| Faridah Abdul Rashid | ||||||||||||||||||
| To: TH-info@lth.gov.my | ||||||||||||||||||
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Friday, 1 October 2021
Letter to TH 1 Oct 2021
| Faridah Abdul Rashid | ||||||||||||||||||
| To: TH-info@lth.gov.my | ||||||||||||||||||
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Sunday, 19 September 2021
Book - Datuk Ann Majeed (2016)
A Towering Figure in Social Welfare Work in Malaysia.
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| Datuk Ann Majeed - A Towering Figure in Social Welfare Work in Malaysia. by Sharifah Mariam Syed Mansor Al-Idrus. Printed by Tun Suffian Foundation Inc., 2016 Softcover, 166 pages ISBN 9789674353063 Enquiries: www.arecabooks.com |
Monday, 13 September 2021
Book - Reflections: Dr Mohd Said (2021)
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| Reflections: Dr Mohd Said by Halimah Mohd Said Published by UPSI, Tanjong Malim, Perak. 2021 Hardcover, 298 pages ISBN 978-967-2908-55-5 Book is available online from Shopee https://shopee.com.my/REFLECTIONS-DR-MOHD-SAID-i.238273030.11923703157 |
Cast From The Herd: Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia
Cast From The Herd: Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia
M. Bakri Musa
Excerpt # 6: Mandul Leaders
Continuing on with his intriguing analysis of Chairul Anwar’s Aku poem, Cikgu Noh dismissed Malay leaders and sultans as manduls. We pupils remained quiet; another metaphor!
I knew what mandul meant, foreman, the one who barked orders to the already tired coolies ordering them to move even faster in the heat of the day. Chairil was agitating his people to defy their mandul so they would be spared from the slaughterhouse.
“Cast yourself from the herd,” Noh exhorted. “Defy your mandul if they are mandul.”
Another poetic play on words! Seeing our puzzled looks, he asked what ranchers do with their mandul bulls. “Sell or slaughter them,” he answered himself. “They can’t breed!”
That sure was a circuitous and devastating explanation of the other meaning of mandul. What? Slaughter our mandul leaders? That would be treason; we would end up being slaughtered. Noh was exhorting us to defy our leaders, including presumably him. We dared not defy this champion boxer, not even a former one. Besides, he had already captured our imagination; we would follow him. This boxer of a bull was a fine specimen; he was far from being mandul.
“Read that last line again,” he commanded. We were about to commence our group murmuring when he read it aloud himself, as he had intended to do anyway. “I want to live for a thousand years, no less!”
He clinched his lips and paused, displaying an unexpected caution. “Our faith tells us that our time on this earth is but temporary.” After an uncharacteristic but noticeable hesitation, “We are told to welcome death, to not be afraid of it.”
He was now into religion; this could be a minefield. He paced back and forth. Then, “Is Chairil afraid of death when he asserted that he wanted to live for a thousand years?” Without waiting for our reply, “Was he afraid to face his Maker? Was he being blasphemous?”
Boom! Boom! Boom! Three devastating punches in quick succession. We had not yet recovered from the first and he already fired his next, and then the third. This was how he must be in the ring. Pity his opponent! By this time I knew he was not expecting an answer from us. Surely such lofty philosophical ponderings were above our grade level.
I was right, for he continued. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we blindly follow our mandul leaders, we too would end up being slaughtered.”
We remained silent, unaccustomed to being addressed with such formality. This was a heavy load, and so early in the day and year.
“Remember this wisdom of our elders,” he wagged his finger. “Even the dumbest buffalo, once it had escaped, would not be easy to corral again.” He paused. “The first thing that critter would do is pace the perimeter, test its strength, and search for gaps. Your world would be irreversibly changed once you have cast yourself from your herd.”
This was not a cry for freedom. Far from it! Chairil was asserting–no, demanding–his right to it. He challenged us to defy our leaders if they were to tread on our freedom. Substituting one oppressor for another–Japanese occupiers for Dutch colonialists–was no freedom. Nor the promise of later freedom justified curtailing the current meager one, as the Japanese did to Malays. As Chairil Anwar warned, our leaders were just as likely to trample on our freedoms as those colonialists and occupiers.
This young poet was a rebel, but with a noble cause–the emancipation of his people from their own leaders, the liberation of docile peasants from their imperious sultans. A rebel with a cause! Where had I heard that phrase before?
No, I had not. That matinee I saw a while back starring James Dean was “Rebel Without A Cause.” Chairil Anwar was a James Dean with a cause. No! Dean was a Chairil Anwar without a cause. Chairul’s was an arrogant assertion of rugged individualism and fearless break from stifling traditions. Even his poetry broke conventional forms. The brutal Japanese could not intimidate him, and he was contemptuous of his own feudal leaders. No wonder he wanted to live for a thousand years and bear the stings of bullets and pains of wounds. His cause will remain so long as humans fear to stray from their herd or take on their leaders. His would take a thousand years, and more!
I too now wanted to cast myself from my herd, to seek my own pasture even if it would take me a thousand years. My hero would not be some battle-scarred old warrior lionized in our hagiographies like Hang Tuah but a young poet–Chairil Anwar. My mission was to change my destiny that had been defined by my birth and culture, and to break the constraints forced upon me by my leaders.
Emboldened, I felt like a newly-commissioned officer tasked with a critical battle that could alter the course of the war. It did not escape me that Chairil Anwar’s immortal poem was penned in the year of my birth–1943–and that he was from my Minangkabau tribe. Propitious!
Chairil’s stirring lines reverberated in me. Only the ringing of the school bell interrupted the pounding in my chest. As the class stood up to say our customary “Thank you, teacher!” there was again a collective hesitation. Should we instead say, “Terima kasih, Cikgu?”
That awkward silence did not faze him. “Terima kasih kerana sudi mendengar!” (Thank you for being so kind to listen!)
Wow, a teacher thanking us! How weird, and a substitute teacher at that!
I had anticipated a lazy drift downstream led by a lackadaisical substitute skipper. Instead I had one who was very much engaged; he steered us through the rapids without even a whimper of protest from us. In truth, we dared not.
Yes, there were many white-knuckle moments but I was invigorated by the sprays and bumps. On to more whitewater runs! Oh God, let not what I had just been through be a wispy illusion, or worse, a cruel tease. I remembered only too well how meek my grandfather’s bull buffalo was long after I had freed the rope from its nose-ring. The huge critter behaved as if it was still tethered.
I wanted to be challenged, to take leave of my herd, and to seek new pastures. I yearned to be freed from the tiring chores and petty squabbles that defined my village life. Liberate me from the stifling constraints of my feudal traditions where my destiny was defined at and by my birth. Unshackle me from the numbing mindless rote memorization that passed for learning at my school. I was now intolerant of those constraints.
Chairul Anwar’s powerful words had jolted me out of my comfortable adolescent fantasy world. My coconut shell had been toppled, and I yearned to explore the now wide open world. Chairul Anwar had ignited the fire of freedom and merantau (wanderlust) in me. I was determined to keep it burning, and burning bright. The good news that morning was not my getting a substitute teacher, rather that he had brought Chairil Anwar’s immortal poem to my world.
Next: Excerpt # 7: At Last, In Long Pants!
Monday, 6 September 2021
Cast From The Herd: Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia (Excerpt # 5)
Cast From The Herd: Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia
M. Bakri Musa
Excerpt # 5: Chairul Anwar–My Hero!
“Read it!” Mr. Noh commanded as he turned to the blackboard with Chairul Anwar’s immortal poem “Aku” which he had written earlier.
A soft monotonous murmur filled the air, the humming of Buddhist monks except that we were not in saffron robes and our heads unshaven. And there were girls amidst us!
“Put in some feeling!” as he swung his fist.
The humming grew but not by much, punctuated by nervous giggles from the girls. He cut us off, unable to bear our pathetic attempt. “Aku!” as he punched his left fist into his right palm, the smashing sound reverberating through the room. Good thing it was his palm and not my face. He looked at the board once in a while as if he was unsure of his lines. Of course he knew them by heart. That was just a display of false modesty on his part, to reassure us that he was after all not a language teacher.
When he finished reciting the whole poem, I felt an unaccustomed warm glow enveloping me. The hair on the back of my neck stiffened. I felt downright manly. I had never heard my language uttered in such a sure, assertive tone. It bordered on the arrogance, with defiance oozing all over, accentuated by the clenching of his lips and fists. His tone jarred the melodious sounds of those words.
He let his words sink in. Then, “Look at the poem,” as he pointed to the board.
What was there to see but lines that ended with words that rhymed?
“Is this your parents’ poetry?” he taunted us.
I was familiar with pantun (quatrains), gurindam (couplets), and seloka (rhythmic verses). They were recited at ceremonies and festivals, but this poem did not at all sound like any of those. Yet it had its own inner rhythm, powerful imageries, and stirring emotions, much more so than our melodious pantun. This certainly was not a poem you would recite to your lover on a moon-lit beach.
Chairil had penned it at the height of the horrendous Japanese Occupation when evil was everywhere, with young men herded onto trucks and trains to be sent to the war fronts or the infamous Death Railway in Burma, never to return. Noh went on to relate the poet’s utter contempt for his leaders who in their blind hatred for the colonialists had embraced the Japanese. Those native leaders continued doing so, with their followers in tow, long after the Japanese had proved to be even worse monstrous masters.
Chairil was angry at the Japanese of course, but he was even more contemptuous of those Malay leaders for betraying their people, and for them to blindly follow their leaders. Those folks were like kerbau (domestic water buffalo), Chairil sneered. Like the kerbau, those leaders were in turn being led by the ring through their noses to the slaughter house by the Japanese, with the masses following in tow.
“We should be like the seladang (wild buffalo) instead” Noh thundered, “wild, feared, and free to roam. No one would dare put a ring through its nose!”
I was now in rapt attention. After that absorbing but brief detour as a captivating storyteller he was back to being a teacher with his questions. He challenged us to ponder whether those defiant words could have been uttered by a palace hamba (slave, peasant) or the sultan.
My God! We were only a few minutes into his class and he was already peppering us with questions. I did not expect that, not from a substitute teacher of an unimportant subject in a honeymoon-year class. This fellow was determined to make full use of his time with us.
Thank goodness he answered himself. Those defiant words, he reminded us, could not possibly have been uttered much less written by a hamba. You would not expect peasants to be assertive or literate, so excuse them. The sultans however, were a different story. They should be leading their people away from those menacing trains and trucks. They should lead in the sabotage; one truck immobilized by a flat tire would spare the lives of dozens; a derailed train, thousands more. Instead, those sultans helped herd their subjects onto those trucks and trains bound for inevitable death.
“They were but kerbau leaders,” Noh thundered, “apologists and enablers for the Japanese. Left alone those villagers would do what ordinary self-respecting folks would; resist tyranny and fend for themselves.”
I was a village kid, familiar with kerbau. My grandfather had a few. Yet I missed his buffalo metaphor. Then I remembered the ease with which I could control my grandfather’s herd by simply holding on to the rope attached to the ring through the lead buffalo’s nose.
“The ring may be of gold and the line spun of silk,” Noh continued, “still, even a Japanese toddler could control the animal and through it the herd.”
You may not have a ring through your nose but if you follow a leader who is being led around by the ring through his nose, then it is the same as if that ring is through your nose.
Next: Excerpt # 6: Mandul Leaders
Monday, 30 August 2021
Merdeka in 2021
Hits: 1,064,376 ... 30 August 2021
We are still in the COVID-19 pandemic era. The end is still far but it will come to an end.
Merdeka in 2021: Unity is Strength
I received an interesting book on 29 September 2014 from Datuk Abdul Mutalib Razak, ex-Chairman TV3.
He gifted me his book entitled, "Expressions of Merdeka Malaysia. Celebration. Buildings. Arches. Stamps. A pictorial journey by Abdul Mutalib Razak. 31 August 1957. 16 September 1963." ISBN 978-983429801-2
I don't want to write much about the contents of the book, but I want you to try and see the contents of the book yourself. It is a good coffee-table book and a good read.
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