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This is the first time writing from the phone. It is indeed uncomfortable. Typing has become less natural, and I am frustrated by its non rapidity.

Read Murakami’s After the Quake on the train. I was contemplating whether to bring The Myth of Sisyphus with me, and six hours later, I am finished with Murakami and feel already exhausted of options. There’s a certain easiness when reading Murakami, that lingers with you after a while. The stories are sometimes memorable, sometimes not. Of everyday occurence. No one morning turning into a horrible vermin or overly metaphorical snow of death that covers all the living and the dead. It is easily recognisable, relatable and pulls the reader right into the setting of the story.

I have been to Kobe, for perhaps only not more than an hour. It was already four thirty when I arrived, raining, and the city looked sort of dead. Perhaps there are the occassional tourist attraction but it is not one I am fascinated with. The lady at the tourist centre recommended me to buy an umbrella. And so I did, walking in the rain arriving at some sort of western village nearby. Too depressed by the sombre rain, confused by road names, I gave up and passed through the houses instead.

I try to conjure up some of the places mentioned in the stories, the train lines linked from one place to another, and found the overall mood sort of enchanting. Sometime during reading I suddenly remembered the dream I had this morning, where I had been going to some villa of some other. I always have recurring dreams. I was passing through a highway where a stadium was being built, and the old highway overlooked the whole construction that we stopped and took a look. The whole dream was grained. One of these days I ought to record them all down.

It is raining outside, and I must be up in three hours to wake up A. We ought to be studying.

I like her new place.

F, after invigilating IELTS exams (a Saturday morning routine for him), went to some book discussion thing in the afternoon. He sends me a picture of the event. He finally bought me that Obscura magazine (journal?). It is nice to have someone around to buy you interesting things. It is also nice that the task of collecting books has been halved  – “I have that one already”. Two libraries are always better than one. Tee hee.

I have these scattered ideas for a novel, but one I am too lazy (or incapable) of actually executing. I tell myself I have to read more, but without actually commencing itself, nothing is actually being done. L gives me drafts of her Hafiz and Huda every now and then, always rewritten, refitted – takes place first in some desert/sea/oasis, then in Melbourne – I seem to wonder at how often she writes these things and perhaps take the time to actually write them. We students are never busy; I seem to eye skeptically at my friends in different parts of Australia posting pictures of staying at university labs until 3 am. The illusion of being occupied.

(Sometimes I wonder how much time a friend spends his time going to whatever festivals the city offers, and whether he feels at home being apart of a crowd gazing at a performance or two. Does he feel a sense of belonging to the city, to the crowd? Is it fun just being a voyeur of things? Perhaps these are just the things people like to attach themselves to in order not to be perceived as hollow. I build myself around these images.)

At the mention of hollow –

“We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with the straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningles
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

T.S.Eliot’s The Hollow Men

Perhaps I just prefer to do other things.

At Ueno Park in Japan, Maisarah wanders aimlessly from one performance to another, trying to understand whatever the spectacles that are happening. Tricks, magic, music, then the Pakistan bazaar. Bored, she buys a 200 yen shish kebab and sits at one of the tables. In front of her, is an Indonesian-Japanese man eating curry rice. Talk talk talk. He works with Toyota and has an American accent. Finishing her food, she then looks at the stage and see there is some sort of Bachelor contest going on. These men speak fluent Japanese. What a wonder.

I am the same, I am the same.

This impeccable boredom seems to surround her like a plague. I shall not, I shall not. Set out in opposition to her surroundings; a sort a lackadaisical attitude, prolonged by the lack of noise that seems to weigh down heavily than to liberate – there is a difference between a sort of antsy disquietude versus a harmonious silence – but everything really is down to the mind to perceive everything.

*

I met that person whom I rejected his love (what shall I call him?) a few days ago. In fact, I met him the day before on my walk home, where the Indonesian team was against the Arab team. But that warranted no more than a customary glance. He looked at me apprehensively, as if there  is a terrible weight (of words) that needed to be unloaded, and I, tired for the day, said Goodbye. I shall not see him again forever, for he is going back for the summer. I shall no longer entertain his words.

*

“The coffee here is terrible”, I said to Maxime, pointing to a cafe within the compound.

“Forget having a good coffee around the campus”, he says.

Susan told me that she likes reading Balzac. I told her I had to read Gide and Camus. Maxime says Camus is good.

We talked about what’s so French about French Vanilla.

“We don’t even grow vanilla in France!”

*

She was lamenting over the fact that universities don’t align with the industry anymore. Lack of social skills and whatnot.

“But that begs the question, do universities aim to produce individuals or workers?”, I asked.

*

A demonstration on sensitivity:

One Sunday morning,  Faz and I listened to Hello Poetry’s Perempuan Perempuan yang Patah Hati out of boredom. We laughed, and comes in the the housemate, who not two minutes after listening to it, cried.

“I don’t get all this love poetry. The only poem I like is If — if you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you – “, says Faz.

It was by Rudyard Kipling.

The morning begins fairly late at seven. There’s that bit of pleasure stripped away of not being able to glimpse the first rays of sun; it is either already gloomy or already too bright. Separate from witnessing the movement of time (at this hour), she returns to bed and feels that the pillows need changing.

M, aged twenty two, having deprived the childhood pleasure of possessing a teddy bear, buys a panda. It gazes at her with such indifference (it is precisely this indifference that separates it from all the smiling butterflies, unicorns, ladybirds). The housemate laughs at her excitement (she, having possessed four or five in her room herself), and so negates M’s experience. It now lies squarely on the dirty laundry basket in the living room; discarded, unloved. Indifference is met with indifference.

The morning is spent finishing the last thirty pages of Albert Camus’ A Happy Death. It is a tiring affair, reading the book, really. An unpolished vigor, but without innocence at all. Camus speaks of the dream of solitude. Mersault, having killed Zagreus, finally goes to build his dream house in Algiers with the money he took from Zagreus. Can solitude be a distant dream, something you have to work / or have money to achieve? Mersault, wanders around his new house, doing nothing in particular, thinks about his earned solitude, whether it is worthwhile or not. Contrast this to the scene he just watches people from his apartment window (the exact same paragraphs used in The Stranger, by the way), is that not solitude too?

The things I liked best was his description of time. Time, stripped of responsibilities (of work, commuting for days in the train, seeing your mother, feeding the dog, even of ‘seeing’ and lunching with people), one is finally confronted with one’s self. Here we see Mersault staring at his watch seeing the minutes go by, anxious at first (what is one to do, after all?), then tries to occupy himself with nature (watching the sunset and sunrise and the sky turn from orange to purple is a chore for him). I cannot guess whether happiness is in being idle or in being engaged in something. Mersault says, echoing Nietzsche, it is the will to happiness that counts. Therefore happiness is to be lived in the present, not as an ideal, but as a will.

(Of course, I always discuss this question of happiness with F, which he sees marriage as not being a prerequisite – perhaps to some extent, in opposition – to happiness.)

Another thing, does money buy more time? What is the value of time, perhaps? There’s a dialogue in Murakami’s A Wild Sheep Chase, where the guy and the ear girl took the train together to the far ends of  Hokkaido. The girl probably remarked, that because things – journeys, chores – takes shorter time to be done, people are left with extra time. But it begs the question, what for? Watch movies, the guy said, in which they did in the end.

But verily, we are all in loss.

Ada satu kejanggalan apabila bila menggunakan kata ganti diri ‘aku’ dalam penulisan Bahasa Melayu. Seperti ada satu halangan yang besar apabila kita mahu meminda-diri (?) dari satu situasi ke situasi yang lain. Dengan rakan rakan, ibu bapa, orang tua, dan sebagainya. Bukan kerana tiadanya identiti yang tetap seseorang individu itu, tetapi lebih kepada masalah (yang sebenarnya bukan satu masalah pun) budi bahasa yang harus dikekalkan sepanjang cerita (atau novel, atau hidup secara umumnya). Misalnya ketika kita membaca terjemahan terjemahan interview (bersama Hemingway, contohnya), adakah ‘aku’ atau ‘saya’ lebih sesuai digunakan? Kita bayangkan Hemingway ini orang Melayu, maka tentunya bersama rakan rakannya yang lain (yang merangkumi The Lost Generation, kata Gertrude Stein) dia lebih selesa guna aku-kau. Tapi mungkin kalau Hemingway, berusia 30 tahun, tiba tiba ditemu bual oleh A.Samad Said yang berusia 70 tahun, apa jenis panggilan yang digunakan oleh dirinya? Adakah masih aku?

Lebih lebih lagi jikalau dalam kelompok keluarga. Sarah mempunyai dua orang adik, yang memanggil dirinya Kakak, tetapi dengan kedua abangnya (yang jurang umurnya lebih kecil) dia lebih selesa menggunakan aku-kau, dan kepada dua ibubapanya dia membahasakan dirinya Sarah.

(kita lupakan yang orang lain memanggilnya Mai buat seketika).

Jadi bagaimana harus Maisarah yang ingin menulis tentang dirinya (misalnya), membahasakan dirinya?

(from a first person point of view)

Mungkin antara penyelesaiannya, adalah kita cuma menggunakan satu ruangan sosial, yang terasing daripada ruang sosial yang lain. Orang muda bersama orang muda (dan sebagainya). Atau mungkin, kita boleh sahaja terus sahaja melanggar budibahasa dan menterjemahkan/menggunakan setiap ‘I’ kepada ‘aku’ tanpa mengira konteks sosial. Atau mungkin sahaja, kita boleh ambil pendekatan Joyce dalam A Portrait of An Artist as a Young Man, iaitu masih menggunakan the third person point of view, yang tidak omniscient (maksudnya tak mengetahui/melihat segala apa yang berlaku), tetapi seolah olah seluruh novel itu diceritakan daripada mata pandangan Stephen Deadalus.

Entah. Yang pasti untuk saya sendiri, amat sukar untuk menggunakan apa apa kata ganti diri apabila sedang bercakap dengan/tentang diri sendiri, kerana dari awalnya, saya gemar (atau mungkin sudah biasa) meletakkan diri sendiri di luar di sendiri. Jadinya, dalam fikiran saya, selalunya ianya – “Maisarah lapar”, bukan “Aku lapar”. Atau kadangkala ianya cuma “Lapar”.

This lack of ability of trying to affirm one’s self within the self seems to spread to other things; when I speak, I do not want to be associated with an opinion, a thought. Taking it extremely, it is not I who speak what I speak, but rather the speech itself talking through me. It is neither from the lack of confidence nor self esteem nor thought, but rather the inability to refer to oneself.

Susan sang The Beatle’s Yellow Submarine went we inside to the trade fair. I tell her I’ve always knew about the song, but never heard of it. She is sad and hopes the three hours end quickly. She cooked lunch for us the other day, capsicums and onions stir fried with olive oil. The way she says olive is cute. A PhD student came to my poster and asked a few things. Told me I should continue for research. I told him I wasn’t interested, and suddenly he looked at me for one second, said no more, and turned away. I feel like one of those bad pupils who deny the teachings of old wise men in those Sufi tales. I disappoint people. I try to entertain myself by trying to pronounce French names with Susan. She is a nice person.

R came to me and we talked about life after graduation. He mentions that honours are not important if you’re not pursuing research, and told me he is going to do masters in engineering management. I tell him, you can learn that by working as well, unless you’re just looking for a way to stay overseas. He then says that it gives you edge over the others, and mentions his brother. I ask which. He looks at me with that what’s-it-to-you look and I said I know a friend who knows him. He mentions F’s name. I am caught, but whatever. He believes he can get any job he wants, academics aside, because he has ‘the art of convincing people‘. I tell him it’s true. If everything else fails, he can always fall back into doing research in Tronoh. I imagine himself doing work in the morning and giving usrahs at nights. To each his own. He thinks he tells me too much. It’s always interesting to talk to him.

I went to A’s house again for the night. The sun was setting in my direction as I walked to her apartment in Broadway. I  bought sushi along from one of the stores along the way, and said arigato to the obaa-san at the counter. She smiled.  A told me she’s moving out next week. We had mangoes and maggi for dinner. I bought things from the supermarket to make chocolate mousse, and we talked about body fat until I fell asleep. At one in the morning, I woke up, read a bit of Camus and stared at the wilted rose by the TV. I called out A’s name and climbed up the stairs to fall beside her. Kak Wani was sleeping. She told again one of her (many) love episodes and I just laughed and tell her to help me out downstairs. We just talked while I melted the chocolate on the electric stove, beated eggs with sugar, made whipped cream. The last one didn’t work out because I forgot to put the cream inside the fridge and I just looked at the sad blob of chocolate and telling A I am a terrible cook. We talked about the big bang, quarks, love, what it means to ‘dakwah’, and Hamza Tzortzis  until it was morning.

I walked my way back to Central, and met up with H. In the train, we talked about books and usrahs and I told her about Fathi Aris Omar’s essays and told her to read them. I am not being a good sport. She then tells me about some ABU guy coming to give a talk on politics in Sydney and wondered if we could go later. I said okay. When we arrived at the gathering a guy talked about Baitul Muslim and the girls just chuckled and winked at me. These people. Solehah gave me an album and a sort of sijil signed by everyone. It was a farewell of sorts. I feel at home with these people. At the kitchen she brought out notes on MBTI (because she had to do an assignment on it) and guessed which one I was). “I….. N…. T… and then what?”. “It’s P”. “Does not like small talk. Has very specific interests“. 10 minutes ago I was telling her what sort of music I liked.

Back in hazy Sydney, we just managed to listen to the Q and A session. Haris Ibrahim was talking about “the need of civil society leaders” (He mentions Pak Samad and Ambiga). “Pakatan is just a smaller thief than BN”. “The Semenanjung is no longer the focus for the election”. The way he says civil society leaders is convoluted. He gives his reason for his Asalkan Bukan Umno movement but all I can think of is a movement that is based on negation (or opposition) of another force will never work. The momentum stops as soon as the opponent is defeated, and you will become clueless as to what to do next. I scan through the audience and most of them look like Malaysians who have migrated and living here for the past 10-20 years, yet concerned about the country. One mentions about going back to vote to see change. Change. The word seems to weigh heavily upon us.

Not five minutes outside the building, wondering what to do next, two woman came up to us, all distraught, and asked for help. “Boleh cakap Bahasa Melayu, kan?” They wanted to find a hotel. His son showed up and told me they were swindled by an agent back home. The hotel didn’t have their names.They have been stranded since 12, having eaten nothing. It was almost 5.  So H and I, with the three of them tagging along, went around the streets of Sydney, going from one backpackers to another to ask for an accommodation. 20 minutes later, strolling bags along the pavement and listening to their story, we managed to find a hotel that wasn’t too expensive for them. They say we were god-sent and promised to keep in touch when we get back home. The mother asked for my mother’s number. I said okay and scribbled it down. The son says he never expected to be helped (or help anyone) in this sort of situation. I said it was nothing but a matter of pointing them to a hotel. I bought coffee before I boarded the train home, reading Camus’ A Happy Death. Mersault is in Prague this time. There is no sun to oppress him. This time, the forest was not burning.

 

I was in Iman’s room where she had (among other books where the the main character die in the end) a book on games (or ideas for it) for usrah. The one where you play those cutesy games and then ponder (sometimes overzealously, I might add) over what it means. Of course, I was never in the mood for those things (they do not serve to enlighten the mind, but merely to lighten it), but maybe it’s just my preference. To illustrate an example, I participated in one such game where people were divided into three elements, the strayer, the guide, and the wayfarer (of course, these are just fancy names I just came up with). Here is a field (drawn in a square), marked here and there are the ‘mines’, and at the centre is the goal. Now the goal is of course to reach the centre, but the wayfarer is blindfolded and has to be directed by the guide to reach it. But at the same time there are different voices (all strayers and different – particular guides for particular wayfarers), which serve to confuse our Wayfarer such that he should/would step into the ‘mines’ and his game ends. At the end of the game, each are asked what they thought of it. Here we here the classic interpretation of syaitan/malaikat/Quran, the importance of hearing, and the goal as God or Heaven as opposed to Hell (the ‘mines’).

Further inspection of this game reminds me of  Farīd ud-Dīn Aṭṭār’s Conference of the Birds, where the single hoopee guides the birds to see the bird of all birds, Simurgh, undergoing several journeys (or stations) along the way, until finally only thirty remains. Before the journey, the birds (of different species), each complain of their weaknesses, or attachments – be it money, love, cowardice, fame, power, contentment, comfort. Each of these the hoopee breaks, telling them the fallacies and the temporal nature of those things. And so, they all (a thousand?) traverse through different stations, where they try to overcome different things (relating to the nafs – but I have forgotten exactly what), till they reach at the gate of Simurgh, tired. When they reach inside, all they see is a lake where there are only reflections of themselves. Now, all commentaries aside about what that means, I would like to pose a question; how different is playing the game described above than reading the Conference of the Birds?

Sometimes I think that usrah (ones that I encounter) is immature and childish in its ways, but nevertheless serious with their endeavors. This childlike seriousness, where I see their views composed from a limited sphere of experience, constricted only to a few texts  and books that do not reflect the history of mankind in totality.  The questions posed (if any) aren’t relevant to my experience as a person living in the 21st Century, and (moreover) as a person living in the multicultural, multi-religious Malaysia.

Nevertheless I see people that thrive in it, I see my friends have a better understanding and more knowledge regarding Islam far more than I do. They memorize the Quran, the 40 Hadiths, read books on Tarbiyyah or Sirah and Stories from the Sahabahs. All these they try to communicate or convey to other people. In this way, I see usrah as an important tool to remind the individual to strengthen/renew the their purpose, their character, the Iman, by returning to Quran and Hadith itself.  In this respect I agree and fully support usrah. But while the fundamentals are important in moulding the individual, they too must be challenged or put out against the world. While Islam spiritually nourishes us, how must we use it to overcome economic, social, political problems etc?

Surely by not romanticism – a yearning for the past –  alone.

Sekian.

*

Am reading Fathi Aris Omar’s blog here, where he talks about the fallacies and faults of usrah (particularly this article). Interesting stuff.

*

Little by little I try to acquire the habit of writing again. Not in this sense (but in precisely this sense), but you get what I mean. To be able to let thoughts run through freely. One doesn’t always have a friend to be listened to, and mothers are always running around doing groceries or getting back from school (but it is always a delight listening those first two words of greeting “As-sa-la-mua-lai-kum” “Helo?” ). Some things are meant to be private anyway, and F is busy working late into the night or having an escapade at some resort in Janda Baik. What is one to do except to peer into our own selves? So I begin to scribble a snippet or two in the under-utilized notebook.

Knowing that two friends have utilized (Hi, Hemingway) those books well, I am happy. Given that I acquired five of these for 200 Yen in some convenience store in Japan, I think I have a real knack for those Japanese school notebooks. To think that Kinokuniya sells each for seven ringgit is appalling (but they don’t stock it anymore, last I checked). And apparently ebay sells the exact same thing for $30. Talk about ripping off. Good things are hard to come by, so we settle with our deadbeat Typo notebook.

I have a specific pen to write with. It is the black Pilot G1 0.5pt one, first discovered during form 1, and have been using it ever since. They don’t stock soft plastic ones anymore, only the more transparent ones which can easily damage the flow of the pen (and I am in the habit of losing the caps all too often). But in times of desperation, any pen would do.

A friend gave me a pencil case for my birthday. It is one of those rough-and-hard-threaded materials with earthy colours made in Pakistan. I love it, although it is a bit heavy. I haven’t used a pencil case since the beginning of Form 4. Always thought that a pen and a calculator (with the occasional ruler) would suffice for class. Having said that, I have plenty of unused stationery in my drawer, and probably a lot more at home (12 years of schooling for five plus hotels, camps, conferences, company gifts). Too many pens, so little pages.

I was reading Freire the other day because I had nothing else (preferable) to read. It says those who are never oppressed will never feel truly oppressed, and consequently truly feel the need to fight for it. The bourgeoisie can only theorise, sympathise, but he cannot feel it because he was not put in such a position. But those who are oppressed most often do not feel himself oppressed. This might align to the black slaves in 19th century America where they felt it their duty to serve the white man. Also he writes that it is the task of the opressed to liberate themselves and their oppressors. At any rate, I find all this terribly interesting because today I was reading Said Qutb’s prologue of his tafsir of Surah Al-Anaam, talking about social justice, where he describes thus;

He (Muhammad)) could then have directed them towards the goal of liberating their lands from the colonial rule of the Byzantines to the north and the Persians to the south. He could then have been in a position to establish a strong and united Arab state throughout the Arabian Peninsula. It could be argued that had the Prophet (peace be upon him) directed his call in this way, all the Arabs would most probably have responded positively to him. In turn, this would have spared him thirteen years of tortuous opposition by those who wielded power in Arabia.

It may also be argued that when Arabia had thus responded to the Prophet’s call and recognized his leadership, and when he had led the Arabs to such national glory, he could have used all his power and standing to convince the Arabs to accept the message entrusted to him by his Lord. He could then have preached the faith based on God’s oneness. He would have made the Arabs surrender themselves to God after they had submitted to his authority. But God who knows all did not, in His wisdom, direct his Messenger to follow this route. Instead, He directed him to declare that “there is no deity other than  God”, and to bear with his few Companions all the ensuing persecution.

Again why did this happen? It was not God’s purpose to subject His Messenger and the believers to oppression. But God knew that replacing Byzantine or Persian tyranny with Arab tyranny was not the right way. For all tyranny is the same. The earth belongs to God and must submit purely to God. This cannot be achieved unless the banner of no deity other than God’ is unfurled across the earth.

— With such a concept people would willingly accept whatever God rules in respect of fair distribution and mutual social solidarity. Thus, both the giver and the recipient realize that they are implementing a divine system and hope to be well rewarded for their obedience both in this life and in the life to come. Thus, such a society would be free of both greed and grudges. Things are not put into effect by strong-handed measures that strike terror into people’s hearts. People do not feel desolate, and their spirits are not broken, as is the case under systems based on principles other than that of God’s oneness.

It was then that I understood the basis behind the concept of Maratib Amal by Hassan Al Banna, popularized by these usrah people (but this is for another time, I guess).

Now I shall utilize my mind to create my thesis poster.

My pedal broke when I was speeding just before the Harbour Bridge today. I haven’t rode in a while. Here, I am equipped with a shoddy road bike, whose pedals are barely attached to each other, ahead of the others. The pride before the fall. I feel like a mess. People stopped and I pushed my bike to the volunteers to give it a quick fix. After that it was just a matter of pedaling through. I sang the tunes of He Will Fall from Pete Doherty. I used to adore him. Someone thought it was cool to put on Hujan out load while cycling. So indie. The thrill was over once when I rode past the policemen on bikes and felt the tires almost giving away, all squishing into jelly. But I was fine, I was fine. I mourned on my old bicycle, thought of grave things, of and cycled until the finish line. A was with me.

We waited and listened to some Gypsy Jazz band till some officials came down and gave us certificates. I didn’t feel anything. I saw someone who looked like she was in charge of something introduce herself to one those officials; handbag, sunglasses and a tall head – saying “Saya ni orang orang kecil sahaja”. I remarked this to A, told her I do not want to be ever put in such corny situations, and she told I’m being incredibly chatty today. It was her way of telling me I am being weird. I greeted everyone I knew and spoke most of the time in English. I told her it was because I drank Starbucks yesterday, and gave her the free voucher I got yesterday. The barista was a jolly man, and told me ain’t it great to have a staff so jolly even before the places closes in ten.

I went back to hotel afterwards, and wondered how much the room cost. It was only a five minute walk to the Opera House anyway. Who would pay a thousand ringgit for a night? Those who can afford it. The soap smelled of lemongrass. I had salmon and bagel for breakfast and remembered the days of eating Onigiri in Japan.

We had smoothies after the cycle, and then watched little kids playing at the fountain. Y took a picture in front of the Hard Rock Cafe and told me she wants more than six kids. I told her I wanted three. She just broke up. We parted ways and I missed the train home by a minute and decided to hop on the slow train. It was hot and the tunnel suffocated me.

An hour later, I got off and walked to the walking track into the Royal National Park. The falls was 6.0 km away, but I had half an hour to kill before the next train. So I went in, until I found a clearing. The trees were tall, and I could see a fire from a distance. I headed back through the path and heard the insects. It could’ve been a rattlesnake for all I care. I thought if I was to be bitten, I wouldn’t have been found, because nobody would’ve known where I was. My phone was dead anyway. But of course I didn’t want to exit the world like that. The sun turned orange because of the smoke. We are suffocated anywhere we go.

So I jumped on the next train home.