Kalimullah Hassan
He been named the most powerful person in Malaysia
He been named the most influence people in Malaysia Media
He been named the most influence people in PAK LAH admin
He been named " Hindu God and Muslim " by Mahathir
He been named "The Malays Jews" by Raja Petra
He been named thousand more by international.
Yet I do read his writting everytime got opportunity. You can disagreed his "built up" but his writting is really really good. The below is his latest column.
A homecoming delayed
By Kalimullah Hassan
2008/04/27
I ASKED a friend of mine some months ago how he had managed to convince his daughter, who had studied in England and wanted to continue working there, to return home. He said he told her to come back, work in Malaysia for a few years, and if she still felt strongly about working in the United Kingdom, he would not stop her. It's been seven years and she has remained in the country, he said.
It seems like just a while ago that my wife and I started sending our children overseas for studies. In just weeks, our eldest would have completed her first degree; by year's end, our second would have done the same.
There have been many nights when I cannot sleep and I walk into their rooms, look at their photographs, clothes, beds and get soppy.
Since the three older ones left, one by one, we have longed for the time when they would finish their studies and come home.
But over the previous year, we had seen signs that perhaps, they might want to stay on, pursue new dreams and hopes.
Last week, I braved myself and called my eldest in London. She is such a bubbly person, cheerful always; caring, hardly a nasty word to say about anybody. More of us should be like her.
She has grown into London. She loves bookshops and plays; museums and art; poetry and writing. She knows where the cheapest groceries and halal meat are sold.
She still yearns for her masak lemak cili padi and sambal and mainly eats at home, though, on occasion, while cringing at the prices, she ventures out to one of the Malaysian restaurants in London.
She is doing fine, she said, and exams are in May after which she is coming home. Her husband, who has completed his Master's, is working now and may not return with her.
Will you work after graduating? Well, she said, perhaps it might be a good idea to finish her Bar in London.
One more year? It was so difficult to draw her out because she knows how much we wanted her to come home. "Yes, if you don't disagree," she said.
And after that? Again, a drawn-out silence and another suggestion: "Do you think it would be a good idea if we work in London for a few years before we come home?"
I heard the words I did not want to hear; yet, I had anticipated it, thought about it, and knew that I could not stop her and her husband from deciding on their own lives. I couldn't do what my friend did. I had to say yes, why not? If that's what you both really want.
"Let us think about it again," she said, "but we would really like to be able to stay on. Would you and mama be okay?"
Okay? I don't know. I dread the 13-hour flight to London; it pains me to pay so much money for air travel; and for taxis and food; I dislike the cold and the unpredictable weather; and I think that I would go mad if I had to live there for more than a week.
But yes, I said, we would be okay; and yes, we will visit them whenever we can.
Her mother seemed to have known already. This mother-daughter relationship is different. They discuss things and only tell me "when the time is right".
"Your kids don't like what is happening to this country," my wife tells me. Like what, I ask. And I stop her because I already know. An embittered country, vicious and vindictive personalities, always a divisive battle somewhere which draws out everyone and divides them.
My second girl is a contrast to her sister. She is sharp-tongued but a kind-hearted soul who will let no one put down her country, her family and her friends. While she has grown fond of Melbourne, she misses home and would come back, I thought.
Not really. She is thinking of going to London for her Master's, she says. Or maybe work in Hong Kong for a year or two because Uncle David has offered her a job in his company there.
"You always go to Hong Kong, don't you?" she asked me. Yes, twice, maybe three times a year for two, maybe three days at a time.
"Ah," she says, "when I am there, you will come more often and you will stay longer, right? After all, Hong Kong is so near - only three-and-a-half hours away, right?"
What could I say?
Maybe my son will come home. Though he is just into his second year and has another three more to go, surely he misses home, I thought.
"It's too early, Pa. Let me decide when the time comes," he says. "I miss all of you very much. But I am not sure yet what I want to do after graduating."
Our youngest, the only one we managed to persuade to stay on until she completed her A-Levels, already plans to leave at year's end to do her degree in London.
She wants to do diagnostic medicine. What's that? "Don't you watch Dr House?" she asks. "That's what I want to be."
I accept, with resignation.
I left home when I was 18 and ended up working in Johor Baru, which was then probably as good as being in London because the bus trip to Penang, where my family lived after moving back from Pengkalan Hulu, took 16 hours. No highways then.
My wife left home at 12 for boarding school and, save for short holidays, did not go back until she had completed her degree overseas.
Did our parents feel the same when they were letting us go? Looking back, I know they did. Each time I went back, my mother would ensure my favourite food was on the table - dhall, pickled green chillies and deep-fried chicken.
And each time I left, she would stand at the door until I was out of sight. That's the same thing we do - keep watching long after the kids have passed through immigration gates and gone beyond our sight.
But we are both glad that our parents let us go, to learn, to see new places and to build our lives as we wanted. Had I not gone to Johor, I would never have met my wife and that would be my life's single greatest regret.
My wife copes better with these things. She believes that they will find their way home. Perhaps she knows better. I have come to accept that a mother's love and relationship with her children is different.
Perhaps, it is encapsulated in this email which I have kept for a long time. Here's how it goes:
A MOTHER'S LOVE
A little boy came up to his mother in the kitchen one evening while she was fixing supper, and handed her a piece of paper that he had been writing on.
After his mum dried her hands on an apron, she read it, and this is what it said:
For cutting the grass: $5.00
For cleaning up my room this week: $1.00
For going to the store for you: $0.50
Baby-sitting my kid brother while you went shopping: $0.25
Taking out the garbage: $1.00
For getting a good report card: $5.00
For cleaning up and raking the yard: $2.00
Total owed: $14.75
Well, his mother looked at him standing there, and the boy knew that memories were flashing through her mind. She picked up the pen, turned over the paper he'd written on, and wrote:
For the nine months I carried you while you were growing inside me: No charge
For all the nights that I've sat up with you, doctored and prayed for you: No charge
For all the trying times, and all the tears that you've caused through the years: No charge
For all the nights that were filled with dread, and for the worries I knew were ahead: No charge
For the toys, food, clothes, and even wiping your nose: No charge
Son, when you add it up, the cost of my love is: No charge.
When the boy finished reading what his mother had written, there were tears in his eyes, and he said, "Mum, I sure do love you."
And then he took the pen and wrote in great big letters: "Paid in full".
The lesson, I suppose, is that you will never know how much your mother means to you till you become a mother.
A father, too, if I may add.
I already know it's tough to let go, but I have learned to live with it. Still hurts, though.
I know the children will be all right.
My one hope is that, unlike their migrating forefathers, they remember that, for better or for worse, Malaysia is home - not London, not Melbourne.
And, just as life has its ups and downs, there will be a better Malaysia one day.
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