Self-reflection is no mere staring in the mirror. It involves stripping pass those carefully installed pretenses and trying to reconcile whether one can be comfortable with his/her own skin. It is both a retrospective and a prospective vice – attempting to draw connections between who we were, are and will be. To some it is a private affair; a ritual performed only in the presence of oneself and in silence if need be. To others, it’s a social affair; an engagement conducted within a group of trusted friends – honest questions posed and unvarnished answers received. And to the rest, it is a mechanical affair, where progress and personal growth can be meticulously checked against their pre-determined checklist.

Then there’s me: a person who employs all three depending on the mood and circumstances. I’ve spent the last 1 week or so talking to close friends about my hopes and fears, and subsequently retreated into my cloister and face my inner demons – trying to figure out whether I can still remember the narratives behind each scar.

I turned 21.

My favorite sentence of the year was written by a friend of mine, Zhi Wei: “We are ultimately, the collection of our stories.” And based on that backdrop, 2010 has been a messy affair – splurged with polar opposites of equal proportion and intensity. I recalled distinctively in my high school history lesson [my favorite class] that Hinduism recognizes many gods but only three main deities: Vishnu, the god of preservation; Shiva, the god of destruction; and Brahma, the god of creation. The balanced interactions among them is responsible for sustaining a life without a beginning or an end.

And that is how I have chosen to approach my self-reflection. Amidst all the clutter and noise, I have to decide what to preserve, what to destroy and what to create.

Close Friends Graduated.

Before proceeding any further, I would first have to dissect the whole notion that year 2010 is independent on its own right; that it is negligible links to its predecessors and thus hardly affected by the historic storms and sunshines. I bring this up because I couldn’t help but to admire the sheer determination of some of my friends who can decree a fresh slate beginning each new year; a white canvas painting that is un-smeared, ready to be decorated to their fancies. But mine can never be so despite the times I demanded for it. My years are like living organisms – they feed on the remnants of the previous years, both good and bad. New Years are just like some fallible man-made concept where we indulge in fun fair like pitching goals and aspirations but they shape not the vortex of time. When both hands of the clock point to the heaven, it’s as though I walked through a porous bubble, carrying both the joys that levitate me and the baggages that weigh me down.

I have no reset button.

Won my first gold medal at the MidWest Games.

What I am about to embark on might be construed as washing dirty linen in public; unnecessary exposing the soft spots in my armor, only to have them haunt me in the later years. Old sins have long shadows, as Agatha Christie would put it. But I cannot shed plagues without candor and honesty; I cannot destroy what I do not acknowledge.

I held an eagle.

I started my freshman year with much rigor and energy, just as any excited first timer. If time permits, there was nothing that I wouldn’t do, both academically and otherwise. My heart grew to embrace my university and by the end of the summer, I pretty much called this place home. But as I cruised into my second year things slowly started to fall apart. I grew much restless and my heart yearned for things that my university cannot provide. There was nothing that I wouldn’t give up to be on the runway at O’Hare International Airport to just hear the Boeings soar again into the sky, or spend my time feeding sugar canes to the guinea pigs in Ecuador. I was so caught up in the euphoria of my experiences that I forgot to take my heart back to the university. However, I was cognizant of my obligations and responsibilities, thus I cruised along. By that time, it was already useless to deny that there was already a massive shift in the way I interacted with my surroundings. I felt trapped within that archaic goals and aspirations that I had at the beginning of my freshman year as I no longer resonated with the horizons that I have crafted for myself. Most days were a bore and despite me doing well in my classes, it’s undeniably that there is only one force that has sustained me through the days:

Inertia.

My Oxford Classmates.

Then came the inflection point: the University of Oxford. Was it just mere coincidence or that I arrived one the dot when the bells in Magdalen Tower started chiming as I stepped out of my cab as though it’s calling me home? There is just something about the grey cobblestones and old granite pavements that imbues an intoxicating scent of vitality that I haven’t felt since my freshman year. I loved everything about Oxford – every minute, every encounter, every class…everything. I have never felt so alive that when it was time to go, I nearly teared [my professor did, so I'm not that ashamed to admit it]. Solo traveling around Eastern Europe soon followed. The details are immaterial, but all that there is to know is that I returned to Ann Arbor consumed with dread. It was obvious that the start of my third year was a complete disaster. I hated everything about Ann Arbor and I tried finding every reason to leave. Needless to say, my grades suffered tremendously [you would think I was on drugs if you saw it].

I didn’t care anymore.

In Istanbul with Zhi Wei.

But there is a saying that goes: “When one hits rock bottom, the only way left to go is up.” At one point in the daze, I knew that if I was to make a comeback I would have to swallow my pride and quite simply, realize that I am not as invincible as I thought I was. I started re-examining everything I did, especially the premise in which my actions were based. Soon, I was back on my feet, albeit a little too late. I felt at peace, which only comes when one begins to ditch the “what ifs,” bite the bullet and carry on. President Clinton is right: ‘It is only when one is down on his/her knees that he/she is forced to define who he/she is and what he/she stands for.’ I needed to start over.

I’ll create a reset button.

Thanksgiving in Upenn.

So for this year: no pompous aspirations, nor fleeting goals! I have said what I needed to say and the time for whining has to stop because there is so much life left to be lived. When it is one minute to midnight I’ll hit the reset button, knowing that I will walk into 2011 being at peace with myself, because I truly know the stories behind each scar. With three semesters left to graduation and a clean slate….

I will paint the masterpiece of my dreams.

Happy New Year! =)

]]> http://ourcoffeestops.com/2011/01/one-minute-to-midnight-2/feed/ 2 http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/12/prophecy/ http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/12/prophecy/#comments Fri, 31 Dec 2010 05:18:59 +0000 Jian Wei http://ourcoffeestops.com/?p=5668 [As part of a blogging exercise, Zhi Wei and I have agreed to write something entitled "Prophecy."]

I’ve always been curious on how fortune-tellers come about their decisions – be it reading tea leaves, gazing at crystal balls or reading palms. Considering that these fortune telling do not hold credo in the world that demands quantitive substantiation for any claims, it’s still a wonder how they manage to proliferate within our society. Albeit, in a dispersed fashion; surreptitiously tucked amidst the heavy crowd of the shopping centers, or the flea market. I wonder what is it that draws people to them?

Do they feed on our fears and insecurities? The unsaturated yearning to clutch straws in the drowning downpour of uncertainties; the instinctive wanting to sign post our lives with just enough markers so that we feel “safe,” while leaving just a tad room of ambiguity so that we don’t feel that our lives are scripted from the start. That’s why we make New Year resolutions, don’t we? Although we all know that we never get about to finishing half of them. In the celebrated ritual of setting up goals and aspirations, we deceptively imbed mechanisms designed to ground us to familiar territory. Our psyche disdain uncertainties; and we could care less what the fortune teller says – we’ll just keep hunting for different prophecies until we hear the ones that we would like to hear.

There’s this “hole” in Hagia Sophia, Istanbul that legend has it that if one inserts his/her thumb and twists it a complete circle – if he/she could feel a certain moisture in the “hole,” his or her wish will come true. [Ok, this sounds DAMN wrong. =S]

It is pretty comical that while prophecies and predictions tell very little of our future, they reveal a lot of our current state of existence. They are after all, a blatant statement of our insecurities, garnished and sugar-coated in the least vulnerable way. We don’t trot along the streets telling strangers about our unfulfilled desires, but heck! When the new year comes, everyone finds the window of opportunity and also the comfort to parade them. Reading the wish list is an intriguing sport – some are totally humorous, their presence is just to add chuckling twists to an otherwise somber linen e.g “I want to have Justin Timberlake’s kids.” [I swear that that was real.] But for those who are experienced enough, they will know what those that are NOT included on the wish list are as important as those that are – if not more. We are not dumb fools. We know that aspirations/wishes/prophecies levitate us from the ground with positive energy, only to drop us on our asses when they are not realized.

Now here comes the interesting part: how do people cope with the pain when our asses crash on the ground? I can’t speak for others, but it’s funny how my process of rationalization could act as effective band-aids to ease the exposed wounds. I can rationalize anything and everything to death, I think. It is rather easy to come up with a whole series of reasons on why I am better off without those goals achieved or that without them, I’m that not screwed up anyway. At times, it kicks in so naturally that it begins to border hypocrisy.

Oh well, that’s assuming that I can remember my new year goals anyway. All I can remember is that this time around last year I was stuck in Paris ushering the new year with fireworks that looked like it detonated prematurely. Fast forward till today, with only one day to go till 2011 screams at my face, I still have no goals, no wish lists etc.

I’m just too tired to make them.

Hello Tuhan, please tell me my future k? I’ve been a very good boy this year! =P I promise to cook you curry when I go to heaven.

Don’t get me wrong though. This isn’t a negative cry. I realized that I’m not gonna go about achieving them anyway. Growing older, the layers of complexity that wrap my life gets thicker and thicker that they make naive aspirations a travesty. I have grown a penchant for broad ambiguous targets – those that grant me so much room to maneuver that nothing could be defined as success or a failure. If there’s anything that my years in Umich have taught me, it is to just listen to the heart and go where the road takes me. I no longer plan for eternity; I just take each day as it comes. It saves the heart from much pain, and it’s so much fun along the way.

Or I could just go to the fortune teller….

It’s so much simpler anyway. =S

[Another post will be coming up, "One Minute to Midnight" - it'll be my concluding post for the year.]

We accept precedence at face value and think that it is the gospel truth.

I entered the banquet of tertiary education with a pre-packaged notion on what my life will be for the 4 years here in the States. And those notions that I formed were based on what I generically thought best about myself throughout these years. Hours of pondering led to conclusions drawn on what my strengths were and what fundamentals they were sustained on. After two years of mishap analysis, reality crept in and the writing on the wall became a little too apparent to ignore. The initial snapshot of my graduating moment would be me cladded in silky black robes with a flat mortar board on my head. I would have my family beside me and a fat smile would say it all. I would have aced this university with a triple major, president of a whole hosts of clubs and most probably I would already have had a leg into the top graduate schools of my time. My school years would buzz away, packed to the brim with commitments that would make my peers shudder and smack in awe. More is MORE they say…I would epitomize that saying.

Here comes the reality check:

This is my third year at the University of Michigan and save for leading one high profile event, I haven’t been participating in many clubs, what more leading them. I just decided to shelve one major into the dustbin in exchange for a minor instead, leaving me with just 2 majors in the end. I don’t like slaving for my classes and they are turning into a bore because I neither have the time for them, nor do I have the time to find time – a huge bulk can be attributed to the lack of efficiency as opposed to a gorilla-sized commitment. In the past two weeks, I’ve only slept on my own bed 4 times as I’ve spent my nights at my friend’s place because I needed someone to wake me up in the morning.

When your own bed feels colder than your friend’s couch, you know that shit just hit the fan.

So, what went wrong?

To search for the faults, I first had to connect the dots. Why did I dip myself into actuarial science anyway? Let’s be clear, I was neither a genius in math nor did I ooze out any math-sy demeanor [I freaking need a calculator when doing the most simple arithmetic, say...90/4]. The money isn’t a factor either – I actually went for accountancy before plunging into realm where numbers are monarchs. The answer I have been searching was there all along:

People.

It should always be about people – The Chicago Roosevelt Fellows, one of the best times of my life.

My flirtation with additional mathematics sparked in Form 4 because I had the best unconventional teachers who managed to inspire me to see beyond the numbers that I was learning. Ms Alicia carries a very unique personality and I would have to say that I was more drawn to her as a teacher than what she had to teach. Attending Mr. Chan’s tuition classes helped sealed the deal. I reveled in Additional Mathematics and subsequently emerged best in my class for that subject. It wasn’t math anymore – it was a craft. So I went into actuarial science, because I remembered the excitement when I could solve a question, amidst the hair pulling from my peers; or the inflation of satisfaction when I nailed a problem that was harder than what was required of my syllabus.

History repeated itself when I took my Math 425 – Introduction to Probability. My Professor was a charming lady from India who spoke with an Indian accent that was still very much pronounced. She was always seen with her specs dangling from her hunched neck and her fingers white from the remnants of the chalks. Wrinkles permeate her forehead, they told tales of her age. She would allow me to sit next to her table as I worked through every problem in the book – EVERY PROBLEM – for three hours. When she had to attend meetings, she would say, “It’s ok. Stay. I’ll be back in a few hours.” And came back she did, helping me through all my math problems till the night beckoned. At the end of it all, when I finally nailed the last question at the very last required chapter, she gazed at me with those grandmother eyes and said with a smile:

“You are a good student.”

I scored an A+ in her class.

It took sometime for me to swallow the pride and backtrack to the roots of my strengths. I don’t like busy schedules for it robs me of my time to concentrate on what I think is important: people and relationships. This may not apply to everyone, but studying to me is more of a relationship between a professor and a learner, than those indiscernible crap loaded in the textbooks. I am not a very bright student [academically speaking]; I merely work harder than most of my peers. There is a passion that ignites in me when I feel that a professor is really invested in what I have to offer and by default, sees the best in me. From then on, studying will no longer be a chore but an enjoyable process of enquiry. And that was what I felt when I was in Oxford with Dr Addison teasing an answer from the cohort as opposed to feeding it to us. “You’ve got this in you. Just connect the dots!” I keep telling myself every time I left Dr Addison’s office feeling a little un-intelligent than what I thought I was.

I’ve got this in me.

The Low-Fat Ketupat Lifestyle – Complete ZEN. =P

My life isn’t measured by metrics, thus efficiency isn’t my credo. I like to take my own sweet time, doing things that I think are meaningful but also in a process that extracts the best out of me. I like to day dream; to stare at clouds and to think of the “NEXT BIG THING.” That was why I ran for head prefect anyway or the Malaysian Cultural Night Director here in Michigan. I saw a vision and I wanted to be that bridge that turns it into reality. An intellectually-charged conversation over steaming coffee is as meaningful to me as those A-pluses that I amassed, possibly even more.

I’ve been sitting in the car of life for far too long, forgetting to ask the driver to stop for me to enjoy the sceneries that zipped through. Finally I have. I’ve stopped and I saw what I was missing. And just when I thought I was alone, I came across an article about President Obama during his Columbia University years. He remembered it as years of reclusiveness. “I needed it.” he said. It was a stage of life where he simmered in this thoughts and brewed the ideas that shaped him in his Presidency.

So, after a midterm review, I’m turning this ship around and bringing it back home. In doing so, I would have to convince myself that dropping my environmental classes despite doing very well in them is in-sync with my broader aim of lightening my course load. As I’ve said, learning has always been a people process for me, and there shouldn’t be a reason why it should be any different now that I’m in my tertiary years. So, I can be sure of making my last few years here more people-centric. Emails would be sent to catch up with professors who have taught me some time ago – I sure hope these relationships last. =)

Just for your information, I took sometime writing this post. I allowed the thoughts to simmer for awhile, wondering if this is just another knee-jerk reaction of mine, where a cursor click on the ‘delete post’ button would have solved everything. As I was writing this, one potent memory came to mind. It was when Pn Yek, brought her former students from SMK SJ to my secondary school to tell us about what they thought about leadership and life. Cynthia, one of those charges, said: “In the end of the day, your life here in secondary school will not be about the As that you get or the medals that you keep. Instead, it is like a book and you walking through the pages as it flips. In the end, it will be about the foot prints that you leave behind.”

The footprints that I leave behind…

]]> http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/11/footprints-we-leave-behind/feed/ 1 http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/08/budapest-a-city-with-no-identity/ http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/08/budapest-a-city-with-no-identity/#comments Sat, 14 Aug 2010 21:26:04 +0000 Jian Wei http://ourcoffeestops.com/?p=5402 If the edifice of a city is a microcosm of the populous’ identity, then Hungarians [or those in Budapest] are a confused lot. Budapest is the epitome of a paradoxical message. On one hand, one could find half naked guys dashing down the streets on their skateboard. Telephone booths and lifts are literally riddled with graffitis that range from unpleasant images to unfathomable scribbles. Abandoned grand project sites become nests for the youths to hang out, or even a business opportunity for some entrepreneur to milk some cash. [Apparently, one businessman opened night club in an abandoned site, offering its patrons the experience of partying in an abandoned warehouse. WTF.]

Graffiti everywhere.

But if one just tilt his/her head a little higher, and squint the eyes a little, one could see the exact opposite: grandiose buildings with ornate decorations from the baroque era imposing their weight around the surging forces of modernity and chaos. These charming old boutiques have stood witness to atrocities that would make a person shudder – the massive massacre of the Jews, the torture rampage of the Soviets – these buildings speak tales of destruction and birth once more.

The Grand Opera House: It’ll be coming here tomorrow for a show! =)

It is said that the Hungarians are a rebellious lot. History has casted them as the sacrificial lambs of greater human powers. Budapest has been sacked, rebuilt, sacked again, and rebuilt once more. Each time its fate faced the cruelties of different oppressors: the Hamburgs from Austria, the Ottomans from Turkey, the forced Partition after World War 1 that gave rise to countries like Romania etc., the unspeakable genocide of Hitler to the brutalities of the Soviet Union. But each time Hungary was beaten down, it fought back – bursting back to life like a flaming phoenix, refashioned with a new but more durable soul.

A Moment of Their Own

It is in Budapest that the first McDonalds opened beyond the Iron Curtain – the hallmark of Western capitalism – after the fall of the Soviet Union. It was here that Margaret Thatcher gave her famous speech about the open society that sent the hymns of freedom reverberating through the chords of the once-oppressed. Now the Soviets are no more; tourists flocking the streets ogling at the remnants of Budapest’s yesteryears; couples parading beside the river – basking in their love.

Refashioning one’s identity is a messy process. It doesn’t come without a steep price. Each time one adopts a new adaptable mask, though the probability of survival increases, he/she gives up a part of their pasts. And if done too often, one starts to forget between the real and the facade.

Sunset in Budapest.

Budapest had taken many hits and lived to tell the tale. Now it just has to look itself in the mirror, and ask whether it could still recognize the reflection that is staring back at them.

Don’t let the sun set on what you have so long stood for: your identity.

From Istanbul Europe looking at Istanbul Asia.

My body wasn’t enjoying the visible layer of sweat that has formed on the surface of my skin. After 2 days, the scorching heat had finally gotten to me, making me a very snappish person. Despite the teases from the clear blue sky and calls echoing from Istanbul Asia, the visual picture of me tucked nicely behind my velvet duvet in Magdalen College, University of Oxford, without the irritation of an unusually hot summer proved to be overwhelming. The multiple collisions with tourists and locals along our way to the Galata Bridge didn’t make the walk any easier.

Fishing on the Galata Bridge!

But fortunes started to change as we reached the bridge that we had to cross to Istanbul Asia or the New District of Istanbul. The Galata Bridge was busy; cars and heavy vehicles make their way on this bridge from both directions, emancipating the hustle and bustle feel of the bridge. However, this pursuit of economic gains failed to overshadow the throng of people fishing by the walkways of the bridge. I was always intrigued by fishing; though behind the simplicity of this activity lies a wealth of knowledge that is beyond my comprehension, the thing that has always puzzled was the level of patience that goes into this past time. I could NEVER have mustered the necessary amount of patience to be this idle. Fishing for hours beside a busy bridge under the scorching heat?

I prefer women in bikinis.

***

The New District proved very much unlike its predecessor, the Old Town. It neither had the historic baggage seeped into the facades of its buildings, nor did it bother hiding the fact that most of its buildings are modern, plain and similar. Huge white columns filled the steep hills, occasionally punctured by a building or two that bothered to put a little more effort than its counterparts. On top of that, there was another peculiar sight: satellite dishes certainly sprouted like mushrooms. I reckoned that most of the Turks stayed here as opposed to the Old Town.

Hilly paths and ubiquitous satellite dishes.

The hilly path exerted an early fatigue to an already grumpy person. I have always been a skeptic on splurging any money on running up any ‘sky-scrapper.’ Hailing from Kuala Lumpur, if even the KL Tower could hardly impress me, then I doubt any other of its peers could. Panoramic view had its perks, but its akin to a short fuse that fizzles out after a few minutes. A place is famed or revered because of its nuances – the micro-quirks that couldn’t be found in any other surface of the planet. The view from a sky scrapper smoothens these charms away; making the uniquely quaint distinctions of a space miniscule compared to the endless spread of the blue sky with its platoons of clouds.

But I went up anyway.

Because despite my grudging disapproval of these expenditures, there is just something thrilling to the sight of endless span of things. An excitement that is accentuated as we make a 360 degrees walk around the platform, with all of human’s inventions within the trappings of our visual cage. The heavy puffs of strong winds added further hype to moment.

We feel so big. We feel so powerful.

We are the masters of our universe.

]]> http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/08/istanbul-day-3-to-heaven-and-back-again/feed/ 2 http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/08/istanbul-at-night/ http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/08/istanbul-at-night/#comments Mon, 09 Aug 2010 23:15:55 +0000 Jian Wei http://ourcoffeestops.com/?p=5368 Its minarets pierced through the sky, standing gallantly against the silent night. A few birds circled those lonely sentinels unperturbed, knowing that once the sun rises, the Blue Mosque shall receive a throng of visitors whose footsteps and chatters would break the muted acoustics of the surroundings. Yellow lights radiated the Blue Mosque from below, imposing a golden touch to the surface of its weathered form. Its majesty ruled the night that no clusters of stars would dare compete to take its place.

The Blue Mosque at Night.

Among the maze of humble abodes, sat a boy on the open-air patio with the light from his Macbook dispelling the thick web of darkness away. From the patio he saw the Blue Mosque flashed its prowess and for a moment he forgotten about the uncomfortableness of his body. Perspiration from the hot and humid air gave way to the strong gushes of wind that brought with it band-aids of relieve.

There was hardly anything stirring the silence, except for the few drunken idiots who created a momentary ruckus when they knocked down a metal trash can. It was said that one could listen with their eyes. There was no need for any auditory extravaganza – not for a moment like this. Just an open heart, and an awed soul were enough to bring out the strands of melodies that swelled through the space, blocking out everything else except the adored object and the observer.

In this world, even silence is music.

]]> http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/08/istanbul-at-night/feed/ 2 http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/08/istanbul-putting-a-face-to-the-past/ http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/08/istanbul-putting-a-face-to-the-past/#comments Sun, 08 Aug 2010 23:05:45 +0000 Jian Wei http://ourcoffeestops.com/?p=5352 “It’s 32 degrees Celsius, just to let you know.” said Zhi Wei in a groggy tone that masked the excitement that he had. “Oh god,” I muttered under my breath. It has been 2 years since I last been under such warmth – the blazing heat from home seems so foreign to me right now; and I guess that worked pretty much to my disadvantage in Istanbul. The view from the plane’s window was enough to start me perspiring – long barren air strip with metallic glass infrastructures casted against a bright yellow backdrop.

But our transition into Istanbul was smooth. The people were very friendly here – sometimes too friendly for our liking. The train operator literally pinched my cheeks, while muttering some Turkish words in a tone that could only spell one thing: CUTE. But on a large scale, it really does make me wonder how society has shaped me. Both Zhi Wei and I were raised in an environment where generous gestures from strangers were viewed with immense suspicion; hinging on the solemn premise that there is no possible way in which someone could be so nice without having any perverse motives. It’s sad really – where the chords of our souls are tuned to view the worst in people and the only banner we have to hide behind is that of prudence: better be safe than sorry. Sometimes it really makes me wonder how many kind souls I have missed out in my life just because I was too caught up in the fictitious pursuit of my self-defense.

But in Istanbul, though still with immense reservations, we try to fathom the fact that there are such things as kind gestures: some people just strike up random conversations because they are genuinely interested in where we come from and are determined to make us feel welcomed in their motherland; some vendors would literally walk up to us when they sensed we were struggling with map that contained the labyrinth of roads, and they helped us: with only a smile and handshake in return.

Sure there are bad apples, but I rather put my faith in people than to hide away in the shadows of humanity.

“I can help you if you want!” muttered a local as we were fiddling with the ticketing machine at the train station. “You heading to Sultanahmed?” she enquired. “We are at the wrong side of the station!” as she gestured us to follow her. Well, we literally crossed the tracks to the other side of the station – a definite first for the both of us! The public transportation here is amazing: clean, and properly air-conditioned: something which the London Tube can learn from.

The modern tram snaked through the city – a jarring contrast if you asked me: an injection of modernity amidst a city that goes back all the way to the Roman Empire. As we approached the city center, Istanbul began to reveal its majesty. There is a thick scent of history in the air – a city that is well conscious of its status in the eyes of the world. Amidst the organic growth of rather modest homes, a few mammoth-like architecture that are well designed to SHOCK AND AWE stood out.

The majestic Hagia Sofia.

On the first day [we decided to take it easy], we decided to visit the first: Hagia Sofia. Constructed initially as a church by the Roman Emperor Justinian circa 500 A.D ++, it has been converted into a mosque when it fell into the hands of the Ottoman Empire somewhere circa 1500 A.D ++. As a result, the architecture paints remnants of a seamless convergence between Mohammedan and Christian cultures – a tacit reminder to the world today on what heights we could scale if only we start learning from one another, rather than trying to tear each other apart.

The entrance to Hagia Sofia.

In its own right, Hagia Sofia – whether as a church or as a mosque, was the greatest of its kind. It’s of no wonder that the construction of this magnificent icon nearly bankrupted both civilizations. Upon entering the Nave – the crux of the place, both Zhi Wei and I were just speechless.

The Nave – the bomb of the place! =)

In the midst of all the huge domes, there chandeliers that hang from the ceiling like the lamp of light dangled from heaven. The air buzzed with conversations of excited tourists. There were kids running around; mothers propping themselves against the huge marble pillars that support the upper floor; and there were just locals who sit down without any clear purpose or plan….just soaking it in. The space was so huge that there was enough space for everyone, irrespective of one’s intentions.

On a more personal note, I have always wanted to visit Istanbul. It stretches way back to the years of my high school when most of my peers would dread even the sight of our history textbook, what more the chapters were devoted to the rise of the Islamic Empire. But I’ve always taken a liking for those chapters – my heart starts to flutter a little with excitement as I started imagining the grand buildings and technological prowess of that empire. After all, weren’t they the civilization that invented algebra, ruled over seas, and made massive improvements to almost all facets of our lives?This fascination followed me all the way till the University of Michigan where I had always wanted to pick up Arabic. Alas, somethings had to give for other greater things to pass. If it weren’t for my stint in the University of Oxford, I would have been in the American University of Cairo, Egypt studying Arabic.

And till now I couldn’t believe that I am in Istanbul – the heart of the Ottoman Empire.

Once upon a time, Islamic calligraphy can exists side by side Christian influences.

It seems tragic to me as I witness the unfolding of antagonism between the West and Islam in general. 9/11 had altered the tunes of harmony to a pitch that grates the global community as a whole. Coming here keeps me grounded to my believes and adds credo to my stand that once upon a time there was a moment where cultures could blend so harmoniously – we learnt from each other and thus became stronger than we could ever have been if were just alone.

We would have to relearn the lessons of the past.

How easy we forget.

I want to go back through the blurry passages of time and arrive in front of the simple green gate that marks the entrance to my secondary school. The gate would be open with a steady stream of green school trousers or sky blue pinafores passing through accompanied with their parents. Some parents couldn’t wait to get out so they could get back to work; some would take the time to pass an admonishing stare at their young; and some would wear the countenance of indifference, as if there weren’t any big news to share – it was business as usual.

It was July 14th 2006, and it was the Open Day.

I would walk pass the guard house, shooting my sharp eyes at the students cladded in grey trousers and skirts with a green cover book in their hands. Some have kidded that these students, also known as the prefects, wore uniforms that bear the amazing resemblance of an elephant skin. But they would not be the focus of my attention.

I would just walk straight till I hit front compound in front of the lobby. There would be two lines of prefects, all smartly tucked behind their dark blue blazers as they took a deep bow and muttered lines of greetings as the parents passed through them. But I will look pass them and stare at the boy who was standing on the top of the steps, hands twitching in gestures of nervousness as he reminded the prefects about their respective tasks. A skinny person with a black mole on the his right temple, he had a black strap across his chest that carried his all-famous grey Amway water bottle. Through the lenses of his brown metallic spectacles, he would occasionally cast nervous glances at the clock above the office door, as though he was expecting something.

I know he was nervous.

I want to grab him by the arm and slowly nudge him to the school canteen where he and I can have a heart to heart talk. I will buy him a cup of teh tarik with a small teaspoon of condensed milk – just how he would like it.

“It’ll be all right. Trust me.” That’s what I would have said, with my eyes staring sharply into his.

I want to tell him that at 11.42 a.m. that same day, he would take the oath of office and assume the Office of the Head Prefect as its 3rd occupant. And then he would make a whole series of mistakes. I want to tell him about the Black Monday, the immediate Monday after his swearing-in where he would have 7 of his cabinet members leaving for a school trip, with no one manning the school assembly – making it one of the worst assembly: there was no one hoisting the flags, and the replacements were inept; the PA system broke down and his PA crew were all on school excursions; and the assembly ended 25 minutes later than scheduled.

I want to warn him on how he got scolded by all disciplinary teachers in the “Bilik Bina Insan” and how his Senior Assistant of Student Affairs would sternly admonish him at the steps of the assembly, “You have failed as a leader!” I want to describe to him the fear that would engulfed him later – fear of not being able to rise to the challenge. I want to share with him how he almost broke to tears when the last prefect left the room and how Leon was the only person there to console him. If it were ever possible, I want to spell out to him the loneliness the next one year would be. I want to mention the friends that he would cross, enemies that he would make and people whom he would hurt. “SYSTEM! SYSTEM! SYSTEM!” I would emphasize, knowing that despite everything that he has done, his batch would create a system that could not operate without them – a sure recipe for future downfalls.

And in his eyes, it did.

After all that, I want to pat him on the shoulder, carve a nice smile and ask him to NOT to avoid it anyway.

It’s because in those moments of darkness, he would realize that he was never alone. He had a group of friends and teachers who believed that he was more than the sum of his imperfections and was destined for bigger things than what he had planned for himself. He learnt how to stand on his own two feet and realize that this world does not owe him a living. In that one year, he found his passion in public service and would finally hold himself accountable to something bigger than himself.

4 years later: It would all be worth it.

(Picture taken from: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=4634249&id=520991661)

Because in 4 years time, he would be sitting in Oxford University sipping a cup of warm Nescafe and realizing that he has grown, learnt, lived and changed so much that he knows it’s all gonna be alright.

It was all worth it. Trust me.

HAPPY 4TH ANNIVERSARY PREFECT BOARD OF SMK USJ 12 05/06!

]]> http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/07/it-was-all-worth-it-july-14th-2010/feed/ 7 http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/06/a-milk-bottle-in-one-hand/ http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/06/a-milk-bottle-in-one-hand/#comments Wed, 30 Jun 2010 05:24:20 +0000 Jian Wei http://ourcoffeestops.com/?p=5234 The gush of hot wind raced across my face as I stepped outside the KL 1701 flight from Amsterdam into the London Heathrow Airport looking exactly as I’ve left it six months ago – lackluster and in much need of a creative spruce. The warm and dry summer air teased out any form of comfort that I’ve enjoyed within the vicinity of the plane. The London tube was worse. Devoid of any means of air conditioning, the tube was packed with people who forgot to put on their deodorant for the day. My long blue jeans were ill suited for the environment that greeted me.

Not a good first impression.

I expected a more spring-like summer – the winds dancing gently on the tip of my skin, bringing the much needed coolness that shields me from the sharp rays of the sun; the leaves flutter gently at the tree ends, as if been slowly rocked by an invisible force that runs through them; the ragging eagerness to hit the London Streets, soaking in its majestic glare without any need to vent, “SHIT! This is freaking hot!”

But as soon as I excited the London tube at Greens Park Station, things started to change. – excitement. Euston Square station was just three stops south on the Victoria Blue Line. Soon it’ll be all the familiar scenes again – the long escalator ride up with its side walls covered with small frames of successful musicals; the same row of shops that peppered the corners of Euston Square station as I made way for the exit and into the street.

“Call me when you get here, ok? I’ll just need five minutes to pick you up.” remarked Zhi Wei.

I needed no five minutes.

The imagines were still fresh in my mind, as though I’ve never left this place. My feet swayed the streets, guided only by the tunes of my memories, as I made my way to his dorm. Soon, it was all coming back to me again. The old fashioned black cab – very Mazda looking – that roamed the streets of London, apparently with a very spacious back; the ubiquitous “Look to your right/left” at the beginning of every crossing that I encountered; the thick British accents that filled the empty spaces between the air as people hurriedly chew their sandwiches with a nice cup of Earl Grey Tea.

“YO!” bellowed at figure from a far. I gently carved out a smile.

For once in 6 months, I felt so at home.

***

Under the silent gaze of the starless sky, we head out for a walk along the streets of London. We went where our hearts and feet took us. First to Tesco to get some root beer, only to detour to King’s Cross Station to find the same when Tesco didn’t have them in stock, and only to head back to Tesco when King’s Cross didn’t have them too. We picked two different beverages.

We laughed. We shared stories. We ate supper at Chinatown. We drank our beverages.

He had an orange isotonic drink.

I had a milk bottle in one hand.

Hello London, and God Save the Queen.

]]> http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/06/a-milk-bottle-in-one-hand/feed/ 6 http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/06/dim-sum-themed-pot-luck/ http://ourcoffeestops.com/2010/06/dim-sum-themed-pot-luck/#comments Tue, 15 Jun 2010 22:17:52 +0000 Jian Wei http://ourcoffeestops.com/?p=5160 I wonder what it’s like when time bows to the will of men; when we never have to rush from one place to another racing against deadlines; when we have all the time in the world to do just what we needed to do – or maybe more. I can’t remember the time when I just lie on back staring into blank space without that little whisper behind my ears chanting the tunes of guilt – homework, assignments etc. One just feels that he or she is on borrowed time.

It’s the second last week now. Spring semester passes by really fast – a part of me is sad that my English class would have to come to an end but a part of me is freaking elated as I can finally get this math class over and done with. My final collection of 25 pages of essay is due no later than 5 p.m. EST next Monday and with one horrifying math final on Friday that will stretch till the fleeting edges of the evening. Now that it’s my second last week here, I couldn’t help but feel teased by nature – the trees are more verdant than they were a couple a weeks ago; the weather no longer in its unpredictable mood swings; flowers and trees pregnant with their fruits of labour, sending amazing complimentary scents across the greens, and also irritating berries on the grounds that people step on.

#1) The green pastures in front of the Angell Hall.

But I can’t wait to go. I can’t wait to leave Ann Arbor on the 27th of June after feeling rather empty despite the amazing company that I have and the rather lax schedule that I posses. I have a feeling it’s more of the bubbling excitement of Oxford than the dull lulls of Ann Arbor. What’s ironic is that I’m quenching the thirst of my solace by traveling alone along the tracks of Eastern Europe. I am trying to convince myself that it’s a process of renewal – a chance for me to take a break from my current possessions and look beyond the boundaries of my familiarities. Meeting new friends and indulging in foreign cultures for three whole weeks should just do the trick. [I just wish it doesn't have to come with a freaking huge price tag. >.<]

After all, doesn’t life start at the end of our comfort zone?

—

Let me first share with you some pictures from the pot luck that Ju Shua, my successor, organized for my batch. There was a theme to the pot luck: Dim Sum. The food was amazing! Simple home cooked food peppered with sprinkles of loving dedication will make up for all the lost Ajinomoto and fanciness that come with a restaurant’s servings. And it’s even more heart warming to know that some of them stayed till 3 a.m. in the morning, trying to get the concoction right for their “Lo Mai Kai.”

As for me…my cooking prowess doesn’t stretch to such fancy stuff. So, in the name of creativity [everyone cooked something] and brandishing the scepter of comparative advantage, I decided to do what I did best: I bought wedges. XD EH! I was rushing a paper k! =P

#3) Besides the Dim Sum themed food, we had a whole assortment of other homemade delicacies! Including the egg tarts! The black box of wedges on the far left of the counter is mine. It was  the only item that was bought. =P

#4) The legions of sui mai and ‘I don’t know what the other is called.’ The pot contained Adele’s lip smacking glass noodles!

—

#5) A human tug-of-war

The guy in the middle is called Lover. And the one on right of the picture is his girlfriend. She’s an unfortunate person because while most girlfriends are accorded exclusivity with their boyfriends, the lack of suitable women in our batch has prompted its members to adapt accordingly – going after guys being one of the measures. So she has no choice but to appropriate him accordingly among the various factions, earning her the reputable nickname “Rival.”

“EH! EH! Later my hand putus lah!” lamented Lover as he became the coveted object between a brief tug of war. Well, the picture doesn’t exactly elicit pain, does it?

#6) I won the prize and Rival merajuk at the corner. That’s life. Get use to it. =)

—

It’s the last two weeks now. Time to get back to work.

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