Thomas J. Abercrombie, photojournalist for National Geographic magazine. His works are amazing.Sunday, August 31, 2008
A tribute to Thomas Omar Abercrombie (1930-2006)
Thomas J. Abercrombie, photojournalist for National Geographic magazine. His works are amazing.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Straits Times Article.
Something to read and reflect. Truth in words.
Feeling Like the Least Favourite Child by Nur Dianah Suhaimi (Source : The Sunday Times, 10th August 2008 )
When I was younger, I always thought of myself as the quintessential Singaporean.
Of my four late grandparents, two were Malay, one was Chinese and one was Indian. This, I concluded, makes me a mix of all the main races in the country. But I later realised that it was not what goes into my blood that matters, but what my identity card says under “Race”.
Because my paternal grandfather was of Bugis origin, my IC says I’m Malay. I speak the language at home, learnt it in school, eat the food and practice the culture. And because of my being Malay, I’ve always felt like a lesser Singaporean than those from other racial groups.
I grew up clueless about the concept of national service because my father was never enlisted.
He is Singaporean all right, born and bred here like the rest of the boys born in 1955. He is not handicapped in any way. He did well in school and participated in sports.
Unlike the rest, however, he entered university immediately after his A levels. He often told me that his schoolmates said he was “lucky” because he was not called up for national service.
“What lucky?” he would tell them. “Would you feel lucky if your country doesn’t trust you?”
So I learnt about the rigours of national service from my male cousins. They would describe in vivid detail their training regimes, the terrible food they were served and the torture inflicted upon them - most of which, I would later realise, were exaggerations.
But one thing these stories had in common was that they all revolved around the Police Academy in Thomson. As I got older, it puzzled me why my Chinese friends constantly referred to NS as “army”. In my family and among my Malay friends, being enlisted in the army was like hitting the jackpot. The majority served in the police force because, as is known, the Government was not comfortable with Malay Muslims serving in the army. But there are more of them now.
Throughout my life, my father has always told me that as a Malay, I need to work twice as hard to prove my worth. He said people have the misconception that all Malays are inherently lazy.
I was later to get the exact same advice from a Malay minister in office who is a family friend.
When I started work, I realised the advice rang true, especially because I wear my religion on my head. My professionalism suddenly became an issue. One question I was asked at a job interview was whether I would be willing to enter a nightclub to chase a story. I answered: “If it’s part of the job, why not? And you can rest assured I won’t be tempted to have fun.”
When I attend media events, before I can introduce myself, people assume I write for the Malay daily Berita Harian. A male colleague in The Straits Times has the same problem, too.
This makes me wonder if people also assume that all Chinese reporters are from Lianhe Zaobao and Indian reporters from Tamil Murasu.
People also question if I can do stories which require stake-outs in the sleazy lanes of Geylang. They say because of my tudung I stick out like a sore thumb. So I changed into a baseball cap and a men’s sports jacket - all borrowed from my husband - when I covered Geylang.
I do not want to be seen as different from the rest just because I dress differently. I want the same opportunities and the same job challenges.
Beneath the tudung, I, too, have hair and functioning brain. And if anything, I feel that my tudung has actually helped me secure some difficult interviews.
Newsmakers - of all races - tend to trust me more because I look guai ( Hokkien for well-behaved ) and thus, they feel, less likely to write critical stuff about them.
Recently, I had a conversation with several colleagues about this essay. I told them I never thought of myself as being particularly patriotic. One Chinese colleague thought this was unfair. “But you got to enjoy free education,” she said.
Sure, for the entire 365 days I spent in Primary 1 in 1989. But my parents paid for my school and university fees for the next 15 years I was studying.
It seems that many Singaporeans do not know that Malays have stopped getting free education since 1990. If I remember clearly, the news made front-page news at the time.
We went on to talk about the Singapore Government’s belief that Malays here would never point a missile at their fellow Muslim neighbours in a war.
I said if not for family ties, I would have no qualms about leaving the country. Someone then remarked that this is why Malays like myself are not trusted. But I answered that this lack of patriotism on my part comes from not being trusted, and for being treated like a potential traitor.
It is not just the NS issue. It is the frustration of explaining to non-Malays that I don’t get special privileges from the Government. It is having to deal with those who question my professionalism because of my religion. It is having people assume, day after day, that you are lowly educated, lazy and poor. It is like being the least favourite child in a family. This child will try to win his parents’ love only for so long. After a while, he will just be engulfed by disappointment and bitterness.
I also believe that it is this “least favourite child” mentality which makes most Malays defensive and protective of their own kind.
Why do you think Malay families spent hundreds of dollars voting for two Malay boys in the Singapore Idol singing contest? And do you know that Malays who voted for other competitors were frowned upon by the community?
The same happens to me at work. When I write stories which put Malays in a bad light, I am labelled a traitor. A Malay reader once wrote to me to say: “I thought a Malay journalist would have more empathy for these unfortunate people than a non-Malay journalist.”
But such is the case when you are a Malay Singaporean. Your life is not just about you, as much as you want it to be. You are made to feel responsible for the rest of the pack and your actions affect them as well. If you trip, the entire community falls with you. But if you triumph, it is considered everyone’s success.
When 12-year-old Natasha Nabila hit the headlines last year for her record PSLE aggregate of 294, I was among the thousands of Malays here who celebrated the news. I sent instant messages to my friends on Gmail and chatted excitedly with my Malay colleagues at work.
Suddenly a 12-year-old has become the symbol of hope for the community and a message to the rest that Malays can do it too - and not just in singing competitions.
And just like that, the “least favourite child” in me feels a lot happier.
Each year, come Aug 9, my father, who never had the opportunity to do national service, dutifully hangs two flags at home - one on the front gate and the other by the side gate.
I wonder if putting up two flags is his way of making himself feel like a better-loved child of Singapore.
- Nur Dianah Suhaimi(Source : The Sunday Times, 10th August 2008 )
Feeling Like the Least Favourite Child by Nur Dianah Suhaimi (Source : The Sunday Times, 10th August 2008 )
When I was younger, I always thought of myself as the quintessential Singaporean.
Of my four late grandparents, two were Malay, one was Chinese and one was Indian. This, I concluded, makes me a mix of all the main races in the country. But I later realised that it was not what goes into my blood that matters, but what my identity card says under “Race”.
Because my paternal grandfather was of Bugis origin, my IC says I’m Malay. I speak the language at home, learnt it in school, eat the food and practice the culture. And because of my being Malay, I’ve always felt like a lesser Singaporean than those from other racial groups.
I grew up clueless about the concept of national service because my father was never enlisted.
He is Singaporean all right, born and bred here like the rest of the boys born in 1955. He is not handicapped in any way. He did well in school and participated in sports.
Unlike the rest, however, he entered university immediately after his A levels. He often told me that his schoolmates said he was “lucky” because he was not called up for national service.
“What lucky?” he would tell them. “Would you feel lucky if your country doesn’t trust you?”
So I learnt about the rigours of national service from my male cousins. They would describe in vivid detail their training regimes, the terrible food they were served and the torture inflicted upon them - most of which, I would later realise, were exaggerations.
But one thing these stories had in common was that they all revolved around the Police Academy in Thomson. As I got older, it puzzled me why my Chinese friends constantly referred to NS as “army”. In my family and among my Malay friends, being enlisted in the army was like hitting the jackpot. The majority served in the police force because, as is known, the Government was not comfortable with Malay Muslims serving in the army. But there are more of them now.
Throughout my life, my father has always told me that as a Malay, I need to work twice as hard to prove my worth. He said people have the misconception that all Malays are inherently lazy.
I was later to get the exact same advice from a Malay minister in office who is a family friend.
When I started work, I realised the advice rang true, especially because I wear my religion on my head. My professionalism suddenly became an issue. One question I was asked at a job interview was whether I would be willing to enter a nightclub to chase a story. I answered: “If it’s part of the job, why not? And you can rest assured I won’t be tempted to have fun.”
When I attend media events, before I can introduce myself, people assume I write for the Malay daily Berita Harian. A male colleague in The Straits Times has the same problem, too.
This makes me wonder if people also assume that all Chinese reporters are from Lianhe Zaobao and Indian reporters from Tamil Murasu.
People also question if I can do stories which require stake-outs in the sleazy lanes of Geylang. They say because of my tudung I stick out like a sore thumb. So I changed into a baseball cap and a men’s sports jacket - all borrowed from my husband - when I covered Geylang.
I do not want to be seen as different from the rest just because I dress differently. I want the same opportunities and the same job challenges.
Beneath the tudung, I, too, have hair and functioning brain. And if anything, I feel that my tudung has actually helped me secure some difficult interviews.
Newsmakers - of all races - tend to trust me more because I look guai ( Hokkien for well-behaved ) and thus, they feel, less likely to write critical stuff about them.
Recently, I had a conversation with several colleagues about this essay. I told them I never thought of myself as being particularly patriotic. One Chinese colleague thought this was unfair. “But you got to enjoy free education,” she said.
Sure, for the entire 365 days I spent in Primary 1 in 1989. But my parents paid for my school and university fees for the next 15 years I was studying.
It seems that many Singaporeans do not know that Malays have stopped getting free education since 1990. If I remember clearly, the news made front-page news at the time.
We went on to talk about the Singapore Government’s belief that Malays here would never point a missile at their fellow Muslim neighbours in a war.
I said if not for family ties, I would have no qualms about leaving the country. Someone then remarked that this is why Malays like myself are not trusted. But I answered that this lack of patriotism on my part comes from not being trusted, and for being treated like a potential traitor.
It is not just the NS issue. It is the frustration of explaining to non-Malays that I don’t get special privileges from the Government. It is having to deal with those who question my professionalism because of my religion. It is having people assume, day after day, that you are lowly educated, lazy and poor. It is like being the least favourite child in a family. This child will try to win his parents’ love only for so long. After a while, he will just be engulfed by disappointment and bitterness.
I also believe that it is this “least favourite child” mentality which makes most Malays defensive and protective of their own kind.
Why do you think Malay families spent hundreds of dollars voting for two Malay boys in the Singapore Idol singing contest? And do you know that Malays who voted for other competitors were frowned upon by the community?
The same happens to me at work. When I write stories which put Malays in a bad light, I am labelled a traitor. A Malay reader once wrote to me to say: “I thought a Malay journalist would have more empathy for these unfortunate people than a non-Malay journalist.”
But such is the case when you are a Malay Singaporean. Your life is not just about you, as much as you want it to be. You are made to feel responsible for the rest of the pack and your actions affect them as well. If you trip, the entire community falls with you. But if you triumph, it is considered everyone’s success.
When 12-year-old Natasha Nabila hit the headlines last year for her record PSLE aggregate of 294, I was among the thousands of Malays here who celebrated the news. I sent instant messages to my friends on Gmail and chatted excitedly with my Malay colleagues at work.
Suddenly a 12-year-old has become the symbol of hope for the community and a message to the rest that Malays can do it too - and not just in singing competitions.
And just like that, the “least favourite child” in me feels a lot happier.
Each year, come Aug 9, my father, who never had the opportunity to do national service, dutifully hangs two flags at home - one on the front gate and the other by the side gate.
I wonder if putting up two flags is his way of making himself feel like a better-loved child of Singapore.
- Nur Dianah Suhaimi(Source : The Sunday Times, 10th August 2008 )
Monday, August 11, 2008
Mr Policeman & his Books.
I was supposed to get mad with an arsewhole, but I saw the hilarious side to it instead.
Dear Mr Policeman with his notes and books,
1. You do not need to bring your study materials to each gathering. The crowded and noisy beach during a kid's birthday party or someone elses bedroom during your obligatory visit during Hari Raya, IS not a conducive place to study.
2. I know why you attempt to bring your books and all - You want people around, so that you can proudly announce that you are studying for your degree. I have seen this scene many times over. You start with a shrug and sigh..." Oh, I kena belajar-lah, ade project.." Eer, we get the message. Also you always wear your SIM polo t-shirt....
I suppose being a part of a twin, your whole life was trying to get attention from people, ya.
3. No need to tell your Dragnet stories-I'll read it in the papers. Whenever someone relates a story, you do your best to top that person. Sorry Mr Policeman, notice how others around are laughing AT you and not WITH you. We can tell which stories are fiction. Also, Mr SuperCop, I'm sure the entire police force had a role too in making Singapore a safer place. Tak kan you seorang je yang tangkap criminals. The empty vessel makes the loudest noise.
4. Dissing the teaching profession. I knew the snide remarks you made about how the teaching profession is 'nothing' was an attempt to get me pissed. I was. But it dawned to me that it was percakapan orang yang iri hati. We have never showed off or berbual riak infront of you, simply because you are an elder. We see you once every blue moon. And at every attempt, whenever we see/hear you, we prefer to move away from you, as so that we will not be involved in your EGO-trip and berbual ko***. (I'll wash my mouth after that).
Dear Mr Policeman and his books, why do you make it so easy for me to disrespect you?
Dear Mr Policeman with his notes and books,
1. You do not need to bring your study materials to each gathering. The crowded and noisy beach during a kid's birthday party or someone elses bedroom during your obligatory visit during Hari Raya, IS not a conducive place to study.
2. I know why you attempt to bring your books and all - You want people around, so that you can proudly announce that you are studying for your degree. I have seen this scene many times over. You start with a shrug and sigh..." Oh, I kena belajar-lah, ade project.." Eer, we get the message. Also you always wear your SIM polo t-shirt....
I suppose being a part of a twin, your whole life was trying to get attention from people, ya.
3. No need to tell your Dragnet stories-I'll read it in the papers. Whenever someone relates a story, you do your best to top that person. Sorry Mr Policeman, notice how others around are laughing AT you and not WITH you. We can tell which stories are fiction. Also, Mr SuperCop, I'm sure the entire police force had a role too in making Singapore a safer place. Tak kan you seorang je yang tangkap criminals. The empty vessel makes the loudest noise.
4. Dissing the teaching profession. I knew the snide remarks you made about how the teaching profession is 'nothing' was an attempt to get me pissed. I was. But it dawned to me that it was percakapan orang yang iri hati. We have never showed off or berbual riak infront of you, simply because you are an elder. We see you once every blue moon. And at every attempt, whenever we see/hear you, we prefer to move away from you, as so that we will not be involved in your EGO-trip and berbual ko***. (I'll wash my mouth after that).
Dear Mr Policeman and his books, why do you make it so easy for me to disrespect you?
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