Plastic bags? No...

“You want this?” said the Malay lady, the owner of the Herbal Rice (Nasi Kerabu) stall, her fingers deftly weaving in and out of the delicacies laid out on the table. Her customer flashed an eager smile, her head nodding away, looking pleased.

“This?” said the owner of the stall again, this time her fingers were holding the spoon to something which looks like budu (fermented anchovy sauce).

“Oh no! No, thank you!” she broke out into a laugh.

The nasi kerabu seller went on to stack the tiffin carrier and was about to put it into a plastic bag when the owner said, “Please, no thank you! No plastic bag, please!”

And off she went, full of energy. I watched her happily walking away, her blonde head bobbing amongst the crowd. Everybody else around were smiling. I looked down at the bundles of plastic bags filled with the things we bought, wrapped around the fingers of my other half. And mine too! We exchanged meaningful looks. Guilty to the core…

We were feasting our eyes, buying dinner, at the Saturday night market in Kuah, Langkawi – only, it was still daylight then. The sun slowly moving towards the horizon.

The next morning, we met the blonde again, at the elevator. We exchanged smiles. Little did we know that we were staying in the same condominium block, overlooking the sea, just off the yatch training centre. The place belongs to my brother. A very popular piece of property with numerous expatriate owners.

I salute the spirit of some of these expatriates – their conviction on greening, no plastic bags and all. Hiring bikes, or walking to town. More sensitive towards issues concerning sustaining the earth. Of which we Muslims should be at the forefront. We - who are supposed to be Allah’s vicegerent on this earth…

So touched I was, that when I returned to my working home at Parit Buntar, I tried to emulate the same spirit. And so, the next time I was buying my grocery, I brought my carrier bag along. At the checkout counter, the girl was filling in my things in plastic bags, oblivious to the carrier bag which I held out to her. So, smiling and full of spirits, I said, “No plastic bags, please! In this bag here, thank you!”

What did I get? Pouting lips, frowns and glaring stares, also from the adjacent check-out counter… So much for trying to go green, eh?

Nothing surpasses Allah…

My tight schedule has driven me up the wall. This blog has not been updated for weeks. However, it all seem worthwhile. The time spent, the energy driven, the efforts put into seem meaningful when success awaits you at the end of the tunnel. Even though we only managed to garner a Silver Medal at ITEX 2010 for our invention, it has cast enough happiness in our hearts as a research team.

The most important thing was that we were able to showcase our work to the public, a system that may be of use in a vast number of applications. Numerous parties have expressed their interest in developing and enhancing the basic platform. For example the Department of Irrigation and Drainage in managing the illegal sand digging at their rivers.

Today, in the STAR, there is news coverage for the press conference which was held yesterday at the main campus lake in Minden, Penang. (Read here)

Our invention is named Drosobot (Drosophila Robot). They may be deployed as a group (or swarms - in technical terms) to enable contour mapping of lakebeds, rivers and dams. The cost incurred is substantially reduced, extra manpower is not necessary while the results of the mappings may be looked at there and then (in real time). Compare this to the available equipment system in the market, (originating from where else but the West?) which is so exorbitant (costs RM 200,000 to buy, if rented then the charges would be RM8,000 per kilometer; it also needs to have at least 4 people to man the equipment)and most importantly, the results of the mappings are not instant - only made available 2 weeks later.

The most interesting fact that we discover is that, lake contour mappings are not available as yet. (We did not know this when we first embarked on the project). Only land and the sea (for seafarers). Considering the vast number of lakes available in Malaysia, we are glad that we are able to contribute in making contour mappings of lakes to be easily done. Amongst our interested visitors (in charge of maintenance of one of the dams) during ITEX 2010 expressed his gratitude and appreciation because he knew and understood the problems. He has been doing the job manually.

We were inspired by the foraging and searching movements of the fruit fly (scientific name being Drosophila Melanogaster) to be adopted as the intelligent algorithm integrated in the school of autonomous water surface vehicles. Adopting the algorithm means that the movements of the group of robots become faster and optimized in the contour mappings as they glide across the surface of waters.

Did not Allah give us mankind the power to think? Nature and its happenings may be used as a source of inspiration for creative inventions. Creatures - be them large or as small as the ants, bees, all have their specialties. If only we take the time to contemplate and use our minds to focus. Thinking has been advocated by our Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) in a Hadith:

“Purposive thinking (tafakkur) for an hour is better than a year’s worship.”

The humble fly which we would not even look with one eye has a lot to offer – only if we stop, think and observe. The tiny creatures go about their ways according to the ordained paths set by its Creator. However, that is all they can do. It is only us – mankind who has the ability to explore, formulate and venture further than the other creatures. For we are bestowed with powerful brains by our Creator to think and relate. However, there is only one thing that we as mankind should do and never forget i.e. we must remember that no matter how great and high we soar, we can never surpass His powers.

".. of knowledge it is only a little that is communicated to you, (O men!)" Al Isra’: 85

Unto Allah belongeth All Praises…

Tears of regret…

My eyes were transfixed to the rectangular shaped talking machine at the far corner of our lounge. TV9 station was airing a talk show with Dr. Danial Zainal Abidin and writer Muhammad Alexander (MA) as guests. The issue was on signs of Doomsday and the emergence of Yakjuj and Makjuj. Coincidentally, I had just finished reading the two books written by MA. His first book – I borrowed from someone, then bought a copy together with his second book – Alexander the Great was Zulqarnain at the Kuala Lumpur International Book Fair, the week before. I managed to meet up with the writer to have the two books autographed by MA. Happiness!

“Amongst the signs of Doomsday that is fast approaching is the fact that numerous numbers of babies are being born from unmarried mothers,” said Dr. Danial. His statement made my heart stop for a moment. It set me thinking.

Just last weekend, I fulfilled the request from Raudhatus Sakinah (RS)- The Shelter for unmarried mothers, to conduct a writing workshop for inhabitants of the shelter of the Penang branch.

The air was tense and still at the beginning of the workshop. The RS girls needed some coaxing and provoking before their words could pour out. After 2 games, their minds then started melting. By mid afternoon, their fingers holding tightly onto their pen, were moving fast across the sheets of papers. Their heads down and intense, brimming with ideas. That was my intention. And those were the purpose of the series of games, specifically formulated during the workshop.

Later in the afternoon, their eyes were pregnant with tears, glistening waters streaming over like little brooks down their cheeks, when I asked them to remember and ponder upon the faces of our parents, their never ending love and care, ever since we first started to learn how to breathe. They read aloud their pieces, written straight from their hearts, in between sobs of great regret. It was intended to be so, to build up the atmosphere for them to realize the consequences of their past deeds.

While the girls were deep in their writing, I decided to have a chat with the organizers.

“Newcomers?” said I to Madam I, the manager of the shelter. My eyes roamed across the seminar room, registering the fresh faces in my mind. It has been quite a while since my last visit. My busy schedule has interrupted the once regular visits earlier on.

“Yes! The previous batch has gone back to where they belong,” said she, a queer smile curving her lips.

Puzzled with the odd smile, I asked, “How are they doing?”

I held out my hand and taking a chair, I sat very close to her and the wardens of RS. N who is now a happily married wife and mother of a little baby boy was there too. She was the former warden and had travelled all the way from Tanjung Malim, with her little baby by train, departing at midnight the night before and reaching Nibong Tebal at 4 a.m. that very morning. Such sacrifice! May Allah bless her…

“Some of them who returned home have constantly called us back, expressing their desire to be back at RS,” said one of the wardens.

“Why?” I frowned.

“Because they felt so lost and are also very vulnerable to fall back to their old habits. They were afraid. The values that we have instilled in them while they were with us here at RS, will slowly dwindle away amid hostile surroundings, uncooperative family members," said another one of the wardens.

“Influence from their old friends. We have always tried very hard to remind them to stay away and of the pitfalls of going back to their old habits,” said Madam I.

“But still, there are others who have moved on, continuing with their studies, at school and also at colleges,” said N.

“You still remember M?” said Madam I.

“Of course I do,” I quipped.

“She is now in her first year, studying psychology at a college up north, sponsored by her mum,” said one of the wardens rather proudly.

“How wonderful! Praises be to Allah,” said I, so overjoyed.

That is the situation with the RS girls who had to return to where they once belonged. Some are trying their best to maintain their dignity while others have moved on. We should do more to guide these young girls who have gone astray and to pull their hands back onto the straight road again.

This is the second time around. A similar writing workshop was held sometime last year. We intend to publish the collection of the girls’ writings. Writings of their experiences, the underlying factors that made them end up in situations most unbecoming and which we wish and should avoid. We hope that when the book gets to be published, it will act as eye openers for others, especially for the young girls and boys of our society, and for parents too. Things that they need to be aware of. To be forewarned against.

“Be Smart! Avoid Zina!”

May Allah grant us mercy and accept all intentions and our deeds...Amin

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A quick look at some of the responses that I could gather from the feedback forms right after the workshop:-

“Alhamdulillah, I have the opportunity to improve my writing skills.”

“I have acquired new knowledge.”

“This has made me become aware of the importance of being a person of good, here now and in the hereafter.”

“I got some good advise.”

“I have got ideas what to write in the future.”

“I can make use of writing to get rid of my stress.”

To read more on past and previous related entries in this blog on RS - The Shelter, please click here and here .

Slowly drying…

I was chairing a postgraduate viva session at one of the departments in the campus. Everyone was diligently paying attention when suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Dr. B, one of the panel members of the meeting and a programme chairman of the department, rose to answer and he then disappeared behind the door.

I continued the session which was nearly at the finishing line.

Dr. B returned to his seat, his face suddenly looking very drawn. There were traces of sadness in his eyes. All of a sudden, he said, “Excuse me. I am very sorry, I just cannot concentrate anymore.”

I cast him an annoyed look. So did the others.

“There has been a terrible accident. One of our department’s postgraduate students. At the main gate to our campus here. And she is dead. I have to be excused. I need to attend to her matters. Please go ahead with the meeting,” said he, as he rose up to go.

We listened and watched, electrified.

I came to my senses and summoned myself to say, “It is all right. We are nearing the end anyway, aren’t we?” I looked around at the other faces. Nods everywhere.

By the time I was back at my own department, the news had spread. Apparently, the hardworking student who was on her motorbike, was a victim of a reckless driver of a car, which sped across the red light right in front of the campus. It was such disheartening news…

I wonder what were in the minds of her housemates. Most probably she was with them, all day long the day before, talking, eating, laughing and the next day, she was gone…

I wonder too how her mum would cope with this news. So sudden…

I remembered something my son told me. A friend of his had been called back home. He was doing his housemanship training at a hospital back in the UK. During his undergraduate studies as a medical student at the University of Sheffield (both my husband and I studied there more than 30 years ago), he was diagnosed with lymphoma, a kind of blood cancer. He had undergone chemotherapy many times before and the cancer had come back. The doctors had done all that they could do. His parents has asked him to come back. Watching his message (here), I could not help holding back my tears….

That afternoon, as I was driving back home, I stopped the car momentarily at the junction of the campus main gate, waiting for the green light. As I turned my face towards the left, I could see the remnants of what used to be a helmet, the pieces scattered all over the side walk. I was in tears again…

As a Muslim, we are constantly reminded to ponder over a Hadith. In this hadith, the Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) said to a man while he was advising him:

"Take advantage of five matters before five other matters: your youth, before you become old; and your health, before you fall sick; and your richness, before you become poor; and your free time before you become busy; and your life, before your death." ~Al Hakim and Al Baihaqi~

I am reminding myself. I do hope you are reminded too….

That white house beside the beach…

The sea breeze was blowing, the waves lapping along the shores. But my eyes were more intent on finding a particular junction.

“Just make sure that you follow the coastal road and keep to it. You will come to a junction leading to Pantai Batu Rakit. Go along it, and just about 4 to 5 km. you will see the house - a white, 2 storey building, just beside the beach,” his voice sounding very kind, on the other side of the phone.

About a few months before that, he had dropped by my blog, leaving a few lines of comments. I hopped over to his and found it fascinating. My tears were streaming down my cheeks as I read the messages left by the children under his tutelage.

“I must find some time to visit this man and actually see how he has been doing all that he has been doing,” I said.

“If you say so, my dear,” said my other half, “just mark one of the days in the calendar. I badly need to take a break anyway,” his dreary eyes showing the weariness and tiresome bureaucracy that he has to put up with day by day at his office.

That was how we found ourselves on the east coast, spending the first night at KT. The next day we made our way a little to the north, towards Batu Rakit. Sure enough, as soon as our vehicle purred on, we could see the house; its façade very simple yet its ambience, ‘very English’.

“Come on right in, for it has started to rain,” said the real man, his actual personality exuding kindness all the more.

We were greeted by his wife, who took the trouble to lay the table for lunch. We talked as if we have known each other for years. The talking went on till teatime, which was Makcik’s special apple pie complete with custard sauce. So delicious!

Uncle Hassan and his wife Aunt Salma names that they want to be known – two gracious senior citizens who also insisted that we spent the night at their place. Such bliss…listening to the sound of the waves breaking onto the glistening sands…in one of the chalet like rooms which belong to one of his beloved sons.

There was so much that we learnt from these two kind souls; caring for others, doing the utmost to help the needy, giving hope and encouragement for the poor children whose fathers, grandfathers (and their forefathers) were fisherman, who believed that the only thing in life was the open sea. Clearly, these children needed some kind of input, to change their life and their future.

So many stories, so many touching moments, from someone who has been there and done that. For Uncle was selected to further his studies in the U.K. at a time when Malaysia has not been born. Who would have thought that a young boy from Arabic school could master the English Language within a short span of time? Also to learn Additional Mathematics all on his own. Who would have heard of Add Maths during that era? But Uncle did it all with his strong will and determination.

A sudden twist of fate. That was it. A chance that he thought he would miss. Then, one of the chosen candidates had to decline the offer of a place of study because of some reasons, he was taken in to replace the vacancy. To be away from home, to a faraway land, a foreign one that is. No sophisticated form of communications as we are privileged to have as of now. From being on his own at Loughborough Institute of Technology (as it was known then, now called Loughborough University), working very hard for his Mechanical Engineering degree under the sponsorship of an international oil and gas company, amidst the loneliness of the late 1950's. When Malaya obtained its so called independence, he was right there in London, writing feverishly in his diary, now all yellowed and tattered but still intact….

That night, we went to the house across the road (Al Manar – Arabic for ‘The Beacon’) that he has specially built for the underprivileged children as their sanctuary. A place that they may find extra care and coaching, guide and motivation to do better and excel. For it is there (Al Manar) that many of these unfortunate children who have at long last been exposed to techniques of teaching that made them spur on to improve their lives. His place was NOT a tuition centre – more so like a kind of learning centre. The children spend their nights here, as a getaway from their impoverished homes (ill equipped, unfavourable conditions and unconducive for study). Reading his blog, one may find testimonies from these children, so grateful to the efforts of these two caring souls, the unsung heroes of a beach house off the coast of a fishing village in Kuala Terengganu.

Uncle Hassan has strengthened my conviction in something which I believed in all along. Life is not all about accumulating wealth or providing comfort for you and your loved ones. It includes thinking about others especially the unfortunate ones and how to best to help them.

As a sequel to his “7 Habits of Highly Effective People”, Stephen Covey published “The 8th Habit: From Effectiveness to Greatness” which essentially urges: "Find your voice and inspire others to find theirs..." Uncle Hassan has exemplified this…he has inspired me…

“Whosoever doeth right, whether male or female, and is a believer, him verily we shall quicken with good life, and We shall pay them a recompense in proportion to the best of what they used to do.” ~Al Quran: Chapter An Nahl: Verse 97.

And he is a living proof of:

“You make a living by earning,
You make a life by giving…”

Narrated 'Abdullah bin Umar: Allah's Apostle said, "A Muslim is a brother of another Muslim, so he should not oppress him, nor should he hand him over to an oppressor. Whoever fulfilled the needs of his brother, Allah will fulfill his needs; whoever brought his (Muslim) brother out of a discomfort, Allah will bring him out of the discomforts of the Day of Resurrection, and whoever screened a Muslim, Allah will screen him on the Day of Resurrection. " Al Bukhari

For the sake of brotherhood in faith...

“How are you, mum?” said a very familiar voice at the other end.

“Fine! How ARE you?” said I, sensing something amiss in the tone of my son’s voice.

“Just feeling like wanting to share something,” he said.

“Aha..”

“Yesterday, I was at the masjid for maghrib prayers. Was doing my solat when suddenly a little boy stepped on my glasses which I put neatly positioned just beneath my face during prostrating. He was running here and there just before it happened,” said he with a sigh.

Silence.

“I am listening,” said I, encouraging him to go on.

“After the jamaah prayers, I turned to see a man, maybe from one of the countries in Africa. He apologized and said that he will pay for the damage. I just nodded my head. Then, he asked me how much I paid for my glasses. I said more than a thousand ringgit.”

“What happened then? You don’t sound too happy.”

“Yeah! Because right after hearing my words, the man suddenly became offensive and lectured to me about Qada’ and Qadar.”

“Hmm..” I knew that something was not quite right, as I know my son’s attitudes and temperaments very well. Never, the one who likes to be lectured at and easily provoked.

“I lashed out. Telling him not to insult my intelligence. I know what Qada’ and Qadar is. As soon as I turned my heels towards the door of the masjid, I noticed all eyes in the masjid were on both of us. People from all over the world.”

The place where my son resides (where my other half and I hop over to spend weekend escapades or to attend to some other activities at the capital), is full of expatriates from the Middle East and Korea. So, the masjid would be full of Muslims from many nations across the globe.

I was quiet, allowing time and some space so my son could gather his words.

“Mum, I could not sleep throughout the night. I lay in bed thinking. We were all one, standing and then stooping in our prayers, devoted to God, the only One. Then, right after giving salams, I was there exchanging harsh words with another, my own brother in faith.”

Still, I did not say anything, wanting to let him pour his words.

“This morning, I had my glasses repaired. It cost me RM300. Then, just now, after the noon congregation prayers, the same man came over to me and apologized again, asking me how much I spent to fix my specs. I told him. Then he reached out to his wallet and handed me the amount. But I said to him, “Please take back your RM 100,” When he asked me why, I answered, “Because I lost my temper over such a small thing.”

My lips involuntarily curved into a slight smile.

“Then, we hugged one another, patted each other’s shoulders while the others in the masjid smiled a wide smile,” continued my son.

“Good to hear that,” I said in a low voice.

“Yes! And I am so overcomed with relief,” said he.

I did not say anything anymore. We talked about other things for a little while longer.

Deep inside me I was so grateful to Allah and was absolutely glad that my son had learnt an important lesson. The value of brotherhood and love amongst mankind (especially Muslims) far surpasses the petty things that we say we own in this short life.

The simple pleasures of life...

“Where are we going, Tok Wan?” asked our little Insyirah.

“You want to take a ride?” asked her grandpa, my other half that is.

The little girl's eyes lit up as she smiled and nodded her head.

We were babysitting again that weekend. My daughter and son-in-law had to study as their ACCA exams were just round the corner. So we decided to take the little girl out for some amusement.

At the play centre, Berjaya Times Square, we watched the roller coaster as it rumbled past above our heads.

“What is that noise?” said little Insyirah, her arms grabbing her grandpa’s neck and then laid her head upon his shoulder. The roller coaster turned raound a pillar and exited through another hanging track.

“That was a roller coaster. Do you want to take a ride on the bumble bee?” I asked, pointing my thumb to a certain section of the play centre.

The 3 year old little girl looked at me and said nothing. There was a frown on her forehead.

Just then, her grandpa said, “This place is a little bit too noisy for me.”

“I don’t like it too, Tok Wan!” she said, her words pouring fast out of her tiny lips..

“Would you like some ice cream instead?” I asked.

The little girl smiled a broad smile and so the three of us walked hand in hand. We sat on one of the steps in a secluded corner, leant against the wall, licking our ice creams. And we laughed a lot. All three of us.

Children. Very innocent. Very pure. Sometimes entertaining them doesn’t need one to bore a hole in one’s pockets.

Tears well up my eyes whenever I think of the more than 30% of Palestinians who perished were children, killed and maimed in the heartless Israeli attacks. No ice creams, no laughters. Just masks of death staring straight into their faces….

Perseverence....

“Assalamualaikum and welcome!” greeted the youngish-looking hotel owner in bahasa melayu, who apparently was already in his fifties, just as soon as we stepped onto the pavement next to the main entrance. His hands were grabbing our loads of luggage, pulling them into the lobby.

“You speak malay very well indeed!” said my other half.

“Sure do! How can we forget? We went to a school in Kuala Lumpur for quite a few years. My brother and I!” said he, motioning his hands to the comfortable seats.

“Oh! How interesting!” I said, lowering myself to the intricately decorated seats.

“Yes! We came from Burma. And during that time, we went to Malaysia to seek greener pastures. Times were getting difficult back home. However, after a few years, renewing visas was quite a hassle, so our father decided to find another country where we could settle in. Now, we are Norwegians and my children study here in the UK. My youngest, still in Cambridge while my eldest just graduated from St. Andrews, Scotland,” he related his past history.

He handed us the keys and ushered us to our rooms; small but very clean. That night, we took a walk in the summer night and had our dinner at one of the numerous halal eateries nearby. We were on our way home to Malaysia, after spending some time in Manchester, while attending our son’s convocation.

“Come in and enjoy your breakfast!” said the elder brother to the one who greeted us yesterday, early the next morning; his voice, cheerful and friendly.

“Thank you!” said my other half as we made our way to the breakfast table, in a cosy sitting area down at the basement.

At the other end, a couple was speaking in a language we could not understand. Once in a while there was laughter when our host joined in their conversation also in the same language.

“What would you like? Coffee, tea?” said the cheery voice again.

“Coffee please! And which country are they from, may I ask?” said my hubby.

“Norway! That is my country now, after we had to move from our country of origin.”

“We just got to know from your younger brother that your family once stayed in Kuala Lumpur. And the two of you went to school there too! Is that true?”

“Yes! It is true!” said he. In his hands were two pots of hot coffee.

“Why didn’t you just stay put?” said my hubby.

“Well! Our visa needed to be renewed every now and then and father had to go through the trouble to get it done. We were offered a permanent place to stay somewhere in East Malaysia. You see, we were city boys; grew up in Rangoon. At that time, Rangoon was not anywhere near what it is now. Beautiful, modern and a city full of heritage and life. Of course, we would not be able to adjust if we move to a remote place like East Malaysia. Father understood and that was why we landed in Norway.”

“But why Norway?” asked my son-in-law.

“Did you know that by owing a Norwegian passport, one does not need a visa to enter whichever country? Father did his homework very well and he was a well-read man. His decision was a wise one. Two of our siblings are doing business in Oslo and take charge of our family home there. While my younger brother and I man this hotel and another restaurant situated at Edgware Road nearby. Once a year, we would fly to Oslo and gather as a big family,” he said, handing us trays of toasts with butter and jam.

“Is your father still around?” said I, curious, helping myself to scrambled eggs, tempting looking mixed beans and corn, with red peppers thrown in spicy tasting sauce. How delicious!

“Oh! Yes! He is already in his eighties but still up and about. He was the one who started our family restaurant while our mum helps us here in this hotel. In the mornings, I will be here and at night, I will be helping out at the restaurant. My brother will take over this place at night.”

“You are a hard working man and full of perseverance!” quipped my other half, sipping his cup of coffee while our daughter fed little Nuha some toasts, lined with butter and jam.

“My father always said that you should enjoy doing what you want to do. Then you may reap the harvest of success. He is already well into his eighties and my mother is in her seventies. Both are still healthy and active. Father loves reading and follows whatever that is going on in the world. We are practicing Muslims, do our prayers, fast. Likewise the other pillars of Islam. And one thing I want to share with you. Not a single day went that our hotel is unoccupied. There will always be someone asking to stay. In fact, our place is very popular amongst Muslims because we serve only halal food.”

We sat mesmerized while enoying the scrumptious and filling breakfast that our friendly host had prepared with his own hands.

“I would like to share something too! Our granduncle was the first premier of Burma at that time. Dr. Ba Maw, a muslim lawyer, famous for his struggles to free Burma from the British. In fact, he decided to take up his doctorate in Bordeaux, France just to spite the British and to send them a strong message of his dislike for them. If you were to go to Myanmar now, you would see lots of schools, colleges, hospitals and public places named after him.”

“Those years in Burma, the muslims, even though are a minority, are highly regarded in the society. Because they are highly educated and profound in their knowledge. Furthermore, the economy of the country was mainly held in the muslim’s hands,” said the zealous hotel owner.

“We will definitely come here if we happen to be in London again!” said my son-in-law.

“Yes! Please do! Insha Allah! This strategic location, near to the shopping area of Edgware Road. Plus the fact that it is only within walking distance to the Paddington underground and main train station, conveniently connected to the Heathrow Airport. We are proud to own this place since 4 years ago and are always grateful to God for bestowing us his bounties,“ said our host, his face lighting up in a broad smile.

We acquired lots more life experiences from our two hosts during our two nights’ stay. The hotel which is situated at the tree lined Sussex Gardens, full of greenery and colourful blossoms, in the middle of a 200 year old Victorian terrace. It is not surprising that their family is thriving very well, being listed as one of the top ten budget hotels in London. Their restaurant too!

We now know where we would stay if we happen to be in London again, God willing. Why don’t you?

A life more meaningful...

A few months back, I was browsing by the shelves of an electronic shop, looking for something.

A familiar voice greeted me, “Assalamualaikum!”

I turned my head towards the well-wisher, returning the greetings and was I caught by surprise!

“Good to see you!” said he.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I have just been transferred to a school around here!” he smiled.

“How have you been doing?” I asked, curious

“Never been happier!” his face beaming with a smile.

“So, you are doing well! I can see that! And your wife?”

“She too, will be coming over soon! And the new school. It is just fabulous! In a remote village. The children, especially the boys? Naughty! But lovable! I am enjoying myself and simply love what I am doing right now!”

“Good for you! Send my salams to your wife!” I said.

“God willing! Have to go to school now. Outdoor activities. My boys are waiting for me. Make sure you give her a fair price! She was my teacher, you know!” he said, turning his cheery face to the young shopkeeper. With that, he bid me goodbye and made his way out of the shop.

“You know him?” I said to the shopkeeper.

“Yes! Very well! We grew up together around this area!” the shopkeeper said smilingly.

The thing I was searching for, was a real bargain, indeed!

In this age of materialistic greed, this ex-student of mine has restored in me the hope and faith that there are still selfless people out there who are willing to sacrifice in search of a more meaningful life…God knows best…

May we be blessed by Allah and may He accept all our good deeds and ibadah especially so in this holy month of Ramadhan…Amin…

The turning point…

More than a year passed. The stark campus has grown into a beautiful one, full of greenery, some plots of the original oil palm estate, left intact for aesthetic purposes. That was when he came to see me again.

“Whatever happened to your plans? Furthering your studies and everything? I remembered you came here, asking me to be your referee some time ago!” I said, offering the seat in front of me.

“Yes! But, there has been a change of plans!”

His face drooped for a while; silent, while I waited for his answer.

“I want to be a teacher. I love being a teacher. Especially teaching those small innocent boys. And a teacher is what I want to be! That is why I am here now. To ask you to be my referee. Am applying for a Teaching Certificate at a teaching institute. I hope you don’t mind!” at last, he said.

“Of course I don’t mind! Well! Well! It’s been a long journey, hasn’t it?” I said.

“Long journey?” he asked.

“Yes! To suddenly find the thing that you really love doing! And to finally find your true self!” I said half-jokingly.

“It has been a hard one for me!’ he said, lowering his eyes.

“Look here! Listen to me! Wherever you go, remember to do good. And whatever you do, give it your best shot! Remember that!” I said, my eyes fixed on his face.

He nodded and uttered rather quietly, “I will try to remember that.”

Many months passed. I got a call. He said that he wanted to stop by my office.

“Thank you!” he said.

“Whatever for?” I asked puzzled.

“For believing in me and making me believe in myself.”

“You got the credit to yourself! Alhamdulillah! You got the place at the teaching college?” I asked.

“Yes! Thanks to your strong recommendations.”

“I was only doing my job.”

“Wanted to inform you earlier but you were not around."

“I must have been out of Malaysia at a conference somewhere or maybe on holiday. How many more months, then?”

“Only a few more! And I breezed through the interview for placement!” he said excitedly.

“Oh! Is that so?” I said, quite surprised.

“The moment I said I want to teach in primary schools, the panel all laughed and then when one of them said, “You got it!” I was quite puzzled!” he said full heartedly.

“Puzzled? Of course they want man teachers in primary schools! That is why! And that is the whole problem with our education system right now. Small boys need men that they can connect with as examples and to discipline them. You are one lucky specie!” I laughed too.

“Here is something for you. You are the first person I am giving this to, around here,” he said holding out a pale hued envelope.

“Wow! Mabruk! When is the date?” My eyes gleamed as I read the fragrant card from inside the envelope.

“In a few weeks time,” his face was full of happiness.

I marked the date in my diary. Would not want to miss this occasion, not even for a million ringgit…

That was nearly two years ago…(..to be continued..)

Remember your words that day?

About two years after that, I was busy handling correspondences with participants of an up and coming international conference that the department was organizing. We had just shifted to the new campus at Seberang Perai Selatan, a site which was formerly known as The Transkrian Oil Palm Estates.

Then, there was an incoming message in my handphone, “Need to see you today! Am on my way…”

“Sure! Will be at the ROVISP Secretariat Room, first floor,” I texted the reply.

A few hours later and there he was, with his sheepish smile, panting away.

“Yes *****! So! What can I do for you this time?” I said, turning slowly from the computer screen as he entered the office door.

“Let me take my breath first!” he said, pulling himself down on the chair at the gesture from my hand.

“You ran all the way?” said I jokingly.

He shook his head and bowed to the floor for a while.

I waited…

“Rode my bike. And thank you for waiting for me. I would like to ask you to be my referee,” he said after his pantings had quietened down.

“Good!” I said, taking hold of the pieces of paper that he handed in front of him.

Refereeing is one thing that I have gotten used to. Numerous pupils of mine have come back for letters of recommendations; for further studies, for job applications, for scholarships…I don’t mind. It is part of my job.

“You want to further your studies! Well and good!” I said with a happy note.

“Just in case, you see! I heard that some of the industries are relocating, mostly to China. Who knows?”

“What made you think that the company you are in might do the same thing?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“I have been downgraded from a engineer to a technical assistant’s post, just recently. My pay has been cut by quite a fraction. The management says that they needed to cut down costs,” he said.

“Is that so?” I said with a worried look now.

“It is all right, Ma’am! Remember your words that day? The thing that you said about survival and finding something to hold onto? I am managing just fine. Some of my friends have been given the boot! And I have been riding my bike, right after work everyday, going from one house to another, giving tuitions to little boys. I am beginning to enjoy the sessions too!” he said.

“All right then! Just leave these papers with me. I will post them to the Graduate Studies Institute, main campus, by tomorrow” I said with a sigh of relief.

We talked for quite a while, about old times. Especially, about how he nearly lost his focus during his undergraduate years when we were at the campus in Tronoh. That was years ago….

(to be continued...)

Troubled but determined…

He was doing his final year project under my supervision. How I had to practically run after him every few weeks to watch his progress. He seemed excited at first. Then along the way, he lost his confidence. I did not receive his progress report. My emails to him went unanswered. Then, I had to send word through his friends (whom I tried to identify while at the university cafeteria) that he had to see me. And urgently too!

A few days later, he came.

He sat on the chair, running his hands through his disheveled hair, his eyes downcast on the floor.

“How are you doing?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“I just don’t seem to get things in the right perspective,” he replied, wiping both his eyes with the tips of his thumbs.

“And what do you mean by that, may I ask?” I said, clasping both my hands and placing them on the table in front of me.

“I just don’t know. Everything seemed fine at first. Then, things just fell out of place. I just don’t seem to get things the way I wanted,“ he said, his eyes now red at the brims.

“For example?” I asked.

Silence again.

“Actually, I have a big problem, back home. I am feeling very confused and disoriented,” he said, shaking his head.

“Everybody has got problems. So do I. In these situations, it is not about how you are going to solve the problem but how to survive without losing focus and maximizing your full potential! Find some pieces of driftwood, that you can hold onto!” I said.

“It is just that, things are so bad and I feel so helpless!...I don’t know!” his hands were clasped firmly to the sides of the chair.

“Look here! Young man! The biggest problem that you are facing right now is that – you NEED to graduate! And listen to me! Do you really want to graduate?” I firmly put the question to him.

He nodded his head.

“Do you want to be an engineer?” I asked.

He nodded his head again.

“I am not convinced!” I retorted.

“Yes! Of course, I want to become an engineer!” he said out loud.

“Then put aside your problems. Or rather, forget about your problems for these few weeks and focus!”

He was silent.

“I want to see your progress report before next week!” I said.

“I need to print some of the pages in colour, but I don’t have a colour printer,” he muffled.

“Can’t you just print them at the shops?” I asked.

After a momentous silence, he lifted his head from the floor and said in a whisper, “I don’t have the means to pay.”

“Why didn’t you just say so, in the first place!” I mumbled.

I rummaged my fingers through my handbag, handed him some cash and he was gone. Not after I dismissed his profuse ‘thank yous’…

Sure enough, his progress report was in my pigeon hole at the end of the week. And it was a job well done!

A few days before his final year project submission, I was again full of anxiety.

“Have you seen *****?” I asked a familiar face whom I met while on my way down to the general office, to get my letters.

“He is around but…” the student said, pulling his face away in another direction.

“But what?” I asked.

“He is at it again. Down and in low spirits…”

“If you see him today, tell him I want to see him by the end of this week, okay?” I said.

Two days after that, he came, his face unshaven and gloomy.

“Why do you keep doing this?” I blurted out.

“I don’t know Ma'am! It is just that, I feel so troubled and very sad. I don’t even feel like going home during the long breaks.”

“Not again?” I said.

He turned his face to the floor.

“Your final year dissertation need to be in. I want to see what you have written so far. Bring whatever you have in three day’s time. Is that clear?” I demanded.

“All right, Ma'am!” he said, his eyes were full of sadness.

“Is that a promise?” I said.

He nodded.

I shook my head and said, “I want to listen to the words!”

“I promise!”

Three days later, he turned up in my office and we went through the dissertation together. His work was excellent though not really polished. And he was willing to make amendments according to my suggestions.

The day of viva came. I was very pleased with his performance during the project presentation. So was the co-examiner.

“You could have gotten an A if you had been punctual in handing in your progress reports and all! But then, I hope you will settle for an A-,” I quipped.

“I would be so very happy even if I had managed to get a B!” he said gleefully.

(This event took place many years ago, while the engineering campus was still at Tronoh….to be continued…)

What's that, Teacher?"

“What’s that, Teacher?” a question was shot in the air and caught on my ears, coming from cute little lips…

“You mean, that one?” said a man in his thirties, pointing his fingers to a cluster of tall brick towers in the distance, with the same brick walls encircling .

Something about the children and everything else, made me stopped in my tracks. I just had to listen to the teacher’s explanation. My family and I were taking a walk beside the Thames, venturing from the Tower Bridge and we were approaching the Tower of London.

Then, there was laughter… the children running, their steps changing to small steps right after these words from their teacher, “Walk in pairs, please! And hold your partner’s hands. Don’t run! Have you forgotten what I said earlier?”

The sweet faces nodded sheepishly.

“We will be going in now! There are going to be a lot of people around. So, please remember my words, okay?” said the teacher, shaking his head, hands on hips.

I smiled a long smile.

At a corner near to the exit, a group of children were sitting on benches and the curbs, enjoying their packed sandwiches and drinks. Yet another group were hunched on the grass, their fingers holding crayons and coloured pensils, their faces intent on the white sheets spread in front of them.

This is how children are exposed to the subject of history in this part of the world. Since small, they were instilled with this type of learning, spurring inquisitiveness and the love for quest of knowledge through experiential learning. Not through spoon-feeding and boring sessions in the classroom.

Through discussions with a number of parents who have had the privilege of having their children going through their early years in school in this part of the world, I could gather a few things.

“Our children just love school. They are ever so excited here…they insist to be at school even when they are sick!”

I was in Chester, a medieval city, a short distance from Manchester early last year. At the excavation site of the Romans (only just recently discovered, i.e. in the year 2006), I bumped into a group of small children, dressed up in Roman costumes, in pieces here and there. One of the teachers was a man, all dressed up, complete with a bright red cape. He also took the liberty to act out a short skit, depicting a comical Roman emperor. Of course, the children (especially the boys) were squealing with laughter. It was January, I had three layers of clothing, including a thick jacket and gloves covering my fingers. The teacher had his legs bare to the mercy of the cold winds…

I salute the teacher, for his selfless efforts and dedication. In this western part of the world, there are still men who love teaching and being around small children. I do wonder… Do we still have such men back here in Malaysia?

That forlorn face....continue to haunt...

I pulled my fingers that were wrapped on the steering, careening the car to a halt at a petrol station off the main road from Taiping to Parit Buntar. An innocently sweet face greeted me at the first booth just as I drove past it.

The innocently-faced young man came running to assist me.

“Are you a teacher, ma’am?” smilingly, he asked. His hands holding the petrol pump which he gingerly inserted into the car beside me.

“Yes! Indeed I am!” said I, smiling back at him.

“Which school, may I know?”

“Actually I lecture at Nibong Tebal, the engineering campus, just across the border!”

“The university?” his face suddenly lit up as he said the words.

“Yes! How long have you worked here?” I asked, the curiosity in me was aroused as I studied his physique. He looked like someone fresh out of school.

“Just a few months ago. Actually, I was asked by my father to come back here to take care of my ailing grandmother. I also have my younger brothers’ and sisters’ mouths to feed. So I had to get a job.”

“Why aren’t you furthering your studies?” My heart cried out to know more.

“I had an offer from a university further down south, a few months after the SPM results were released.”

“Then? Didn’t you register?”

“As I said, my father has asked me to take care of granny and to find a job.”

“Where are you parents? Your mum? You dad?” I could not help frowning.

“My mum has passed away. My dad just married another.”

My heart sank. The young face was downcast on the floor by now, trying to hide away the cloud of sadness that might have appeared.

A loud thud! Full! And I was jolted back.

Instantaneously, I said, “Listen here, okay? Take good care of your granny. And your siblings too! God will reward you, Insha Allah. And bestow upon you bounties from paths you least expect. Believe me! I will make doa for you, Insha Allah!”

“Thank you, Aunt!” the shine of innocence lit up again on his face.

Payments to be made. As soon as I stepped out of the glass door of the service station office, I held up my hand. In the direction of the young man right across the other side of the premise, signaling my departure.

Hands waved eagerly back to me. Hands belonging to the sweet, innocently faced young boy.

My thoughts were constantly stirred by those frantic hands. All the way back to the campus, my heart reached out to that face. The intelligent face..looking forlornly on the floor…

Will there be light at the end of the tunnel for him? Oh Allah! Please….help him….Amin.

Finesse…an art to be acquired and practiced…

“What is all that ruckus?” D’s screams could be heard from upstairs. The next instant, her steps were heard running down the staircase.

I opened my bedroom door, held out my head and said, “Maybe some people just want to share their piece of favourite music?” My lips pursed a smile.

T shook her head and said, “At 2 a.m.? You gotta be joking!”

“Where are you going at this time of night?” I said, realizing that T was putting on her jacket.

“Have got to study. Can’t stay here! Want to spend the night at my friend’s. Away from this noise! See you later!” said she, her fingers twisting the key at the main door.

“You take care now! It is so late!” I said, with a frown on my forehead.

“Don’t you worry about me!” she said, in between her voluptuous lips. The main door rattled as she pulled it close behind her.

I went back to my bedside. Then putting aside my Ph.D thesis which I was trying to read all over and revise while awaiting my viva, I lay in bed with a book instead. “I Coriander” was written on its cover, penned by Sally Gardner.

A delightful piece set amidst medieval times, full of admirable prose. No wonder it garnered the most popular book by British school children in 2005 (Book of the Year Award). The amazing thing about the author was that she was a dyslexic as a child; was often ridiculed at by her friends and called ‘stupid’ by her teachers, thrown out of several schools, labeled unteachable and also sent to maladjusted children. It was only after her parents sent her to a special school that she started to learn how to read at the age of 14. Then gaining a degree with highest honours at a leading London art college and became a highly successful costume designer in film production.

All of a sudden, there was a loud bang on the glass pane, accompanied by the voices of drunkards singing. My hands quickly reached to put out the reading light and I hid under the sleeping bag. My lips, uttering prayers, “Please Allah! Please protect me..”

I occupied the room fronting the main road of the corner unit, double storey terrace house that was rented with T and two other non-British girls (non Muslims too). But we all got on very well indeed! The lower storey façade was all glass windows from ceiling down to nearly to the floor and not grilled like back here in Malaysia. A hard knock and the glass might shatter…

Most weekends would typically be as such! The sound that was heard earlier on was the loud music coming from cars which would sometimes whizz pass the corner. The driver manning the steering sometimes behaving like a competitor in Formula One. Most of the time, young Muslims of Pakistani descent or from the Middle East. Questions were sometimes posed by people in the local white community, “When is the next Muslim Christmas?” referring to the wild parties, liquor binging and swinging by the Muslim youths on the eves of the two auspicious Eids in the Muslim calendar along the sidewalks of the Curry Mile. How ironic!

Sometimes I would feel ashamed and full of disgrace, especially when I chance upon British gentlemen driving their automobiles full of politeness and grace.

How do you explain such a thing like this? It is just beyond comprehension!

I remembered Brother Idris Tawfiq’s words at the question and answer session at the end of his talk a month back then. How befitting it was, as his audience were mostly young Muslim men and women from universities all over Britain and especially from the University of Manchester.

This was what he said, “Muslims should exemplify good examples. As muslim youths staying in the UK, you should be doing this. Then only will the British people be straightening up in their seats to listen to you! And lastly, I would like to say this. There are little things that you can do to help our fellow brothers and sisters who are being subjected to hardship in this world right now. Boycott the goods and products of those who use your money to continue to buy weapons to persecute our muslim brothers and sisters. Please do this and please spread these words. Remember, the power is in your hands! May Allah continue to bless you all! Assalamualaikum!”

Have we asked ourselves these questions? How far have we tried to portray good examples as Muslims? Especially in the spate of recent happenings? Certain quarters amongst us have suddenly become objects of attention…roving eyes and ears all pricked up! The slightest blunder and tongues would start wagging and worse still, the confidence of the masses waning. Have we really done our best to render our opinion, act and react with wisdom? Touching people’s hearts with grace and kindness? Until they realize that Islam is full of glory and its followers are compassionate beings? For these were exemplified by our Rasul (peace be upon him), especially more so during the opening of Makkah. Absolutely no vengeance, no malice. Only gentleness and forgiveness...

And are we prepared to forgo and boycott (as strongly suggested by Brother Idris Tawfiq) certain quarters whose sales of products contribute to (if not in its entirety then maybe some) the destruction, massacre, torture and misery of our fellow men, women and children in other parts of the world including Palestine?

So think!

...whose days are numbered...

“This used to be the workhouse!” said H, the english lady who was the project manager at the Nightingale Centre. Her eyes gazed at the red bricked building looming across the lawns that must have seen better days.

“What is a workhouse?” I asked looking up from my work. My eyes too, could not help staring at the forlorn-looking relic that could be seen from the large glass window.

“I hate that place!” said E, another english colleague of mine, rubbing the mammographic film in front of her with a piece of smudged rag.

“Why?” My fingers stopped playing with the keyboard, halfway through entering the patients’ cases gathered for the day.

“Rats! Full of them! Running around your feet! Went there to get past patients’ records. That was to be my first and last time! Came out screaming.. Let someone else do the digging!” said E again, putting up the film against the light and scrutinizing it.

“H! You haven’t answered my question!” I turned my face towards H who was at the far side of the glass pane.

“Oh! Sorry! I was drifting back years in time. The workhouse was a place where the poor and hopeless came to stay. Too poor to sustain and too sick to be able to care for themselves. Men, separated from their women, mothers from their children. All for a streak of hope in living. Cleaning, mending doing whatever was necessary to have a roof above their heads and meagre meals to fill their empty tummies."

“Is that so?” I sighed. I turned my face back to the computer screen, running fingers across the buttons in front of me.

“Yes! So much so that in the last century, if a child misbehaves then the parents would threaten them by saying, “If you are naughty, you will end up in the workhouse!””

My fingers halted. It took a while before they ventured on their moves again.

On my way back to the bus stop, I pondered across the lawn again. At the once majestic structure, drinking in the scenery. Closing my eyes, I could picture the sad looks on faces and hear the sounds of their sufferings….

Then I recollected my steps, past the Siemens Park (the medical equipment manufacturer and supplier) signatured with its pristine white buildings towards Elizabeth Slinger Road to catch the number 47 bus back to the campus. Two uniformed policemen strutted past, each one high on horseback, looking magnificent from the Police Headquarters on the right side of the road.

Early the next morning, I made a point to arrive earlier than the norm, tracing my footsteps around the grounds. Under the white cherry blossoms, I stopped and closed my eyes; listening and imagining old conversations. The fragrance of rhododendrons filled the air amidst lavender buds and bright red peonies.

The sound of siren from a passing police car broke the silence. My eyelids flew open to dilapitated sites with rubbish strewn everywhere which can be seen from afar. This is the fate of this once beautiful place. Soon to be relocated at a new hospital, further down south, nearer to the International Manchester Airport.

This workhouse that eventually became the War Hospital during the World War was a tribute to Florence Nightingale, “The Lady With The Lamp” who spent some of her years here. Like The Nightingale Centre, my days as a volunteer for CADET 2 (Computer Aided Detection of Cancer) were numbered too. The place was slowly evolving. Changing…

Change is inevitable. Change we must. Who would want to remain in old, battered and rotting buildings. Only to be invested with pests…like the rats that E was so scared of and which made her ran helter skelter, screaming her heart out? So think! Do we want to end up being like those rodents? Running around people’s feet? Digging for crumbs?

Time to wake up! Time for change!

(..to be continued)

The old, the new and time for change...

Was feeling a bit bored on one of the weekends during my 9 months sabbatical stint last year. Work was hectic at the Nightingale Centre, Nell Lane near the small town of Withington, Greater Manchester. Running to catch the bus in the freezing temperature very early every morning on a working day has distracted me. So, weekends are quite a lull…

My son has gone home to be with his beloved dad and his sister (+family), leaving me behind. To be on my own...

Not that I was not used to being alone. I didn’t even get to see my son as often as I had anticipated. Both of us were occupied. I was attached to ISBE (Imaging Science and Biomedical Engineering) University of Manchester further down south, while he was busy (and still is) with his studies at UMIST (even though UMIST has ceased to exist and both the universities have conjoined to become one). We each had our own abode too. He was at Old Trafford while I chose to stay at Rusholme, home of the “Curry Mile”, heaven for halal food. We would meet only about once a week. At a halfway point along Oxford Road where the university refectory was or at one of those halal eateries dotting the very busy main road.

It was just one of those days…Felt like going on a little adventure on the outskirts of the city.

The next moment, I was on a bus heading towards Ashton-under-Lyne, the eastern part of Greater Manchester. Was on the upper deck when this view caught my eye.

“Interesting!” Click! Went the sound from my little faithful companion which I have always kept close by, just as the bus driver turned a corner.

What was so interesting? Notice the year written on the plaque? Yes! 1890, sculptured on the wall of the row of shop houses which still exists. And the satellite dish? Indeed! One is old while the other is new.

Someone once posed me this question, “The earth evolves, times change, we grow old and change too. But there is one thing that never changes. You know what that is?”

“I am afraid not? If you would be kind enough to tell me?” I asked.

“Well! Change! Change itself. Because that has been its feat for as long as it ever existed!”

“I don’t quite understand!” I said.

My ears perceived this reply, “Do you know why the dinosaurs have become extinct? I was asked this question by my professor. I hadn’t a clue. It was because those creatures refused to change. To acclimatise and adapt themselves to new surroundings. The same thing goes for us, if we refuse to do the same thing. So, change we must. If we want to continue to exist.”

I was silent, mincing the words that tumbled out from those lips.

Allah says in the Quran (Ar-Ra’d: verse 11) ".. Lo! Allah changeth not the condition of a folk until they (first) change that which is in their hearts.”

Even established institutions like UMIST (at one moment in time, the leader in pioneering scientific discoveries) and the University of Manchester have both become one to sustain their existence and glory.

Do we want to be like the dinosaurs or for that matter, the words on the plaque? To be mere imprints, monuments or shadows of the past? True! Those are cherished memories but to be of further use, we must adapt. We must make new moves. We must cater for new things, to allow new products to be hinged on to us, that may be of benefit to render and prolong the relevance of our existence. The power to bring about change is in our hands..

And the time for change is NOW!

Jihad from the eyes of our tiny but spritely spirited…

The apple of both our eyes…was very fast on her feet. Weaving her way in and out, between shoplots and along the corridor at a shopping mall last Sunday morning.

Pity her Grandad (whom she affectionately calls ‘Tok Wan’), who had to scamper here and there, panting away… A man, past middle age while the other..an energetic two and a half year old. How can one compare? Moreover, one cannot afford to be complacent these days. Too many stories. Too many incidents. Our little ones are no longer safe on their own.

The plucky, little girl stopped in her tracks at one of the adjoining corridors and said, “Hey Don’t fight!” There was a big frown on her face, one hand was on her waist while the other, finger pointing.

In front of her, were two burly five to six year olds, jostling each other and were definitely crossing their fists. Our pint-sized Nuha Inshirah's remarks must have been effective. For they stopped whatever they were doing and moved on…Our little bombshell was still giving them ‘her looks’ albeit sideways now…

I told myself, “Masha Allah! Small but brave enough to forbid something that is not right. Her act looked so natural despite it being spontaneous!”

My beloved and I exchanged glances and we could not hold back our chuckles.

Well! Isn’t it the duty of every Muslim (regardless of age and position) to forbid wrongdoings? In fact, it is a component of jihad.

Think! What are the things that we can do to make jihad as being part of our ritual in daily life?

Jihad should be seen as something very vast. An act of virtue that is not confined to only being involved with warfare. We are constantly being asked to fight against ill desire, not to succumb to the persuasions of the shaitan that comes to sway us from His path, in all shapes and forms. We are told to strive to give our utmost and strength to be near to Allah. To do whatever that He has asked us to do. To leave and put aside the things that He has stated as forbidden. To uphold the truth and fight for the sake of curbing and preventing falsehood.

The prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) says, “The greatest Jihad to God is a word of truth before an unjust ruler.” [HR Ahmad].

Another gem is also gone...forever

True! Another glimmering jewel is now gone forever. To be with Allah....But her demise has not been in vain....For, just like our previous friend, she too has left a legacy....

Dr. Yatimah Sarmani (Universiti Teknology Malaysia) took her last breath right after 'proof reading' her book that is due to be printed...

Alhamdulillah....Such a noble ending...

Gone while you are in the midst of doing something good....

While sowing seeds that may reaped and harvested, time and again....as provisions in the hereafter...

"Oh Allah! Forgive her wrongdoings, accept her good deeds and grant her a place amongst those who are steadfast in their duty towards You and those who enjoin good deeds...Amin..Ya Rabbal Alamin..."

Al-Fatihah...
(for more info: http://universitipts.com/index.php/site/comments/al_fatihah_seorang_lagi_bunga_pts_gugur/)

Tokens of appreciation and responses to workshop..

Thank you very much to:-

i. Chairperson – Women’s Wing JIM Perak State for giving me the honour of conducting the Writing Workshop. Also to the Chairperson of JIM Perak State for lending his approval.
ii. Ms. Hajjah Norhayati Hj. Sidek for her assistance in arranging the premise with appropriate setting of tables and chairs, also preparing the necessary forms.
iii. Mrs. Hajjah Kerisisiah Mohd. Daud for arranging the excellent menu catered by the AL Hidayah School, Ipoh. The food was delicious – feedback from participants, stating they were certainly well-fed. It was a good thing that the workshop involved a lot of movements and not just sitting down, listening. If not then everybody would have a hard time trying to stay awake!
iv. Mr. Cik Wan dan Mr. Shukri Daud for making sure that the venue was extremely comfortable.
v. My beloved Ir. Haji Mohd. Sofian bin Ahmad for the moral support, technical, transport and other assistance.

Congratulations again to:

a. Young participants (below 15) who faithfully stayed on in their seats until the last minute, for showing perseverance and persistence. Even though it was realized that the last two activities were a bit too taxing for their age. We will try to work out some other forms of activities more suitable for you in future, okay?
b. All the pariticipants for showing their eagerness and willingness to learn and diligently following the numerous instructions. The success of the workshop would not have been possible if not for the kind of spirit and proactive attitude displayed by them. All of you were such a sport!

These are some of the responses that were received from participants through emails:-

Ms.Hajjah Norhayati Haji Sidek from Ipoh:-

“The environment during the workshop was harmonious and cheerful. Even though our stomachs were constantly full, we were too excited to fall asleep…. Of course being laughed at while reading your piece, is one thing… as well as laughing yourself while listening to others. But it was good because everybody had a sense of humour. The fun we had exploring things "hands-on, minds-on and hearts-on" was really significant..."

Mrs. Hajjah Anita Ali (Chairperson, Women’s Wing JIM, Perak State) from Manjung:-

“Really worthwhile attending this! Considering the small fee that is incurred. The knowledge and exposure certainly is worth much more!..Very practical approach for all who would want to venture into writing..”

Mrs. Dzilal Abdul Aziz from Ipoh:-

“The activities from morning till late afternoon were not boring at all. Time passed by without you really realizing it. You need to be constantly involved and practically ‘forced’ to write. How bewitching! And great too! Hearing the pieces produced by each participants. Never realized that there were so many with potentials. It is true what Aunt Umi has said, writers can be trained and groomed.

If ever there would be another upcoming one, I would not hesitate to participate…in fact, I would be the first to attend. It was really worthwhile!….”

Mrs. Mahani Yusof from Kuala Kangsar:-

“Alhamdulillah, I have gathered a lof of benefits in terms of knowledge…It was such an effort to crack your brains!”

Mrs. Norizan Lazim from Taiping (through phone message):-

“The ikhwan leaders and religious scholars like Hamka, they write and produce materials that continue to be read and ‘lived’ through the hearts of souls and readers until now. This is a branch of da’wah and medium that I would love to choose and contribute in!”

Mrs. Rosidah Mohd. Isa from Pasir Pinji, Ipoh (not a member of JIM as yet!):-

“I gathered a lot of knowledge during the workshop that day. Insha Allah, now I intend to attend the workshops organized by PTS with my cousin from Cheras in KL…”

May this small effort start to kindle the love of writing and also be of benefit to the participants. And may these seeds be accepted by Allah as a harvest to be reaped in the hereafter…Amin.

To all participants, keep the momentum going. Write at least fifteen minutes a day…don’t forget that!

And remember too! “Writers are not born, they are made!”