Monday, March 22, 2010

youth of the nation


My flesh is in the class
My soul wonders about
I am in a man made structure made of wood and nails
The wind whistles
Malaysians fill the class
NO!! The future fills the class
Only the educator’s voice echoes across the hall
Hers and only hers
Full of knowledge but not able to express them to these delicate minds of youths
The question is “Is it the educator’s fault??”
Why cant we progress??
Are we not corporative enough??
Maybe the 50 years of independence is not enough
Can’t we stand on our own two feet??
Our minds are not fit to accept this much knowledge??
*Correction*
WE ARE MALAYSIANS
WE ARE THE BEST
KICK RACISM
MALAYA THE LAND OF WARRIORS
WE ARE ONE SO ACT AS ONE

iky dari ampang
saya anak malaysia

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Education



Education is a gun. When you first pick it up, you may not be sure how to use it. You may not be aware of its true potential. You might not even know what the point of it is.

But gradually, you will learn. You will learn how to hold it and marvel its body, so mechanical yet so full of life. You will learn to load it, hearing the bullets of knowledge click past your ears. The noise will scare you at first, and doubt will assail your thoughts. Are you really good enough to wield it?

Eventually you learn to cock the gun. The readiness, the excitement that bubbles from the gun makes you smile. At last, you are in control. Your teacher then asks you to point at the target. A girl grins at you. You recoil; you can't shoot a child, surely. Then the child transforms. It becomes squereish, box-like; it becomes a TV. Propaganda blares out from suited leaders, deluding hundreds of poor, illiterate people clinging to hope rather than fact.
Your teacher steps in and shouts the word.
"Shoot!!!!!."

Still, you hesitate, your hand shaking. Your vision blurs as images flick past you, speaking Poverty, Suffering, Hate and Prejudice. You hear the screams, the anguish, and the cries of helplessness. It sickens you and makes you weep, but something ignites within you, something you realise you know all along: you want it stopped.

Your teacher nods, just once and only once.
There goes the hesitation. You pull the trigger. You can hear the bullet spinning in the man made marvel. The bullet flies as tough it moves in slow motion.
You shoot Ignorance in the head.

my fish


i was five years old when i first started dreaming of fish.

i made wishes on them, sometimes. and 'don't ever leave me,' i told them. 'please don't.'
i know it sounds insane but i could swear - and still do - that they promised me they'd never leave. that they'd carry my dreams into eternity and hold me. keep me from falling. drowning.

'be my gills when i can't swim anymore,' i told them. 'be my gills.'

and they were.

i was nine when my parents had problems.

that night, i didn't understand. that night, i cried until the sky was painted in crimson lights and it was morning and the sun found me on my bed, passed out and tear-stained. that night, the world stopped spinning for five whole seconds and i could swear the heavens were looking down on me and me alone. a spotlight was on me and all i could do was lay there and cry and wonder what i had done wrong.

but the fish were still painted on the insides of my mind and i wasn't alone i swore i wasn't alone.

'hold me,' i told them. 'hold me.'

and they did!!

.

i was fifteen when they left me.

or maybe it was that i left them. that i realized the world was not so simple. and imaginary friends do not exist and people will rip you into shreds. that the world will give you a million reasons to be bitter and cynical and only one to have hope. and if you can find that one, you are lucky.

you are beyond lucky because the world is coated in fog and you have your lighthouse while the rest of the world gets to be lost at sea.

but my fish were gone.