending on how you look at life. It would be great to be one of those people who don’t give a flying rat’s ass about what people think of them. They seem to be pretty happy and content with life. It’s hard to do. It takes a whole lot of courage and walrus skin. I’m sure, for every advocate/director/CEO of a company/organization, there are hundreds of people who hate them; but yet they strive, and better good grows out of their strength.

This is not hate towards NGOs. I am proud to be a servant of one. This is just reality as I see it, and as I have experienced it. Throughout my growing years, I have heard the most dreadful horrible and outrages things about people who work in the corporate line. Much worse than the above mentioned. People will remain eople no matter where they work. Is the “perfect job” an oxymoron? When I was young, I dreamt of working with orang hutans- seems like a breath of fresh air.

Love Nest

I’ve been having some pretty rough months lately. Once Wednesday, I woke up, and I told myself “ I cant bare to go to work today”. I took an emergency leave; it was an emergency of the self. I woke Charlene up at 10am, grumpiness and all; she joined me for a smoke. We planned out a nice day out, shopping, movie and alcohol.. how soul healing is that? It couldn’t have gotten better.

Before our movie, we had our “Charlene-Kathy” ritual which comes in handy for shit filled days and fun and laughter. One Mango-strawberry margarita for Kathy and one lime margarita for Charlene please!!! Not any margarita, it’s got to be Chili’s top shelf margarita. We had our usual 3 for all, and enjoyed the sour taste of godly nectar on our tongues.

In the midst of all that, I got a call from Leon. “Hunnie, where are you?? I have a surprise for you!!”. OUUU….how exciting!!! A surprise for me, its almost valentines day, and I remember pointing out a beautiful piece of lingerie that we saw online….maybe it arrived early I thought. Leon arrived within a few minutes. EMPTY HANDED. “Where’s the surprise hunnie?”. He reached in his pocket (it couldn’t have been my lingerie, darn), and brought out a little ugly sparrow. Charlene and I were so excited, we immediately rushed to name the little one. Charlene settled with Casper, I settled with Poncho. Currently named: Happy Feet @ Casper @ Poncho. The three of us hurried up to the pet shop, and picked out some bird feed.

Poncho’s first trip to the city was to the cinema. We heard the little tweet chirping away throughout the movie, but there was nothing much we could do. After the movie, we picked up a free sauce trey and a drink mixer from McDonalds’ and hurried down to the bathroom. Since I had the long nails, I pried its mouth open, and Charlene shoved some bird feed down its throat. Pretty scary, I was afraid that I might tear its little beak and Charlene was afraid of choking the little thing. But all was fine.

We took it home, and I attempted feeding time again. This time, Poncho looked excited when it saw its signature McDonalds’ free mixer feeder. As soon as I placed it near its mouth, it gobbled the entire tip. I couldn’t believe the amount that little thing can eat, and I think Poncho has the most efficient bowel system in the world!!! At first we were pretty skeptical that the bird would survive, but judging from the appetite, this little one had a long way to go in life. Charlene and I had our fair share of trying to save birds, it’s quite a tough job and it’s almost impossible for a birdie to survive without its mother.

It’s been two weeks now, and the plan was to wait for Poncho to be big enough to be let go. It’s been two weeks of waking up in the middle of the night to feed it, two weeks of taking it to work, two weeks of travelling with it in the cab and LRT, and two weeks of teaching it how to fly. I have to admit, the ugly tweet has grown on me. I cant imagine not having it around.

I have an ethical dilemma, I don’t believe in keeping birds, coz it’s just not right. Secretly deep down inside, I’m hoping that when I set Poncho free, it would love me enough to not go. Poncho still feeds from the mixer, it hasn’t learned how to peck, which is quite worrying. At the same time, it’s starting to learn how to fly, and I think it’s about time I get it a bigger home- a cage. But when I get a cage, will I ever be able to let it go? If I let it go, will it ever be able to fend for itself?

Sigh, its funny how a little sparrow can brighten your life so much, it was the best Valentine’s gift, better than any lingerie piece.

Have a good one Quintin

I met this boy last year…his name was Quintin….short, cute, and shy, he looked like a little boy. Every time I walked in the house, he would be lying down in front of the TV, fitted perfectly on the two seated sofa, he would jump up, run into the room and put on a shirt that he picked up off the floor. I was shocked when I found out that he was 27, and even more shocked when I heard of stories….apparently, he was known as the terror of the family. Leon and Vernon were his cousins and housemates, they paid for his little room in their apartment, made sure he had his meals and pretty much tried their best to keep him out of trouble.

Quintin was always his daddy’s boy. Apparently, his dad was a bigger terror, and they made the perfect partners in crime terrorizing the town together. The mother was always distant; they never really had a relationship. Two years ago, Quintin’s father took his life, he set himself on fire, and died two days later on the hospital bed…unrecognizable. From then on, Quintin was pretty much homeless, jumping from one friends house to another, mixed with the wrong crowd, and landed in some pretty deep shit once in a while.

Poor boy I thought, every time I looked at him. Leon and Vernon always worried about his drug abuse, they say that staying in the same house with Quintin kept him off the bad company. He reminded me so much of my brother. Quintin was good with his hands, he broke almost everything he touched, but repaired anything that was spoilt. I remember walking into the house once to find an ear bud sticking out of the TV. Apparently, Quintin had figured out how to fix the speakers to their little TV by sticking an ear bud in it. Only Quintin.

A few weeks ago, Leon and I spoke about the possibility of sending him to a rehab, the same rehab that my brother was in. If Zachy could do it, I was certain that Quintin could do it to coz they reminded me of two peas in a pod. Leon posed the idea to Quintin, almost sure that he would disagree, but to our surprise….he said okey. Quintin was pretty hyped up about the whole thing, he asked me about the rehab on a few occasions and he told me one night in his drunken state that he would love to check in rehab the very same day. He pulled me aside and told me how he felt that he was going insane, and how he didn’t kno what he was thinking or even doing sometimes. I remember saying that it’s normal when you’ve been on drugs for so long, but I also told him that being willing to go to rehab is a very brave and strong thing to do. We made a few calls, arranged for an interview, and Leon made some calls to gather the finance, and the plan was all set to go…..we were suppose to check in tomorrow, Wednesday, Febuary 16th.

Two days ago, I got a call at 2 pm from Leon, he said “Kathy, can you call me back, its an emergency!!”. I hate emergencies, its always bad news. Leon sounded so different, panicked, sad, scared, all at once. He told me that Quintin had passed away. I immediately rushed to GH, and walked about to find Leon. There he was, sitting on a stone with his head down. I hugged him as tight as I could, as he told me how Quintin had committed suicide by jumping off a building. He survived the jumped, but passed away in the hospital two hours later. We walked together into the emergency room, and sat beside his lifeless body. What a weird feeling.
There were some complications at the hospital. Apparently, Quintin had converted to Islam two years ago, but nobody knew. The body was taken by Jabatan Agama Islam Selangor (JAIS), and they were to organize the funeral. There were four of us present at the hospital; we took the opportunity to say a decade of the rosary for him, before he was taken away. The funeral was the next day, not many family members turned up at the Muslim cemetery. They brought in the body, all wrapped up in white. One of the members from the JAIS committee took lead, and explained the process to us. The white was to represent his purity, he was brought onto the earth pure, and that’s the way he should be put back into the earth. They opened the white cloth, and showed us his face. They did a grate job covering up the bruises. He looked so….Quintin. The few of us that were there took the opportunity to put the sign of the cross on his forehead. The people from JAIS were not as anal as we thought they would be, they were pretty understanding, polite and respectful.

We gathered in silence, as they read the verses from the Quaran. The rest of us prayed in silence. I guess we were all praying for pretty much the same thing, it didn’t really matter who or when or why, the ritual was peaceful and important. They placed him in the ground, we couldn’t help but keep the “throw in a rock” ritual. After burying him, a few people poured water over the grave. They said that, when you pour water, and grass grows over the grave, the grass will pray for Quintin when nobody is praying for him. I thought it was pretty sweet. The representatives from JAIS explained to us that we could go visit the grave anytime we wanted, but we were not allowed to conduct any rituals in the cemetery. I guess it was a pretty fair and reasonable deal. They apologized for having done what they did, and they thanked us for our corporation. All the things I’ve heard about JAIS since I was young, they are pretty intimidating, but I guess there are some exceptions to the bunch.

I thought about Quintin these past few nights, and then I thought about my 20 year old cousin that took her life a few years ago. The thought of suicide. All those things that they teach in religion, about the souls never being forgiven. Not to be disrespectful, but it can’t be true. How can anyone be in their right mind to commit suicide? Can life be more scary than jumping down a building?? I cant imagine Quintin as himself saying “ I’m going to die”. So sweetheart, rest in peace. I hope that wherever you may be, it’s better than the life that you had on earth. I’m sorry that life was tough for you, I’m sorry that you didn’t have enough love, I’m sorry that we nobody realized how much you were going through, and most of all, I’m sorry that we were too late for you. Please know, that there are people who will miss you, and there are people who loved you. I hope you’re reunited with your daddy, go paint the town red with your new found wings hunnie!!!

The Ugly Truth

On a first conventional date or in conversations leading to future romantic involvements, it’s almost a stencil for partners to ask questions about past relationships. I personally, dread answering anything of such manner. I don’t recall answering any of these questions directly. Why do people even ask such questions? Isn’t it a bit too personal to reveal on the first date? How about waiting a year or two to get that touchy?


“How many relationships have you had?”
Ermmm…. Do flings that last longer than actual relationships count? Do relationships that last for less than a month count? How bout boys I dated that I denied dating? Oh, or the boys that took the best of my commitment phobia out of me?


“When was your last relationship?”
Ermmmm….. Does the four months trying-to-break-up count as me being in the relationship? Once again, are they asking about my “relationship-relationship” or are they just referring to my relationships? Hmm…..how bout defining “relationship” for me please?


“Why did you end things?”
Ermmm……….should I be up front with my commitment phob? Is it ethically okey to break up with someone because he was clingy? How do I explain things like : My ex-boyfriend tried to jump off my balcony every time I tried to end things” or I hated the way the dude numbered everything he said or “My ex-boyfriend thought that he was the son of god/ Archangel Michael’s evil twin brother/ the fallen angel put on earth to save the earth from dooms day in the year 2012, and that I was the chosen one to bare his child that will be the next messiah on earth … HOW???


When I sense the conversation heading that way, I usually change the subject. And to shut the persistent ones up, I slash off a couple of people from my “ex-boyfriend” list according to the numbers that made it to my “real relationships” list… which is approximately in the region of four…maybe.


I never ask questions related to relationships, and I try to avid this conversation for as long as possible, stretching it to the last thread. In fact, I refrain from even mentioning the “R” word. If I were to psychoanalyze myself, I would say that I have inner fears, and somewhere deep down inside, I am subconsciously anxious about being the second best, or knowing that my date is still hung up on some other chick, or worse, he got dumped by the woman that he loved. To the contrary, I’d rather date a dumper than a dumped for two reasons; he didn’t really fancy the girl that much, plus, if he has a history of dumping people- that could mean that he has a commitment phobia- which could mean that the future relationship wouldn’t last that long- which is perfect!, in most instances.


I rate the depth of my relationships by its duration. If it lasts for more than six months, there must be some sort of heart involved in it, meaningggggggggggg….it's kinda about time to talk about the past relationships, as part of the whole “getting to know each other better” thingy. So now, all the bits and pieces of random mentions come together to form a jigsaw puzzle. We finally know. The only problem is, I haven’t seen the actors in the play…. and that jigsaw puzzle I mentioned, it kinda looks like a perfect painting that only God could have painted. Gorgeous looking women with never ending legs dancing away with my man under the moonlight; beautiful lustrous hair on a face with dimples having a picnic in the park with the sunray shining on her milky skin, women that sing with angel voices and write poetry for my man, endless joy and laughter and over pouring love beaming through their smiles. Nothing near to the truth….or is it??


This isn’t the illusion of insanity; this is bang your head on the hard wall nuts! Mystery sucks, it really fucks with your mind. So the question is, do I really have to know to get to know the person better? How bad a policy is “you are what you are now”? This might just be me justifying myself, but I don’t think you should judge someone based on their past relationship. I guess that works for me, in many ways. Not knowing leads to not comparing which leads to you just being you, and not trying to live up to some picture perfect image of “the best girlfriend he has ever had”.

Your betrayal, your deceit,
So carefully planned; right from the start,
So flawlessly executed; all the way through,
So much hurt anticipated; right to the end,
Nothing else seemed real, except for the lies.

Your betrayal, your deceit,
It’s an emotional ambush,
Effortlessly explained, hastily forgotten,
Is it yours, or is it my denial?

Your betrayal, your deceit,
Wrapped itself in sympathy, stole itself forgiveness,
With a promise of a dawn of a new day,
And a pledged to make it right again,
A mission for a journey to what it was.

It is the empathy that you take for granted,
When you described your soul to me,
It was the trust that you befooled,
When your were reborn in my eyes again,
Your regret embraced, forgiveness showered,
But yet, your promise lingers.

New Year with a pop!!

It’s my first day of work and I’m taking this few minutes to share with you a pick from the top of my mind. Honestly, its been on top of my mind for the past two days. Every time i fly into a "normal" mode, i think of the incident and i start blushing. OMG.

BLUSHHHHH*

Two days ago, about 9 of us from the office including Kat J gathered for a pool/ house party. They day went on great; it was lovely and all. There were much wine and alcohol going around, which nobody really hesitated to consume. Kat and i had our own concoction of a cocktail called "fuck it". We downed our “fuck its” with full of gusto, much needed gusto, before discovering a new cocktail called “I don’t know what the fuck that is”. .

Time passed by joyously, and the herd decided to move to the pool. I put on my pink little bikini and jumped into the pool along with Leon and two other (most adorablestttt in the whole wide world) volunteers from the office. The swim was quite a splash. Like first time guppies in the water, we quickly swam towards the water slide. We queued in one by one, and did a belly toss down the slide. I was the last to go.

wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwweeeeeeeeeee......plop!!!

The water below was barely four feet high. I got up to get my balance, as I starred at the others to get approval of my "amazing" belly toss. I looked straight ahead at the others and I saw a mortified look on one of the volunteers face, and he, looked at me with his hands on his man boobs, saying "FIX it !". My natural reaction was "Huh???". "Fix what?" I asked. Then he repeated himself, "FIX IT" !!, pointing to his boob again.

I looked down my chest, and there it was... my shameless nipple against the shimmer of my pink bikini, popping out of the bikini top. I hastily pulled up my bikini, and avoided all eye contact. I contemplated keeping the story to myself, but I had to explain my “suddenly-weird behavior” to the boyfriend. Instead of some support to the local voyeur, I think I made his day to his funny bone.

To avoid further awkwardness, I came clean and laughed about It along with the others. I felt like dying. I tried to convince Kat to kinda flash one of her nipples as a test of friendship. I still wish she had….

So here I am, sitting. Dreading the walk of shame as I procrastinate collecting my monthly salary with the fear that I might bump into “the –one- that- saw- IT”. The morning kinda completed itself as my colleagues decided to fill Charlene in on my “wardrobe malfunction” as they would call it.

So…I guess , my new year kinda started with a “pop”. The Big Guy didn’t bother to spare me for the new year. I hope it dusnt pave my luck for the rest of the year.

Her destiny is g.r.e.a.t

His mother suffered a great deal in life only to end up crippled on a bed. This made him loose faith in his creator, the only thing that mattered to him was taken away from him. “How can there be a god so cruel?”. And so he says, “ I wish that her misery would just end”. He believed that her destiny was one filled with misery.

There is this special gift we have in us, the power to change the world. We human beings are great, we have magic in us that can touch the hearts of others. Just because someone is in a comma, or unconscious on their death bed- doesn’t mean that they are not contributing to the world. Everyone has a purpose here on earth, and the earthly sufferings might just be worth the joy and change that they bring through the process.

I’ve seen these bed ridden matured people lying on their beds- completely depend on their caretakers. Some of them stare straight into their children’s eyes, without recognizing their own flesh and blood. Tubes running through their mouths, rashes on their skin… “Why my mother he asks”.

As a stranger looking from a window, I see the people that live around her. I see the caretakers that care to all of her needs. I see the smile on their face, the love in their touch and the compassion that they have in them.

May it be that the purpose of her suffering is to change the lives of her caretakers?? May it be that the reason for her to be lying on that bed is to make her son a stronger person? To make bystanders think of their own mother???

No life on this earth is useless. People make changes, wherever they are. A smile on a face may make a world of a difference in a stranger’s life. The journey we take is one to be celebrated for all the joy, not to be mourned for all the sorrows.

I believe that our destiny changes every second we live, because human beings are ever evolving. We are called beings- because we are being mad each moment. We are ever evolving, and our destiny changes along with our thought; we are great- we shall be what we wish to be.
Our destiny is not made by chance, or some luminous man with a scripture. It is a matter of our choices in life. We can’t just wait for our destiny to happen, we live our destiny. It does not exist a second beyond NOW.

Who is Mautik Hani?

Do we care?

This is who she is not:
She is not a 'statistic.'
She is not an ‘isolated incident’.

Mautik Hani was a woman.

She was a daughter; she was someone’s friend.
Somebody called her ‘my neighbour’; another called her ‘my sister’.

Mautik Hani had dreams to chase;
questions to ask; memories to share.

There were things that made her sad;
and there were things that made her laugh.

She had feelings; she had ideas; and she had gifts to share
Her body could be flooded with pain, or pierced with joy.
She carried burdens, and somewhere, she bore hope.

Mautik Hani was a person.
No different from you,
No different from me.

We asked her in.
And then we let her die.
~
Bruised. Beaten. Her bones exposed.
The smell of rotting flesh permeated the air.
Bound. Gagged. Unconscious.
Her body weary; attacked; abused.
She slipped away from consciousness.
As did we.
~
In the past two years, Tenaganita has handled 265 cases of domestic workers who’ve been beaten, raped, deprived of wages, harassed, violated, kept in isolation, tortured and abused. While we’ve been able to get some compensation for cases of unpaid wages, not a single case of violence or abuse has gone to court or been brought to justice.

Police investigations are sluggish, court systems inaccessible, and processes drag on endlessly. Often, the victims drop the cases out of weariness, and go home as the final tethers of hope snap. Some wait persistently, stuck in the hole of trauma, each passing day taking away with it possibilities of justice.

We see the numbers grow, we watch the statistics swell, and we close our eyes as the perpetrators walk away.

The stories of these women are horrific;

Sodomised.

Scalded.

Lacerations on the vagina.

Forced to eat cockroaches.

Mouth stuffed with chilies.

Drowned.

Burned.

Face attacked with a fish scraper.

Raped.

These stories are real. These women are real. Each one is testament to the reality we’ve created around us.

We keep these women unseen and unheard, invisible from the world. They are present only when we want them to work for us, and yet we won’t even recognize what they do as ‘work’.

We are so afraid they’ll run away; we convince ourselves they’ll pick up ‘diseases’ and infect us. We tell ourselves that we’re just protecting our families. We quietly feel superior to them. We don’t let them speak to the neighbours. We worry when they have friends. We feel their work is simple, and yet we don’t do it ourselves. We throw a fit when we need to work on weekends, yet we won’t even grant them a day off. We expect pay raises, and cluck our tongues in shock when they ask for it. We hear about ‘a maid who was abused’ and quickly share the story about ‘the maid who stole from her employer’. We look at the way our friends treat them, convince ourselves that ‘we’re not like that’ and yet we stay silent about it.

This is not a generic ‘we’. It’s a ‘we’ made up of you, of me, of your sister, your friend, your husband, your wife, your boss, your neighbour, your father, your teacher — every person in this country is contained in that ‘we’. Make no mistake of this; we let this happen.

We let this happen because we’ve ignored the thousands of signs that have led to this point. Signs contained in domestic workers whose wages were never paid, who’ve been kept in isolation, who’ve been made to work every day of their lives, who’ve been slapped, who’ve been burned, who’ve been put down. Do a thousand domestic workers need to die before we decide it is enough? Or have we removed ourselves so far from our conscience that this becomes something we merely wince at but stay silent about?

Our actions have harmed these women so severely.

But so have our inactions.

Silence has a way of legitimizing violence, and our deafening silence when faced with the realities of domestic workers in our country has done exactly that.

Mautik Hani died at 36 years old from the beatings of her employers.

Mautik Hani also died because we brushed off each case that came before her as an ‘isolated incident’.

We saw the signs, we closed our eyes, and we let her die.


by Katrina Jorene Maliamauv, 26th October 2009.