1960s Cowards Award Winners!

Heard this infomercial on domestic violence aired on the Malaysian radio recently - The award for "Heavy Hands" goes to......; the award" Devil's Advocate" goes to......; and ...... (I forget the rest of the script). A good infomercial and as usual, it triggered a past memory.

It brought me back to 1969 and to the time when I returned to school after my almost near death experience. (Please read my "Face in the Mirror", if you have not already done that!) Bruises take time to fade and cuts take time to heal and while the body follows nature's timing in healing, the bruises and cuts are significantly noticeable, especially when one is a rather fair Chinese.

So, there I was back at school, after my near death experience, with a bruises, cuts and bumps all over and children being children, do ask questions. My 9 year old classmates were shocked to see me in that horrific condition and naturally wanted the whole story. After I told my side of it, two of them - intelligent creatures, were so indignant. At such a young age, they could not possibly make sense of what was happening, but their hearts and minds told them that what happened was seriously wrong. They told me that I needed to report this matter to the school authorities and the best way was to tell my class teacher who was a Christian. I refused because I was afraid of the repercussions that would occur once my foster mother knew that I had blabbed.

These two friends of mine then spoke among themselves and without a word, they grabbed me by the hands and sandwiched me between the two of them. Before I could protest, I was just taken to my class teacher. They spoke to my teacher and insisted that she listened to my story.

I know that what I told my teacher put her in quite a dilemma for I still remember how she turned ashen and unsure of what to do. I can understand what she must gone through for in those days, it was common for people, even the police to turn a blind eye to cases of domestic violence or abuse was concerned.

Often, cases of domestic violence or abuse was considered a "family" matter that was expected to be resolved internally among family members. The only time it became a police case was when there was a death by suspicious circumstances or a "runaway" case.

So, there was my teacher unsure of what to do. Should she champion the cause of this one child? Was it worth the effort or would she get flak for this? I am not saying that this is exactly what she was thinking but the possibilities are real. For she told me that she felt for me but she did not know how to help me. So, what did she do?

She passed the "buck" - she sent me to my headmistress. A nice Indian lady and a Christian to boot. She listened to my story again (which was pretty draining for me emotionally, because each time I had to relate it, it was always done in between a great many sobs ). Patiently she listened to me and asked some questions to check that I was consistent and telling the truth. Then she inspected my bruises, cuts and marks carefully. Finally, she sat silent for a long time.

I stared at her and she looked at me for quite a long while. When she spoke, she said that she was sorry that I had to endure so much pain. Yet, there was nothing she could do. This was my family matter and she had no right to get involved. My heart sank at her words because the message that I received was that I truly was alone. No adult wants to champion my cause and my pain. There was no one who could rescue me from my living hell. I was fated to live my life with abuse.

It was so painful to realize that while others emphatized with me, they were also powerless to do anything. My headmistress had also told me that it was useless for her to report the matter to the police or the education authorities because both governmental bodies would not interfere in such a domestic matter.

So, if there were awards to be given in 1960s for domestic violence, I would certainly nominate my headmistress for "Devil's Advocate" and my class teacher for "Hands Off" and if I was a judge for such awards, they would certainly win them hands down. In addition, I would give my headmistress an additional award - "Get Involved Only When It Suits You!" Why?

The same Christian lady who told me that she had no avenue to help me, finally spoke her mind. The incident happened when I was 11. Let me tell you about it.

One day, I followed one of my friends home. I did it because this friend always had so nice things to say about her family. I knew from what she spoke about that she belonged to a loving family. I followed her home so that I could have the chance to experience firsthand myself what seemed like a norm to her. It was everything as she said and more.

The warmth that emanated from that family was like fresh spring water to my dry desert existence. I just could not inhale enough of the aromatic fumes of welcome and comfort in that family. I wanted to stay so badly that I lied to this good family. Yeah, I know that it was bad and I caused quite a lot of pain and trouble for the good people. That was my sin and I acknowledge it.

So, I hinted to my friend, how nice it was to have an impromptu sleepover party, just she and I. My unsuspecting friend fell for my ploy. I told her that I needed to get permission from my foster mother. I made the call home, knowing full well that there was no one at home at that time. I pretended to request for permission to sleepover, all the time, speaking to a ringing tone than to my foster mother. When I hung up the phone, I told my friend and family that I had permission to sleepover. Since the next day was a Saturday, my friend and her family had no problems. We were both about the same size, so I could borrow her nightgown, towel and toiletries.

We had a great time, I more than my friend. The dinner was great and then we watched some TV, played some board games with her two younger brothers before we climbed into bed at 10pm. I slept almost immediately, truly satisfied and exhausted by the day's events.

At about 3am, I was awaken by my friend's mother. She told me to change into my own clothes as my mother was here to take me home. Outside, I saw my friend's parents in their night clothes and they were not pleased. They did not scold me but told me that I should not have lied to them. Outside, at the end of the porch, stood my foster mother, two policemen, a police car and the family car.

I was trembled with great fear when I saw them. Ohh...ohhh! I was truly in trouble this time around!

I knew that my foster mother was keeping tightly controlled when she greeted me. She thanked my friends' parents and apologized for the intrusion at such an ungodly hour. Then, she turned around and thanked the officers for their help. Quietly, she ordered me into the family car. We drove home in total silence. I was silent with anxious fear of what would happen when we got home. She, I guess, was silent with fury because she had lost face.

True enough, when I got home, she let me have it. Mr Cane was extra swishy that night and after the screaming and caning, I was made to kneel the rest of the night on my knees and contemplate my sins, off she went to bed as she had to teach the following day.

That weekend, she made my foster brothers keep an eye on me and piled on the household chores on me until the wee hours of the morning. On reflection, it was as if she was trying to cleanse the "runaway" spirit from my life through the scrubbing and washing of the entire bungalow.

When Monday came, I still had the chore of facing my girlfriend, who was for obvious reasons, not my close friend anymore. Apparently, her parents gave the poor girl a "shelling" over the weekend and forbade her to be a friend to me anymore. I really do not blame them one bit. I did cause so much pain and trouble to them. Anyhow, I did the right thing and explained myself to her. She forgave me but it was not the same between us anymore. My fault really and I accepted responsibility for it.

What I was not prepared for, was a summons from my headmistress. My friend and I was called in and she gave us a piece of her mind. Apparently, in searching for me, my foster mother made a police report and the police came a knocking at my headmistress's home at 1 am in the morning. I know that other people, like my class teacher was also rudely awaken but the details are sketchy. So I won't speculate here.

I defended my friend and took full responsibility for the matter. My friend was released from the interrogation while I was forced to explain myself. I did amidst much tears to my headmistress, reminding her that I had been in her office 2 years ago and how she did nothing for me then. I related my unhappiness and gave her examples upon examples. At the end of it all, she just stared at me and sighed sigh upon sigh. Finally, she told me to return to my class. I did.

Apparently, she decided that she needed to do something. My foster brother tells me that she actually summoned my foster mother to the school. Then, my headmistress shared her findings and issued a threat to my foster mother. She said that if my foster mother did not stop the abuse, she would report my case to Child Services of the Social Welfare Department. As I was an adopted child, my case would be throughly investigated and if found guilty, my foster mother would be in great trouble.

I know that the threat worked because my foster brother told me, my mother returned ashen white. She still continued to abuse me but she stopped beating me. Her abuse was more verbal and to pile on the housework.

As a Christian myself today, I know that the Bible talks about standing up for those who cannot speak out for themselves and to defend those who are weak. This is a command from God. Christians are called to a higher calling - to go beyond themselves and to rise to any opportunity thrown their way. To reach out to the needy and to save the marginalized, desperate and lost. To demonstrate that there is a loving God - the same one who created all the beauty of this world.

It is sad that my primary school teacher and my headmistress did not heed that command. They had a chance to save a life from further misery but they did not. My headmistress spoke up finally but only after she had been personally inconvenienced. Nevertheless, in the spirit of graciousness, I thank her for being later which is better than never.

However, my friend, do not be like them. Do not wear the cloak of apathy. For the spirit that comes with that cloak destroys the wearer's compassion and concern for others. It makes the wearer a selfish being. He or she becomes one who counts the cost to him rather than the cost of giving to a fellow human being. It causes the eye to be blind to injustice, numbs the mind from hearing the voice of godly conscience and freezes the heart from feeling compassion. Don't be like that. Reach out and extend your hand. Your little may just be an oasis in another's wilderness.
God bless.

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?

Lashing storms

Just the other day, I chanced by a shop that sells rattan art and crafts. Interestingly, what caught my eye was not the beauty of the myriad of cane curios and knick-knacks. It was a long unassuming vase at the left corner near the entrance of the shop. Sticking out from that vase were different rattan canes of varying sizes. Thick solid canes of an inch in diameter, light-colored medium ones and sword-thin cane switches that could whistle when waved through the air.

It was during that moment of examining these canes, that a ghoul of my past revisited me. I remember the year all so clearly. I was only eight.

For most Asians, excelling in studies is important although there may be different reasons attached to it. My foster mother believed that image and appearances must be seen as successful and so she emphasized that we maintain a high standard of excellence in our studies, no matter what level of studies or age one is at.

So, I was in trouble after my final examinations at the age of 7. I had been placed in the top class when I began school. However, I guess because of the problems of trying to find enough money through part-time work, my grades slid. So, I was demoted to the second class for the following year.

I remember when I brought home of my report card. I knew in my heart that I was in for a tirade and a sure sound beating with the thin cane which customarily lashed and marked my back and buttocks. I was so naive.

For my jailor had greater plans. She told me that she was personally going to be involved in helping me with my schoolwork. She vowed to help me rause my grades up throughout my Primary Two year and until I was reinstated in the top class again. Sounds great, right? A personal tutor and extra coaching. Dream on....

My foster mother's version of tutoring was indeed out of this world. She devised a nightly schedule. After dinner, I was to sit in my room and complete all my homework assignments. Then, I was required to revise all that I had studied in class for that day.Mind you, revise is used specifically and intentionally here, not read nor refresh.

This is because when I had finished, I had to call her in to the room and show her what I had done - homework and studies. She would then go through my homework with a fine comb searching for mistakes. I would be given one chance to rectify them. If they continued to be wrong - I would savor the stinging flavor of the cane.

Part two of the tutoring, would be the drill of my day's studies. I was made to stand by her left side, within reach while Mr Cane lay on the right. For every wrong answer, the cane would "worm" the right one from me. In gross exaggeration, it was akin to the interrogation that enemies apply to the spies that they have caught - to get them to spill the beans!

Of course, the tears would flow. It certainly did not help the recall of information stored within my memory banks. I do not know how my foster mother thought that Mr Cane would help speed the retrieval of stored information just escapes me. As quickly as the cane came in contact with me, the more the tears flowed and the faster the facts soared out the window. The nightly saga only ended when she became exhausted or I was totally collapsed in incoherent pile of tears. Then, like a wounded animal, I would climb into bed, with my back curled against the cold wall that was like a soothing balm to my hot stinging back and amidst tears, drift off into slumber.

So began the vicious nightly cycle nightly, question, answer, caning, tears, more wrong answers and more caning. It just went on and on from Sunday to Friday! Week in and week out. It was not "Thank God, it's Friday" for me but "Thank God, it's Saturday", my off-day from the "prison".

Jesus had 39 lashes and Apostle Paul had 39 lashes multiplied by 4. I lost count of the number of lashes through that year. All I can recall is that it was always raining lashes and from me, it was raining tears. Of course, I had moments of reprieve - such as public holidays and term breaks. Since there were no active lessons on, so the schedule was laid aside. Then, there were also times when my mother went outstation or for functions and whatever entertainment, she chose to indulge in while leaving us all at home to fend for ourselves. But that is another chapter that will unfold along the way.

Yes. Must not forget that as part of my "improve the studies" process, my TV watching hours were limited or as added punishment for shoddy studies, became a privilege that could be taken away. Not only that, depending on how she judged my level of improvement in my studies, the level of housework would also increase or decrease accordingly.

I dreaded coming home each day and honestly, would drag my feet home. I would use the excuse of the slightest rains to delay my return from school. In fact, I would ensure that I left my umbrella or raincoat at home.

Do not think that a day go by, that I did not entertain the thought of running away or committing suicide. Yet, where could I have gone? With no money and no place to stay, running away was not a viable option.

You know, with such motivation as the need to avoid pain, my grades began to climb. In fact, at the end of the year, it was even good enough to earn me third placing in class. Of course, the reward was a promotion to the top class for the following year and a school prize at assembly.

In reflection, I see my prize as a paid tribute to the marks etched on my back, tears and pain for that year. However, my soon pride turned to tears when I unwrapped my prize. It was a book that sent me into tears all the way home. What was the title of the book? Cinderella! Ironically, the book described my life to a T.

Thereafter, I made sure that through my entire primary school days, although the plotting of my monthly grades moved like the likes of an E.C.G. reading, it always pointed upwards after the final year examination. And I made sure that I made it to the top class yearly. Under the threat of the rain of lashes really.

In fact, one of my teachers, who was my class teacher for two consecutive years and took an intense dislike for me ( I was too vocal for my own good, I guess ) would enjoy plotting my grades on a large 4ft x 3ft piece of cardboard. She would after every monthly test, made it a point to draw the class' attention to my grades.

Then, she would ridicule and mock me. Even when my grades soared for the final examinations and I would fare better than her favorites, she would find a way to jibe at me. I really detested her for this. Now, I have forgiven her, understanding that she was actually a small person with small character and a bully, just like my foster mother.

Besides, the last I heard of this teacher was that her husband, an Englishman divorced her, some three years after I left primary school. The word off the grapevine was that he could not stand her bullying at home. I guess what one sows, one reaps.

That is why, I can be gracious, for I have experienced much grace from God in my life. What am I talking about? I am alive, aren't I, despite all I have had to endure, That alone is grace enough for me.

Father, I wanna come home!

I suspect that "someone" taught me about God and that He lived in the Heavens. Otherwise, how could it be that a child of 6 years thinks about God and scans the skies for a glimpse of Him? So, I suspect that I was told about God and about His character of love, during my early years of life in Singapore.

I never did seek God or envision Him as one of the idols in my foster family's home nor at the temples that they brought me to. I do not know who it was who filled me with this information but one thing I am certain, it was not from the family that raised me when I lived in Singapore, for they were staunch Buddhists. Neither could it have been my foster family, whose religion was Buddhism but whose religious rituals were mingled with a tat' of Taoism.

This is the only logical explanation that I can offer as explanation for what I have always known in my heart. To make head or tail of this ingrained knowledge imputed into my life. To whoever it was, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I believe that knowing that God lived in the skies above me, brought me hope and strength. It also likely saved me from premature death from suicide.

Yes, suicide. At the age of 7? I doubt that there is a legal age for suicide and certainly, there is no minimum age for situations that can bring forth this destructive thought.

The beatings laid on me by my foster mother were almost weekly. Usually, it was about trivial matters such as housework chores uncompleted or for being sassy-mouthed and defiant towards her or to my brothers. Mind you, I was always a vocal one and still am, though somewhat mellowed in my adulthood.

I am not offering a defence for my actions then but I consider my defiance a means of expressing the fact that enough was enough. Even an animal that is constantly caged in the house, kept working and not allowed to interact with other animals, would snarl and bite out of frustration and tiredness. What would you expect from a mere child of 7 years?

I was not allowed to play with the neighborhood children for fear that I would, in my childlike innocence, "spill the beans" about the going-ons in the house to them and in turn, they would tell their parents. Appearances were very important for my foster mother. However, she did not reciprocate. She did not see any harm or injustice in "painting" me as a problem child in the eyes of my neighbors and her relatives. Later, she continued to "paint" me as a "harlot" in the eyes of any man that came by - but that is another story, one I will share with you another day.

She was a very inteligent lady and a gifted actress, she was, my foster mother. She saw being offensive would be her best defence. Cut off all opposition or potentially embarrassing questions, before anyone could pose it. I think that if she became a politician, she might just outdo Hillary Clinton.

For each time that she beat me with the thin rattan cane, she would yell loudly enough to be heard by the neighbors. A string of obscenities. vulgarities and curses would be hurled at me. Words like - Useless! Ungrateful! Ugly! Stupid!

I am sure my neighbors heard the yelling and I am sure that they waggled their tongues at home. Perhaps, they would have said - " Poor lady! See what she has to endure! Out of kindness of her heart, she saves a child from poverty and this is the thanks she gets! Poor, poor lady!"

I am sure that they would have done the Math and concluded that I was "indeed" a problem child. In fact, the lady who lived directly opposite my house, whenever given the opportunity to be alone with me, would remind me to be a good child. She advised me not to create problems for my foster mother and to be grateful for what I was receiving. I was 1o or 11 years old. I just nodded my head and did not bother to reply nor correct her myopic perspective.

Every uncle and aunt who visited us or whom we visited, would also hop on the bandwagon and offer their advice on how to be a good girl. Each time, I just stared at them but my mind was always screaming - " You don't know the truth! You blind fools! You can't see even the tip of your nose and you dare advise me. Fools, the lot of you!"

They were actually wasting their time because for me, their words were like "water droplets off a duck's back". No one even bothered to ask me the true story. They believed my foster mother, the great storyweaver. I decided a long time ago, that, to tell my side was simply a waste of time and effort. Why bother when no one genuinely wanted to know the truth. They chose to believe what they wanted to believe. They did not at any point, question the possible deception in that home.

So to whom did I turn to, when the going was just too much to bear? I turned to God. I sought Him at my secret hiding place. My refuge. Where was it?

The back portion of the bungalow had a 4 ft concrete ledge of that jutted out just below the roof tiles. If a tall ladder was propped against the back wall, one could reach and sit on it. I love that place. That became my place of refuge for many years. When I wanted to escape from the family and the pain of living.

Most importantly, it was a place where I could meet God secretly. Where He was mine and mine alone. Mind you, each time I sought God, it was hardly in the best of circumstances. It was really when I was suicidal. Yes, believe it or not, I was already suicidal at the tender age of 7.

I remember very clearly, how I would stand with half of my soles of my feet already extended out from the ledge. Unsteady because of the pain from the 10 to 20 lashes on my sore back. Eyes blurred and throat parched from the crying that just would not stop, no matter how hard I tried.

At times, I stood there very angry. Other times, I was just hurt. Sometimes, both. Always disillusioned with everything happening in my little life. Nevertheless, each time I stood there, poised and ready to jump - my words to God were almost the same.

I would stretch my hands skywards and say these words - "Father, I wanna come home. Please let me come home!"

Somehow, I worked it out in my mind that I came from God. That He alone was my Father. That where He was, was where home was. As I was His child, I needed His permission to come home. I waited and waited but God was silent. He did not say a word. Nor did He give me a sign. Nothing extraordinary happened to even imply that it was fine to "come home". Zilch happened.

As the minutes of waiting dragged on, realization would hit me. The silence spoke to the fear in my heart. I did not have permission to go home.

Disappointed with God, automatically, I would move away from the ledge and collapse in a crumbled crying heap. Only this time, the sobs would be, for want of a better adjective, more heartbreaking. I remember crying until I could hardly breathe and I would feel dizzy and lighheaded. The need to catch my breath again, invariably put an end to my bouts of crying bout. Then, the peace would slowly but surely come. Then, the calm would descend like the mist descends on the fields in the early morning. Slowly and gently.

Totally exhausted, I would curl up like a "cooked prawn" and drift off to sleep. My family probably knew that I was on the ledge and it is strange how they did not bother to look for me, no matter even if it was raining. I am sure that they would have heard me crying but they did nothing. I am sure my neighbor who lived just at the back of the house, would have heard me so many times, but they too did nothing.

Once, I have recovered sufficiently, I would climb down the ladder and life carried on as usual. Until the next time that I would have need to visit the ledge again. I never stayed away long - just a few days or by the end of the following week at the most. I would be found on the ledge again. A practice that continued well into my mid-teens.

Of course, by the time, I was 8, a cousin asked my foster mother for permission to take me to church. She said that since I was a problem child, going to Sunday School would help to impart some godly principles that, once internalized, may just "tame" me.

My foster mother liked this cousin because she considered this young lady as polite, respectful, obedient and submissive. So I was allowed to go to church and this was a luxury that I enjoyed until I turned 10.

That is how I was able to attend the Petaling Jaya Gospel Hall's Sunday School. I heard about a God and His Son called Jesus and how this God lived in the heavens, way above the skies of this world. Hey, this sounds like my God! The one whom I regularly meet on the ledge. Only now, I knew His name and that has been the name I have called on until today.

So to whoever it was that taught me about God, I say thank you. To my cousin Mary, who I know has gone home to God, her life cut short by cancer, I say thank you. Knowing more about God in those early years, gave me the strength to go on.

To God, I thank you too. I am glad that You never replied my cries to "come home" otherwise, I would not have had the chance to live out this life. To come so far and experience a real family of my own. To enjoy the joys and pain of friendships that have come my way. To find real purpose in my life despite all. Thank you God. Love yuh!

Getting to know work intimately - Age 7

Just recently, my lecturer from one of my psychology class, requested each of us to write a 7 - 10 pages assignment of our personal career biography. It was then in mulling over when my work life, that realization hit me. I am sure my classmates would have written that their career began in their 20s but for me, the truth is, I began partially fending for myself at the age of 7. Impossible, you say? Let me elaborate.

When a child begins primary school, it is normal for parents to give the child an allowance. For some it may be a weekly, or a monthly allowance, depending on the level of trust and ability of the child to understand how to budget and manage the money. Yes, I too received an allowance but alas' what I received was worse than a shoestring budget. How so?

I was given 10sen per day and since school was from Monday to Friday only, I received a total of 50sen weekly. A bowl of noodles in mid 1960s cost 5sen and a glass of cordial the same amount. Since I lived 2km away from school, if I took public transport, the bus fare would be 5sen per trip.

From what I understood then and even more so now, the message that my foster mother was saying to me was " If you want to eat and drink, you'll have walk to school and vice-versa." Not a fantastic way to be introduced to school, right? If we had been poor, I guess that I could accept this sad state of affairs.

Yet, we lived in a 2500sq ft bungalow which sits on 5000 sq ft of land. My brothers, save for one, whom my foster mother did not particularly love, they received more than adequate allowance and if they ran short, mother would hand over more, without a grumble. I was never so lucky.

Even bringing home the message that it was time to pay the "pittance" of school fees for me resulted in grumbles, mumbles about how much money she was spending on me and I should be so eternally grateful to her till death do us part! If her mood was running a tat' foul, then I would be given a long tirade about how she was working herself to death to feed, clothe and educate me.

Oh yes, must not forget to add this. My foster mother, who was educated in a Catholic Convent School must sincerely have believed that Jesus' miracle of the 2 loaves and 5 fishes would somehow repeat itself with my allowance. How?

She would buy all the text books and exercise books as stated in the book list. Every beginning of the year, I would receive my "ration" of 6 pencils, an eraser, a sharpener, a short ruler, a long ruler and a pencil case to hold everything.

So, what would happen, if I needed, say, an additional exercise book or extra stationeries? Answer - it would have to come out from my allowance. Truly, she believed that faith would cause God to send a miracle like what Jesus performed for the 5000 who gathered to listen to Him at Capernaum, some 2000 years ago!

Placed in such a financial dilemma - I really needed money. I was told that I could offer to wash the family car ( cleaning the interior and exterior of the car) once a week and be paid 50sen for the job. Other housework, such as washing the clothes, working as a kitchen assistant for the family meals, sweeping, mopping, wiping windows, waxing the floors, sweeping the courtyard, etc) would not receive any remuneration because it was considered partial payment for my food and lodging. I was also allowed to help with marking of multiple choice assignments and examination papers ( my foster mother hated marking assignment and test papers) and be paid 10sen per batch of 40. Unfortunately, such marking jobs only came once a month and I needed more to just survive my days at school.

I believe that God is good. I say this because I believe that it is He who gave me the alertness and ideas to overcome this sad situation. I had no proper advice from a financial planner or expert on how to solve the money woes at this tender age. Woes that a child should never have to carry. Responsibility that actually belong to adults and here I was, at such a tender age - left to find survival solutions that even adults may have difficulty overcoming.

I often went to market with my foster mother ( very much like how a maid would follow her mistress to the market). On one occasion, I noticed that the Indian vegetable vendor sold "belimbing" fruits. Within the gardens of our home, there were 2 "belimbing" trees and because they were so well watered and fertilized by our gardening crazy neighbors ( the trees grew near the common fences ) the fruits were luscious. By the way, these "belimbing" fruit tree is not easy to grow to maturity and they are much sought after as ingredients for "sambal" by Malays and Indians.

In that a shot of daring courage ( I was quite a mouse in those days), I walked up to the vendor and asked if he would like a constant supply of the fruits and how much would he pay for such a supply. He said he would and the price would be 30 - 40sen per kilo depending on size and quality of the fruit. ( we used kati those days, but in conversion - it is about this price) He only wanted the fruit delivered on Saturday mornings. The deal was struck.

I went home and gingerly asked permission to harvest the fruits. Surprisingly, it was granted. And there began my first "business". Before money was my greatest need, now it became my greatest motivation. I got up by 6.45am every Saturday morning and armed with a stool, a ladder, plastic bags and a long wooden stick, I would face the two trees.

The "belimbing" trees have 2 seasons of fruit and each season could last about 1 month. I worked hard during those harvest months and one of my greatest joy would be to see bees hovering over the tiny white flowers - an indication that money would soon be mine.

How much did I bring in each Saturday during harvest season? Each Saturday, would see each of my tiny hands carrying a plastic bag with some 4 - 5 kilos of fruits and walking( and stopping every 5 - 6 steps) to the market situated 1km away. The average income per trip was 3 to 4 Ringgit - enough to sustain me with food and bus trips for at least 15days and leave some for other stuff as well.

This was my routine until I turned 12 years of age. By then, the money just wasn't enough for me. I wanted more as my needs had grown. But that is another story and another chapter in my life.

Looking back, I learned that resourcefulness, opportunity, courage and initiative does go a long way on one's journey out of the rut of difficulties. Of course, I give all credit to God, whom, I sincerely believe helped me. After all, could a child with average intelligence, like me, on my own be an overcomer?

I didn't ask but God in His mercy, gave me a "miracle" - not quite like what Jesus did with the 2 loaves and 5 fishes - but - nevertheless, a miracle all the same. Amen.

Freedom from the Gilded Cage

I have just realized that I hate cages. More specifically, I hate to see birds or animals in cages. They strike too close to home. For I myself know what it is like to live like a caged animal. The first few years of my life in Malaysia, were spent in a "cage". As a latchkey kid, I hated to be locked up, confined to a small space, facing 4 walls. with no one to talk to and no one to play with.

My foster mother would leave at 6.30am to travel to teach at a Chinese High School 20km from home while my brothers would board the public bus to a school 30km away. I would wake up about 7.00am to find by my bedside a tray with perhaps, on days when my foster mother was generous, a white bread sandwich of butter and jam. and a tumbler of cold chocolate drink.

On other days, it would just be a tumbler of water and a small tin of plain crackers or biscuits. That would serve as my breakfast, snacks and lunch until my foster mother returned at 4pm. Then, if I was lucky, upon her return, my foster mother would have bought some food for lunch or tea. If not, I would have to wait until dinner which would be about 7.30pm.

Anyhow, dinner was not much to shout about because it would always be rice or noodles, vegetables and soup for me. Meat was strictly reserved for my brothers and yes, I would be given some but never, ever, generous portions, just a measly piece or two. Even then, the pieces given to me were those rejected by my brothers - because they were considered to be more fat than meat, really.

The room where I spent my days as a latchkey kid was the back of the 3-bedroom bungalow. It was joined to the kitchen by an sunken attached bathroom. One side of the attached bathroom had a door that led to the back garden. The bedroom had floorboards that were elevated 8 inches off the floor and the attached bathroom was 8 inches below the floor level.

The room to the bedroom could be locked from within or from the outside because and it was keyhole system lock. The back door to the garden was locked by a huge padlock and the keys hung just by the door. My mother did not worry about me getting out that way because the padlock was placed just too high to be reached by a 4 year old. She seriously underestimated this 4 year old.

My need to escape was so strong. In reflection, I see that "necessity is truly the mother of invention". For I figured out that I could jiggle the key from the bedroom door. I was not taught but I knew how to take a piece of paper - given to me to amuse myself with crayons during those lonely hours - and slip it under the door, just where the key would fall. Then, once the key was dislodged from the other side and landed on the paper, I would pull the paper in and escape.

I could not escape the house that way, but I certainly could explore the house and the remaining rooms. Like a rat, most of the time, I made a bee-line for the kitchen - tempted by the food. Cheese was and is still my favorite. I would steal a piece of cheese from the fridge. Pour myself a tumbler of Coca-cola or snacked on a raw tomato or apple.

I even knew how to cover my tracks. Clever? No, for fear of being discovered and to lose my stolen freedom. I made sure that I would open the door that connected the kitchen to the bathroom. Before 2pm, I would immediately lock the bedroom door from the outside and then re-enter the room through the bathroom, closing the connecting door well. Of course, once I was let out of the room, I would find an excuse to sneak back quickly into the kitchen and lock the door between the bathroom and kitchen.

That was my first "escapade" to freedom from the cage. Like all things, it became not enough. I yearned to be out in the sunshine and to be out in the open. The desire became so great that I tried many times, from standing on my toes, to piling books and standing on them. Someone famous said - you do not fail, you just find a 100 ways that don't work!

Finally, I learned to be "spider girl". At such a young age, I found that if I pressed each of my palms and soles of my feet on each side of the door frame, I could actually climb to the top of the door frame. Slowly but surely, with practice, I mastered the climb until I could stay locked in that position at the frame without my hands to support me. Look ma, no hands.

Then, one morning, a light bulb flashed in my little brain. I climbed up the door frame of the back door of the bathroom and grabbed the key off the nail, from where it hung. Then, gingerly, I climbed down a notch or two and that brought me face to face with the padlock. Balancing so carefully, I slid the key in and turned. The padlock opened and I slid it off the latch and released the latch. The door opened! Eureka!

I climbed down and the smell of the fresh air and fragrances of the green grass was so very sweet. Victory was double sweet because now I was free to visit the garden, which, by the way, had a guava tree, starfruit tree, two rambutan trees with the sweetest fruits. Once again, my fixation was for the fruits.

I could sit at the marble seats of the garden lounge set in the front of the house and watch my neighbors walk by. I could chat with the kids who came out to play in their gardens. I loved it most when I could pick the Ixora flowers that grew by the garden lounge set and pick out the stigmas and drink droplets of nectar that collected at the base of the stigma.

Above all, I was free to roam where I pleased in the garden. I was free from my cage. Short spells of freedom but nevertheless, freedom all the same.

Be blessed.

My Rose Bush

Dad (I have been told that he has passed on) was a musician with the Chinese opera while Mum served tea at the different gambling dens within the garden city of Singapore. Both were not very educated, Dad because of poverty and Mom, well, she was a girl and typical Asian families in the ole' days just did not think that it was important to educate a girl. Mom's two brothers however were given full education right to college level. One became a successful businessman and the other, a teacher who later also became a businessman upon retirement.
Life, I guess, was hard and I have been told that my three older sisters had barely enough to eat what with Dad's salary partialy going to fund his opium and drinking habits. So, they definitely did not need another mouth to feed. Yet, there was Mom, with me on the way into the world.

Like the typical Asian family, Dad and Mom wanted a son - can't blame them - after three girls, they wanted an heir to carry on the family name. Never mind that they could not afford to feed another child - the family name was more important. How could they have their cake and eat it?

They made a deal with Mom's mother. If the child was a son, they would keep the babe. If the child was another girl, adoption would be the most logical choice. Well, they were denied a son.

Grandmother decided that my uncle's sister-in-law, a recent widow with only sons would be the best person who would appreciate for a girl in the family. Besides this widow was definitely richer, quite well educated and lived in the middle-class suburbs of Kuala Lumpur, Such a match in heaven for the babe.

Not only that, this widow lived in Malaysia, which meant that it was far enough to ensure that the chances of me ever meeting up with Mom and Dad would be minimised. The deal was struck and upon my birth, the papers were legally drawn up and my name changed.

One of my perplexing questions that do visit my mind every now and then is this - if my parents only knew the real reason for my adoption by my foster mother - would they be shocked? If they only knew what I know today, would they have been so quick to hand me over? I think not. But then again, I may be wrong.

If the social welfare officers in Malaysia had known the reason for my adoption, I wonder if they would have so easily supported the adoption and allowed it to be legalised?

I was left in Singapore until my 4th birthday and then snucked out one evening and brought to Kuala Lumpur where I have lived since then. I was kept under the Malaysian Welfare Department's survelliance for two years before my adoption legalised in Singapore was accepted in Malaysia. Unfortunately, in those days, there were no proper interview assessment of potential foster families by welfare officers, unlike today. The controls were simply not there.

So my foster mother was able to "hoodwink" the welfare officers who came, I believe, twice or thrice a year to check on my progress. Each appointment was set from the last visit, so it was easy for my foster mother to arrange her perfect plan.

Hence, each time the welfare officer came, there was little ole' me with my own personal maid and during the entire period of survelliance, my foster mother treated me a lot better than after the period of survelliance.

Still, the abuse was present even then. For you see, the "maid" was a farce. Each time, the maid only appeared a month before the officer was due to come. A smart plan because by the time the officer came, there would be some form of bond between the "maid" and I. After the officer left, the maid left soon after.

How was I looked after? I was really a latch-key kid. When my foster mother worked, I would be locked in the back room of the house with only some biscuits and water for my breakfast and lunch. Everyone else was either in school or with my foster family's paternal grandmother. I was not sent there because my foster family's paternal grandmother did not approve of my adoption.

Looking back, I shudder to think about what would have happened, if there had been a fire in the house. And I thank God for my life because I believe that it was His protection that kept me safe during my latch-key years.

Stay tuned...... I will be back to continue my story.