Tangled Dreams

CHAPTER 8: YOUR STORY, MY STORY (Part 3) | Faez Ibrahim

When I was four, my parents sent me to a nearby kindergarten so that I could mix with other children and learn English at the same time. Prior to that, I had only learnt to read and write at home. Priority was given to Malay as it was our mother tongue.

I still remember my first day at kindergarten. My classmates were all looking at me strangely. There was a loud boy named Jackson. He asked questions about me non-stop. Why was my skin dark brown? Why did Muslims pray five times a day? Why couldn't they eat pork? What did the word "halal" mean? Why didn't they celebrate Christmas? When he saw me kiss my mother's hand before entering the classroom, he was puzzled. Why not just hug and kiss her cheeks?

"What is cheek kissing?" I asked him. He held both my shoulders and pulled me towards him. He kissed the air towards my left cheek, and similarly again on my right cheek. According to him, that was what they did when they said goodbye to family and friends.

I became increasingly conscious of the differences between our family and other Londoners. While other friends studied foreign languages such as Spanish and French, I was learning to recite the Qur'an at the mosque. While they were learning to play the piano or drum, I was being taught the various ways of playing the kompang. While they were learning karate, I was learning silat. Their parents did not question their dreams and ambitions and left them to try whatever they wished in order to discover their own personal interests. In my case, my parents had tried to inculcate in me the skill of writing and service to the nation, Malaysia.

"You should remember that we are Malaysians. We should improve on the good name of our nation in whatever we do." That was my father's advice to me. I felt it was too heavy a responsibility. I envied my friends. They had the freedom to try new things, to choose their own direction in life and do anything with their lives. To be individuals: that was how they were raised. But what about me?

I wrote because that was what I was good at. I wrote because that was what my parents wanted; it was as if I was continuing a family tradition. My late grandfather had also been a journalist and so had my great-grandparents. There were many stories that we as a family could share with the reader through our articles. But then, who would put down our stories on paper? My story?

If a story were written about me, what would it say? What interesting nuggets of information would it provide about me, my life, my aspirations? What were my aspirations? Would my life story be an inspiration to the reader? If I asked myself the questions I frequently posed to the personalities I interviewed, I think the story of my life would be rather boring. The life of a writer without direction in life; one who did not know why he became a writer, who did not know what his purpose was.

I became increasingly depressed, especially when I was alone in London. I missed my parents. The cold, grey skies made me feel even gloomier. It got worse when winter came and the sun only appeared for about eight hours a day. Depression ate into me and toyed with my sanity.

"I want to return to Malaysia together with mum and you. I can still write and serve the nation as a journalist there," I had suggested to my father after he announced his plan to spend his retirement back at home. But my father objected. According to him, if I followed them home, then there would be no one representing the media in London. Who would then cover stories related to Malaysia in London?

Patriotism. Service to the nation. Contribute to the development of Malaysia. That was all my father found important. It was also what he hoped of me; to give priority to family and country. Was it just as simple as that?

I recalled the interview with Kareena Chopra when I had asked her the same question – if there were the opportunity to do something that truly interested her, would she give up that opportunity solely because of service to the nation? She was silent for quite a while before answering, but her response was something that I kept close to heart.

"No matter where we are, as long as we're happy and don't do wrong, it's good enough. It doesn't matter which country we contribute to, as long as we promise ourselves to give our best to all." That was her answer.

Was I happy with myself now?