Category — Malaysia

How dare you!

J and I have had the occasional domestic dispute over the past 12 years (ahem). And in the post-dust up analysis, we’ve both come to the conclusion that we’re both “highly strung”, though me more than him. And I’ll cop to that. The thing is, after speaking with a few other friends, it appears that an awful lot of Asian women are “highly strung”. Let’s have a look at that a little bit more closely.

What do we mean by the term? I’m just throwing out stuff that I’ve heard, and think about myself:

• a bit on the defensive side
• can get too focused on one thing
• exhibits insensitivity to others when they are perceived to be in her way
• easy to anger when perceived to be insulted/put down
• very ambitious
• tendency to jump to conclusions, usually to the detriment of her partner
• high expectations (sometimes too high) of her partner
• can be very money/status-focused
• very analytical

I hope you’re starting to get the picture. (And, just to repeat the implication in plainer text, men can be highly-strung too, but we’re not talking about them in this post.) Now, let me wander off a bit to an anecdote.

J was recently at a workshop where an engineer was giving a highly technical presentation. Because the workshop was quasi-public, there were a lot of people standing around watching. An acquaintance of J’s, being short, asked him to take a photo of the engineer because she (the photographer) couldn’t see over the crowd and she (the engineer) wanted to send some photos of her presenting her workshop to her parents.

Just as J finished relating the story to me, a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

“I bet she’s single,” I said.

He nodded. “Yes. We got into a conversation afterwards, and she told she she was. But how did you know?”

You know how you get an insight that takes many hops but coalesces in your mind in a heartbeat? That’s what happened here. I’ll try to explain it to you in fewer words than I used with J. Tell me what you think.

What is of absolutely no doubt in Asia — at the risk of descending into stereotype — is that education is important. You may find a parent who’s inordinately happy with their son for everything he buys for them because he’s a successful, let’s say, landscaper. But no matter how proud his parents are of him, there is always some niggle that they’d be prouder of him if he had a degree. And perhaps worked in an office instead. Or had workers who toiled on his behalf. In an office. Or school of some type.

Here’s the problem with the Asian female. One, they’re told that Education is Critical. “Nobody will love you if you’re stupid.” She gets lots of pats on the head when she tops the class in school, becomes prefect, snags a spot at a good university, and graduates, beaming out of the photo frame that sits proudly in her parents’ living room. So far, so good.

The next obvious thing is to get a job. And that’s where the problems start. You see, the young Asian female thinks that she worked so hard, studied so hard, to get somewhere in life. The young Asian female’s parents, however, have inexplicably changed their tune. From, “So why aren’t you getting first-class honours?” it becomes, “Isn’t it time you got married?”

Now, this will throw any reasonable human being for a loop. What?! Why did you ride me so hard if all you’re going to say when I’m 23 is, “When can I expect the grandchildren? I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

At this point, our young lady is caught in an unfortunate case of cognitive dissonance. Of course she doesn’t want to throw it all away just to play mother, especially not if she’s smart and knows she can climb the corporate ladder. So, instead of marrying, she says to herself: “I just have to make my parents proud of me. And once they realise how important it is that I make something of myself — as a person in my own right, rather than just as a wife or mother to someone else — they’ll understand and approve of me and then we can put this marriage nonsense to the side for the time being.”

I hope you can begin to get an inkling of where the young engineer is in this timeline? Caught in the throes of this mis-thinking, she’s well on the way to seeking approval by sending her parents tangible proof that people hang on her every word. That she is doing Something Meaningful. And it doesn’t involve a wedding ring. Pity it won’t work.

The fact is, it never works, and the nagging grows in scope and frequency. “You’re getting so old, lah. No man will want you soon.” “Why are you so smart? Men don’t like smart women.” “You’re too big for your boots, thinking you can get this promotion/start your own business. No wonder you can’t get married.”

And the young woman keeps on thinking that if only everything looked a bit more sparkly, a bit more meaningful, then things would come good. After all, her parents were serious when they said her education was important. She has more examples than she can poke a stick at to prove that point. So if she can’t sway them from their one-track marriage mind now, it must mean she hasn’t proven the worth of her education — of herself — to them hard enough.

And that’s how it begins. She must be perfect. Her boyfriend must be perfect. Her apartment/house must be perfect. Her car must be perfect. Her wardrobe must be perfect. And, as I’ve said before, because the parents have completely and utterly changed their tune, it never is. The problem is not with her, it’s with them. And, because she’s Asian, that’s a verboten thought because, from Turkey to Taiwan, the authority figure in the family is Always Right.

I am of the firm opinion that one of the biggest obstacles to female empowerment in Asia are the parents. I have seen too many worthwhile lives descend into some kind of obsessive-compulsive tail-chasing because the parents have now summarily decided that they want grandchildren and bugger what it means for their daughters. Marriages have been destroyed through the kind of desperate, serial approval seeking that starts with a conceded ceremony and continues from there till the day somebody drops. For the sake of sanity, it’s got to stop but, short of just waiting for all the ignorant old farts to die out, I’m not sure how.

Hearts and tigers!

So, both Valentine’s Day and CNY fall on Sunday this year. This means a double celebration for all those people of Chinese descent and all those hangers on (like me!) who just like to gorge on Chinese food goodies! However, I will say that this is NOT the time to go shopping. It’s a jungle out there!

After being solemnly informed by The Wast that J and I are not entitled to celebrate Valentine’s Day (“You’re already married, so you can’t celebrate Valentine’s Day and you only give flowers to girls you want to marry”), we probably won’t do very much. Our son’s right of course; Valentine’s Day is a day for lovers, not grumpy married couples with kids and warring domestic pets, so I hope that all lovers everywhere have a great day.

As for Chinese New Year …. Although I’m not an adherent of things mystical, I really do hope that the new year brings a change of luck for me. The last decade hasn’t been fantastic and I could do with being thrown balls of a different spin. To everyone celebrating CNY, have a great time and do take care on the roads, won’t you?

Monday and Tuesday are public holidays in the region, so I’m not sure if I’ll be sufficiently motivated to do a post. We’ll see.

And, in writing news, edits for “Singapore Sizzle” have come and gone, and I’m working on the second book in the “His Bodyguard” series and having a good time. Sian Bernardine and Chris Lance are quite different to Helen Collier and Yves de Saint Nerin, and so is the setting. More on that, maybe next week.

Have a good weekend everyone and have some fun.

Turning the house upside down

If you follow Maria Zannini’s blog, you’d know that she has two Rottweilers, Tank and Iko. And even though I’m a little so-so about Rotties, I have to admit that Iko is a fine-looking young man. Another friend of mine, I just found out this week, has a Bichon, that white fluffy iconic breed that makes me think of mop-heads and cleaning floors whenever I see one.

Sausage is … well, not like either of those. She’s manic and cute in a truly ugly way. Think I’m joking? Cop this:

I took the photo at Christmas and it’s one of my favourites but you can’t tell me she doesn’t look like she’s just walked off the set of The Spiderwick Chronicles?

With that big nose of hers, she manages to poke herself into every situation, often getting scratches from Fluff and Squeak as a result. Does that faze her? Not a bit. Give her ten minutes and she’s back to wagging her tail and barking in front of a disdainful feline, just daring one to give her a good ole chase. Whether it’s a cat chasing Sausage or Sausage chasing a cat makes no difference to her; the game’s the thing.

Watching her interact with us, the cats, the fish(*) and other people, I can’t believe how bull terriers got the terrible reputation they did. Oh, they’re physically strong dogs, as well as being headstrong, but they’re so forgiving that you just wish they’d be a tad more cynical and live up to their “so ugly it’s cute” appearance, especially around two feline heavyweights. Here she is on one of the living room chairs, making herself comfortable:

There are a lot of dog breeds out there that are much better looking than Sausage. They’re more obedient, they’re cuter, they’re smarter, they “talk” more, and they don’t have manic half-hours. But the truth of the matter is, bull terriers have wormed their way into my affections and for me — and, increasing I think, for the rest of the family — there will never be another dog breed that usurps that place in our hearts.

(*) Please don’t make the mistake of feeling sorry for our koi, captive in our courtyard pool, tantalisingly close to snoozing cats and a curious dog. It didn’t take long for the fish to figure out our four-legged pet vulnerabilities. They splash. It happens every time either Fluff, Squeak or Sausage annoy them in some way by getting too close or trying to bob for fish food during feeding time. They’ll dive, flexing their tail at the same time, sending a fountain of water towards the miscreant. It’s 100% effective. Anyone who keeps fish will tell you they are far from the brainless, purely instinct-driven animals we were taught about in school. They recognise people, can come when called and, as I’ve just related, are smart enough to take care of themselves, thank you very much. Still doesn’t stop me from enjoying a nice meal of grilled fish though. I just hurry the supermarket bag past the big sliding doors into the kitchen so our own finned friends can’t see what I’m doing.

“You throw like a girl!”

A couple of weekends ago, a friend from school was dropped off by his parents to spend some time visiting with The Wast. Let’s call the friend Jerry. Jerry is a nice boy, the second in a family of three children (two boys, one girl). His parents are well-to-do professionals, from what I gather. In other words, his parents should know better.

The school our kids attend is a private one, mostly because all the lessons (except for Malay) are in English. As much as we wanted to, putting our kids into one of the state schools, where the language of instruction is Malay, would have been a disaster. As a result, the school caters for professionals, for the richer parents; that is, for those who see a future for their children outside Malaysia and are prepared to pay for it. In other words, the school should know better.

A day after Jerry’s visit, The Wast mentioned at the dinner table that, “Jerry says that girls can’t fight.”

“Pardon?” I blinked.

The Wast grinned. “Yeah, he says that girls are useless at boxing and fighting and that kind of stuff.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Little Dinosaur, who’s built like a brick outhouse, declared. “What about Hit-Girl(*)? And look at mama.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Look at me. Do you think I can’t fight?”

“No. But that’s just what they say at school.”

“And what do you tell them?”

“I tell them that my mother taught martial arts, but they don’t believe me.”

A couple of days later, The Wast shared what he learnt in Moral Education.

“Boys should be well-groomed and have short hair,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why should you have short hair? Does having long hair mean you somehow lose your testicles?”

“No.” (With a giggle.)

“Does having long hair mean you lose all your intelligence?”

“No.”

“Does having long hair mean you don’t know how to speak or interact with people?”

“No.”

“Does having long hair interfere with your homework?”

“No.”

“So why is it bad having long hair?”

“Besides the fact you’ll faint from heat exhaustion in this climate,” J added, ever the voice of reason.

The Wast thought about it. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

What I like about having my children educated in south-east Asia is the emphasis on foundations in language and maths, the discipline (except the corporal punishment bits) and the rigour. What I thoroughly dislike about having my children educated in south-east Asia is the utter narrow-mindedness masquerading as high principle. Mind you, I still prefer Asia to, say, Australia. At least here, I can help counter the unthinking idiocy with some well-chosen pieces of logic and history. In Australia, how do I console a daughter who’s been called a black monkey bitch and told to go back to the trees where she belongs?

Still, you’d think there has to be some middle ground. Some damned tolerance. The school principal came out with a doozie recently, saying that boys shouldn’t do ballet because, if they do, they’ll turn into homosexuals. Oh good grief. The amount of ignorance flying around is astounding. And the belief in witchcraft here is still strong (one example is the “black magic” that Indonesians seem to have some fast-track channel into, that will deflect bullets and knife blows from their bare bodies. Say it with me this time … oh good grief.)

All I can do is help the kids focus on the academic fundamentals and, through wider education, show — as well as tell — them that women are the equal to men. That gays and lesbians have just as much right to civil liberties as anyone else (which is a problem in itself in a country where you have equal and more equal citizens, if you get my drift), that cross-dressers aren’t automatically gay, that ascribing to witchcraft doesn’t make you impervious to injury or a slam-dunk to win the lottery, that being envious of a family doesn’t mean their newborn baby will be “cursed” thus causing mental illness … the list goes on and on. And, as I think I may have mentioned in a previous post, these sorts of inane beliefs are not the purview of the uneducated. They come from the mouths of doctors, teachers, IT professionals and accountants. In fact, I’ve found it easier to talk around someone who’s only had primary school education compared to a University graduate. It’s an interesting insight into the impermeability of mindsets.

I’ll come back to gender equity again, in another post. In the meantime, I’m putting my old trophies and medals out on display, just in case someone asks ….

(*) You can see who’s already excited about the upcoming release of Kick-Ass the Movie, can’t you? Damn you, SF Signal! Damn you and your embedded trailers!

Like a snail on opium

But first, a finger update. One thing I’ve realised is how much your fingers depend on all your other fingers when you touch-type. So, having my left index finger out of commission has been having an annoying ripple effect, yea even unto my right hand. Bollocks. After four days, I finally went to the doctor yesterday. He essentially asked me what the hell I was thinking, taking so long to see a medic (“It’s infected, lah!”), drained all the various multi-hued fluids, cut off about a third of my fingernail and bandaged the rest. He also injected so much painkiller into my finger that I felt it was orbiting the Moon by the time he was done. I liked that doctor!

(And, may I say, the one thing I also like about visiting doctors in Singapore/Malaysia is that the dispensaries are attached to the clinic. So you get treatment then slip to the next window once you’re back in the waiting room to get your “loot”. In my case, it was the ubiquitous course of antibiotics, painkillers, tablets to control the swelling, ointment, a small bottle of antiseptic wash (twice a day) and a stack of dressings. You pay for everything at the final counter (as a foreigner, I paid an escalated total fee of RM196 / SG80 / AUD64 / EUR40 / US57) and you’re out. No indecipherable prescriptions to misplace. No frantic scouting for an open after-hours pharmacy if it’s night-time. Although I know it can (and has) been prone to abuse, I like the one-stop-shop approach they take here to medical treatment.) So I’m back, I’m slow, but at least I’m not cringing in pain. Huzzah! But, onto the actual topic for this last week — and post! — of 2009!

Things move relatively slowly in a writer’s world. It takes months to write a book, followed by months to properly edit, followed by months to submit, maybe re-submit, and get accepted (or rejected) by a publisher, etc. etc. Or maybe it’s more correct to liken the process to the experience of a combat pilot; i.e. hours of tedium broken by seconds of sheer terror.

So, in looking back at 2009 — which was a darned sight more externally productive than 2008 — here’s what happened, in a slightly particular order:

+ My space pirate novella, “A Pirate’s Passion” was released electronically by Total-E-Bound.

– — – – Various short stories got rejected by Interzone, Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons and GUD, not necessarily in that order.

+ My very first action contemporary novel, “Guarding His Body” was released electronically by Total-E-Bound.

+ I joined the varied and very talented group blog crew at Novel Spaces.

– – Neither of my hint fiction submissions made the cut for an upcoming anthology.

– I managed to interest a publisher in a novel but decided to pull out before signing because I was not completely happy with the (non-negotiable) contract terms.

– – Two more literary romance short stories did manage to make the cut for an upcoming anthology, but then the publisher ran into financial woes, so the project has been shelved indefinitely.

+ My very first published novel, “Guarding His Body” was released in print by Total-E-Bound.

– Got a request for a full from a publisher, then the publisher folded.

? Got a request for a full from a different publisher; waiting on decision.

many –s I failed to find an agent (general summary of positive feedback: like your writing, can’t sell the book if my life depended on it, what else you got? Admittedly, the last one was a minority-within-a-minority view).

+ Tangentially to writing, but not to books, I began a sideline in narrating ebooks. This looks to continue in 2010. Whew!

+ + – Updated website and blog designs, but put podcast on hiatus because it takes such a damn long time to process each interview.

Now, you may have noticed that there are more negatives than positives in the list. (I know people say you should always turn the negatives into positives but sometimes, people, when a rejection throws you into the pits of depression, you just have to take some time out to Wallow, know what I mean?) If any of you are thinking of becoming writers, please bear that in mind (the rejection bit, not so much the wallowing). Every year is probably going to have more negatives than positives. You have to ask yourself if you’re happy with that, because writing is a hard game and, in addition to talent, the willingness to learn, and many many mental and physical props (okay, much alcohol), you have to have a thick skin, a productive muse, and a sometimes ridiculous belief in your own self-worth.

So now that I’ve covered this year, let’s see what 2010 brings. Are you with me? Did anything happen in 2009 you’d like to mention? This blog doesn’t get much traffic, so your secret’s safe with me! Besides, this will be a miserable New Year’s — because, since I’m on antibiotics, I won’t be drinking any alcohol until well into 2010 (well, at least the 6th or so of January, if I counted the tablets right)! The horror!!! — so I need all the vicarious living I can get. Spill the beans, have a great time and I’ll catch you on Monday.

At least that’s what the security guard shouted out at 4am on Christmas eve as he was doing the rounds on his scooter. This was followed by a heartfelt “Yeeeee-hah!”.

I can understand it’s boring being a guard at an ulu estate such as the one we’re living in, so let me do my bit by extending his wishes to all of you. Catch you Monday!

Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.

BoingBoing is on fire at the moment with the case of Dr Peter Watts, a Canadian scientist and s-f writer who was held, beaten up and charged with assaulting a federal officer at the US-Canada border while on his way back to Canada after helping a USAian friend move house. For the record, he was beaten up by US guards, although Canadian authorities can be equally brutal, as the case of Robert Dziekański clearly attests.

BoingBoing are putting together a fund to help Dr Watts’ defence, and you can contribute via Paypal if you are so inclined. As a sideline, it’s an interesting observation that the USA is a place that makes a big deal about what “rights” a person has, until the time comes to actually exercise those rights (whether medical, economic, or judicial). At that point, you find out that the person with the most “rights” happens to be the one with the deepest pockets. Nobody else need apply.

What has been equally interesting to me have been the comments on BoingBoing, including a fair few that imply that Watts had it coming because he was probably “lippy” or “uppity”. And that got me thinking back to an incident at the Malaysia-Singapore border almost two years ago.

Lets face it, stalwart reader, you may think that being a writer is a cool thing but writers, by and large, really don’t fit into the normal, quiet mainstream population. They may seem quite okay from the outside, but there’s always some kind of dysfunction that separates them from the rest of the herd. And that dysfunction mostly manifests itself as questions. Writers need questions the way we need air. Without questions, quite simply, we wouldn’t exist. What if human civilisation dominated our galaxy? (Stories set in the Republic.) How would a romance work between a female bodyguard and the male she’s assigned to protect? (Guarding His Body) Is it possible for me to even think of a likely steampunk story and thus jump on the latest trend? (Alas, no.)

So, when questions are like life’s blood to us, it’s obvious that we will start asking them whenever something interesting happens. And therein lies the problem, because our Neo Dark Ages™ world doesn’t like questions. It doesn’t like anyone asking them or otherwise being lippy. Used to be that only applied to niggers, wogs, slopes, kikes, spics, etc., and women. But now, it doesn’t like anything other than silent subservience from anybody who doesn’t wear the appropriate uniform, period.

I’m reminded of the time our family crossed from Malaysia into Singapore. There were five of us, two adults with two kids, and J’s mother, who was visiting with us at the time. And it was also the time of the Mas Selamat flap. Singapore is very proud of Mas Selamat because he is their very own Muslim terrorist, and is thus like a badge of honour Singapore can wear and be inducted into the Western nations’ Hall of Countries Who Are So Wonderful That Everyone Else Wants To Have A Piece Of Us Out Of Sheer Jealousy. Unfortunately, this short man with a noticeable limp had escaped the detention centre by climbing out the bathroom window.

Anyway, the security at the border was pretty tight after he fleed (I believe he also threw spare rolls of toilet paper out the window before he jumped, to help cushion his fall) , and everyone had to submit thumbprints via an electronic reader, ostensibly to check against the thumbprints of Mas Selamat that Singapore had on record. They let our kids pass without any comment, but I had to wonder when they insisted that my mother-in-law submit to a scan. Yeah, I muttered to J, because Mas Selamat is so obviously hiding in the skin of an older, white woman from Europe.

If you tell me that this was not the smartest thing to do, especially within earshot of the Immigration official, I’ll agree with you. But, you know, it’s that question thing again that I was talking about. You think, “why the hell are they fingerprinting someone who so obviously isn’t Mas Selamat?” and, before your brain has time to answer “because it’s their job, stupid, just shut up”, your mouth opens and out comes some smart comment.

At this point, we were directed to another office, had our passports confiscated and were left watching a blank wall while the rest of the border world went on behind our backs. After twenty minutes, an officer came out, smiled, handed us our passports and told us we could go. No explanation was given, although she was very courteous. You’ll be pleased to know I kept my mouth shut that second time.

In retrospect, and after reading what Watts and others have gone through, we got off very very lightly. Which is scary when you realise that the courtesy in newly-developed or developing countries actually currently exceeds that in fully-developed countries. We may rant and rave about lots of things, but I wouldn’t want to be in the line entering the USA, Canada or the UK. In contrast, Singapore was an absolute cakewalk, despite my overt sarcasm. Terrifying, isn’t it?

It’s retail therapy time for the Augustin clan!

I’m over at Novel Spaces today, talking about why, if you love an author, you should buy direct from her/his publisher, rather than going through, say, Amazon. There’s some quick and dirty maths I set out, but I think you all can cope!

And today is a public holiday in Malaysia and Singapore. It’s Hari Raya Haji, which marks the end of the two-month pilgrimage period to Mecca. I found a site that has a great explanation of the festival, so go here and have a read.

Selamat Hari Raya Haji and have a good weekend everyone. I’ll catch you on Monday.

Shooting yourself in the foot, Malaysian style

We’re not supposed to talk about it. The different races. We’re all supposed to pretend that everyone gets on really well with everyone else, even though an incredibly unfair set of discrimination practices are in place. We’re all supposed to pretend it doesn’t exist, even though Malaysia must be the only country in the world that actively discriminates against its own citizens.

The Malays make up the majority of the population in Malaysia, at around 60%. Then you have the Chinese, at around 25%, the Indians at around, say, 9%, and there are various communities of Other, including us Portuguese Eurasians.

Nobody will say it out loud, but the major tension is between the Malays and the Chinese. The Chinese are the engine of Malaysia’s economy, but the Malays rule the country. In order to keep it that way, various laws are put in place that favour the Malays above and beyond any other ethnic group in the country. Now, you may argue about the nefarious nature of those laws and, while I agree with you, I can also understand why the Malays instituted them. It becomes completely obvious around festival time. At Hari Raya, you may find a few shops closed for two or three days but, at Chinese New Year, it’s like the entire country shuts down for a week. It’s this huge economic power that the Malays are fighting against when they first instituted the New Economic Policy and its mutated children.

(Personally, I believe that the Malays are doing themselves a disservice by retaining the NEP. (I’m actually quite sympathetic to their plight, but the NEP goes way too far.) All it does is set up a culture of dependency, and it makes others doubt a person’s competence. “Did you get to that position because you’re smart, or because of the NEP?” The problem is, I’ve met many very smart, very competent young Malay professionals, but I’ve slurred them upon first meeting because that’s the first question in my mind. It doesn’t do the credibility of Malays any good to have such a two-edged sword hanging over them. And the Malays are lucky with the Malaysian Chinese, who must be one of the most laid-back bunch of Chinese I’ve ever met. Bring Hong Kong Chinese here and the average Malaysian, regardless of ethnicity, wouldn’t last two seconds. Everything will be in Mandarin within a snap of the fingers.)

So, now that you have a fifty-words-or-less rendition of the last six decades of Malaysia’s history, let’s move on.

Recently, the government decided that the instruction of Science and Maths was to move back to Malay from English. This has been greeted with dismay from every Malaysian, except the Chinese language die-hards and the rural Malay population. What’s a parent to do?

Point One: I pose one question: who owns the private schools and colleges in Malaysia? Overwhelmingly, they are Chinese. The Malays have their own system worked out in the regular state schools and universities. So, as with the owners, the children attending private institutions are also overwhelmingly Chinese.

Point Two: At the moment, any international school (a subset of private schools) in Malaysia can accept Malaysian children, up to 40% of its total enrollment.

Point Three: Private schools are loathe to switch the teaching of Science and Maths to Malay and many are preparing formal exemption proposals to the Malaysian Ministry of Education even as I type.

The Star covers the topic of education in Malay/English here. It also mentions a few schools by name, so let’s go on a tour.

Who’s behind Sri KDU? The CEO is Ms Teh Geok Lian. Others involved are Mrs AK Chan, Mr Muhammad Azhar Bin Abdullah, Mr Ong Keng Siew, Dato’ Teo Chiang Quan, Dr Chia Chee Fen and Cik Rohana Tan Sri Mahmood.

What about Garden International School? Managing Director is Dato’ Loy Teik Ngan. Others are Mrs Abby Loy, Dr Khoo Soo Peng, Mr BK Gan and Mrs YY Chew.

Hmmmmm. Starting to sense a pattern here? Let’s try another school mentioned in the newspaper article.

How about Sri KL? Executive Chairman is YB Tan Sri Dato’ Ir. Orthman Merican. And others include En. Hanif Merican, En. Rais A Manas … oh and then it starts to slide again … Ms Shirley Hai, Mr Chew Teck Ann, Dr Tan Khun, Mr Ngoo Kee Min, and so on.

The Malaysian government has managed to shoot a number of toes off with this reversal of policy in language. Quoting liberally from The Star article cited above, let’s go through them. First, the effect on private and international schools:

Several private and international schools … said that they had been inundated with calls from Malaysian parents in the weeks after the decision [to switch the language of instruction from English to Malay] was made.

Secondly, the effect on the Malaysian curriculum:

… [T]he government’s decision to reverse the PPSMI policy “has forced Sri KL to adopt the Cambridge International Primary Programme … [B]y 2014, Sri KL Primary School will no longer offer the [federal curriculum standard,] KBSR with the exception of Bahasa Malaysia for the UPSR examination [equivalent to the old UK 11-plus exam -- ksa].

And, thirdly, the effect on Malaysia itself:

… [T]he trend to opt for international schools is also apparent around Asia as Korea and China are starting to recognise the global importance of English. “The demand for an English-medium education worldwide has never been greater.”

So, the upshot is that rural Malays — who were held up as the reason for the reversion to Malay — will continue to be discriminated against in the future global marketplace. Those with money, or the ability to save up enough for their children’s education, regardless of race, will continue to have their children educated in English and overseas. And the Chinese, who own the private and international schools will, due to an incredibly increased demand, clean up, money-wise. If it didn’t disadvantage so many children — of all races — undeserving of such a future fate, I’d be in stitches right now.

In which Kaz goes cruising for a bruising

I was talking to my friend Parvathy recently. I was in a particularly good mood as I had tried on a pair of trousers I’d bought a couple of years ago and the darned thing — that had fitted quite well — slipped straight off my hips. I’ve had an aim of losing a few kilograms over the past few years but absolutely refuse to adhere to any particular diet. Instead, I’ve been trying to eat breakfast, cut my meal consumption to two a day and get some exercise. For one reason or another, without my really noticing it, I’ve shed the fat.

So anyway, there I was with Parvathy, in a good mood.

“Living in Malaysia has been great,” I enthused. “I’ve lost a few pounds.”
“How did you do it?” she asked, greatly interested.
“I don’t eat the food.”

It was a statement as a joke, meant to elicit a laugh, but is truer than you can imagine.

Food in Malaysia. Everyone raves about it. As did I. Not any more. If the United States has an obesity epidemic (as Alexander Cockburn so drily observes), then its Asian equivalent is Malaysia. By the universe, I’ve seen some porkers around. And, like Cockburn, from all age groups. Young men and women sporting enough spare tyres to service a car is not a healthy look. I try to imagine them having sex (hey, I’m an erotic romance writer, okay?) and it just doesn’t quite work. Let’s break it down.

Satay. Mmmm, those delicious charcoal-grilled skewers of meat. Not too many lean pieces are used. And they’ve been marinated in a sugar mix. And basted constantly with oil. Before being served with a sauce thick with peanuts. And palm oil. And sugar.

Nasi lemak. Well, for a start, “lemak” means “fat” in Malay. The rice has been cooked in coconut milk. The ikan bilis (dried anchovies) have been fried in palm oil. The sambal contains sugar. The really nice, smooth-tasting sambals contain condensed milk, I kid you not.

Roti canai. Oh, that flaky, crunchy, soft-as-butter layered flat bread! Made with evaporated or condensed milk. Also, heaps of ghee.

Laksa lemak. Coconut milk. Palm oil.

Run of the mill curry. Palm oil. Coconut milk.

Chicken rice (and I’m sobbing as I type this because this is my favourite dish). Chicken fat in the rice, the more the better.

So, what’s wrong with palm oil? Palm oil, my stalwart Asian readers, contains between 49% (palm oil) and 81% (palm kernel oil) saturated fat. Did you get that? Up to EIGHTY-ONE PERCENT saturated fat!!! Do you know what saturated fat does to you? It clogs your arteries. It increases your (bad) cholesterol level. One of the reasons humans eat fat is to help produce energy to maintain our body temperature but in an equatorial country, for crying out loud, that need is at a minimum, so it gets socked away in our bodies instead. Malaysians gleefully go through palm oil like it’s water and say things like, the curry is no good if it doesn’t have a layer of oil floating on top. Doh!

And as for coconut milk. Now, maybe coconut milk isn’t as bad as I was thinking. However, it still has a fat content of around 17%. I mean, we go nutso over milk, having “skim”, “low-fat”, and “zero-fat” versions, all because the full-cream product contains — are you ready? — 4% of fat. But we’ll wave coconut milk through as being “healthy” with a fat content of SEVENTEEN PERCENT?

The upshot of all this is that a normal Malaysian meal is a heart attack just waiting to happen. Now, I’m trying not to get all paranoid over this. I had a big bowl of laksa last night for dinner, for example. But I probably won’t have another one for another 3-4 weeks. The same goes for nasi lemak. And I don’t think we’ve had any roti canai for more than a month. And I’m not secretly looking at all those dishes, thinking to myself how I’d like to devour some curry and roti for breakfast every day. There are heaps of other dishes we cook at home that are healthy, and that the kids love, but that don’t pack the same kind of lethal punch as you get in an average Malaysian food court.

Part of the problem is that cooked food is so cheap here. And professional women tend not to cook. (One of my cousins, at the age of 35+, cooked her very first curry and called us, Malaysia to Australia, to tell us the good news. She didn’t really learn how to cook anything else, but would commandeer the kitchen when guests were due, so she could “show off” her “cooking prowess” with her infamous one curry.) It’s just a lot easier to grab some grub from the local stalls and head home rather than swelter away in a hot kitchen with no air-conditioning.

And, if you have children, the chaotic two-sessions-a-day school schedule kicks in. You might have one child going to morning school ( start at 7:00am-ish, finish around 2pm) and another going to afternoon school (start at 1:00pm-ish, finish around 7pm). They may then shoot off to tuition a few times a week before heading home. Trying to organise a mealtime together gets difficult, especially when you add in two working adults. Servants also cook, and that’s an option, but the kind of food they cook is, again, not the healthiest, relying mostly on frying. We cook at home about five nights a week and go through three litres of oil in 4-5 months of cooking. That’s seen as being very unusual in a country where families buy large 5-litre bottles of palm oil, often filling the shopping trolley with them, close to festival time.

One of the final factors is that Malaysia is the world’s top producer of palm oil. So what’s the most common form of fat you get here? Yep, palm oil. The one that also happens to be the unhealthiest in the world. We buy pure canola oil, but that’s easily three times the price of palm oil and, at the rate that Malaysians go through it, the average family simply can’t afford it. And don’t even get us started on olive oil, which goes for an average of RM30 per 700ml bottle for the good stuff.

And, lastly, you have the average Malaysian’s utter love affair with fat. If the Scots hadn’t come up with deep-fried, battered Mars bars, the Malaysians would’ve. Malaysians can take anything and turn it into a feast of fat. Order prawns and it will come fried in pure butter with curry leaves and butter-fried breadcrumbs. The problem is, it’s absolutely delicious (Butter Prawns, KL style). I ordered Cantonese-style flat rice noodles at a Malay restaurant a couple of weekends ago, and it came as a full-on fried kway teow (noodles fried with soya sauce in oil) and surrounded by an Chinese-style sauce thickened with cornflour and egg, to which meat and vegetables had been added. Hey guys, one or the other, but not both on the same plate! Deep-fried sushi; puff pastry enclosing everything, from custard to tuna curry; tea and coffee, loaded with condensed milk AND sugar; fruit danish pastries topped with slices of pound cake; doughnuts glazed with chocolate icing, then decorated with chocolate sprinkles, and filled with chocolate custard; pizzas with tearaway crusts that contain three cheeses and are topped by cornflakes sprinkled with more cheese; fried noodles, fried rice, fried anything-that-stands-still-long-enough; and deliciously golden fried chicken, as far as the eye can see.

It’s okay from time to time. But it’s a complete overload on a daily basis. And, fellow Malaysians, it’s killing you. Somehow, that plate of mutton rendang (coconut milk, sugar) doesn’t look quite so attractive any more.

ADDITIONAL: In concentrating on the fat, I completely forgot the diabetes risk from the sugar. The average Malaysian consumes one kilogram (2.2 pounds) of sugar a week! Add that to the fat intake, and I’m surprised there are even people still alive in the country. All it shows me is that the human body is a wonderful mechanism that can truly take a bucketful of punishment under the cover of pleasure.