Keeping Mum

So there I was, 12 years old, and already responsible for the death of a loved one. I imagined Mak Ucu trying desperately to call out to me and instead of coming to her rescue I went to sleep. My family would see me as a murderer if they found out and I would rot forever and after in hell.
It took me years to gain enough courage to tell my mom. She told me it wasn’t my fault, and there was no way I could have known. The heavy burden was lifted off my shoulders.

A Nightmare

We moved away from the old neighborhood and then to Malaysia and then back again. When we had settled down in our new home, my parents invited Mak Ucu to live with us. I was very happy about that. She had grown older over the years. Her hair had gone very thin and she had lost some front teeth. She had never been very fit, and now she panted and wheezed just from walking from the bedroom to the living room. Mak Ucu sometimes had nightmares and she would moan in her sleep. I was used to hearing her moans because she slept next to my bedroom. One night her moans were slightly louder than usual. I was in my warm, comfortable bed as I tried to figure out whether it was her usual nightmare or something more serious. I decided if the moans continued a bit longer I would wake my parents up. Then it stopped. So I went to sleep. The next morning we woke up to my sister’s voice. She was crying and calling out, “Mak Ucu! Mak Ucu!” She was in Mak Ucu’s bedroom and was desperately trying to wake her up. Mak Ucu had passed away that night.

The Hair Extension

One day while I was looking at the trinkets in Mak Ucu’s room, I saw her ‘cemara’. Cemara is kind of wig and is an old version of hair extension. It is usually made of real hair and is used to help make hair chignons. I was fascinated by the cemara. I touched it and tried to look at my self in the mirror with it on my head. Suddenly a small gecko jumped out of the cemara. It was as frightened as I was. In fact it was so frightened it detached its tail, which horrifed me even more. I threw the hair down and must have screamed my head off. Mak Ucu rushed in to see what happened. She was able to calm me down but I never touched the cemara again. And I was always wary of geckos after that.

The Revolution

Mak Ucu had some royal blood in her. She told me that during the revolution in the 60’s, relatives and descendants of the sultan had a terrible time. Some were persecuted, some were killed. Their belongings taken away from them. She said she saw some relatives murdered when they tried to run away from the city. Luckily she survived. I never asked her what she did when she was younger, but I know that she got a small pension-money from the government and that helped her through old age.

Royal Bait

I loved exploring Mak Ucu’s house. It was a typical old Malay house. The front part was build on pillars, so we had to climb a few steps to enter the living room from the outside and there was a staircase leading down to the bathroom, dining area and kitchen. The house was partially made of wood and every time we moved the floor creaked in protest. Mak Ucu’s bedroom was wonderful. It was white-washed and there was a cartoon picture of a jamu-seller which I really liked. Mak Ucu always had some interesting stuff on her desk for me to look at. If I asked about them sometimes she would tell me stories about the time when she was young. Some of them was horrific, but as a child I was simply fascinated. She told me of an old sultan who liked to go fishing. In my head I saw royalties surrounded by guards. The royalties would have servants to hold big umbrellas over their heads and cool them with gigantic fans. Mak Ucu said that on a bad day, when no fish took the bait, the sultan would command some poor servant to jump into the river and have a soldier spear the doomed servant as a bait or as a sacrifice.

Mak Ucu

Our old home in Medan was located in a small neighborhood within the city. There weren’t many cars going through the neighborhood, so I was allowed to roam free as long as I asked for permission first. My favorite place to go was Mak Ucu’s house. She was a relative of my adoptive grandmother. Since my real grandmother lived far, far away in the outback of Sumatra and the others had passed on, I saw Mak Ucu as my own grandma. Mak Ucu came straight out of a history book. She wore long kebayas and sarongs and tied her hair in a bun. She spoke in Malayu accent. I loved her. She did not seem to mind a little girl coming to her house almost daily and probably asked her all kinds of stupid questions. She was a great naptime story-teller. She introduced me to Si Kancil dan Buaya, Si Kancil Lepas dari Bahaya, and Batu Belah. I never got tired of her stories and I asked her to repeat them over and over again. She probably started my love for books, because I started asking for story books before I could read. I looked at the pictures and pretended I could read, and made up my own stories.

First Grade Fight

I did not have many friends in my snobby Catholic school. But I was seated with a very nice boy. His name was Ronny. We got along very well. Some friends got jealous and started teasing us, saying that he’s my boyfriend. I guess bitches come in all ages, even in first grade. I got angry and started quarrelling with those mean girls. At some points we started throwing stationery missiles towards each other. When I got home, I cried and told my mother that some girls were giving me a hard time at school. She said I should be strong and she told me to punch them in the face if necessary. I did not think that it was a very good idea and I could not imagine hitting anybody in the face. Over the years I found out that my mother used to be a member of a bicycle girl-gang and they carried bike-chains just in case anybody tried to get fresh with them. Thus I understood why she gave me such a funny advice.

17th August Fiasco

I hated my first grade in St. Joseph. I felt lonely most of the time and I hated the new teacher. She was a local nun and she was not very patient. One day we were rehearsing a game for the Independence Day Celebration. We first graders lined up with lighted candle in our little hands. I was worried about the melted candle touching my finger. I guess I was not listening very carefully to the teacher's instructions.She gave us a signal and we raced to the finish line. My candle blew out before I reached the line so I turned back to the start line. The teacher was cross about that. She angrily told me to go straight to the finish line. My five-year-old self felt stupid and didn't understand why I was scolded. I thought to myself, I did not like this game. So I did not tell my parents that we were supposed to come the next day. Come Monday I got scolded again for not turning up.

Kindy

One day I misbehaved in class. I talked too much. Sister Nathalie did not say anything. She simply walked towards the table which I shared with some other kids, grabbed the back of my chair, and pulled the chair briskly away from the desk, and looked at me sternly. That was enough for me. I shut up immediately.

This was a sharp contrast from what a classmate got another day. The good Sister practically slapped her around and out of the class. The poor girl was Indian. I reckon she was too dazed to even cry. I can't help but think that maybe Sister Nathalie was a bit racist.

Kindergarten

I was still sitting on the train and I tried to remember as far back as possible. There wasn't much left of my childhood, but I'll try.

The Teachers

I remembered my first days of Kindy. The building was enormous to my four-year-old eyes. My father took me to school. He carried me in his arms and the teacher joked with us, saying that I was too big now to be carried. The teacher's name was Sister Nathalie. I think she's Dutch. She was already middle aged at that time. She wore a nun's white dress and head cover, a cross, and steel-rimmed eye glasses. She always smelled of lemon. I loved her smell. For many years after that I searched for soaps, colognes and perfumes which smell like her. There was a younger, prettier teacher who helped her. She had short hair and was always nicely dressed in bright colours.

Superman Returns

I was on the train, on my way back home to Croydon. I had just seen Superman Returns. My thoughts were straying as usual and it went way back to when I saw the first Superman. I couldn't believe that it was so long ago. I was around 8 and my family was temporarily living in Johor Bahru. The movie must have made quite a big impression on me because I could still remember little bits and pieces. I remembered the big plaza where I saw the movie, but only on the outside. I remembered waiting in a car, a partially cloudy day, lots of people, a connecting bridge between two buildings, and a fly-over.
Then I remembered going to see Indian movies with our house-helper lady, and probably some other neighour ladies. Some scenes were permanently engraved in my head. A young girl swirling round and round while singing, an elephant wrongly punished - chained and beaten. I still felt sorry for that elephant. I have many stories from my slightly twisted childhood and here are some of them.