My alter ego in text

It is a terrifying feeling, to see yourself in a character in a book. To see your deepest thoughts printed, word for word, written by someone else's hand. It's like seeing the future, or hearing a prophecy about yourself. Like an out of body experience, staring at yourself from outside your body. You feel exposed and vulnerable, and oddly violated. As if to accuse the character: how dare you, a fictional being who doesn't even exist, dare to drag out my private feelings and splash them on pages for public display, parading it as your own monologues?

Perhaps it's the shock of confronting my own demons, appearing so suddenly, a guerilla attack in my safe comforting world of books, that have shaken me so. I can no longer pretend not to see them. I have had a glimpse into what may become of me through the fate of my colorless alter ego in text. And it's terrifying indeed. 

Eclipsed

The other kids always call me names like “stone face” or “heartless” or simply “freak”. I always thought if they really believed that I had no feelings, why would they think I would ever be affected by their taunts? I read somewhere that if bullies feel like their victims don’t react, they’ll get bored and stop bullying. I guess what they say in the books aren’t always true.

It was half right, what they said. I never show any emotion, any expression. My face is as featureless as the bare hills in winter, when even the sparse grass turns white with frost and everything blurs into rolling grey. The mothers gossip that when I was born I didn’t even cry like a normal newborn, just heaved a deep heavy sigh, as if I already tired of the world the moment I came into it. I asked Mother once if it was true. She started crying and hugged me tight, saying it was not my fault, it was hers. She said it was all because of the eclipse, and she thumped her chest again and again, blaming herself for not wearing red. I didn’t understand it all, but I didn’t ask again. Seeing Mother crying always made me get a lump in my throat, like I swallowed a frog.

I asked the books instead. They said that people long ago believed that during a solar eclipse, a pregnant woman must wear something red or metallic to protect their unborn child. An eclipse is bite out of the face of the sun, and without protection the child will also have something taken, and become deformed, incomplete somehow. The day I was born, there was a solar eclipse. I looked inside myself, and saw the gaping hole there, round like the eclipsed sun. I understood then, that a bite must have been taken from me, the part of me that feels. I looked again at the hole inside me, and thought it might have grown a little bigger.

Remember I said that the kids were half right? It’s true that I show no emotion, and I do not feel the emotions other people feel. I don’t understand what “happy” or “sad” or “angry” is. It’s like asking a person born blind to understand the concept of colours. They are meaningless words to me. I do feel something though. It’s like a wave that gurgles up from my belly and up my throat. When the kids jeer and call me names, it comes. When I find a really pretty butterfly, it comes. When there’s lightning crashing outside, it comes. Sometimes it threatens to burst out of my mouth. It makes me feel a bit ill, like that time we got on the boat and the sea was choppy, when the boat kept rocking and swaying and everyone looked green. I asked the books what this is called, and the closest word I could find was nausea.

Nausea (noun):

1. A feeling of sickness with an inclination to vomit.
2. Loathing; revulsion.

I thought it was funny how it had the word “sea” in it. The seas around here are always rough, so everyone would get nausea easily, even the fishermen. I also thought it was funny how it had two meanings, and the second meaning was an emotion. It made me think that maybe this means I am not a completely incomplete. Maybe the eclipse didn’t manage to take all of it away.

When I grew older, I learned that vomiting was the body’s way of getting rid of bad things in the body, like when you ate something rotten. Vomiting is a full forced ejection of the stomach’s contents, rejection of whatever the body deemed harmful. For someone who only feels nausea, vomiting seemed like the climax of all emotion, an extreme reaction. I’ve never felt so much that I actually vomited. Not even when my cat died, although there was a bitter sour taste at the back of my throat for days.

But then I met her. She was from the city, and she was the prettiest girl in our little town. All the boys clamored for her attention, and when she smiled the world got brighter, like a sun lived inside her. I would get nauseous every time I saw her, and it took every effort to hold back the waves, so I couldn’t even open my mouth to speak. Of course I never smiled back when she smiled at me. All I could do was dress nicely, keep my nails clean and my hair tidy, and watch her like a shadow. I ate little, slept little, constantly battling the nausea inside of me, which roiled like a stormy sea constantly.

They say it was a tragic accident. The seas around here are unpredictable, and she was unlucky. Her body washed up ashore the next morning, the waves kept lapping over her like they were trying to comfort her. Some of the people who saw the bloated corpse threw up, but for once I felt absolutely nothing while looking at her. The nausea that has been battering at me all this time stilled, and there was a deathly calm. 

That night I vomited. The dams I put up disintegrated as the waves rose with a fury from inside and crashed out mercilessly. I vomited again and again, rejecting this feeling from my body, rejecting it with every fibre of my being. When nothing was left to throw up, I kept retching and gasping, so I could turn my stomach inside out and vomit all my insides out until there was nothing left inside. As I thought that, I looked inside myself. The gaping hole was growing bigger as I heaved, expanding in a widening circle. It reminded me of a black hole I read about in the books, which can suck up everything and anything into it with immense force, destroying it all into nothingness. The hole kept growing, sucking me into its darkness as I stared into it.

At the very last moment before I disappeared, I wondered whether this is what they called “heartbreak”.

Setting my heart free

Recently, I’ve become easily moved to tears.  I’ve never been particularly tough, nor a cry-baby, just average emotionally. I do think that I used to be a bit cold though; unlike my mother and my sister, I was never the type to allow my emotions to rule my actions and decisions. Logic was my guiding compass, and mind over heart was how I thought a sensible mature person should live their life. I never got so angry I’d throw a tantrum or slam doors; I never fell so head over heels that I was blinded to someone’s flaws. But I’m not heartless: I’ve been excited and crazy happy loads of times, and upset and sad to tears many times too. But at the end of the day I was always able to calmly and objectively analyse my feelings, like there’s another me inside my head, detached from my emotions. And that voice of reason always helped me sort through my emotions, and make clear logical decisions that aren’t swayed by the tossing and turnings of my restless heart. I rule my heart with this ruthless iron grip of reasoning.

There’s one facet of my life that isn’t governed by that calm logic though: when it comes to my other reality, my faucet of emotions is opened full flow. My other reality, my world of books, movies, music and anime, is a world where I’m free to let my unruly heart go all out and indulge in every shade of sensation, from delight to rage to utter despair.  In return for the shackles I put on myself in my own life, I let all my walls go down in my imaginary world. I laugh heartily at the top of my voice at the jokes, I cry rivers when something sad or touching happens. Once, I was sobbing so hard and gasping for air, that my housemate came running in from her room and barged into my room because she thought something terrible must have happened. She was not amused when it turned out to be just because of an anime movie. On the other hand, I was feeling so sad saying farewell to a very good friend when I left the UK, but no tears came.  That’s just how I am, and I never thought there’s anything wrong with that.

I’m like that when I’m in love too. Not that I’ve ever been properly in love, at least not how I think being “in love” should be like. When I develop feelings for someone, I’m always aware of it. My mind would carefully watch the person I’m interested in, dissect my feelings to pinpoint why exactly I feel for this person. I would observe and analyse the person’s every action, every word, and read into everything like a detective. Of course, I’d try and gauge whether the person has feelings for me too.  I’d put together a profile, and see only the bits that I like and approve of. But once I feel that the person is not interested in me (whether it’s true or not, I do not know), and the person might have guessed my feelings for him (whether they really have guessed, I do not know), I back off. I didn’t want to look desperate, or be the one to chase the guy. My voice of reason would start zeroing on why this person is wrong for me, on the bits that I don’t like. And I always manage to find something that disappoints me, so I can convince my heart to give up, clear out and move on. I cut all ties with the person; avoid all contact to allow my heart to forget as fast as possible. This system has worked very well over the years, and I have never been rejected (neither have I ever been the first to confess my feelings) nor have I ever been heartbroken. I have successfully protected my fragile heart. I have also never been in a serious relationship ever in my life.

There was a time that I considered never falling in love and never marrying. I reasoned that, since I’ve never found someone I wanted to marry that is equally interested in marrying me, flying solo is the only option.  I never wanted to settle; “settling” was a dirty word to me that meant giving up my standards and lowering my self-worth just to fill my loneliness and fulfill people’s expectations. I knew exactly what I wanted from my future spouse, and I also held myself in high esteem, and wanted someone who is my equal. If being with someone is not going to give me a better life and future than being alone, that person is not worth it. I don’t mean this financially only. I want someone who enriches my life and inspires me to become a better version of myself, and I him. That’s the only way the whole would be greater than the sum of its parts. That’s the kind of man I want to marry. I’ve met only one man who I thought I would like to marry, and he’s now married to someone else.  I’ve met many guys who I would love to date, but never to marry. And that, I told myself, is the only reason I’m still single. I just haven’t met the right man yet. It’s not my fault at all, there’s nothing wrong with me.

But of course after so many years, I started doubting myself. Maybe, just maybe, there is something wrong with me? Maybe I’m the only one who can’t see it? Maybe I‘m the one doing it all wrong? I started thinking that maybe I should do things differently. Be more proactive, like my dad said. Meet new people, like my teacher said. So I did all the things I thought I would never do. I installed Tinder, proactively approached guys, talked to them. I became more open with my feelings, more honest about it. It didn’t work. I cringed inwardly at the conversations I forced myself to have, I felt nothing at all develop, not even friendship. This phase lasted only a month.  And it drained me. So I learned my lesson, and I decided to just follow the flow till I meet the right guy. 

Out of nowhere, from a random conversation, I started having feelings for someone. Someone I knew before, as just an acquaintance. “Just an acquaintance” slowly changed to a friend I enjoyed talking to, and I looked forward to any opportunity to strike up a conversation. But my logical brain was always analyzing, and decided that if I was the one always initiating contact, it means he obviously isn’t interested in me. Time to pack up and move on. Only this time, I hesitated. Giving myself the excuse that it was too early to tell, I kept going. Then, one conversation led me to realize that he has feelings for someone else. I actually wished him luck, and told him that I’m sure his love will come true. That was when my heart broke.

But I guess I really have changed. Even when I know there’s no hope for me, I’m still in love. My voice of reason is unable to shut my heart down anymore. I’ve learnt to live in the present, you see. I’ve learnt to enjoy being in love, the little heartflip of joy I get every time I talk to him, the waiting and constantly checking my phone for messages. Even when my heartbroken tears fell, a part of me was delighted that I finally can love enough to actually cry. So this time, I’m going to let my heart do as it likes. I’ll talk to him when I want to, cry when I feel sad, enjoy the happiness of a replied text, and let this feeling reach its own natural end. I will love with no expectations of being loved in return, and let my heart tire of being thrown around by the rollercoaster of emotions. Eventually, I’m sure this too will pass. But my heart will not be the same, having been broken and healed; I will not be the same, having loved freely for once. Truly, every experience we have is from God, and everything happens for a reason. I will grow from this, so that someday I can love better.

Juddi, Our Lone Ranger

My favourite memory of Juddi is of him napping in the spot of sunlight that shines just on the old sofa outside the house. This was many years ago now. It was his habit to have breakfast, then go outside the house to the little porch area, sit on the sofa and read a newspaper, although his eyes could barely see, even with his thick glasses. Once done with the papers, he would curl up on the sofa and take a nap, always positioned right where the rays of sunlight would be. Every time I saw him like that, I always thought he was like a cat, finding the warmest spot to nap. Funnily enough, the porch was also where the stray cats would come to eat scraps, often napping alongside Juddi on the floor by the sofa. Perhaps the cats too saw themselves reflected in my grandfather.

My sister called my grandfather our Lone Ranger. It’s because he used to always take a walk around the orchards after his nap, all alone, like a lone ranger making his daily rounds. Hands behind his back, in his droopy baggy pants (as I used to call them), he’d walk down the stairs from the house, cross the road and disappear into the orchards. His pace unhurried, he would walk silently around, checking on the trees, perhaps occasionally picking a fruit, and walk back to the house just in time for lunch.

Juddi and I had one major thing in common: a sweet tooth. After every meal, he’d ask my grandma for something sweet, sometimes getting a scolding in return. My dad told me that despite his love for sugar, Juddi has never had diabetes. Dad said it’s probably because Juddi worked so hard during his youth that his body is still using up all the sugar he’s eating now. He used to do a lot of manual labour, carrying heavy rocks and working with explosives for construction work. The walls in the orchards are made of stones stacked on each other, all Juddi’s handiwork. Dad told me that Juddi was always a man of few words, even from way back. He never talked much about his work, even though he was a hardworking man who worked on some of the biggest projects of his time in Lebanon. He let his actions speak for him. 

My sister and I always thought Juddi was the cutest grandpa ever. How he sleeps curled up, his sweet tooth, his lone ranger rounds, how he smiles every time we talk to him or call his name. You’d think that since we lived so far away, and see him only every couple of years, we wouldn’t feel attached. But even though he was hard of hearing, even though my Arabic is so bad I could only talk to him about the most basic daily life conversations, we could feel it. We could feel his love for us, his granddaughters, and we loved him back, our cute Juddi, our Lone Ranger. We didn’t need words for that, because like I said, Juddi let his actions speak for him. In his adorable toothy smiles and in the tears that well up on our last day of our visits, and in the extra tight hugs we get before we leave the house.

I’m not like my Juddi; I like words, because they help me remember. They keep a record for me, because my memory is terrible and unreliable. I write these words so the memories stay with me, and to share it with my future children, so they too can know and hopefully love my Juddi, the way I do and always will.

We will miss you, Juddi. May Allah bless your soul and place you in the highest Paradise.

Unrequited Love

It gets dark early in winter. On a long dark road, a lighted up bus stop glows like the Northern Star on an ink black sky. You trudge through the shin-deep snow, eyes fixed on that island of light,heading straight to it. It's an warm and bright island in a sea of gloom, and you speed up a little, wanting to get there as fast as possible. It takes you a while, and you're a bit out of breath by the time you reach it. You smile a little, glad you managed to make it. But your joy is short-lived.

You realise that the bus you want doesn't stop here. You know that you need to leave, you need to go and find the right bus stop. But leaving the light and going back into the cold darkness is a lot harder and scarier than just sitting there. Even though you know if you don't leave, you'll never get to where you need to go.

And as you stare out into the darkness, the only thing that is the same whether you leave or stay, is the loneliness inside. That's what unrequited love is like.

Istanbul Travel Itinerary

As I mentioned on my Instagram account, I've finally decided to sit down and post all my travel itineraries! Bear in mind that my long term memory is pretty useless, so some facts may be incorrect or missed out completely. However, when planning a trip, I always make a Word document to print out the itinerary and give out copies to my travel buddies. I also have pictures to refer to, so hopefully I won't miss out too much.

I've decided to start with Istanbul for no particular reason. I went with my two housemates in February 2015. It was off season so tickets were cheaper, but we were caught out when a freak snowstorm happened just the day before we were supposed to fly and our flight was delayed by a day (eek!) so our 5 day trip was cut short, and ended being a 4 day 3 night trip only (because by the time we arrived it was late at night). This is also why you should always have TRAVEL INSURANCE. We were put up in a nice airport hotel for the night by the airline though, so there's always a silver lining.

We even ordered room service :P

Istanbul in pictures always is sunny with clear skies, unfortunately when we were there it was mostly covered in snow, ice and grey skies -.-" But still, it was an amazing city; bad weather can't keep this historical city down for long.

Okay, now for the itinerary:

I booked our flights and hotel together via Expedia. I compared prices for booking things spearately and at the time the Expedia package was cheaper. Note that THIS IS NOT ALWAYS TRUE so check first!

We flew with Turkish Airlines from London Gatwick. 

Hotel plus return flights cost: GBP 246 

Hotel: Diamond Royal Hotel
Review: It's a small hotel, but the staff was very helpful and accommodating about our flight delay and changes. The room is quite small though, but the buffet breakfast was not bad plus they have a hamam which was free for guests for one hour! Go for the sauna! You'll have to pay for the massage though so we skipped it. They have a shuttle to the airport, which I would recommend booking in advance. It's quite a nice location, loads of shops and restaurants. We walked to most of the attractions on foot, all were 15-25 minutes away. Good value for money overall.

Day 1: 

Checked in and explored nearby area ( by this I mean we had dinner and then crashed due to exhaustion. Our taxi also got lost, so always have the address and phone number of your hotel on hand!)

Day 2:

Topkapi Palace (30 Turkish Liras)

-This place is HUGE so be prepared to spend at least half the day here. Even then you might not fully explore the palace.

One of the entrances to Topkapi Palace 

 

Inside Topkapi Palace. The tiles are crazy beautiful!

Lunch 

-There are plenty of restaurants around Topkapi, but they can be pretty pricey so walk further away to find cheaper eateries.

Grand Bazaar

-Souvenir shopping! Make sure you bargain hard, or else you'd definitely lose out. The scarves are quite cheap plus really nice, so make sure you look around first before buying. 

So many choices at the Grand Bazaar, so little time (and money)

Dinner

-Somewhere near our hotel. We're three girls so we weren't keen on going out too much at night.

Day 3:

Hagia Sophia (30 Liras)

The ceilings are so pretty you'd want a selfie with the ceiling too lol

-The queue can get pretty long so get there early! This place is amazing but also very crowded, so it might take you a while to get to see the whole place. We spent about 2+ hours there.

Super crowded but super worth it!

Blue Mosque 

-Also a must-see site, it's absolutely gorgeous from outside as well as inside. It's right across Hagia Sophia so you can see both in one morning. There's a nice park in the middle between these two sites, great for taking picture of the exterior and to get a quick rest from the crowds. 

This fountain is in that park I mentioned, great views of both the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia (as seen here)

The detail in all these historical sites is just breathtaking

We also had the great experience of praying in the Blue Mosque, which is a memory I'll cherish always.

Praying inside the Blue Mosque is...unforgettable.

Late lunch

-Can't remember where, but I do remember that Turkish food was delicious!

Basilica Cistern (10 Liras)

- Okay, I was the only one who wanted to come here because it's a major location in Dan Brown's book Inferno which I had just read. (Go read it or watch the movie, you'll see) But both my housemates were very impressed by it, and it's definitely something different, so I highly recommend it! 

The otherworldly atmosphere at the Basilica Cistern

Grand Bazaar again

-We're girls, we can never have enough shopping hehehe....plus the bazaar is ginormous! 

Day 4:

Istiklal street, Taksim Square, Bosphorus coast

We basically spent the day roaming these streets and ending by the seaside facing the bridge that crosses the Bosphorus, connecting the Asian and European sides. We wanted to take the Bosphorus tour but we didn't have enough time so we just spent the day buying last minute souvenirs, walking and enjoying the sights before heading back to the hotel. We took their shuttle to the airport and headed home. 

The Strait of Bosphorus. That's the Asian side we're looking at. 

One place I really wanted to go and didn't manage to was Galata Tower. It provides one of the best views of the entire city apparently. Hopefully next time, Istanbul!

Yes, I'm smart. Deal with it.

“You’re so smart, I feel inferior to you/intimidated by you.”

“Oh no no, I’m not that smart. I’m lazy, I’ve failed a few times, bla bla bla (insert more humbling, putting self down nonsense)”

Guess which one in this conversation is the girl?

If I had a pound/ringgit for every time someone said the first line to me, I’d be able to buy a mansion by now. And if I had to pay a pound/ringgit for every time I said the second line, I’d be broke again.  

I am not the only one though. Almost every accomplished woman I know has had this conversation multiple times, and it is a sad reflection of the kind of misogynistic culture we’ve been brought up in.

Every time a guy says that he feels inferior or intimidated because of my intelligence or accomplishments, I’ve always automatically defaulted to putting myself down, listing all my flaws to the point of dumbing myself down to make sure the guy’s ego is soothed and to make myself appear more “approachable”. Why? Because we’re brought up in a culture where women aren’t supposed to be smarter than guys, and should never overshadow men. It wasn’t very long ago that mothers were telling their daughters not to study too hard or be too successful lest it hurt their chances at marriage. 

That has changed a lot today, but unfortunately the male ego hasn’t. The phenomena of young, single successful women struggling to find partners is largely due to the inability of men to accept that women are outstripping them in almost every aspect, and instead of stepping up to the plate to be equal and worthy of these powerful women, many guys are instead asking them to slow down and pretend to be lesser than their real selves. 

It has got to stop.

Ladies, stop apologizing for being amazing. Stop putting yourself down for a guy’s approval. You are smart, strong, successful and capable. No one can take that away from you, and you should never let anyone make you feel that it’s wrong to go get what you want.  The guys are the ones who should be keeping up with you. 

Guys, if you want to be with someone who is intelligent, independent and accomplished, then you should work hard to be equally intelligent, independent and accomplished. 

Step up your game, boys.

So next time I hear that all too familiar line, I’m going to say: “Yes, I’m smart. So if you feel inferior, that is your problem. Deal with it." 

Professionalism is Dead?

Sometimes I think the whole idea of working a job you love or having a career in something you’re passionate about, is overrated.

Yes, Confucius did say that if you do what you love, then you never work a day in your life. I get that, and I obviously want to be in a career that I love doing, that I am passionate about and that I believe in.

But not everyone has that privilege, and a privilege it certainly is. They say our generation is so entitled, that we think we deserve so much but don’t want to put in the effort that our forefathers did. And to a certain extent, I perfectly agree. My parents’ generation did not have the luxury of picking and choosing whatever careers they wanted; they got a job that was stable and paid them enough to make ends meet and bring up a family. It didn’t matter whether they liked the job or not, they just did it, because it was expected of them, it was their duty.

Back then, I doubt people went through gazillions of career personality quizzes or career counseling to find “the perfect job”, all they wanted was to be gainfully employed and to put food on the table. It was a much simpler and harsher time. And many young people around the world still very much face that reality, of trying to find whatever job possible to survive, who don’t have the luxury that I and many of my friends have of cherry-picking our degree, then sifting through company profiles and job-hopping to find the “right fit” for us.

Honestly speaking, I completely understand why the older generation calls us spoiled brats. We don’t know how good we’ve got it. We constantly complain about how the job we’re doing isn’t our calling, how our colleagues or bosses just don’t get how we work, how we want to just chase our dreams and this job is just a stopgap to tide us over, how our other friend in that other company is earning so much more, how we can’t wait to quit and move on. 

The reality is, at the age of 17-18, you don’t really know what degree or career you want to do. You don’t even know who you are yet.  

In your twenties, you may find your calling, but you may not. Even if you know exactly what you want to do, chances are, you’ll have to slog along doing things you don’t really want to do, and slowly climb to the top to get where you want to go. If you’re like me, then you still have no idea what’s the “perfect job” for you, and you’re just going with the flow till you (hopefully) find it.

A survey in 2016 in Asia found up to 60% of millennials, especially those aged 25-34, are constantly seeking another job even if they’re employed.  Job hoppers also tend to have the lowest job satisfaction too. And so, we are constantly dissatisfied with our working life. To make matters worse, we also make it a point to make everyone else aware how dissatisfied we are, from our colleagues, our superiors, to the random stranger who had the misfortune of having to conduct business with us. 

Since we hate our jobs, we’re going to put minimal effort into it, and honestly we don’t care how well we do, as long as we don’ get scolded by the boss and we get our pay at the end of the month.  In a lot of government offices, the 10 or 11am migration to the coffee shop for teh tarik and kopi ping is a common sight. Chatting and gossiping in office during work hours to the point of causing work to slide is also part of the norm. Who cares, we still get paid right?

This is a huge problem with our mindset.

Remember what I said earlier about the older generation? They had something I think we have lost as a generation, which is pride in their work, regardless of whether they loved their job or not. The two key characteristics that make a good employee, at least in my eye, is professionalism and pride in their work. From the humblest of jobs to the most high powered ones, having these two characteristics would distinguish a crappy worker from a valuable employee.

Let’s say, you’re a waiter/waitress at a fast food restaurant. You do not want this job, nor is it a long term career plan for you. You hate the hours, your colleagues are okay but not that great, and the customers get on your nerves too. So you take it out on them. You don’t make eye contact, you can’t even be bothered to say thank you or smile at anyone. You’re rude and moody because, hey, it’s making you miserable so let’s make everyone else miserable too! 

At the end of the day, you still get your pay, whether you were nice or not. We’ve all had crappy service from staff like that, and we all hate them for it, yet we probably do the same thing. Contrast that with someone who is professional and has pride in their work. You’d smile and say welcome to each customer, say “have a nice day” at the end of each encounter, and even the rudest customer would not budge your professional demeanor. 

Still polite with their "Sir and Ma'am" even when they want to kill you. That's a true professional.

All simply because it is your job, you are getting paid to do it. So you’re going to do it to the best of your ability, even if you don’t like the actual job. By signing up as an employee, this is what you agreed to do, whether you realize it or not.  This is what you SHOULD be doing, as part of your job description. 

Does it have anything to do with job satisfaction, or your wages, or how crappy your boss is? Nope. If you do subpar work, do you think the customer/client sees all the background stuff that’s supposedly contributing to your poor work performance? Nope.  All they see is a person who is not good at their job, and at the end of the day that is your reputation going down the drain. And this pride in your work, and the awareness that your ability is best judged by your actions and the results you produce, is what makes an excellent worker. Actually, it’s what makes an excellent person, whether at work or in personal life. So do it not for the praises or the money, but for the satisfaction of a job well done. (Like Saitama in One Punch Man :P)

Why I'm scared to go back to my own country to be a doctor

[WARNING: RANT BLOG POST]

As many of you know, I have passed my finals in medical school after 5 long years, and in July this year inshaAllah (God willing) I will be graduating with my medical degree. Hurrah! Now all should be rainbows and unicorns as I enter my brilliantly glowing career as a doctor right?




As a scholar from a certain government's department, I am bound by contract to return to my country after graduating to serve the government as a doctor for 10 years. That in itself is not a problem. I love my country, I miss it and would love to return and serve my people.

The problem is: everyone else back home keep telling me NOT TO COME BACK.



And by everyone else, I mean everyone. But most importantly, doctors who are in the early two years of training just after graduating medical school, which in Malaysia is called housemanship training (in the UK they call it the Foundation years). These housemen (HOs) are all my seniors and friends, and I value and trust their opinions. So when they tell me I'm better off staying in the UK, I'm obviously worried by this. Some of them were previously medical students trained in the UK or Ireland, others did their degree in Malaysia, but all agreed the working conditions as a HO in Malaysia is bad enough that they are actively encouraging me to abandon ship.

This is old news to you, if you're Malaysian and you are/know a doctor, or even if you just read the news/FB enough. They work extremely long hours and very few breaks (sometimes 24-25 hour shifts), they get bullied/insulted/humiliated by their senior colleagues publicly, and they get villified by patients who don't want to be the "guinea pigs" for these "inexperienced" doctors to "experiment" on.

Contrast that with the more humane working hours here (the longest shift I've seen is 13 hours) thanks to the European Working Hours Directive, no bullying culture, and patients who are always willing to let even medical students practice on them and saying "well you've got to learn". I can definitely see why staying in the UK seems like an obvious decision.

But what I don't understand is: WHY IS NO ONE DOING ANYTHING ABOUT IT IN MALAYSIA?


Everyone knows these conditions are not fair, not safe for both doctors and patients, and not conducive to attracting talented doctors to train in Malaysia and retain them in training. Everyone complains and rants about it. This has been going on for as long as I can remember (which due to my crap memory, is till high school).

But nothing's changed. Sure, they said they've made some changes ( read this Press Statement by the DG of Health:  https://kpkesihatan.com/2016/03/09/press-statement-dg-of-health-9-march-2016-strengthening-the-housemanship-training-programme/ ) but on the ground, it seems it is not enough.

Before I move on, note that this is a rant piece, where I am using this medium to just pour out my frustrations. However, if you have any advice or opinions, or know of any improvements in these issues, or if any of my information is incorrect, please comment or contact me to let me know.

Ok, here goes the rant:

1. Working hours

According to the Modified Flexi system introduced in 2013, HOs are expected to work 65-75 hours per week. However from the people I have spoken to working in different states, often they work longer hours than these. The problem is not just the total hours, but the length of each shift. If doctors are working 24 hour shifts, this is obviously not safe for patient care, nor for the doctors' wellbeing.

In what other high risk jobs would you get people working 24 hour shifts? Would you let a pilot who hasn't slept in 24 hours fly a plane, especially if they've been working those shifts for the past 3 days? But you'd let a doctor who hasn't gone home or had a good sleep for a whole day hold people's lives in their hand. Where's the logic in that?

And do not tell me: Oh but the older generation did that, and they were fine, doctors now are just pampered spoiled brats.

My mum used to walk to school for miles, sometimes barefoot. Did she expect me to do the same? Would anyone expect me to do the same? NO. There was a time people used to perform surgery and circumcisions without anaesthetics, would you like doctors to do that now? Obviously not. The older generation didn't have a choice, there were fewer doctors back then. We have a choice now.

The reason we strive for change and advancement is for our children and future generations to enjoy what we did not have, for them to enjoy a better quality of life. Why is it different then for doctors? Isn't the reason we try to send so many students on medical scholarships because we want more doctors, to improve the ratio of doctors to patients so we can improve medical care? Then why, despite INCREASING numbers of doctors graduating each year (apparently too many medical students) why are the working hours not improving? Surely we should be striving to maintain a workforce that is large enough to maintain humane working hours and yet still achieve quality patient care? And yet they complain we have too many graduates and not enough jobs to go around. Pah.

Reason #2 I keep hearing about why we need these ridiculous hours is: they need to work loads to gain enough experience.

Excuse me, that is NOT a valid reason. Yes, as is with all skilled occupations, practice makes perfect. The more hours worked, the more experience gained. That does not equal working people to beyond their limits, and beyond their rights to having a life outside work. The hours you need are naturally accumulated over years as you progress in your training. Those hours do not need to be accumulated in crazy marathon shifts, where you gain experience but you lose concentration and motivation (and lose having a LIFE). The experience gained should be in safe increments, and cannot be justified by doctors losing their passion and burning out, and patients suffering from errors due to fatigued doctors.

2. Bullying culture

It completely escapes me why this is even still around. Not just in any profession, but among doctors? It seems so absurd it's almost laughable. When I explain this culture to my non-Malaysian friends, they seem astounded by it, like it doesn't even make sense. And it really doesn't, considering doctors are supposed to be intelligent, compassionate and professional people.

Even medical students doing electives in hospitals have seen this, and my HO friends have sadly experienced it too. When your seniors who are the ones supposed to guide you and support you in your training, the ones you're supposed to turn to when you're lost, are the ones insulting and humiliating you in front of patients, tearing your confidence and patients' trust in you into pieces, how are you supposed to grow?  I'm not saying there aren't any mean or harsh seniors in the UK, but I personally have never seen or heard it being done in front of patients. It is simply unprofessional to act like that, there are proper ways and adab of correcting or criticizing someone's weakness or mistakes. In Islam, our religion teaches us that humiliating or revealing someone's weakness in public is not acceptable, that you should always try and protect someone's honor and dignity. Don't even get me started on doctors who actually physically lay a hand (or a book) on their juniors. Even if it's a light smack and doesn't hurt physically, it is absolutely unacceptable! They are not your children to hit or scold like little kids, they are your grown up colleagues, and should be treated as such.

And whenever someone says that "oh we went through the same thing, so we're just teaching them the way we were taught, it'll make them tough", THAT JUST GETS ME SO MAD. If you went through such horrible times, why on earth would you want to inflict that on someone else?

As a person who chose to go into a career of saving lives and should be caring in nature, why would you choose to make someone else suffer when you have the choice of making it better and easier for them?  It's the same thing as how our parents work hard to give us what they didn't have growing up, so should senior doctors be as nurturing and supportive to junior doctors to provide them with what they didn't have when they were training. It's repulsive how some people think just because they had a hard time, the juniors should suffer the same way too. That kind of mindset leads to stagnation and repressive working conditions, when we should be aiming for progress and development.

It's a sad situation when my friends at home are telling me to stay away, while my Singaporean friend has her seniors telling her confidently to come back home, that they've got better pay and conditions than the UK. Here in the UK this week, junior doctors are doing a full walkout strike for two days in protest of a new contract that will change Saturdays into normal hours (instead of antisocial hours with its accompanying premium pay) and also will stretch the workforce thinner to create a so-called "7 day service".  In Malaysia, junior doctors have been labouring under even worse conditions, but no significant improvements have been made, and policymakers have not even involved HOs in their negotiations and discussions.

I'm not saying doctors in Malaysia should go on a full walkout strike too (perhaps eventually :P), but it's time that something more concrete is done at the level of policymaking (and implementation), and this time it should be decisions made with the junior doctors, as well as integrating the ideas and solutions from those directly impacted: the HOs themselves.

It's time for doctors to save themselves now. 

P.S I'm really hoping for loads of heartwarming stories where people have had nice experiences being a doctor, but that doesn't mean the ugly stories aren't there too. Also, please please do let me know if it really isn't this bad or there has been loads of improvements but I'm just ignorant about it. I have never worked in Malaysia yet, so fellow Malaysians please share your stories with me.

[ Disclaimer: I have never worked/trained in Malaysia, everything here is based on what my trusted friends/seniors have told me. Thus they are technically hearsay/stories/personal experiences, and I know they may not be representative of everyone. However, they are from my trusted sources and they are experiences that I believe no one should have, hence the rant.]



Oh yeah I post. Long ranting posts.

Tales of the Supernatural #5: Halloween Special

Today is Halloween, when people celebrate all that is scary and ghostly, and children (and some adults who never grew up) get to stuff themselves with free candy. I don't celebrate Halloween, I have no carved pumpkins nor am I dressing up in spooky costumes. However, in the spirit on this supernatural festival, I shall share my scariest personal story...

Blackouts occur a bit too frequently for my taste in my house back in Malaysia. Aside from losing the fan and air-conditioning and ending up feeling like we're in a sauna, blackouts also mean we lose all the lights if it happened at night. They can last from 30 minutes to a few hours, so we always have some spare candles in a drawer ready to be used in an emergency. One night when another blackout happened just before my family were going off to bed, we decided not to use the candles since we were all going to be asleep soon. My sister, being a scaredy cat, begged me to sleep with her in her room. A storm was raging outside, lashing at the windows and occasionally blasts of lightning would turn the room white with sudden brilliance, making her even more terrified. Feeling bad for her,  I conceded to her request.

Now I never have been fond of my sister's room. She had one mirror facing the bed, and another mirror on the closet, which faced the windows. I hated having so many mirrors (I was very superstitious about mirrors) and I didn't like looking at the window's reflection in the mirror. She also did not have any heavy curtains on, just a see-through white lace curtain which basically meant you can see everything outside even with it drawn. I slept on the side nearest to the closet, while she slept on the side closer to the window. We both slowly nodded off, and were fast asleep.

I don't know how much time passed, but something woke me in the middle of the night. At first, I couldn't figure what woke me. Then I heard it again. Someone was knocking. Someone was knocking on the window. We lived on the 4th floor of our apartment block. As this slowly dawned on my sleep-addled brain, my eyes opened wider. I could see the windows in the mirror opposite me, but everything was so dark, and the rain was still pouring heavily from the skies. Suddenly, lightning bloomed in the sky, illuminating the window. Then I saw it. A hand, just a hand, knocking on the window. It looked really thin, just skin and bones, and all I could see of it was its outline, from a fist to an elbow. Heart pounding, cold sweat on my brow, chills down my spine. I closed my eyes again, refusing to look at the mirror. I pretended to be asleep, prayers repeated again and again on my lips. The knocking eventually stopped. Heaving a sigh of relief, I relaxed and snuggled into the covers.

It was not over yet though.

Nails scraped on glass. A horrible screeching sound that grated on my nerves and turned them raw with fear. I couldn't help it, I had to see. I opened my eyes, and there in the mirror I could see two hands now, both scratching on the glass, making that ghastly sound. Then, to my horror, I could see a head slowly coming up from underneath the windows. Before I could see more, I squeezed my eyes shut again. I don't think I could handle looking at a face of...whatever that is outside the window. The scratching grew more frenzied, but I kept my eyes closed, my body completely still. I never ceased muttering prayers under my breath. I don't know how long it lasted, all sense of time was numbed by the fear. Somehow I must have fell asleep, because the next thing I realized was waking up to sunshine streaming in. I checked the windows for nail marks, considering how loud it sounded I thought the glass must be scored with lines. But there was nothing. My annoying sister slept through the whole thing, lucky girl.

I told someone about it, and they half-jokingly said that perhaps "it" was looking for some shelter from the storm and wanted to come in. I told them that wasn't funny at all.

So if someone knocks on your window tonight, be careful. It might not be a trick-or-treat...

Happy Halloween!

Tales of the Supernatural #4: Go Bump in the Night

Have you got an attic in your house? If you do, and you get scared easily, you might want to avoid this story...

I live in an apartment in Malaysia, on the top floor of our block. Above our flat, there is a large empty space, just below the roof, where the reserve water tanks for the whole building is stored. There is nothing else in this space, just the occasional bird nest and lots of spiders and cobwebs. The only way to access this "attic" space is by climbing up a ladder and going through one of the loose ceiling panels above my balcony.

One night, a typhoon was raging outside in full frenzy, rain lashing against my windows. I was just lying in bed, revising some History for exams (yes, I study in bed, and yes I know it's an awful habit). I was getting increasingly bored (sorry, History teachers!) and as it was getting late, my eyelids were starting to droop.

Suddenly, I heard the sound. It was a deep thundering sound, and initially I thought it was just thunder. Then I heard it again. It sounded like something really big and heavy was rolling on the floor...no, on the ceiling. I stared up at the ceiling, but of course without any X-ray vision I could tell if there was something in the attic space above my room. I listened intently for a few minutes, but there was only silence. I turned back to my book, trying to finish the chapter.

I heard it again, this time for a much longer duration. I could clearly discern that the sound seemed to be moving, like something was rolling from one end of the ceiling to the other. The logical part of my brain took over as I realized that there were large water tanks up there. Fearing that one may have toppled over due to the strong winds, I went to find my dad. Obviously I didn't want a mini flood to happen in the attic and leak down my ceiling.

Dad took a flashlight, climbed up the ladder and opened the panel. Shining the light around and giving the attic a quick scan, he found nothing amiss. All 4 tanks were there, and all were upright, and there was nothing else there. Satisfied, I went back to my room. By this time, the storm had subsided, and the rain was slowing to a gentle drizzle. I turned off the lights, went under my covers, and settled to sleep.

My eyelids flew open. There's the sound again. Louder, and much longer now. It's rolling from one corner to the other, going faster and faster and faster. In the dark, I stared at the ceiling, my heart in my mouth. Squeezing my eyes tightly closed, I started reciting prayers. I could hear the rolling getting even faster now, and so loud I'm surprised the whole house didn't wake up. As I neared the end of my prayers, it suddenly slowed down, and when I finished it stopped abruptly. The sudden silence was deafening. Whatever "it" was, it stopped.

I never found out what "it" was (probably never would), and to this day I have never had such an experience again. But I'm glad "it" chose to stay in the attic instead of visiting me in my room...

The Magic of Ghibli and the Tortured Genius

If you know me, you'd know than I am a major anime fan. And of course, a major Ghibli fan. For those of you who don't know (gasp!) Studio Ghibli is an animation studio that have released countless animation films that have won accolades and hearts all over the world, and their biggest star is director, Miyazaki Hayao. If you have never watched a Ghibli movie or assume that animation films are only for kids, you are losing out on a magical world that will make such a deep impact on you. Give it a try, and I'd suggest either Spirited Away or My Neighbour Totoro as a start.

Anywhooo, I just watch a documentary about Miyazaki Hayao, focusing on him and Studio Ghibli as he makes his final feature film, The Wind Rises. It's a very special sneak peek into the mind of a creative genius whom one could say is the greatest living animator, and into the process that goes into a Ghibli film. This documentary, called The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness, is a work of art on it's own.

As one review put it: "it’s an emotional gut punch on par with anything from the director himself. The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness should be considered essential viewing for any Studio Ghibli fan, for whom it will stand alone as a captivating work in its own right."

 I'm not going to talk much about the documentary, as it is best enjoyed by watching it. But I am going to share some thoughts that Miyazaki shared, which have struck a deep chord within me.

"We're born with infinite possibilities, only to give up on one after another. To choose one thing means to give up on another. That's inevitable. But what can you do? That's what it is to live."

I think a lot of dilemmas we have, especially in our adolescent years, is the struggle to choose a path knowing that we have to give up on all the other paths, and the insecurity and doubt of not knowing whether the path we've chosen is the right path, because we've given up on the others. But as Miyazaki put it, that's what life is. You make a choice, never knowing what the future holds, and hoping that what you've chosen is what's right for you. Then you put your faith in God, and that He will give you what's best for you. That's how we live.

"Today, all of humanity's dreams are cursed somehow. Beautiful yet cursed dreams."

This gave me chills, because I could feel the steel of truth beneath the words. Here, Miyazaki was talking about how people who design planes and stuff with the best intentions, yet those planes are used as tools for industrial civilization, or worse, for war. (watch The Wind Rises and you'll get the war plane reference :P) So even the best intentions and dreams are cursed because they are vulnerable to being polluted and manipulated for the worst purposes and outcomes. Like dynamite, like electricity, heck, like the internet, tools are double-edged swords that can be used for good or evil. It's the curse of humanity, perhaps, as long as we are capable to be good or evil, to forever be caught between these opposing sides.

You hear the phrase "tortured genius", and I wondered why that phrase came into existence. Watching Miyazaki though, I think I understand. His colleagues call him an idealist, that he asks for the impossible from his staff. A genius' talent probably allows them to see a completely different world, and they see how perfection can be achieved. But because we're only human, that perfection will always be just out of reach. Despite reaching great heights far beyond others, they will never be satisfied or happy with it, because they can see what could be, they know there are greater heights. Yet they continue to struggle and strive for it,  and so end up a tortured genius. I'm no genius so I don't know if this is true, but it's what I felt when listening to Miyazaki talk about his work.

Ok, my feverish ravings will stop here. Just some thoughts I wanted to share. Now I shall go have a cup of tea while I contemplate these pearls of wisdom (?) and unravel the ball of jumbled up emotions this documentary has made in me.