The beauty and the beast of Harar - Part I

As the sky bids farewell to the descending sun and welcomes the moonlight, Butar, Rajoo, Mimi, Kamer, Tika, Shimay, Deeish and the rest slowly appear out of nowhere. Like vampires, they only emerge when darkness falls upon the ancient city of Harar. It isn’t eerie but in fact, simply magical. They are hyenas, part of the local inhabitants that have roamed the city of Harar for centuries.

Like any other night, these hyenas make their way from the wild to the Fallana Gate, one of the designated feeding sites situated in the old city. At the site, they crouch and wait patiently to be fed by Hyena Men; Balai and Solomon, two brothers entrusted with the revered role of feeding the hyenas every night without fail.

Local legend has it that during the 19th century, a great famine hit the city of Harar. In order to make sure that the hyenas would not attack the local population and their valuable livestocks, continuous feeding of the hyenas during good times was thought to appease them. After more than 200 years, this tradition still exists today even though it may not be for the same purpose.

I’ve heard and read about the attractions and uniqueness of Harar many times and surprisingly, the daily ritual of hyena feeding was placed in a lower priority when compared to visiting the ancient walls of the old city of Harar, chat and coffee. I’ve been there, seen and tried them all but ultimately, hyena feeding was the one thing I will remember the most.

While doing some research about hyena feeding, I’ve noticed that most articles written about it failed to mention what made my own experience so magical and unforgettable; the calling of the hyenas. Unfortunately (or rather fortunately), most people who visit Harar to see the hyena being fed are never told about the enticing foreplay which leads up to the feast.

Before our visit to the feeding site that day, my photographer friend, Irada and I, walked around the old city; flapping our elbows around like mad women in an attempt to drive away the ubiquitous flies which would have otherwise congregated happily on the sight of any bare skin. What could be worse than the omnipresent stench of bodily wastes which seemed to permeate the air from all corners of the ancient wall? It took a lot of mind power to conquer the scent of the old city of Harar and it was definitely not for the faint-hearted.

One thing which I still appreciate about this Unesco World Heritage Site is how unashamedly primitive the city is; the Hararis still hang on to their traditional ways of life; including the method of waste disposal. It is dirty, smelly, crowded, noisy and completely devoid of any pretentious “tourist glitters”.

We were the first ones to arrive at Fallana Gate and our car was parked right at the front of the feeding site. I was delighted to see that the site was nothing more than any other regular residential area in Harar; simple and natural with the added value of a garbage dumpster by the side. I was a little apprehensive that the whole area would be “dolled up” to accommodate tourists.

While waiting, we also had the opportunity to interact with the local scruffy-looking children and their friendly mongrel pet, Sina, who was obviously excited from the looks of its wagging tail nineteen a dozen despite being used to the flocks of tourists arriving every year.

While sitting in our car waiting patiently for sundown, Balai came to greet us on his way to the cliff to start his faithful “courtship” with the hyenas. He was a surprisingly   young man in his twenties and all the time we thought that in order to earn the title of Hyena Man, one has to be elderly and distinguished. However, he did exude a certain calmness and maturity for someone that age.

After a very brief conversation with our driver, Balai walked away. Out of sheer curiosity and also boredom, Irada and I got off the car and followed him. After walking for about less than 100 meters, what appeared, but most importantly, what was heard before us truly tugged at the strings of our hearts.

First of all, the image was astounding. Balai and his younger brother, Solomon, both stood on two rock formations, which towered above what seemed to be a foliage of trees and corn plantations beneath. There were some small houses along the path leading deep into the forest. The sun was slowly setting and there was complete silence apart from the occasional indecipherable rhythmic calling of the hyenas. Balai and Solomon took turns to call for up to twenty names; apparently that was the size of the pack. We stood there, in a trance, listening to their voices.

Balai and Solomon ignored us but continued to perform this sacred ritual with full dedication and commitment. We became brazen by their oblivion towards us and took the liberty to get closer to them and subsequently climbed on top of the rocks. The view was simply breathtaking and the lighting from dusk had created a sense of romanticism which made the whole experience none other than a simple a love story between men and beasts.

After getting used to the sound of the hyena names, we couldn’t wait to see them. Being a cynic, I was waiting to witness whether any of these hyenas would actually answer to their names. We were told that the hyenas would travel a distance from as far as 10km! Occassionally, I saw a few locals walking unassumingly along the narrow path leading to the houses, completely oblivious to the sound of the men and unperturbed by the arrival of the hyenas at any time soon.

We waited with abated breath and after about 15 minutes, Solomon whispered to Balai and from his gentle gestures but urgent tone of voice, we knew they were coming. My heart started to throb with more frequency and I found myself holding my breath, waiting for something extraordinary to happen.

By then, Irada had left us by galloping down the hill towards the corn plantation, trying her luck to catch a close up photo of approaching hyenas. Only then, did Balai and Solomon become slightly agitated. In my heart, I thought, “Gosh, will it take only two stupid foreigners to mess up this ancient practice?”

As soon as I spotted a hyena slowly approaching from the corn plantation, I abandoned my thought immediately. I was so engrossed with seeing one in its natural surrounding, I had forgotten completely about the potential danger my friend faced! Then, another one appeared from a different direction as it slowly made its way to the top of the hill.

By then, Solomon quickly signalled Irada to come back. Soon enough, the sky was close to being dark and we were both asked to leave the site immediately. They had come and it was time for us to go.

We obediently left and waited by the side of our car. Other tourists were already gathered with their cameras ready for feeding time. As soon as it became dark, the headlights of our car were turned on to illuminate the site. Only then did I notice four sets of luminous eyes close by. They belonged to two hyena cubs crouching patiently not too far away, waiting quietly for the rest to arrive.

* The views expressed here are the personal opinion of the columnist.

- See more at: http://www.themalaysianoutsider.com/opinion/lim-ka-ea/article/The-beauty-and-the-beasts-of-Harar-Part-1#sthash.MABXUpzY.dpuf

Humanising Photography

This was written on 2 July 2008 but was never published. Since then, I've tweaked it. 

When you look at a beautiful portrait of a woman taken by a reputable photographer, what do you see? Do you see the woman and ask yourself who she is? Or do you see it as a work of art by someone whom you have great admiration for? Now that I've seen a photographer in action, I tend to see the subject rather than the creator and ask myself the question, at what price?

I am not a photographer but I think I know how to appreciate a good photograph when I see one. I could be wrong of course, but anyway, that's not the point of this article. I have tremendous respect for photographers because they seem to have that ability to make the things we wouldn't normally even pay attention to become visible and pronounced. And what about photojournalists? Taking pictures in conflict zones is by no way a small feat especially when one’s life is at risk but they do it anyway and that’s what I call true passion and love for the craft they do. 

Recently, I had a chance to travel with a photographer. We were doing a small project together on traditional tribes in Ethiopia. I must confess that it finally dawned on me the sort of challenges faced by a photographer. At the same time, I am completely in awe by how powerful a camera can be. Just imagine its ability to immortalise images, and therefore, I suppose part of the reasons why many human beings tend to change their natural state of being, by either pulling a funny face or just a mere sterile smile, whenever they are confronted by a camera. I believe it is a way to shield our vulnerability and nakedness. Hence, part of the challenges a photographer has to face is to try to capture portraits of people when they are completely oblivious of his or her presence. I could tell it wasn’t easy especially when a photographer is using a 24-70mm zooming lens.

While the photographer and I were passing by a village, we saw a young woman walking unassumingly along the street while balancing a basket on top of her head. This time, the photographer seized the moment. She yelled out to our driver frantically and ordered him to stop the car and she rushed out to her. As soon as the young woman saw her with a camera, she became nervous and agitated. She didn’t want to be photographed and protested profusely.

After some time of coaxing and an offer of payment, she finally relented albeit being utterly uncomfortable. The photographer then took to her task by instructing her to make several poses. By then, they were attracting attention from other villagers who had gathered to watch the whole fiasco, much to the woman’s mortification. I could see she was very shy and timid and I guess she didn't expect to be made a spectacle that day.

I remained in the car with the driver who was still recovering from the shock of being yelled at suddenly. While I appreciated the photographer’s passion and artistic vision, I couldn’t help but feel the objectification of a human being, all in the name of photography. It felt ugly and I didn’t like it.

Then there were occasions when the photographer had singled out a girl who is blessed with better looks than the rest of her group in order to make some aesthetic portraits. The looks of rejection and disappointment on the other girls were apparent but much to the oblivion of the photographer. For this part, I understood that the photographer had to pick the most appropriate subject according to her artistic vision, but perhaps it could have been done in a more sensitive manner; i.e. take photos of the other girls as well to make them feel appreciated and included.

One day, I decided to share my feelings with the photographer, much to her disappointment. She defended her actions by explaining to me that it is part of the profession. "If you want a take a good picture, you cannot afford to compromise your instinct", she said. Her justification was, she didn't become a good photographer by being polite or nice, but by submitting herself to her photographic instinct.

I argued that there is a difference between being a good photographer and one with social intelligence, quoting the example of Clint Eastwood and Stanley Kubricks’ directing methods which I have read from Karl Albrecht’s book called Social Intelligence: The New Science of Success. According to Albrecht, while both directors are extremely talented, Eastwood adopts a more humane approach by being respectful to his casts while Kubrick preferred to instill fear by screaming and maintaining a constant state of anxiety in them. The difference? Well, Eastwood’s staffs and casts are happier which makes production time shorter while Kubrick to the contrary.

In the end, the photographer and I agreed to disagree on the basis that we both have our justifications from two different perspectives; hers from an artistic point of view while mine, from a human angle. The good thing was, she was humble enough to admit that her behaviour towards the driver was uncalled for and subsequently apologised to him. For this, I have huge respect for her but how many other photographers though are willing to admit their own shortcomings?

As I read David Turton’s article entitled “Lip-Plates and the People Who Take Photographs” in Anthropology Today Vol. 20, I was hit with another disconcerting revelation about photography.

In his article, he wrote,

“On the one hand, then, the lip-plate is prized by Mursi men and women as a mark of their cultural identity and political autonomy. On the other hand, they recognize that outsiders see it as a mark of their backwardness, which must be abandoned if they are to gain the benefits of ‘development’. This ambivalence is heightened by another and, at first sight, contradictory message about the lip-plate which has been reaching the Mursi in recent years, through the activities of tourists. For, while tourists are presumed to share the general disdain for, not to say disgust at, the practice shown by outsiders, they nevertheless come great distances mainly, it seems, in order to photograph this symbol of Mursi backwardness.”

In his article, he also quoted an interview with three Mursi men shown in a television documentary made in 1991. When asked why they thought tourists were taking their photographs, they answered that they didn't know since most tourists just came, took their photographs and left without saying anything. While they were often perceived as uncivilised thieves, one of the men commented that the failure of tourists to pay what the Mursi regarded as a fair price for photographs, were in fact thieves themselves.

To what extent a photographer needs to go in order to defend his or her artistic integrity? What about the dignity of human beings? Can there ever be a compromise?

Perhaps I have been quick to generalise photographers based on one experience and if so, I do apologise. However, I do stand by my conviction that what defines an intelligent and talented photographer from simply a talented one is the one who manages to defend his artistic integrity without compromising the dignity of others. One who puts his subjects and those around him as the core essence of his artistic achievements.

Without the people, there won’t be a subject.

I think it is time for photographers and viewers to see portraits of people as the main subject and not just an object.

Four ways regional engagement can benefit a human rights defender

Early last year, I disclosed to a small group of people at work how unstimulated I have become. One of the terrifying words I had used at a group coaching session was “blasé”. I used it to describe my inability to be moved by the things that are happening around me. Identifying the reasons why was not exactly rocket science.

I have been working in the same non-profit organisation in Malaysia for close to six years. Serving in a senior management position inevitably means most of my worries revolve around grant applications, financial management and human resource development. It was only a matter of time before I put my concern over how my organisation is going to survive another year of budget cuts first before addressing real human rights violations.

My biggest suspicion of the real culprit, though, was how my worldview has become so insular as a result of working and socialising with the same like-minded people in the past six years. So much so that I have hit a plateau where three other terrifying words reside: “unstimulated”, “unchallenged” and “cynicism”. They toast with Cosmopolitans every morning when happy hour starts as soon as my alarm goes off. As I hit the snooze button and toss over, they plot against each other, competing to see who wins that morning.

Some days, they all win.

While these demons fight amongst themselves, I soon learned that another terrifying word (perhaps most terrifying of them all) has slowly crept in. It wasn’t until last July when I attended the internet governance workshop for women human rights defenders (WHRDs) organised by the Association for Progressive Communications (APC) and the Asia Pacific Regional Internet Governance Forum (APrIGF) 2016 in Taipei, that I began to realise that I could be harbouring a dangerous word within me – “radicalism”. The thought that “this is my view and since everyone around me agrees with me, therefore it must be the only right view to have” is unfortunately what many human rights defenders have succumbed to, without realising it. (Thank you, Jac sm Kee, for articulating this at one of your panel sessions at the APrIGF on radicalisation of the internet and how to counter online extremism.)

My worldview was rocked momentarily when more than 20 WHRDs from Pakistan, India, Sri Lanka, the Philippines and Malaysia gathered for two days at the APC workshop to discuss how internet freedom is experienced and applied in the context of gender, which was then used by APC as an advocacy strategy at the APrIGF.

This experience was illuminating to say the least. Something I have always suspected about what has been missing in my work life but never confronted finally hit me – the joy and fulfilment of working with people from other countries.

I am forever grateful to EMPOWER for extending the invitation to my organisation to attend the workshop and forum, as it came at a time when I needed a stimulation boost. Although this blog post speaks of only four of the many ways I have benefited from my time in Taipei, I hope it is useful for other activists who may be going through the same phase as I am.

1. Being challenged by new people outside my own circle

Working in the field of human rights since 2000 would probably qualify me as an “old timer”. Most of my human rights knowledge and skills were first honed from an academic and Western Eurocentric perspective in the late 1990s. Most of my peers come from more or less the same background.

At the internet governance workshop, I met many WHRDs whom I would term as a “new breed” of human rights defenders – activists who see rights and freedom as absolute and any form of protectionism or restriction is to be rejected. I can understand why, because many come from a place of complete distrust for governments and state actors. Their unbridled idealism and passion amazed me and they forced me to ask myself whether I am outdated in my own understanding of human rights and its philosophy.

I may not have succumbed to this school of thought yet, but it shows me how important it is to engage with younger human rights defenders regularly to nurture and grow my worldview of human rights.

2. Being inspired by people who are optimistic and see the glass as being half full

I often feel beat, beaten and bitter. Lately, it has become more bitter than anything else. Bitter for working hard yet not having a secure retirement plan, and then resenting myself for feeling bitter about it.

At the workshop, it was refreshing to meet young women who aren’t burnt out, cynical or believe that the United Nations is an ineffective institution. They have energy, passion and thirst for a better world, and they are infectious too.

3. Being humbled by strong women who are working in worse conditions

Sometimes, it is easy to feel like I am the only person who is doing good when other people have failed to deliver on their promises and deadlines. The feeling of being a rescuer and victim all at the same time can certainly put me in a self-pitying but arrogant place where I’m convinced that I am the only person who has made sacrifices while the rest are doing nothing.

Guess what? After talking to the women from India and Pakistan, it dawned on me that what I’ve done so far and the challenges I’ve faced are nothing in comparison. NOTHING.

4. Learned new skills and strategies

I begin to see why donors are keen on local organisations that do regional engagement. At the APCworkshop, I picked up a few new strategies from the group of regional WHRDs on how to advocate issues at the APrIGF. The level of focus, direction, organisation and dedication these women demonstrated made me see what is lacking in some of the local NGOs in Malaysia. At the end of the day, it is easy for NGOs to want to do something, but it is the mapping out of the direction and actually going down the road map that is the challenge where many NGOs have failed.

Watching and learning these skills and strategies from other people confirm how little I know and how much more I have to learn, and here’s when I start to feel a little challenged.

*This post was written for the Association for Progressive Communications (APC) on 5 Sep 2016. The original post can be found here.

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. 

"Don't let your friends come. Don't want your friend to go through all this."

My first memory of her was how small she was.  Her pale and blemish-free skin looked as if they had not seen a day of light. Her colour-treated hair was always held back neatly in a high ponytail.

She was well-groomed as how aestheticians should be - her eyebrows were shaped perfectly and her eyes enhanced with kohl and eye shadow. I was pretty sure I had the right visual when her name was brought up by Megan, my aesthetician.

"Poor Kathy. She looked the type who never had to do a day of hard labour.  This must be really hard for her," I said to Megan. I was lying flat on my back with my eyes closed while Megan performed my monthly facial treatment in her home in Petaling Jaya.

I normally loath the idea of participating in perfunctory conversations with my hairdresser and manicurist but for some reason, I like talking to Megan. Perhaps she comes across as someone who is sincere and not exploitative like many other professionals relying on commission.  That day's conversation was particularly interesting and I couldn't take my mind off it.

"She told me that short of being whipped and chained at the ankles, it was exactly like those slaves you watch on the movies. I mean, can you imagine this happening now?" I could sense repulsion in Megan's voice as she moved on to give me a shoulder massage while the mask on my face slowly hardened.

Kathy and Megan used to work together at a beauty spa in an affluent neighbourhood in Kuala Lumpur. I got to know Megan when I used to patron the spa and she was my aesthetician.

Slightly more than a year ago, Megan made a leap of faith by leaving the spa to set up her own beauty parlour at home. She said she had enough of slogging away six days a week for someone else.

Her former boss used to go around asking all the commissioned aesthetician what they thought of the five-digit Rolex watch she had just bought on a shopping trip to Hong Kong.

I left the spa and followed her.

The conversation about Kathy came about when I asked Megan whether she had heard of those farming programmes in Australia where people go pick strawberries and apples. "They seem to be really popular," I said.

She gave my face a quick inspection after she completed her usual cleansing routine. "You're not getting enough sleep and you need to drink more water," she said before she proceeded to answer my question. "Uh-huh. Why? Are you interested?"

"Oh no. I have a friend who's thinking of taking a year off from work to do this. Someone else I know wants to do the same thing too. It's just funny that two people said the same thing to me in less than a month." I grimaced as she extracted the acnes on my forehead.

"Do you remember Kathy? She was one of the aestheticians at the spa. The really small girl, fair skin? She's working in a strawberry farm in Australia now."

I was expecting Megan to tell me how Kathy was enjoying the farm fresh air and stuffing herself with strawberries as big as cikus while plucking them. I was wrong because for the next hour or so, Megan revealed the harrowing story of how her friend had left Malaysia to work like a slave in a foreign country.

According to Megan, Kathy left with a group of friends. She wasn't alone. Like Megan, Kathy was probably fed-up with her work at the beauty spa and wanted something more lucrative.

An agent told them they could each easily earn RM10,000 a month by just picking fruits from a farm in Australia. Such opportunity seemed too good to pass and they weren't really convinced until they were shown photos of the farm and accommodation. Everything looked lovely and sounded easy.

Working in Australia meant they had to obtain a working visa and this was where the agent came in. Apparently, each of them paid about RM7,000 to the agent to sort out their paperwork.

It seems that a few days before they were to depart to Australia, they were told that their working visas were not ready and they would have to leave on a tourist visa while their agent would continue to work on getting them the correct paperwork.

Perhaps they did not want to waste their plane tickets or perhaps they did not want to postpone an opportunity for a good income, as many of them had by then presumably quit their jobs and were left with no income. I could only presume such an investment might have cost some of them their life savings.

Whatever reason it was, they left for Australia more than four months ago. Before leaving, they were told to delete the agent's phone numbers from their phones.

"Kathy told me she has muscular legs and her skin is tanned now. She said she's ugly now. She has to squat on her feet to pluck strawberries for about ten hours a day without much break and under the hot sun. She sent me photos of the farm and you can't see the end of the strawberry beds. It's that far. She said it's very tough for her. She cried every night for a month when she first started," Megan told me. "Kathy said she never thought something like this would ever happen to her."

I know.  Normally you only hear of such abuses happening to Cambodians, Indonesians and Burmese. Not Malaysians.

Kathy told Megan that when they arrived at the farm after hours of driving from the city, they were brought to their accommodation. They were shocked by the condition of the place.

It was filthy, smelly and filled with all sorts of junk. It was obvious that decent living condition wasn't part of the deal. They spent days cleaning and clearing up the space to make it habitable. By then, the thought of being victims of a scam had slowly crept in since the reality of the place did not match the photos that were shown to them back at home.

For the first month or so, they could not pick the strawberries because it wasn't time for harvesting yet and because they would only be paid for each basket of fruits picked, they were not able to earn any income right away.

On top of that, they had to pay for their own lodging and food. Apparently, mattresses were rented out at A$3 per night by the farm owner. Kathy said that this information was never disclosed to them by their agent. With no income, their expenses accumulated quickly and soon enough, they found themselves in debt. On a tourist visa.

"Why don't they report this?!" I sounded angry and to be honest, a tad judgmental.

"Kathy said she doesn't want trouble. In the beginning, when they complained to the owner, he told them that they are free to go as long as they pay off their debts. Kathy said she has no choice but to wait and pick as much fruits as she can so that she can earn some money, clears her debt and leaves the farm. Also many of her friends want to earn back the money they had spent to pay the agent," Megan said.

"Kathy told me that most of the workers there are Malaysian, Chinese and Thai. Apparently, the owner doesn't want to take anyone from Hong Kong because they are known to be vocal and they will stand up and fight. You knowlah, we Malaysians are quite submissive. Always too scared to cause trouble."

I couldn't help but think that the combination of not wanting to worry her family and the fear of humiliation and being judged by them could partly be some of the reasons why Kathy had kept this from the authorities. I wondered whether I would have done the same if I was stuck in a situation like this.

Before we ended my facial session, I asked Megan to get information from Kathy on the agent and the farm. "I want to warn my friends about them," I said. Megan nodded in understanding.

On the same night while at home on the internet, I found out that the Australian High Commission is aware of such scam. They had posted a warning against fruit picking/harvesting scam on their website.

According to them, you can detect a scam if you are promised a quick working visa, if you receive an email (especially one that does not address you specifically) offering you either a guaranteed income or job, if a job advertisement requires you to send a fee to receive your start-up materials, if an advertisement only gives you a post office box address, and if the fruits do not coincide with the harvesting season.

Later that night, I received a message from Megan. Kathy had given her some vague information on the agent and the address of the farm, which appears to be situated in Western Australia. No useful information turned up when I did a search of the agent's company and the farm address on the internet.

Before I called it a night, I received another message from Megan. It read "Kathy said don't let your friend come. Don't want your friend to go through all this."

If you suspect you might have been a victim of such scam, please report to the local police or at www.scamwatch.gov.au.

*All names have been altered to protect the identity of the individuals mentioned on this article.

11 private information that should not appear on your resume

Malaysians have a tendency of offering too many private information on their résumé without realising that in this instance, less is really more.

It is one thing to write pages after pages of academic qualifications and work experiences that are irrelevant to the job you are applying to, it is quite another when you give away personal details which may do you more harm than good.

Just like how lawyers who often prep their clients to refrain from talking too much while being interrogated by the police lest they give away potentially incriminating information, this is the same.


The more personal details you offer, the more you are exposing yourself to the possibility of being discriminated. A racist employer is likely to toss away your résumé without even looking at your qualifications if he or she knows you are of that particular race he or she finds undesirable.

Here are 11 private information you should not give away in your CV:

1. Photograph

Why would a photo of yourself be relevant unless it is a headshot for an acting role you are applying to in an entertainment industry? Your photo will also give away clues such as your race, gender and religion and let’s not even start on employers who have the tendency to hire based on looks.

2. Race

Apart from the obvious reason of subjecting yourself to racial-discrimination, there are employers who get completely put off by applicants who feel the need to reveal their race and/or religion. They wonder whether these said applicants are hoping that they would be racially-biased enough to select them for being the “right” race. 

3. Religion

Unfortunately in Malaysia, just your name itself is often enough to give-away your racial identity.

4. Gender

Unless the job you are applying to can justify why it is necessary to be gender-specific, there is really no need for the company or organisation to know what gender you are.

5. Date of birth

Someone said this, “Hiring managers need to know what you can do for them, not how many years you have managed to stay alive.” Unless you really want to be discriminated for your age, this information is completely redundant.

6. National registration identity card (NRIC) number

Malaysia is a country obsessed with NRIC number. Whatever registration forms you fill, may it be for a membership programme offered by a pet shop, or a package you bought at a health spa, you are asked for your NRIC number.

So much so that many Malaysians think it is perfectly alright to give away this private security number to anyone.

Please don’t because not only are you exposing yourself to the possibility of being a victim of identity theft, there is absolutely no need for these pet shops or health spas to have this information.

They have absolutely no right whatsoever to have this private data of yours.

7. Height

Same as number 1. And frankly, whatever for?

Note: Some studies have shown that taller people are more likely to secure a job than those who are vertically challenged.

8. Weight

Same as above.

Note: The same studies above have also shown how thin people are more likely to secure a job than those who are overweight.

9. Marital and family status

It used to be the case many years ago when employers assumed that a married woman with children could not be relied upon to do the job because “having a husband and children means they are not able to dedicate their lives to the company.”

Things have changed for the better albeit slowly as we see more and more family women in the work force. However, please note that these are some of the information an employer should never ask at an interview.

10. Home address

Well, for the fact that it is private information and it concerns your private security.

11. Political affiliation

Kudos, so you know you are entitled to have a political opinion and association, but does your potential employer know that?

In a country where expression of political views can be so sensitive and controversial, the chances of having an employer who tolerates or understands the importance of your political participation are very low.

Anyway, while everyone is entitled to political association, your political activities should never interfere with your job. So why should this information be relevant?

Finally, you should know that having the perfect résumé may not secure you a job because you can still screw up an interview.

The hiring manager may still judge you unfairly upon learning all sorts of things from you at the interview.

The sole purpose of making sure your résumé is free from any potentially-discriminatory information is to ensure that you are entitled to any job opportunity based on your qualifications and on an equal footing right from the start. 

There are only three personal information which are relevant and useful in a résumé. They are your name, telephone and email address because the only thing the employer needs to know is how to contact you if they want to interview you. That’s all.

This was first published here.