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It’s Fathers’ Day today in Malaysia and in most other countries as well. We celebrated last night with Wifey making Chicken Rice, and friends like Komar, Aiz, Din, and Alysha dropped by. I must say this has been the best Fathers’ Day ever – simply because no one has ever done anything for me prior to this.

And after 456 days or 65 weeks and 1 day, I woke up this morning hearing the voices of my children again – Fazira, Farhan and Nisaa slept here last night. Only my eldest, Farhanah, is away in Singapore.

And it feels good.

Happy Fathers’ Day, people!

Marrying a single mother means marrying her children too. That was what I did when I married my wife. On top of that, there is that silent rule stating that I will have to assume the father figure, playing that role; what more that my wife’s ex is such a bastard who doesn’t lift a single finger to help out, let alone pay a single cent in alimony. That means, there are certain rules that I have to set for the kids, although the rules aren’t as tight and hard as I used to impose upon my children when they lived with me.

Two years ago, I was still living with my kids. And because my ex was hardly at home prior to the divorce, I was the one who tucked in my two younger ones, Farhan and Nisaa, and slept with them. I ate with them, entertained them as much as I could, watched Farhan do his homework or employ the elder sisters to help monitor him – I was always there for them.

But not anymore.

Both Farhan and Nisaa now live with my ex, Fazira with my other ex, while Hana goes to a university. Not only don’t we live beneath the same roof as we did up ’til two years ago, all of us hardly see each other. And when we do, it is always for not more than 4 hours – 3 being the maximum average.

During dinner tonight, I scolded my stepson Yunus. The blame isn’t entirely his – his food had arrived almost an hour late, and he fell asleep at the dinner table. When various attempts by my wife and her cousin to wake him up failed, I sounded the aggressive voice – that woke him up, and got him to eat some. The wife tucked him in after that.

The wife was silent when she got back to our room. After asking several times, she related what was asked by Yunus to her:

“Why doesn’t Daddy like me? Why did he scold me?”

And all I could muster was that I apply the same rules to my kids.

I had nothing more to say.

Both my younger children asked me this question when we no longer live beneath the same roof:

“Don’t you love me anymore? Is that why you don’t live with us anymore?”

I can only hope that my elder daughters can understand why these things happen. They know what I went through – and I hope they can help me explain to their younger siblings.

I miss my kids. I miss waking up with them. I miss going to bed with them. I miss kissing them and hugging them at night before they go to sleep. I miss eating with them. I miss the sound of their voice and laughter. I miss holding them tight assuring them that they’re always safe with me.

Do they feel safe now that I am no longer around?

Every time I eat something nice at home, I wonder what were they eating. Who’s feeding them? Am I eating something better than they?

I always miss seeing them when I come home; and I often wonder if they still miss and think of me?

And there I was, lying next to my wife, looking at her crying, thinking of what Yunus had asked her, while I shed a drop of tear from the eye that was covered by the pillowcase.

And it’s never easy.

I woke up this morning before 6am to read a text message from one of my former recruits, Sgt Ridzuan (formerly known as Lambirtus bin Hendrikus) from RMAFB Kuantan on the passing of a squadmate of his, Jamiah binti Sardan, in Madinah, Saudi Arabia. She died of complications arising from an advanced stage breast cancer. I don’t remember much of Jamiah because she was among the quieter ones, always minding her own business, but I think I do remember what she looked like 18 years ago. I Googled her name just now and found out that she had sought for advice from other breast-cancer victims; her entry dated 22nd April 2010.

Recruit intake 16/92 was the only recruit intake that I had manage to train from day one until the day they graduated, which is why I can remember most of them, and vice-versa. Wifey witnessed how several approached me, even after more than 15 years of not seeing them. I did not get to witness the graduation of intake 17/93 as I was posted out to take command of the No.107 Squadron in Alor Setar. I was on short attachments to Ipoh for intakes 13/90 and 14/91.

Of course there are those whom I would really remember, either because they were the Block Leaders, or because they were helpful, or because there was something unique about them. For example, Ridzuan’s former name was Lambirtus bin Hendrikus. He hails from Sabah. What was unique about him is the fact that while his whole family were Muslims, he was a Christian, until he converted to Islam in the mid 1990s. His block leader, Kurniawan, was a tall guy from Sipitang. These two were in Alor Setar to do their OJT and with them and a few other airmen, we formed a band until they were posted out. Ridzuan was also a former logger (or lumberjack, if you’re from the States or Canada). And because he was used to retrieving the bodies of other loggers, I roped him in to assist my squadron in the search and recovery of the body of a pilot and of the aircraft wreckage in 1993.

There’s also Rahman Nasir, another block leader, who is a Captain now based in Labuan. He was an athlete and always had this drive for excellence. Upon attaining a degree, he applied to join the Officers Corps and made it to where he is now.

There’s also Ghani, who is still a Corporal for some weird reason. He had unique features, much like the Wayang Kulit character Wak Long So, the instructors under me nicknamed him Phra Kedelik a/l Bah Dol.

I would say Ghani is the most bumped-into of my former recruits, the last was during last year’s Ramadhan when I browsed through the stalls at the Ramadhan Bazaar near my place. I also bumped into several more there – those whose name I cannot remember but they were familiar faces, and they all greeted me first.

Among the female recruits, I had two block leaders: Aida and Azizah. Aida I last saw her when I was still flying in 2000, and she was a technician at the No.10 Squadron, while Azizah I last met at the Strategic Communications Regiment camp in Sungai Buloh, already a Flight Sergeant in 2004. Aida was a silat exponent at national level and I can still remember the sight of her holding one of the male recruits up against the wall by the throat after the latter harassed her.

Then there were the three stooges: Haminah (now a Warrant Officer at the Air Force HQ), Faridah (also a Warrant Officer based in Kuching), and Hasnah (last I heard was in Butterworth). Haminah was the oldest; Faridah’s nickname was (and apparently still is, SENGET), while petite Hasnah’s nickname was KETOT or PENDEK. The former two are Air Quartermasters (stewardesses) while Hasnah became an Air Force cook. And to think that all of them are older than my wife is makes me feel real old.

There’s Fahimah, who is closely associated with the three stooges above. Fahimah’s son goes to the same school as my stepson, Ali. I found out that she saw Wifey and I standing outside the school to see if Ali board’s his school van when school reopened this year. Her husband, also an Air Force personnel, greeted Wifey and I one Sunday morning as we walked towards one of our favourite Mamak joints near our house.

Zilawati (nickname Kupang) was among the youngest and the baby amongst all. I last met her when I was in Alor Setar and did a demonstration freefall jump at the POLIMAS in Jitra, where she was doing her Diploma back in 1994. She had to quit service when she was in Kuantan because she married an officer. Her husband is now posted to Butterworth while she works for a defence-related company there.

There were a lot of non-Malays, be they from Sabah and Sarawak, or from the other races in the Peninsula. Among the female recruits are Jessena Anthony (not sure where she is now although she is in touch with her squadmates), and Chong Sig San (nickname, Ah Moi, for obvious reason) who was also an Air Quartermaster (stewardess) in the No.10 Squadron, but has since left the service. She is now working in the private sector in my former place of residence in Sungai Buloh.

There’s also Latifah Abdul Wahab, whom I think is a Flight Sergeant now, and is now at the Jugra base. What is unique about her is her love for cooking. So during her intake’s final jungle exercise, I assigned her to our Tactical HQ as our cook. And cook she did. She made about 5 types of dishes using the same ingredients 5 times a day throughout the week-long exercise, so I recommended her to become a cook. She also did her OJT in Alor Setar when I was there, and then she went to ITM (now University ITM) to do her Diploma in Hotel and Catering.

18 years ago they graduated from the Recruit Training Center – the same week that I got promoted and my daughter, Farhanah, was born, and in 3 years time they will all leave the service, except for those whom are now commissioned officers. And I am glad I am still friends and in touch with most of them. Of course there have been some that have left the service, but most of them are still there.

Intake 16/92 had their first impromptu reunion recently, and although I was invited to attend, I could not as I was warded at the National Heart Institute for a recurring old problem. I hope to attend their next reunion. Ridzuan updates me frequently on their status, so I have no problems keeping track of them.

Oh, Ridzuan had a nickname too!

BULAT.

Recruits Intake 16/92 with the instructors and I (seated second row 9th from left)

Intake 16/92’s Recent Union on 8th May 2010. Haminah is seated left most, seated right most is Zilawati and next to her in blue is Chong Sig San

I’ve been wanting to write this…since more than a year now.

Coming from a family of four (originally it was five until my elder sister, second in the family, passed away), one would think that we siblings talk to and confide in each other. Well, no. The only sibling I am in contact with is my brother, who is more or less in the same boat with me as far as family matters are concerned.

There were several moments in life when the only other sibling I would talk to is my deceased sister, whose grave is located behind my current office building. Therefore, she is close by in a weird way. If I needed to let things off my chest, or even cry for no reason, I would go to her grave because she would be the only sister whom I could talk to and not get any negative response in return.

I have another sister – long before Wifey and I got married. I only saw her commenting on Wifey’s blog three years ago, and as my relationship with Wifey grew, so did my relationship with her. And when I finally got to meet her at the airport last year a week before our wedding, it was like meeting a sister whom I have not met for a long, long time. She’s fun, she’s crazy, and quite a character – and I’d say the same about her husband. And in the short two weeks that she was back here last year, all I know is that I absolutely love these two crazy characters…fluorescent lime green phone skins, equally fluorescent luggage.

And I miss this sister of mine. I would love to be able to fly them back here at least twice in a year, but I don’t know how possible that would be.

I just want her (and her husband) to know how much Wifey and I miss them. It is always fun to be crazy.

Take good care of yourself, sis.

For some, April showers have been horrible, almost as horrible as the hot weather spell itself. The last thunderstorm brought down several trees in my area, crashing onto an office building, a house or two, on a small lorry and at least a car.

For me, it has been an eventful April so far; from going to an offshore platform to do a safety audit to several other things – both bitter and sweet, one that probably involves my being anathematized by the family three years ago. And the good news is, Wifey and I, together with Renek, Dalie, Rina and Aznan will be on our annual pilgrimage to Sipadan next week.

One of the items is Wifey’s cancer-stricken aunt’s physical condition has taken a sudden turn. Two years ago we visited her when she was first diagnosed with ovarian cancer, the same illness that robbed my family of our maternal grandmother. It is an illness that has a 45 percent 5-year survival rate; in laymen term, that means only 45 diagnosed patients out of 100 would survive up to 5 years – if diagnosis was done early. In this case as with the case of my late grandmother, it wasn’t that early. The last I met her was some months back at the engagement ceremony of one of Wifey’s cousins. She asked me how I was, and I asked her the same. She looked fine; frail but fine. Somehow she has a relapse and seeing her yesterday reminded me of how painful it was to see my grandmother 12 years ago – and how painful it was to see her go only six months after losing my maternal grandfather.

And last night, we had a Coming Out Of The Closet cum Birthday party for Komar. He finally decided to introduce his girlfriend to the gang, and we would like him (as well as her) to know that we think she’s cool to have as a friend. As long as she can stand our antiques, and hopefully she could.

WELCOME TO THE GANG!

Of course it would be the ultimate delight to see them end up as actual partners in this weird and long journey called life.

And it was a joy to see my eldest daughter again after a week or so, this time to help out with her university admission form, documents needed to complement the form, and so on. The last time I did this, I had to do it on my own. In a way, it saddened me a bit as she is now a young adult, all grown up, and no longer that baby I use to hold close to me at night – I remembered how I used to sing to her as she closed her eyes and her little fingers clutched my finger and not letting go. I remember the first steps she took, the first word she uttered, her favourite calendar, her rubber ducky that was her first toy, when she gave up her milk bottle, her first walk to the kindergarten, her Taekwondo tournament, her first scuba dive. I am going to miss her.

Then I sent her to my parents’ house being the nearest place to the university that she had applied to. As I approached the house, the gate opened automatically and my father’s car, was on its way out when it slowed, and then stopped. Wifey, my daughter and I alighted from our car. I stood there for a second or two before I saw the window on the side where my mother’s seated being wound down. I felt a slight joy and the thought of a sign of thaw in the three-year winter between my parents and I crossed my mind. I stuck my head through the window and smiled at my mother, held her hand and tried to kiss it, but she just froze, and all I could say was,

“Mak!”

She just went,

“Hmm!”

That was an ephemeral joy lasting but for a few seconds. The window was being wound down so my father could leave verbal instructions to my daughter. To not embarrass anyone including myself in the presence of the driver, I just feebly mentioned that I was there to send my daughter, to which I received no response whatsoever.

And the pain that I felt three years ago just seared again across my heart. It seems that there is no sign of anything thawing. I walked back to my car and waited for my daughter to come back to the car so I could hug her before saying goodbye.

But at least I got to see how she is. It is no joy at all, but at least it has answered a question.

After my daughter had walked through the gate, I got back into the car and drove home. I held Wifey’s hand hoping to console myself.

I am so glad I have Wifey by my side.

And I hope, April showers will bring May flowers.

A tenth of a score is the number of years
that your mother is now almost free of tears
the day that her love and mine were sown
was the day I took you as my own

Two years it has been that time has flown
not once have I ever rested a single bone
one was for us to know each other
the other I became your stepfather

Taking you to the clinic at night’s not a bother
your life is what I try make smoother
to my kids sometimes I wish to do the same
even though you always have for me a name

For you I cook, bear the heat of the flame
hoping the taste you would not find as lame
being loved by you was not what I sought
missing my children is the feeling constantly fought

I am sometimes filled with fraught
I know that your father I am not
I know that I can never be perfect
all I hope for is some show of respect

For I always try to take a step farther
but it is never always easy being a stepfather…

I’m lying here in bed wondering if I will be deployed offshore tomorrow. My flight’s been booked but my deployment depends on whether the client’s driller can renew their offshore safety passport in time. At the same time I find myself humming an old song by Bob Carlisle called ‘Butterfly Kisses’.

My daughters Farhanah and Fazira were five and two respectively when I first heard that song. Their mother and I had just gone through separation and subsequent divorce, and I was missing my daughters terribly. And listening to this song made it worse because I did not want to miss seeing my children grow up and then leave me when they have a world of their own. And every school holiday I would get them to stay with me, and we would have a ritual whenever I tuck them in bed. Farhanah would start first by saying:

“Ayah, kiss!”

I’d give her a kiss. Then she’d go:

“Eskimo!”

And we’d do the “Eskimo” kiss, which is rubbing my nose on hers. Then she’d ask for the final act of the ritual:

“Butterfly!

And we’d bat our eyelash several times onto each other’s cheek. After that we’d give each other a big hug. Only after that I would turn to little Fazira who would be waiting for her kiss, Eskimo kiss and Butterfly kiss eagerly wearing a big grin on her face.

I have no idea when did we stop this ritual…but whenever I get to, I would kiss their forehead and hug them for as long as I could.

All the precious time
Like the wind, the years go by.
Precious butterfly.
Spread your wings and fly.

Fazira will turn 15 this year, and Farhanah will turn 18. Maybe by next month, if everything goes well, the latter will commence her tertiary studies; and if everything goes well, she’ll start working in 6 years time. Maybe, a year or two later, she’d have her own world and will have her own life. I will no longer have her, or be able to hug her as freely as I would now. Perhaps, Fazira would follow suit just three years later.

And to think it was almost two decades ago that I would lie down next to each of them, pat them to sleep, and feel their hand grip my little finger gently but firmly. They are all grown up, and one day they will leave me.

I just hope before that happens, I would get to do those kisses with them again. I just want them to know and remember how much I love them, and that I will always love them as I have been doing since the day they were born.

And I can never not feel like crying when I think of them, and listen to Bob Carlisle’s song…

In all that I’ve done wrong I know I must
have done something right to deserve a hug
every morning and butterfly kisses at night

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZvwDIMVsDk

Azizul: “Abang Rahmat submit je gambar yang abang Rahmat suka.”

Me: “Alamaaaaak…bukannya ada yang elok pun. Orang lain ambik gambar dengan strobe dua tiga. Kita ambik habis tinggi ada LED light kecik aje.”

That was part of the conversation I had with Azizul when he pestered me to submit my best photos for an event called A Day if Photographic Memory – Underwater Sceneries of Malaysia. I have never done underwater photography seriously; those photos were just aide memoire for me of my trips. Anyhow, I submitted a few.

Sometime late January, I was informed by the Program Manager, Miss Hanim Pahron, that one of the photos I had submitted, have been chosen to be displayed at the National Art Gallery. The first question that popped was: “Which one?

The day came. During the slideshow presentation, they showed this photo of mine:

Chromodoris magnifica at Kador Bay

But when we went up to the gallery, I was surprised to find that the photo chosen to be displayed, and later be part of the gallery’s permanent collection, is this photo:

Me with my photo of a Scorpionfish at Mabul displayed at the National Art Gallery

And now this photo of mine has become part of the National Art Gallery’s collection, part of the nation’s heritage…now that is an ultimate DIVE SATISFACTION.

THE STORY BEHIND THIS PHOTO:

It was the third of our five day trip to Mabul and Sipadan, and the first dive that morning was beneath the Seaventures. There were two other dive boats there, one from BDMR and the other from SMART. Therefore there was a lot of divers beneath the surface converging upon the same area. The main attraction there are the frogfishes (Angler Fish) and the Pygmy Seahorses. And they were all there snapping away.

So, I ventured alone and found this big ugly creature and approached it slowly, well aware of how painfully poisonous it is. It reared its venomous and spiky pectoral and dorsal fins…I stopped and did not look directly into its eyes, for fear that it might interpret me as a predator. I waited for it to calm down and gained its trust before moving in closer for this shot.

I didn’t give this shot much thought as not many are interested in Scorpionfishes, preferring nudibranchs and other strikingly beautiful fishes instead, but this one has made it into the archives, and has made me smile.

My scalp feel very tight and shining, my nose is peeling. And that’s the result of being dry for 3 months and going back diving.

If you think that this is going to be one of those post-dive trip postings, you are so wrong. This is going to be about one of the dives done during the previous trip to Tioman.

Often marriage is said to be about compatibility, how similar one is to the other half, what it is about the other half that we can or cannot accept. We often try to see what it is about the other half that we think we can live with, hopefully, for the rest of our life.

But is it really that?

I often wondered what would happen to me should I lose Wifey? And this was the thought that played on my mind while I was diving, brought about by someone’s status on Facebook on the morning we departed Mersing that said something like:

“Marriage is not about being with the person you can live with, but being with the person you can’t live without.”

So, that got me thinking, that if I lose Wifey, would I be able to bring myself to go diving ever again without suffering a breakdown.

As in any marriage, each of us has our pluses and minuses. Somehow, I am glad that we managed to iron most things out while we were courting each other, and really like what we saw at the end of it before deciding to live with each other for the rest of our life. There still are times that we’d get on each others’ nerves, but we never fail to kiss each other good night before we sleep, kiss each other good morning when we get up, and kiss and hug each other before we leave for work.

And I love watching her underwater, how she enjoys looking at Batfishes, Yellow Boxfishes, and Pufferfishes among others. When we started dating two years ago this month, she wouldn’t even talk about following me to an island, let alone bask under the sun. Now, she enjoys the salty seawater that would render her treated hair rough, the sun that would turn her skin dark, and she would be dreaming of going back underwater…and I had nothing to do with it. But what has it done for me? I now have a dive buddy whom I love and loves me in return. And I enjoy every dive that I’ve made with her. My whole diving world changed after she took up diving in August of 2009. Even if I had to look after newer divers and pair her off with divers I would trust her with, I would turn to look and see if she was okay.

On the last day of our previous trip, we did the ritual jetty/house reef dive, this time with the newest diver in the group, Bro Rina. After wading the shallows heading towards where the sea bottom slopes, I led the dive to the jetty. In that excellent visibility, I knelt down, folded my arms and watched as thousands of fishes in schools swam above and around us. I watched Wifey and she was all smiles.

Then we all went to the house reef, where a school of almost 30 huge Reef (Broadclub) Cuttlefishes (Sepia latimanus) were spawning, and spent a good 20 minutes watching them. I could see how Wifey enjoyed that dive.

I now have this troubling thought – what if Wifey is no longer around? Would I be able to dive without her? How am I to enjoy looking at the things she enjoys looking at if she is no longer around? How would I feel when I no longer feel that tugging on my fins, turning around to see that gleeful smile on her face everytime she spots something interesting? How would I feel making my safety stop alone without those arms around my waist and she making faces at me? I can only think that I would be very heartbroken indeed. It was when I had this thought that I had a tear or two welling in my eyes, and I held her close to me, kissing her head. Then I cleared my mask as if I had seawater inside it.

Therefore, I know I cannot live without her. Never ever.

My dive life buddy and I

Naka Nami Lamdin Tong Pelu Linchan

If you think I was saying something in Thai, you are not far off. Those are the names of villages and small towns in the northeastern corner of Kedah, that not many Kedahans themselves have been to, and many more do not know of their existence. And they have the highest concentration of Thai-descendants in the whole Kedah, all in the Padang Terap district. After all, the old Kingdom of Kedah stretched all the way up to the Satun province, and Kedah was once known as Monthon (มณฑล) Saiburi until the latter was ceded to the British inn 1907, and Satun was absorbed into the Monthon Phuket until the Monthon system was abolished in 1933.

The first time I ventured into these areas was when I was stationed in the north, and I would spend days in these areas. It is the only place where people speak differently. It is not quite Thai, but more like Pak Tai, the southern Thai dialect, with some Kedah-malay words incorporated; much like how some southern Thai malays would speak Thai – they speak Pak Klarng which is how they speak in Bangkok, but incorporate malay words as well. I’ll give you an example:

นงไปทำไม? อาย oghe kapoeng?

I’m not good with Pak Tai as I cannot comprehend some of the words they use. I had problems trying to converse with the malays in the Satun, Trang and Phatthalung provinces. Especially with the ones who are not that old. The older ones speak malay like the older northern Kedahans would speak, the younger ones can speak Pak Klarng so I have no problems understanding them.

Titi Akar is one of the places I would go to. Heading south from there you would pass Sungai Tiang, Jeneri, where you can take a “shortcut” that is not for the faint-hearted to Sik. If my memory serves me right, the pasar malam (night market) there is on Fridays. I could be wrong, but it was fun to drive through the place from the south and then take a right turn at Kampung China to go pass Kampung Melayu, Kubur Panjang, Pokok Sena, Langgar and back to Alor Setar. The people were simple, and the shops had Thai scripts on their signage, and for a moment it did not feel as if you are in rural Kedah. You would get drenched during Songkhran, and you can witness the Loy of the Krathongs during Wan Loy Krathong.

However, 15 years after leaving Kedah (I was transferred back to KL to form and head a new unit to complement the Air Force’s legal department), I find several blogs written by the Thai-Malaysian community on their plight. It seems that a decade and a half later, the community seem to be at where they were when I was back there. And that is sad. And even after the change of government, they are still treated like 3rd-class citizens there. The current state government approach them with a ten-foot pole. People still bathe and wash clothes in streams that run through rubber estates. The price of rubber has gone down so much that they cannot earn much tapping rubber. They have to compete against migrant workers in the construction industry – and as locals, they lose out because it would be cheaper to employ illegal immigrants. The young migrate to other places; and with little education and opportunity, they end up working in odd places – the young girls often end up in towns like Sungai Petani as “masseuse”.

The Peninsula Malaysian community in general is busy looking after the plight of the Orang Asli and forget that there are other minorities that need help. I just hope that someone up there will be looking into their plight.

For that, I have added a new category in my LINKS section called CHOOM CHOHN CHAAW THAI NAAY MALAYSIA (ชุมชนชาวไทยในมาเลเซีย) so you could read up on them and understand their plight.