The Face in the Mirror !

Mention 1969 and many older Malaysians will remember the racial riots that wreaked havoc in different towns in the country and how the scent of uncertainty, fear, intimidation and death hovered like tumultous storm clouds over the nation. I can identify with those emotions but for different reasons.

For me, 1969 is the year that the Grim Reaper almost took my life and it was no accident. One evening, just before the weekend, my foster brother flew into an uncontrollable rage and began to knock me around with his fists.

If you ask if I had been naughty, I would have to say yes Though, I really cannot remember exactly what my offence was. All I know is that it was not serious enough to warrant such an outburst. However, back to my story. There he was, so angry that he went into an anger rage. I had never seen him burst out like that. I was truly frightened for my life.

I have always known that my foster brother, five years my senior, did not welcome me into the family. He made it plain and clear by his constant taunts of "we picked you from the dustbin, where your family threw you away!".

At that time, I had no inkling that I had been adopted. Whenever possible, he would tweak at my arm to hurt me and say the cruelest things to break my little heart. Hitting me was not a problem for him and since my foster mother would blame me for his lashing out at me, I guess, he became bolder in his attacks. Yet, nothing prepared me for what he would do. Until that fateful afternoon.

All I remember of the incident is very vague. Yet, I do remember that after the initial slaps and punches on my face and body, I was sprawling on the floor. I remember feeling the sharp pains as he kicked me like one kicks a stone to dislodge it from the ground, where it lies half buried.

Then, I felt something hard hitting me on my back because the pain was differently sharp and I cried out aloud in agony. After two or three times, I think, I heard the object which, I knew and had felt, was hard, wooden and heavy crack and snap loudly. Then I heard pieces of wood fall to the ground.

Through the blur of fear, the pain and my cries for help, I sensed him pick up a part of the broken wooden object and continue the hammering. From then on, all I can remember is the pain that seemed to last for what seems like forever.

Yet, I thank God for survival instincts that kicked in and I tried to move my head and body away as much as possible, from the furious attacks that seemed to never stop. I must have tried to shield my head and face from the blows and I remember that I curled my body into a ball while lying on my sides, trying so hard to squirm away from him.

It seemed like eternity and then I heard a shout. It was not from him but my older foster brother. I heard more angry shouts, angry replies and then, I through my curtain of tears, I saw the older one push my attacker and then snatch the weapon forcibly from him. Then, I heard more shouts between my two foster brothers. I was in too much pain, distraught and fear to look at them. When I finally looked up, I saw my attacker storm to his room and the door slam shut behind him. Only then, did I dare, like a tortoise from its shell, lift my head and survey around me.

I discovered that my attacker had used one of the six heavy dining chairs to hit me and what I heard cracking and snapping, was the dining chair into several pieces. The weapon that my savior took from my attacker, was one of the broken legs of that chair.

When the chair broke, my attacker had picked up a leg and continued to hit any part of me as he could. I was saved because my savior, who had been in a deep sleep, awoke to my screams and cries. I was lucky because at that moment of salvation, my attacker had been concentrating on bashing my head in. I looked at the clock and realized that the attack had gone on for almost 20 minutes before the rescue.

I do not know where my foster mother was. I only know that she had not been at home. It had just been the three of us but because of the ferocity and suddenness of the attack, I had forgotten that the older foster brother was at home.

When my foster mother got home about 3 hours later, she was shocked to see the state that I was in. It was not pretty for I was covered in bumps, bruises of varying shapes, sizes and shades of blue-black, cuts and wood splinters on my head, face, back, arms and legs. My foster mother arrived home to find my older foster brother still at work, removing the splinters with a sewing needle from my limbs as he had been doing since the attack ended.

Yet, let me tell you, that all the physical wounds hurt but nothing can not be worse than the emotional cuts that happened after the physical trauma.

For when my mother childed my attacker, she asked him a question. Had it been his intention to kill me? Looking her straight in the eyes, he said yes. What hurt was not his response but that of my foster mother. Her reply cut me to the core of my heart.

She told my attacker that if he had killed me, he would have gone to jail and what was she to do, if he was jailed? I could not believe it as I stood behind her. I could not believe that she was more concerned about him when I was the victim in this incident. My mind cried out silently - What about me? I almost died! Am I worth so little to you? Don't my life count at all?

The second cut came when she said that he had to be punished. She asked him to stretch out his hand and open his palm. Then, with the wooden end of the feather duster, she gave him three slaps on his palm. That was his punishment. I just couldn't believe my eyes.

There, I stood with my bruises, bumps and cuts and all he got was three small taps from a feather duster rod. I had an entire chair broken on my body. It was just - just so unfair. It was not at all the right punishment befitting the crime. Sadly, now I realize that it only reinforced the message that, really, I was worth nothing to her.

As if my foster mother's actions were not sufficiently destructive to my self worth, sense of belonging and need to be loved, the "straw that broke the camel's back" was when she turned on me and told me that I deserved every one of the bruises, bumps and cuts that I received. That if my foster brother had killed me, I deserved it. Now, she said, if anyone were to ask, I was to tell them that the bruises, bumps and cuts were my dues paid for my wickedness. I was to say that I had been bad and my brother punished me rightly.

Then, she sat me down and minus the "tender-loving" care of a mother, proceeded to clean my wounds with iodine lotion that stung sharply each time the liquid touched the broken skin and with a sharp needle, pick out the many wood splinters from my arms, legs and back.

Physically, I did not die that day but something died that night. My foster mother
"died" in my heart and mind that very night. Her "death" occurred when I stared into the bathroom mirror and saw the "horror" that looked back at me.I hardly recognized the face in the mirror. For where there should have been cream skin was now blue and black. There was hardly any cream colored skin on the face in the mirror.

The eyes that looked back were red and bloodshot from prolonged crying and the areas around the eyes were dark with bruises. There were cuts around the lips, tainted yellow with rough dabs of iodine solution. I know that as long as I live, this "face in the mirror" will always haunt me when I think about 1969.

The "face in the mirror" has returned many times in my life. At time, it haunts me when I look in the newspapers and see pictures of abused children or infants lying so still and at the brink of death in ICU.

It returns when I step into my foster mother's bungalow. The rush of memory is so strong that Itruly dread returning to the family home. There is nothing for me there, just a house full of pain, suffering and broken emotions.

As for my foster mother, she lives in denial of any abuse that has happened in her house. Her dining set is the same one that she has had since she lived in that house. Only difference is that it has 5 chairs and not 6. Ask her if you dare, where there are only 5 chairs and she will tell you that one of them broke and there is no replacement. Ask her how it broke and she will mumble that it had aged through wear and tear and so it broke. I know because I asked her many years ago.

The face in the mirror also haunts me each time I hear my foster mother's voice. It is hard and I do so want to move on with my life. So, my mother and I do not talk and I avoid her as much as I can. I try to keep a distance from her. When my house phone rings before 9am or late at night, I always hope that it is not her. Sometimes, I get my family to pick up the calls, so that I do not have to speak to her.

This is because when I looked into the mirror that fateful night and recalled the three cuts of her words and action, I remember the promise that I made to myself then. I chose, yes, I deliberately chose to regard her no more than a legal guardian and no more. Save for my biological mother who gave me up for adoption and whom I have no contact, I have no mother.
I am an orphan.

My foster mother expects me to call her mother and I will do that, but in my heart, I know - it is only lip-service. Nothing more. Psychologically and emotionally that night, I "entombed" the woman who is listed in my adoption certificate as "mother".

I wish that I could be open to her but I cannot. For years, I have felt guilty about it and spoken to my therapist and other counselors, who have told me that I must forgive. Yet, they say that to establish a relationship with her is really a matter of my choice.

The counselors and my therapist have explained that I need to forgive so that I would not be imprisoned by my bitterness. I need to let go even in the absence of repentance - so that I can move on with my life and through the door of healing of my mind, soul and spirit.

As I understand it - to forgive is my choice and the one who benefits is not the forgiven but the one who forgives. I am the one who is released from the tortured thoughts that have kept me in captivity and bondage all these years. I am freed but my foster mother, because of her denial, she is the one who is in captivity. She is not aware of her prison, though, because she has cushioned her prison cell with the soft wool of denials.

So I have learned to forgive her. Today, I hold no grudge on her. Yet, I cannot bond with her because I cannot rid my mind of the "face in the mirror". And I cannot forget the three light taps versus my bumps, bruises and cuts. I cannot forget the lack of support and protection that she deliberately chose not to give me even though, I know for a fact, she knew I was deserving of it.
Emotionally, there is a "Grand Canyon" between my foster mother and I. A great divide that cannot be bridged, at least, not in the present.

And honestly, between you and me, I don't know when. Perhaps, never?