Those Goodbyes

If my life in Malaysia were a book, it would be divided into two parts. "Part 1" of the adventure would consist of my life as an MS student. And "Part 2" would be life as an expat, an OFW, if you may.

Part 1 feels like it happened ages ago. Granted, it only spanned two years and I'm now going into the fourth year of Part 2 - but it does feel like it happened in a completely different lifetime. A lifetime where I lived in a monkey-infested dormitory. A lifetime where I had hospital, police, and immigration run-ins. A lifetime where I relied on KTM and Rapid KL buses but went places anyway.

I relied on my graduate research assistance scheme and a couple of odd jobs, but it was a lovely lifetime, even more because I had a lovely set of friends whom I treated as my surrogate family here. As Part 1 drew to a close, the story with that crazy bunch drew to a close as well. I don't think anybody really counted on it. Some got married and moved to India, moved to Singapore. One took up further studies in Canada. Some went back to the Philippines to fulfill obligations as well as to start anew. My family in Part 2 is somewhat different from the family I grew up with in Part 1.

Oh, but they're still there. And oh, we still see each other around. A couple of them crisscross across Singapore and Malaysia and sometimes it feels like nothing's really changed. But things have. There's a nostalgic feeling to it, too.

But I guess that's the bittersweet thing about moving from one chapter to the next. You must first conclude one part in order to get onto the next. And it's often difficult, especially if you'll have to deal with a lot of goodbyes.

But you have to do it to begin the next adventure that awaits.

So that's it for Part 1 of the story. This 2015, I'll be sharing about Part 2. So, goodbye, "The Adventure - Part 1". Hello, Part 2.

On Making an Impact

When you embrace your identity as a world changer, it is often easy to get discouraged once you start to think that what you are doing isn't significant enough. Take me, for example. Five and a half years in Malaysia. Am I even making a difference here?

It's easy to say I'm not if I base it on the scales the world creates. But these aren't the standards that matter. It's the standards of the One who called us that matters the most.

I miss those early years when I had all the time in the world to just go out and see how God was moving in the lives of people all around. Unbound by work, having only my thesis and several class hours, I could go anywhere at a moment's notice to meet up with people, to talk about life, to sing "Salamat, Salamat" over and over again while playing a guitar with blistered fingertips. And then I'd spend the following day hibernating especially if the previous one was far too tiring.

We went to Malacca weekly because there was a group of Filipinos there, hungry for the word of God. We spent time with friends in KL, Kajang, Serdang - Johor, even. Those people had different stories. Some were at the height of life, some were at the lowest of their lows. But it warmed my heart to see how they clung to God no matter what.

These days I'm consumed by Monday to Saturday working hours. It often feels like Sunday is the only day I can give to God and to other people. But I realize that's not how things are supposed to be. I can be a blessing even during the nine-to-five. I can be a world changer even if I'm not travelling from city to city, even if I am not speaking in front of crowds as big as the Bukit Jalil Stadium.

Yes, there are people who do that - God bless them for heeding that call. And it's wonderful to dream of doing that too, someday. But this is where I am now. And this is how I can make a difference today.

Nothing is in vain. Things become of great significance when they are done with a great, great heart.

On Writing Letters

My father should have had an award for his effort in keeping connected in the days of dial-up modems and card-operated public payphones. While he was taking up his PhD in Australia, he never failed to keep us updated through snail mail, email, and phone calls - not ones made through a mobile phone with low IDD rates, but ones made through payphones using cards I eventually collected to make key chains. The handwritten letters were my favorite, though. He personalized photos and postcards with inked in comments and captions. He told us stories of his university life while we waited for visas and plane tickets to take us where he was.

I seem to have inherited his knack of writing letters. When I moved out of La Trinidad to study in ELBI (which was a good 10-hour-bus-ride away), I maximized my newly created yahoo account and wrote to my family and high school friends until I eventually became too busy with schoolwork. When I moved from The Philippines to Malaysia, I did the same and wrote password-protected pdf files. I also had a special exchange of letters with my Soul Sistah. I smile, thinking back at the days when opening my yahoo mailbox brought a rush of anticipation.

An excerpt from one of my letters home:

I was still awake the time that you sent it - still burning the midnight oil for an exam that I had this morning. I couldn't reply because I was afraid I'll just ramble on and on about interpolation, k-means clustering, etc, etc, etc. But I was greatly encouraged. I meant, I really needed every sort of encouragement during that time. Thank God for you. Lots of encouragement came all over the place din from different people. Ang sweet din ni Lord diba, te?

Maybe it's just me, but there's something about long letters that are meant to be treasured and appreciated. The thought of someone sitting down, giving full attention to either reading or writing - as opposed to distractedly trying to pay attention through the stream of multitasked activities we encounter each day - well, that's just something... special.

The last handwritten letter I wrote was delivered to its recipient at the beginning of last month. If people are said to wear their hearts on the sleeves, well, I wore my heart on that envelope. Embarrassingly enough, I had to gulp down bouts of tears as the one reading it went through it (silently) in front of me. I failed myself and let those tears out anyway. I cried because the letter left me bare and vulnerable. If anybody read any of my letters written in 2009 in front of me, well, I'd probably do a repeat performance of that Wendy's crying scene, too.

I hope writing letters will never die out and become an extinct craft. Social media and instantaneous response are good. But I still feel letters express a different - perhaps deeper - facet of love.

Do you love writing or receiving letters, too?

Interwoven

Aside from food, another "F" that I'll definitely miss when the day I'll say goodbye to Malaysia eventually comes will be - insert sentimental music here - my friends. Aww. Enter waterworks. People come and go, yes, but when they cross our paths, some of the most important ones imprint marks that we will forever keep in our hearts.

I've been blessed with friendship crossing many different cultures and religions. When I was studying, in addition to my TBC friends (note to self: write more about this later), I was also particularly close to two Iranian girls. We were groupmates in some of our IT projects. Because of them (the girls and the projects), I was introduced to Persian cuisine.

They cooked when we spent afternoons at their house going through software and code. I remember eating fried chicken with some kind of red seeds or berries. I'm not so good with names of food. I just eat and eat whatever anyone sets in front of me. I do recall a sticky sweet called Halvoc, though. It tasted nice with pistachio.

Persians seem to be fond of sweet and sour things. Well, sweet things then sour things, not sweet and sour together, like the Chinese.

Speaking of Chinese, working introduced me to the Mandarin-Hokkien-Hakka-and-Cantonese-speaking community. I mostly identified with Malays during my two years of studying. But these days, I fee more Chinese, somehow. I also feel Indonesian. Very Indonesian. I wonder. When my friends hang out with me, do they feel, in a way, Filipino, too?

Just a thought.

But that's Part 2 of The Adventure. I'm getting too far ahead.

Back to Part 1. In my dormitory, there was an Indian girl who lived a few doors down. We never got to be that close, but I remember she was fond of watching Bollywood and Filipino series.

I had Malay friends who invited me to eat in their open houses and to watch movies in their rooms. I got to witness a Malay wedding, too - the bride's side, where the groom was the one walking down the aisle towards his woman.

They taught me their language and we compared it with mine. And though it was short, the friendship was precious and worth remembering. One even emailed me the other day. She lives in a city far away but she had lots and lots of stories to share.

I believe all our lives are interwoven for a purpose. Friends from "The Adventure - Part 1" have, in a way, come and gone. But I know know the friendship will surely live on.

Half-eaten Halvoc.

Mereka Tak Lagi Menangis

Salam. Nama saya Mari. Saya dari negara Filipina. Umur saya - ah, tak apa lah.

Yes, I have hardcore Bahasa Melayu skills. I do! I can converse with taxi drivers, shop keepers, and people talking about their studies and their families. I do a good job of listening in on conversations, too. Public, pantry-type discussions, mind you. I don't really make a habit of eavesdropping when it comes to private exchanges.

I had to take two semesters worth of Bahasa Melayu classes when I took up my Master's degree. Some of my classmates didn't see the point of it, but I made sure to learn a lot from the course. I had dreams of being fluent in the language. But because of lack of practice... well, that dream could still come true if I push myself hard enough.

Satu, dua, tiga, empat, lima. Some words, like "five", are the same in Malay and Filipino. Kanan is also kanan, langit is also langit, and some words have similar sounds. There are some also found in Ilocano, my hometown's dialect (which I honestly can't speak that fluently). I'm told ikan is fish for both and jalan is almost the same as dalan. Sometimes, when I go home, I try to converse in Ilocano. But most times my mouth seems to want to spew up some Bahasa Melayu instead.

Cordilleran pronunciation is not far from the one used in BM. "E" as in keluar is not that of a problem for me because we don't pronounce "dinengdeng" the hard way in my hometown unlike other neighboring Ilocano-speaking provinces.

Perhaps that was one reason why I unwittingly landed on a BM poetry-interpreting stint. I unknowingly entered through the recommendation of my BM2 lecturer. I thought he just wanted me to read a few lines. Little did I know, reading a few lines meant that I was auditioning for a slot in the contest already.

The piece he gave me was "Mereka Tak Lagi Menangis". They're not crying anymore? Well, after I got into the contest (held a week after the auditions), I got tips on diction, interpretation, and could I set my recording against some music?

"Alright," I said. "I'll read it while playing my guitar."

Well that was an experience to remember. And guess what? I won second place! An African guy who memorized his piece and used creative gestures won the grand prize.

They didn't give out any cash or gift cards as prizes. They did give us trophies though. And I got a video and an experience to remember to take away as my own prize.

Lesson learned? Unexpected wins can happen if you say yes and allow yourself to be available.

Selesai.

Video Screenshot.