Wounded Scar

As I begin to type about my wounded ‘scar’, the anger that filled me up three days ago has slowly dispersed with time.

It is amazing, with one question asked right on your face and the next thing you knew; you shed a tear or two. With the symposium going on, stressing about the late lunch (which I was REALLY pissed by it), hay wired schedule of the day and me being unwell were just to the top of my patience. Surprising enough, I handled them with smiles and gratitude. As things were almost back to the initial plan, someone just had to pull me down, six feet under. Someone, who I supposed to be mature enough not to have any kind of judgement, made a remark about… the language I spoke. *smirk*

That night itself, I cried my heart out. The pain that has bottled up in me ever since I came to Dublin burst. Once and for all, I let the pain flow out through my tears. Rolling down my cheeks and disappear. I apologised to my friends who had to see me in that condition. I wish I was a bit stronger, stand a little taller. Yes, I know I shouldn’t cry over things like that. But the fact that that question wasn’t thrown at you, you have no idea how bad that felt. How hurt my heart was. How painful it was for me to open my mouth and speak; making me feels like I’m ignoring my roots. As if I should never learn this language, I should never know how to speak so fluently. I should just be like everyone else, like the norm which I can’t and I will never be. I am just me for God’s sake.

This wasn’t the first time. During my first year I was bombarded with critics, judgements, labels, you name it. I took it all in knowing perhaps they haven’t known me for who I am. I’ll give them time. Yes, time was what they needed and if they still need more, they are more than welcome to have all the time in this world to know me. It saddens me that I’m receiving all these here in Ireland. Never ever have I ever criticize their way of speaking both in English or Malay or even in those different dialects there are.

Perhaps it is my fault… to learn and to know how to speak fluently. My fault for having more Chinese friends than the Malay ones. My fault to be here in Ireland. My fault to be different. My fault not to be like every hijab-wearing girls; being all passive and dull. My fault to be me.

Well, what goes around comes around. But here’s praying it will never come around your way because I know how painful it will be.

우린 친구 아냐?

Tell me, how many best friends do you have?
How could you tell that they are your best friends?

If you ask me, I can never tell the answer. Why? I... I never really have one. Like the one you would tell your woes to, someone to call and to cry to, or just to hangout. Yes, I do have a few groups of friends but not close enough for me to tell secrets or even problems if I’m facing any. Sometimes, I do wonder… am I your best friend? But, how come I, not the least bit feel like one.

Nevertheless, whoever your best friends are I’m sure you’re glad to have them in your life. Friends, who could make you happier, smile, keep you company and other things I could not do as a friend. Certainly somehow my heart aches to know that I will never be a part of the memories my friends made. Distance, time, interest and financial, those things may be the reasons you and I are not being as what people would call it best-friends-forever.

But I do remember them. All the time there is. Just that, I wish there would be more interaction in between. Perhaps, I’m the one who is busy hence no connection whatsoever can be done.


I pray to God for your eternal happiness.

Unsung Heroes

Little that others know, I have 3 loving brothers; 2 elders and 1 younger. Unfortunately, I was never close to any of them. Awkward silence will only fill in the conversation among us. Even a phone call is already so weird to answer to. I wonder was it because I’m the younger ones so, I tend not to be involved with the elder siblings. Those younger days where my 2 brothers, my second sister and I would gather in front of the telly and fell asleep on each other during the night. Little midgets, Mommy would call us. While they were playing football at the field, my sister and I would play at the playground next to it. They would come to my rescue when I was chased by a mad dog in our neighbourhood, argued over ice-creams and eventually gave them up for me and my sister. I used to play by myself in the evening and they would join in after they got off the bus from school. The combination of jeering and teasing from them were almost certainly got on my nerves. My first brother once hit me on the head. That definitely got me all teary up but to his amazement I didn’t cry out loud. Instead, I continued the chores I was doing. Perhaps the guilt ate him inside. He called me to his room and apologised for what he had done. Looking down, I went out and a smile was created on my face. As I grew a bit older, they both went to boarding school and I was all alone again. Getting bullied by them was probably the happiest moments in my life. You might think that I am a crazy girl to have this kind of thinking. Apparently, those memories of tears and fights linger longer than I could imagine.

My second sister is probably the only best friend in my life, making the distance with my brothers grew bigger. Day by day, their faces were replaced with the people I’m so used to see; my friends. After so many years, I never felt that feeling I used to have- my brothers’ love. Maybe they too grew older and have other priorities to look after. Sometimes, I wish things would just be how they were. Well, time changes people. I have changed. They did. Everyone did too.

But maybe just maybe, some things don’t.

“Do you miss me?”

“Every minute of every day.”