Why we should vote

This was first published on The Malaysian Insider on 28 November 2010.

Democracy is a powerful notion.

It allows; an octogenarian black woman, a single-mother working on double shifts, a 40 year-old unemployed college drop-out, a life-saving surgeon, a homeless war veteran with one arm, a 19 year-old exchange student in Europe, a young beautiful stripper, Joe the gay plumber and Mary the unhappy housewife; to choose who they want to run their country.

It is perhaps the only rare time when every single person, who has not relinquished his or her civil and political rights, will ever be treated equally. Think about it: is there any other time when everyone’s voices are valued and measured in the same manner regardless of their socio-economic background? And because of this power and the sanctity of it, the State will try its best to provide each and everyone the means to exercise this inalienable right to vote.

Photo above: Robin Carnahan, a Democrat candidate for the Missouri State House of Representatives lost in the recent Mid-Term election.

Democracy can be a dangerous notion.

In order to wipe out competition; political opponents, women candidates and pro-democratic mullahs are intimidated or killed. Women who decide to shed their proverbial and literal burqas in order to have their photographs laminated on their voter registration cards are being threatened to death or killed.

For the lucky ones who manage to emerge unscathed, they will walk miles and miles to the polling stations in the harsh winter climate wearing only inferior Croc-style shoes on their freezing feet and determination on their faces already showing signs of pre-mature aging.

I was fortunate enough to witness how democracy was carried out in the United States of America (USA) and Afghanistan. Although their spirits are as different as night and day, the essence of the notion remains the same. Hence, for the precise reason that democracy is such a powerful notion that many Afghans are being persecuted for embracing it. To me, this is the first reason why we should vote.

I love elections. There is nothing more exciting and inspiring than watching regular citizens from any given layer of society share one common belief that each of them has the opportunity to be a part of that intricate fabric that will one day adorn their government.

When I am at a polling station, I am amazed and comforted by the thought that no matter how insignificant one is in the scheme of things, his or her vote will be counted. No matter what the election outcome is, that person’s existence that day has mattered greatly. Sadly, it is too rare to witness such a sense of importance and purpose in regular people throughout our daily lives, but when such opportunity presents itself, it is truly an honour.

When my alarm clock went off at 4:30am on 2 November 2010, I jumped off my bed and was ready in advance of my 5:30am pick-up. John Chasnoff, the Programme Manager for the American Civil Liberties Union for Eastern-Missouri (ACLU, E-M) (insert hyperlink: http://www.aclu-em.org/), pulled up at the entrance of my hotel on South-Jefferson Avenue, St. Louis City, a few minutes after 5:30am.

Photo above: Volunteers at the legal command centre of St. Louis. It was still dark outside. Polling stations open at 6am in the United States on Election Day.

Photo above: Finally things got a bit more exciting as the day progressed. Volunteers gathered together to discuss a complaint.

It was still dark and the roads were completely deserted when we arrived at a Reformed Judaism temple serving as the legal command centre for St. Louis’s Voter Protection Programme (insert hyperlink: http://www.advancementproject.org/our-work/voter-protection) that day. The programme was run by Advancement Project with the help of a coalition of non-governmental organisations such as ACLU, National Disability Rights Network, etc.

We were greeted by Denise Lieberman, a civil rights lawyer, who had just arrived at the center with her arms full. I quickly established that she was the team leader as she wasted no time in turning on the lights and coffee machine, setting up the centre, getting someone to pick up assortments of bagels and cream cheeses and organising the volunteers who were beginning to trickle in to the centre.

Most volunteers were lawyers on standby to address complaints of electoral irregularities. The day started off slowly and I was beginning to feel convinced that voters in America do not need protection after all and the existence of such programme was merely a frivolity and not necessity.

Throughout my trip in the USA, I asked some Americans whether electoral fraud is a concern in the country. Most of them smiled politely as if it was the most ridiculous question they had ever heard. According to many, it would be extremely difficult but not impossible, to find someone trying to vote twice since the real challenge is actually to get more Americans to vote. Apparently, the USA is notoriously known for low voter turnout, except for the last Presidential election when throngs of young voters turned up to vote.

What intrigued me the most was the absence of photo ID as a requirement to vote. When I pressed on about how such a system could potentially become a target for abuse and fraud, most of them just shrugged and said, “You just need to trust.” It was my turn to smile politely.

While refilling my third cup of coffee that morning, I stroke up a conversation with another volunteer. According to him, many Americans do not have any form of photo identification since not all Americans possess a passport or driver’s license; the two most common documents with photos attached. As such, it makes it virtually impossible for the electoral law to include photo ID as a requirement to vote. He believes that one of the main reasons why some Americans make this into such a big issue is to prevent certain voters from voting for the opposition.

Sure enough, one of the complaints which subsequently came in that morning was of a polling officer who insisted that a voter must present a photo ID in order to vote. Later on, John and I were sent to a polling station to investigate a complaint against a Republican challenger who was allegedly telling polling officers that the voting machines were faulty and in order for a republican vote to be registered in the system, voters must press the button for the Republican candidate repetitively. Another complaint received was from a blind voter who was concerned that the polling officer might not have read out the whole list of candidates and propositions on the ballot paper.

Once we determined that the day was not going to get more exciting, John was ready to cast his vote at the polling station where he registered. As long as I am not John’s employer or labour union representative, I was allowed to accompany and assist him at the voting booth, in which I did. Since USA is pretty much a country that seems to rely heavily on trust, nobody bothered to question whether John genuinely needed my assistance in the first place. I also noticed that there was no police presence in most of the polling stations we went. The only time when we actually saw them was when they came to collect the ballot boxes.

 

Photo above: John Chasnoff distributing electoral materials at one of the polling stations. We had to make sure that we were at least 25 feet away from the entrance of the polling station. A voter arrived at the polling station with his granddaughter.

When I talked to John about my experience in Afghanistan as a Civic Education Officer and Political Rights Verification Officer, I was reminded of how different the atmosphere was on election day in Afghanistan. At the end of the day, we would have witnessed or received countless of reports on the number of fraud, intimidation and violence committed all over the country.

I think there are many reasons why some people do not vote. It could be because they have lost faith in the whole democratic process. It could also be because they do not know who to vote for or care enough for what the candidates stand for. It could be because they are not physically or mentally fit to vote. But there are also many who do not vote simply because they think their votes do not matter and election period is just another day for politicians to hurl malicious accusations at each other in public. For these people, here’s news for you.

Democracy is not free but often comes with a huge price. It is not handed down to us on a silver platter but one that is often filled with blood and difficult compromises. For many of us who live in relatively peaceful and politically stable countries, we have become myopic of how our fore parents had fought hard for it many years ago. It would appear that the more democratic a country is, the less interested her people are in her political affairs. For isn’t this the ugly side of human nature that it is when something is taken away from you that you will only come to value it the most?

So vote while you still have the right to do so.

Reconnecting with one's identity

The year was 1996.

I was 15 years younger and also 15kg lighter (if only they are both inversely related).

My only worries were passing my examinations and whether the boy whom I had a huge crush on would give me the time of the day. In my mind, we would have beautiful babies together.

The thought of returning home never occurred to me but it didn’t stop me from being an active member of the Malaysian Student Society. United Kingdom seemed far better off then.

Although it has been 15 years, I still think about the days when we, the Malaysian students, put up a swashbuckling performance at the annual Malaysian Evening gala. We did Malaysia proud by being hospitable, warm and friendly ambassadors. Our enthusiasm and solidarity were infectious and we built friendships that transcended ethnicity and religious affiliations through those years.

I miss the days when the Malay-Boys-Who-Can-Sing-And-Play-Music living downtown would invite my friend and me for home-cooked fish head curry. Apparently the fishmonger next door was selling the discarded heads for peanuts and like monkeys, we devoured every single morsel with much gusto and appreciation.

We also had a Malay friend who could measure the saltiness of his girlfriend’s satay sauce just by sniffing it. Hers was the best satay sauce I have ever tasted. To reciprocate, my friend and I would make popiah and to our great surprise, they were well-received.

I mustn’t forget our one and only Indian Malaysian student. He was known as the quiet and shy guy who was joined at the hip to two other Chinese Malaysian students. They were really nice because they never forgot my birthday when I was alone during Easter holidays.

That was the only time when I remembered being Malaysian.

Fifteen years later, I am older and the questions running through my mind are of a different nature.

Will my marriage survive? Will I become a mother? Have I done enough for my ageing parents? Will I be able to afford a vacation in the North Pole so that I can see the polar bears? Will I die for my country? Will Malaysia ever change?

At 35, I have become cynical and resentful of so many things in life. What is certain is that the years have served as a cruel reminder of how brutal time and poor eating habits can be.

Having worked and lived in four war-torn countries has somehow contributed a lot to my increasing lack of faith and respect for humankind. Although Malaysia is not at war, apathetic Malaysians combined with a morally corrupt government do very little to change my perception of human beings.

At the end of the day, I deduce we’re all just the same.

That changed on April 2, 2011 at Fort Cornwallis, Penang.

Perhaps it’s true that everything does happen for a reason. What made me leave my cushy life as an expatriate’s wife to accept the challenging task of helping Malaysians understand the Federal Constitution? I desperately needed to restore my faith as a Malaysian again.

The “Rock for Rights” concert organised by Bar Council’s MyConstitution Campaign, Saya Anak Bangsa Malaysia and Frinjan on April 2 reminded me of the semangat Malaysia I felt 15 years ago, but only better as I didn’t have to be in a foreign land to feel that I belonged.

While working on this project, I got to know many Malaysians from very different walks of life and was privileged to learn from them. Many of them are either students or hold regular jobs such as teaching, marketing, public relations, writing, computer programming, event planning, environmentalist and lawyer.

Being an amateur who struggled to put together a concert, the bands and those involved were understanding, patient and forgiving. Many of them were just grateful that they had this rare opportunity to share their artistic talent as musicians. They are clearly no ordinary bands as they were not driven by monetary gain but only by their passion as musicians and being Malaysian.

I asked Darren Teh from An Honest Mistake why they had decided to participate in this project.

He replied: “We want to bring our music to the next level which is to cause change in someone’s life. Being part of this project helps us achieve that. When people listen to our song and know the reason behind the lyrics, it helps them connect with us ‘emotionally’. Besides that, knowing that we are adding value to the community, raising awareness of our rights and educating them through music — we are going beyond the boundaries of music, beyond just simple listening pleasure. We are proud to have been part of this entire project.”

I asked Petak Daud, an 18-year-old musician who stunned the crowd with his soft acoustic renditions of songs that speak loudly against the abuse of power by the police and government, what gave him the courage to sing such songs. He said: “The situation surrounding us is becoming worse. We’re like decomposing flesh which in a matter of time will disappear altogether. This is my mission. I want to wake Malaysians up so that they can see the abuse taking place in this country.”

If a seemingly shy 18-year-old boy who unwittingly scratches his head while he speaks on stage has the courage to sing such songs, why are most of us still keeping silent?

Azmyl Yunor has a theory — shopping malls and capitalism. According to him, Malaysia’s rapid economic growth over the last three decades has metamorphosised us from being Malaysians to creatures who are continuously motivated by economic gain above everything else. Before we can truly understand who we are as a nation, we occupy our time by shopping.

I told Azmyl that I was shocked by how passive the crowd was at Fort Cornwallis. While some of us cheered and danced to the music, many kept their seats warm by just watching without any expression on their faces. He smiled at my observation and shared his other theory of self-censorship.

Decades of living in a country where preventive laws and religious teachings are imposed have taught us that freedom of expression is vulgar and wrong. He said music is a form of escape. He wouldn’t be caught dead screaming on top of his lungs and rolling on the floor under normal circumstances.

The night was high when Barcode got everyone up to sing the “Negaraku”. I was exhilarated and I sang our anthem like how most kids would sing to Justin Bieber these days. And like the cool night breeze that provided us with much comfort, the affirmation that I love Malaysia came.

Ammar Khairi from Maharajah Commission shared similar sentiments. He said: “I sincerely hope that there will be many more patriotic souls in Malaysia as opposed to nationalists or, even worse, haters. The difference is, a patriotic person would give his heart and soul for the country and yet continually criticise for a better Malaysia, whereas nationalistic pride is nothing more than waving the flag and declaring your allegiance blindly and accepting everything that is told to you by the powers-that-be as the supreme truth.”

Later that night, the party continued. We, the Malaysians, shared and celebrated our identity by laughing and dancing the night away. Fellow columnist June Rubis, who had flown in all the way from Sarawak to be our emcee (and to be starved as she emceed for 12 hours straight), screamed on top of her lungs, “I love you, you and you!” She whispered to me and said she would do it all over again.

I stayed high for the next couple of days. Fifteen years is a long wait after all. 

Our past

Lately, through some miraculous intervention, I’ve ran into a couple of old friends whom I haven’t seen or got in touch with for a long time. When it happens once, you think it’s a coincidence. Twice, it’s purely luck. Thrice, surely someone (or if you’re religious, God) is trying to send you a message.

Since I grew up in Klang, most of my old school mates are from there. It’s not a big town and I often go back to visit my parents who still live there. As for Kuala Lumpur, it’s much bigger in terms of size and population but still, majority of the people seem to hang out at the same spot; shopping malls and popular cafes. Yet, I hardly bump into anyone for the past few years.

Never mind the fact that I travel a lot because emails and social network services have allowed long lost friends to reconnect easily across the globe. Yet, I hardly receive any email or friend request from my childhood friends.

Since I returned to Malaysia slightly more than a month ago, I’ve somehow reconnected with some old friends whom I never thought I would see again. The weirdest thing was, it wasn’t planned at all, except for one who reappeared suddenly after seven years through Facebook.

In one occasion, it had been rather spontaneous and turned out to be enjoyable. Another was just plain awkward and slightly uncomfortable because I couldn’t remember her name. The most recent one, which happened today, was a real shocker which serves as a wake-up call or rather a huge slap in the face.

Today’s gathering was something extraordinary. An old friend brought some of us together after more than fifteen years. He was known as a funny, warm, charming, cheerful and handsome guy. The thing is, when age has finally caught up with you, there are many things which you tend to forget, especially in my case since I have a very bad memory.

But I do remember that he was funny and easy going. I also remember that he had a unique long name which was somehow related to one of the X-Files main characters (and I was right!). Finally, I also remember that the last time I heard about him, he was flying all over the world as an air steward. Come to think about it, he was the perfect guy for the job; cheerful disposition, charming and pleasant. OK, OK, he was cute too.

So anyway, I was glad that because of him, I was reminded of my past, something which I have forgotten and was too busy to remember. The sad thing is, I am not able to thank him for this.

Today’s gathering was to pay him our last respect as he passed away unexpectedly. May he rest in peace.

Although we haven’t been in touch for over fifteen years, I felt an uncomfortable sensation upon learning this sad news. I felt guilty for not knowing him better even though his name was brought up occasionally when some of us do meet up. I felt shameful that it takes the loss of a precious life in order for many of us to see each other again.

When I was going out with my husband before we got married, I was often consumed with jealousy whenever I knew that he was still in touch with his ex’es. He told me this: “Even though we’re (his ex’es and him) not together anymore, she was part of my life, part of who I am. The memory we had together will always remain in my mind.”

I’ve learned from him that no matter what happened, we should be thankful for the people who have touched our lives and whether we like it or not, nothing can erase that away. It’s part of your past and who you are.

I guess I’m writing this because I’m being reminded that it’s not often when good people enter your life. When they do, treasure it before it’s too late. These group of friends today were part of a crucial phase of my life. It was a phase of untainted innocence and idealism which unfortunately diminish with time. It was a phase of growing up and slowly learning the harsh reality of life and yet, privileged to be able to look back and laugh ourselves silly at what happened during that period of our youth together.

These are the friends whom I am honoured to have shared an exclusive experience together.

Sex, thugs and NGOs in Cambodia

At a cursory glance, it’s easy to regard Phnom Penh as Bangkok’s less developed, poorer and “innocent” cousin. In many ways, this is true.

Here, there are many majestic pagodas situated in almost every corner, making them practical landmarks while navigating the small city. The King and Buddhist monks are highly revered by its people.

Every single day, the drones of four-wheeled tuks-tuks can be heard early in the morning without fail while ubiquitous street vendors accessorize the city landscape.

Like Thailand, there are more than a dozen of cramped markets selling all sorts of cheap silk and wooden handicrafts. The ingredients used in Khmer cuisine are similar to Thai minus the hotness.

Before the recent economic depression, hundreds of thousands of women trooped to work in garment factories, spending hours putting together clothes for big labels such as Gap, Banana Republic, Abercrombie and Finch, Ralph Laurent and Tommy Hilfiger. Earning about USD50 to USD80 a month, most of these clothes cost more than their monthly salary a piece.

Yet, many girls aspire to be garment factory workers. They drop out from schools, leave their homes in the village to attend training for three months before joining their “sisters” in the exploit by industrialized nations. What we spend for USD80 at a fraction of a minute, can feed their entire family for a month.

What makes Phnom Penh innocent compared to Bangkok is the absence of red light districts where  sex industry is part of the tourist attraction. You still see the occasional local young girls escorting “barangs” (foreigners) in the city, but not as conspicuous as in Bangkok.

That’s how most tourists would think of Phnom Penh; just a charming developing city with happy and friendly people. If they have lived here long enough like me, and work in the field that I do, there is a much uglier and sinister side of the city than Bangkok.

Unlike Thailand, majority of the sex workers in Cambodia are being forced into prostitution.

Unlike Thailand, there is no specific districts or locations where strip bars, brothels and sex shows operate on a nightly basis.

Here, everything is carried out more discretely and hence gives the impression that sex is not for sale in Cambodia.  Because it’s so discrete, nobody knows the brutality of this sleazy and inhumane business.

Not only is sex for sale here, the girls and boys are as well. Many of them have been sold by their own family as sex slaves to meet the perpetual sexual demands of expat and local men while temporarily feeding the basic needs of their families.

This is not the only ugly and sinister part. Many of these girls and boys are under the age of 16. Here, it is a paradise for paedophiles.

In Cambodia, the responsibility of taking care of the family lies in the daughter. Boys are often given more opportunity to attend schools while girls remain at home to take care of household chores or get a job.

If this isn’t enough, there is another solution.

They are sold to traffickers or pimps. These girls are supposed to work as prostitutes to pay off their debts. The trick is, they don’t receive any payment in return and hence holding them as financial hostage forever.

Sexual slavery, like any other form of slavery, is a multi-million dollar industry.

If the girls try to escape, they are beaten up, tortured and threatened to death. They receive similar treatment if they don’t smile and seduce customers or have the audacity to reveal any hint of coercion from their handlers. So, customers go on thinking that they sell their bodies voluntarily.

Remember, they don’t even get paid.

Because Cambodia is considered less developed and poorer, it’s infested with hundreds of international NGOs, pouring in millions of dollars to help the people, to free them from any kind of bondage. In the end, the majority of people who do benefit from this “industry” are NGO workers, companies who provide the logistics for NGOs, the government and the lowest of the lower income group.

I recently had the opportunity to visit an international NGO providing free formal education and vocational skills training programmes to children and youths living in Steung Meancheay, a garbage dump in Phnom Penh.

When I entered the training compound, I was astounded by the extravagant infrastructure on its 5 hectare land. After more than one hour of tour around the whole area, I concluded that this is the Disneyland of Vocational Skills Training Centre.

With 600 full time staff and USD5 million annual budget for its operating cost alone, it’s no wonder that the hospitality, cooking, hairdressing and spa training areas are able to simulate what you would get at a five star hotel.

All  200 students are smartly dressed in clean and pressed uniforms. The products used at the hairdressing training are all genuine L’Oreal and Evian brands, none of the counterfeited ones used by the other training centres.

They are even expanding their training centre to include a full size swimming pool, basketball and tennis courts for their students. It’s even better than the school I attended in Malaysia.

The Head of Public Relations told us that all students are guaranteed jobs with the tourism industry upon graduation.

While I listened with great amazement, my heart was filled with sadness. Sadness for the millions of children from low income group who are not able to share such privilege.

I have been visiting many governmental and non-governmental training centres for disadvantaged group in Cambodia. It is part of my job to gather information on how to improve the training curriculum of the NGO I am volunteering for. None of them could ever compete with the Disneyland of Vocational Skills Training Centre. The quality of training is far below reasonable standard and most of the trainees do not benefit from job placement upon graduation.

One day, I asked a local colleague of mine whether any of the rescued women who have been sold as sex slaves (the NGO I work for provides rehabilitation, training and reintegration of trafficked women) comes from Steung Meancheay.

He replied, “None.”

I expressed my surprise, seeing how much poorer the families living in the dumps are and hence presumably more desperate.

He answered solemnly, “Nobody wants to touch these girls from Steung Meacheay. They are dirty and they have diseases.”

Then, it dawned on me. Unless you’re rich or an “untouchable” ; the lowest of the lower income group, you will continue to struggle and suffer like the majority of the people I meet here.

Note: This article was first published at Loyar Burok, a leading human rights portal run by a group of young lawyers in Malaysia.

Of childhood idealism

 

(Picture above: Students at the Mittapheap Primary School)

Those of you who have watched the Pixar animation Ratatouille will remember the scene where food critic, Anton Ego, floated down memory lane as soon as he had his first bite of Remy’s special ratatouille. My trip to Kampong Chnang yesterday was precisely so, except it didn’t really remind me of anything I did when I was a child. It did much more than that. It allowed me to live part of my imagination when I was a child.

Most Malaysians my generation will remember popular local children’s tales based on characters such as Pak Pandir and Sang Kancil in primary school. These simple tales not only impart moral values and wisdom, it made the Malay kampong (village) life sounded charming and yet so foreign for many of us who live in bigger towns or cities.

I don’t know about you, but whenever I was asked in school to draw a house, for some reason, a wooden house on stilts was always a natural choice. Then, there would be visions of chickens running freely underneath the house, an orchard filled with bananas, rambutans and jackfruits by the side and not forgetting the glorious picture of a sun (it didn’t matter whether it was rising or setting but it just had to be in the picture) on the horizon. I don’t know why, but the Malay kampong life was so fascinating and exotic to me.

Being in Kampong Chnang, I was awakened by all the forgotten senses I had as a child; mainly innocence and the simplicity of life. It was a little bit like that eccentric character of Beatrix Potter and her sketching of Peter Rabbit coming to life. The only difference was that the actual wooden houses I saw along my journey were a hundred times more magnificent than what I had imagined as a child. You could see that the local villagers live a modest life but at the same time, you can’t help but notice the careful and loving attention they gave to their houses. Their architecture may be traditionally Khmer but you can still see the French influence on the louver windows painted in navy blue.

The roofs are particularly beautiful. Unlike the common tin or thatched roofs you would normally associate with traditional Malay wooden houses, many are made from beautiful tiles giving them a striking resemblance to the roofs seen on Chinese Buddhist temples.

There were very few cars and most people travelled by bicycles or bullock carts along the mostly narrow unpaved laterite soil. Many of them, sporting the ubiquitous kromar (see above), a versatile Cambodian scarf used for almost anything from being a turban to strapping babies on one’s body, were seen going about unassumingly with their daily lives. On our way, we saw several mosques, apparently funded by the Malaysian government, indicating the presence of ethnic Cham community. I was told that they speak Melayu and the similarity does not end there. They looked and dressed like the Malays. I never thought I would see someone wearing a baju kurung here.

We stopped by a warung (stall) to have what they called Cham kuey teow, which initially led me to believe that it was similar to our very own version of char kuey teow (fried thick and flat rice noodles) but I was wrong. It bore no resemblance whatsoever, even the noodles didn’t come close. Cham kuey teow is thin rice noodles served in steaming bowl of beef soup. The locals eat them with a squeeze of lime juice, a few dollops of chilli sauce and a shocking generous tablespoon of sugar heaped onto the middle of the noodles to allow it to seep slowly into the soup. For those who have never tried this, it may all sound a bit strange but for soup-lovers, you definitely want to taste it.

I even came across a local fruit, referred to as Milk Fruit (see above), freshly plucked from the tree by a friendly and hospitable restaurateur. It looks like an orange-sized round aubergine when ripe but tastes and smells very much like young coconut; sweet and creamy. The texture is rather similar to a mangosteen. Overall, a delightful find.

(Picture above showing our car being transported across a river to get to Kbal Koh Primary School)

Anyway, the purpose of my trip to Kampong Chnang was to assist the NGO which I am volunteering with, to do some monitoring activities for its school construction project. The NGO has constructed about 5 schools in Kampong Chnang last year. The schools are usually funded by individual donors and cost from USD17, 000 to USD50, 000 each depending on the number of classrooms and latrines.

It will take me another full article to describe my school visits but to cut a long story short, it was a humbling experience at the end of my journey. The juxtaposition of school conditions and the children’s appearances provided a huge contrast. While the schools look grand in comparison to its surrounding, many of the students still struggle to buy uniforms and stationeries. Most of the classrooms were bare, furnished with only a blackboard and handmade tables and chairs. Despite its lack of furnishing, the rooms were brightly decorated with works of students hanging on the wall and ceiling.

Many of the students do not even have shoes (see above) and looked as if they have not had a shower for a long time. The children’s concern definitely didn’t involve who has the nicest shoes, bags or pencil cases when each pencil and notebook are cherished until the next rare supply comes along.

There are not enough teachers in Cambodia to keep up with the increasing number of schools built by NGOs. I was told that most teachers are forced to teach two shifts a day and sometimes several classes simultaneously. On one hand, it is a delight to see a classroom brimming with students but on the other, the teachers are killing themselves trying to accommodate the increasing number of student enrolment each year due to more schools being made available in isolated communities. If the Cambodian government wants to reach its own Education For All goal by 2015, it should start to address this issue soon.

(Pictures above: Students receiving new stationeries from the NGO)

I was then thinking about my own school days. We had a lot to be thankful for, the teachers included. When I thought about how we worried about not having the latest trendy school bags or shoes for the new school term, these children worry about how they would get to school safely during the flooding season. Students have been known to drown or strike by lightning while trying to cross rivers to get to their schools.

Teachers who lack motivation should be sent to these villages to experience how it feels like to teach under such trying circumstances. One teacher recounted the time when he had to row his boat for 5km just to get to school when the whole village was flooded. Another one remembers how she had to take care of four classes at a time when the only other teacher was on sick leave, with her baby strapped to her chest.

Yesterday was indeed a day unlike any other. I was filled with a lot of mixed emotions. When I saw the elation on the students’ faces and appreciation on the teachers’ eyes, I suddenly felt the kind of happiness which I had never felt before in my life while working, although I have not contributed to any of the school projects. Very often, with the kind of jobs I was doing, it is extremely rare to see tangible or direct results of someone else’s work. More than anything else, a lot of it had to do with people killing and torturing each other. Most of the time, my spirit was crushed by the atrocities of human beings. Yesterday it was something different and for a lack of a better word, nice.

Under the sweltering heat of the January sun, I was pulled by something which draws me to an unexpected and long forgotten sensation, to be a child and idealistic again. These are the things which I am continuously grateful for with the kind of life I lead and the work I do. Like the sun in my childhood drawings, I hope that such experiences will always be present in my life.

Growing up without parents in the Philippines

I grew up with both parents living at home. My father was a busy man as he was constantly working hard to build his career.  So, he didn’t really have the luxury to take my brother and I anywhere during school holidays and I remember feeling bitter about this.

My mother supported my father during all those crucial years of setting up a business. I think they realised how important it was for them to be at home as much as they could and therefore  decided to set up the office at home. So, my mother was always there taking care of our needs while juggling to help my father with his business.

They might had been busy at that time, but they have never failed to provide us with the attention and guidance needed while we were growing up. Looking back now, I consider myself very lucky despite not being able to go to the cinema, circus or theme park like my other friends.  At the end of the day, I grew up witnessing how hard they have worked in order to provide us with better lives and as a result of that, I learn to be appreciative of them.

There are many parents who do not have the opportunity to stay at home to look after their children and hence the children do not have the privilege of having their parents with them when they are growing up.

I read recently on the paper about children in the Philippines. More and more parents are working abroad and it seems that Philippines have one of the biggest migrant workers in the world. Very often, they have to leave their children behind with other relatives and visit them only once a year, if they are lucky enough. In the mean time, they send their hard earned money home to their children.

Some parents have expressed concern about their fear  for the way their children are being brought up; often without proper parental guidance and hence very likely to pick up bad influences. Teenage pregnancy is a huge problem.

Then, there are many who do not understand why their parents have to work abroad or appreciate the sacrifices they make by spending the money they receive from their parents on frivolous things.

When you read this, it’s understandable how heartbreaking it must be for these parents. At the same time, they are not the only victims as the children suffer as much from long term neglect and feeling of abandonment. Without proper role models, the money received don’t really mean much except to compensate for the absence of their parents.

In the end, it is a tough situation where you have the parents leaving home to earn a better living so that they can secure the future of their children but on the other hand, due to their absence, these children are not able to understand or see the purpose of it all. The means doesn’t really justify the end.

With this in mind, an organization has been set up to provide these children a place to get together and do all sorts of activities. It is hoped that while their parents are away, they will at least spend their time constructively in the presence of responsible adults who care for their interest.

Other countries facing the same problem should try to adopt similar approach. While it is important for parents to secure whatever economic means they possibly can, they should never forget the purpose to begin with.

Losing my virginity to a suckling pig

I attended a family wedding a few weeks ago and  started taking an interest in learning the cultural traditions of a Chinese wedding. I discovered that the suckling pig dish served at the wedding banquet symbolises the virginity of the bride.

Then I got into thinking about the significance of virginity in our society today. When I was a little girl, my mother taught me that my virginity was a  valuable asset, something which I should protect at any cause, at least until I was married.

For as long as I could remember, I had often heard how my Mother, Aunts and  Cousin Sisters talked about how this girl and that girl had “lost out” to some guys. In Chinese, we don’t literally call it losing one’s virginity, but instead, losing out (as opposed to gaining/making a profit). It’s hard to translate it accurately but basically it means  that the girl has allowed herself to be given to someone and hence, lost her value.

For a long time, many other cultures and societies have given similar, if not more,  significance to virginity. The chastity and purity of a woman are so important that some had even gone through insurmountable lengths to protect and defend it. While the practice of chastity belt is now long gone, what still remain are other forms of more severe and painful methods; female genital cutting, as practised in Eastern African countries and stoning to death in some Islamic countries.

I was lucky that I am not brought up in these countries and the only consequences of losing out were shame and judgment by others. My mother managed somehow to  instil in me that I should not lose out to any man and I must confess that I grew up in fear of losing it. It was truly a big deal for me.

So I waited and waited until I was old enough and you know what? It was not such a big deal after all. Although it was not in the most ideal of situation as it was with an infantile pig of a man, the type which my mother warned me about, I did not feel that I have lost my value. I had the consciousness of understanding that it was a consensual decision as I was not pressured, tricked or coerced into it and most importantly,  my worth is not measured by my virginity. If no other men would ever marry me because I was not a virgin, then he was simply the wrong man.

In a way, I felt that it has changed my life but I no longer live in fear of losing it. Now, when I looked back at that phase of my life, I quickly realise that how girls have been misled into thinking that their virginities are their most prized assets, objects of great desire and value for love and marriage. If they fail to safeguard their virginities before marriage, they deserve to be condemned for reducing their own worth.

Here’s news for you. Virginity is not the most important thing in life and definitely not the biggest asset you have. As you grow up, you will soon realise that life will constantly challenge you with other matters of greater importance, of more significance. You will be facing various issues when you are a wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, colleague, etc. When your child is sick, you won’t be sweating about losing your virginity. When your husband is unemployed, you probably wish that you have lost it to someone else!

How you will learn to face and deal with these issues, are what’s important. How you grow and become the woman that you are, are your worth and value. Women are not borne into preserving their virginities for men. There are more to life than that one special man, to whom you are brought to believe is the only one worthy of you.

Having said this, I am not advocating for girls to go out tonight and start losing their virginities to anyone. At the end of the day, it is your body and something which belongs to you alone. So, if you decide to give yourself to someone for the first time, make sure that it is what you want and that you are emotionally prepared to deal with whatever consequences you may have to face. It will change your life, but it doesn’t close it (unless you live in countries governed by severe religious code of law).

Last word of advice, do practise safe sex. Unwanted pregnancies and sexual transmittable diseases are consequences much worse than a suckling pig.