A journey of darkness,
Begins with light.
- A1
- Sojourn
The denouement of a long struggle is a sense of closure. Of finality. How then, should one feel after grand achievements that amounts to further public criticism?
This week, Malaysian society was abuzz with news of outstanding students achieving extremely favourable results in the SPM and STPM, especially the former, which is quoted as a benchmark of a student's performance through secondary school.
Having underwent a brief soul-searching of sorts has given me a new perspective on the issues at hand.
While a year ago, I berated society and the government at large for suppressing individual desire in pursuit of unrealistic national agendas; today I realise society has actually conditioned a new generation of single-minded photocopiers intent on pursuing life goals that echo social propriety.
The epiphany was echoed by reading the comments made by the successful students in the national dailies. Virtually every single remark and "secrets of success" had been mentioned the previous years and the years before.
The one most often mentioned by my teachers and fellow classmates, seniors and friends is to drill oneself in the intricacies of questions past. In fact, the only reason I got the highest grade possible for my Geography and History during the PMRs was due to five hours each of past year questions.
While in a way, this certainly proves the efficacy of the formula, it also implies there is only one certain route to go about life.
If life were about taking as many past year questions as possible, shouldn't we be pouring all our free time into the study of human history, on debates of morality and spirituality?
For Buddhism, the study of past lives is an intricate and necessary path to enlightenment. While I do not profess membership of any occult or religious institution myself, this is a disturbing point to ponder upon.
In an ironic twist, we are told and advised to disregard certain worldly affairs from our past for fear of arousing discontent, distraction, and disturbances. We are given lessons on the history of Islam in depth, yet disregard the Malaysian-Singaporean history. Little surprise why dealings with the island nation have always been contentious and confrontational.
Racial segregation is not given its full treatment, where the "parental mindset" of our leaders have deemed the public too immature for open debate regarding the subject.
They quote the constitution, and remind us of the social contract for peace and prosperity. Yet here we are, producing a new generation of Malaysian students who are found wanting when engaged in public debate, in society.
What is the value of an "A1".
Here, it is the epitome of success. The character of the person is rendered irrelevant. What they have become is a string of numbers and algebraic conformation.
Numbers and letters.
"She is a 16 A1 student."
"I got 9 A1's"
"Your future depends on your UPSR/PMR/SPM/STPM."
That is what we have become: a nation rich in culture and history made barren by education.
Sojourn
Actions are a result of thought, to state the obvious. Though sometimes, thought follows action, as the following suggests.
Last Saturday, after a brief discussion on certain school projects, I was left with four hours on the clock before my mother could make time to pick me up from school. As the route between my humble abode and school was split by a few hills and busy roads, human power alone is inadequate for commute.
With the state of public transportation as it was in Penang, to even suggest taking the bus would be akin to rowing a boat up the Himalayas with spoons and forks.
Nevertheless, one can attempt Biology past-year questions for only so long, which was when I decided to do a spur of the moment trek to the massive rain tree bordering the school compounds overlooking the Sixth Form blocks.
A few minutes was all I needed to reach the river's edge, where I followed the bank as closely as I dared. The bank was raised to a moderate 1 to 2 metres above the river level.
Thick grass thickets had been trimmed, however, most of the grass were still piled where they were, offering immediate sanctuary to any denizens nearby.
Immediate reptilian concerns were answered by the appearance of a juvenile monitor lizard, which under the thickets, resembled a section of a python. Closer inspection frightened the creature into a Olympic dive into the murky river.
Further trekking brought me to the quaint houses hugging the riverbank's edge. The rain tree was unreachable as the houses shielded whatever trail I could identify.
No doubt, further inspection would have brought me to the tree, but the forlorn playground overlooking the cemetery caught my attention.
The monkey bars were wrapped in netting of some sort, obviously for football. The swings half-broken and in real danger of collapse. One of the seats was angled in a perpendicular position, apparently defying the laws of physics as no objects other than the chains which held it were in contact with the contraption.
The sight of the dead-blocks of epitomes dedicated to people long consumed by the earth lay silently opposite the swings on that Saturday morning.
As I left, a sudden metal clanging brought my attention to the warning signpost, which forbade anyone under 12 years of age from using the facilities.
The metal plate, unscrewed at one end, banged against the post it was nailed to a second time, as if professing the disturbing neglect and disuse of the playground.
The sky was suitably morose, alternating between moments of moderate heat and complete darkness. The rain fell a few times, but not heavy enough to warrant a home invasion.
While I pondered the weight of issues burdening my thoughts, the feet kept walking. Soon, I found myself wandering Air Itam market.
I entered a book cum stationery store, and left unmoved by the titles on offer. 50 cents was spent on a Chinese snack, you za gui, if you can read Pin Yin. The rainy drizzle intensified for a brief moment before ebbing away completely.
I walked on without any general purpose. Trawling the streets of Penang for any new experiences on offer.
The Forest Ranger office was as usual, closed.
But the plants inside were thriving, so someone presumably enters the building occasionally.
The lives of the common man was exposed. An explosion rocked the town - a firecracker in broad daylight.
Grass mowers trimming the herbaceous side-walk beside the cemetery.
A man having lunch in the homes of the departed.
A bus driver beginning his journey around the island.
A couple in conversation.
And me, reaching the foot of the hills which led to my home.
A quick call, and my mum picked me up 45 minutes later.
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