Paradise Lost

Interrupting normal transmission to post this ‘open letter’ to Malaysia Airlines, the so-called national air carrier. It still pisses me off, thinking about the whole incident. I’ve sent this to various English dailies, hoping they’ll publish it in their letters section. Thus far, only MalaysiaKini has published it; no response from the rest.

My family – my mother, my brother and I – were travelling from Kuching to London via KLIA on 8th January 2007. This is a biannual trip for us, and my mother is a frequent flyer on MAS, travelling on this particular route every 2-3 months per year. As per usual, we were booked and confirmed on the MH2 flight from KLIA to London.

Upon arrival in KLIA, we made our way to the transfer desk to collect our boarding passes. I handed our tickets to the staff on duty at the transfer desk, and asked if there was a problem with our pre-booked seats as this has happened before when Kuching told us they couldn’t issue our KL-London boarding passes. The lady on duty ignored my question and continued conversing with her colleague. After making us wait for a few minutes, we were told, without ANY APOLOGIES, that my mother has been “off-loaded”. Again, any queries we had regarding the situation were blatantly ignored!

At this moment, the duty manager, a Mr. Ahmad Faizal appeared at the request of a British couple next to us who were caught in the same situation. It was only after much pointless argument that we were told that the reason why people were being off-loaded was because the flight to London was overbooked! As far as we, as travellers, were concerned, it was hardly our problem, and we shouldn’t have been made to suffer the consequences of the mistakes MAS has made. We weren’t consulted on this, and MAS shouldn’t have volunteered any passengers for this kind of arrangements.

Mr. Faizal assured us that alternative arrangements have been made to ensure that we get to London. He told us that we have been booked onto an Air France flight to Paris, which leaves KLIA at 11:25 p.m. (30 minutes earlier than the MH2 flight bound for London) and arriving Paris at 7.05 a.m. where further arrangements for a connecting flight to London has been made for us (arriving into London 2 hours later than expected). At the same time, we were promised an upgrade to business class seats for all the inconveniences caused. When we agreed to the arrangements, Mr. Faizal left to get our boarding passes and organise our luggage. Who’s to know that when Mr. Faizal returned, we were told that the business class upgrade promised us were no longer available and we should either take the alternative arrangements MAS has made for us, or leave it!

As we all had pressing work and school appointments that we needed to keep in London, we had no choice but to take the alternative arrangements. It seemed pointless and a waste of time to continue arguing since it was made clear that we were NOT getting on the MH2 flight. Unfortunately, the disaster did not stop there! When we finally got to the boarding gate, we discovered it wasn’t an Air France flight, but an MAS flight bound for Paris. The flight (MH20) was delayed for nearly 2 hours, causing us to miss the connecting flight to London. When we got into Paris, there was no MAS ground staff to meet us so we had to find our way around Charles De Gaulle airport. We also found out that we were not even booked on the Paris-London connecting flight that MAS had supposedly booked us on (as shown on the new flight itinerary print-out given to us prior to leaving KLIA). Instead, we discovered that my mother had been booked on a different connecting flight than my brother and I! To add to that, we had no idea where our luggage was as Paris seemed to think that our luggage came with us on the fight while KLIA told us they would not remove our luggage from MH2 that was bound for London! When we finally managed to get on a flight, we discovered it was arriving at a different terminal, where it took us nearly 2 hours to finally locate our luggage! Rather than arriving into London at 7 a.m. as we had originally planned, it was 2 p.m. by the time we located our luggage!

This is clearly atrocious treatment from a major airline – and worse, the national carrier of Malaysia. It’s clear that MAS had already known they were overbooked on the MH2 flight, so why were we not informed before we even boarded the plane in Kuching? Why confirm our booking if there was such an issue? What this experience showed me – and without a doubt, the rest of the passengers who were off-loaded – was that even if our travel agents had confirmed our bookings, MAS can just choose to disregard them at their convenience! We made our travel arrangements at least a year in advance, and are travelling on full fare tickets. We are also Enrich members, but more importantly, we are paying customers! Malaysian customers! Not only did the MAS ground staff at KLIA treated us without any courtesy or respect; the manner in which they informed us that my mother has been “off-loaded” from a flight she has been booked and confirmed on was rude and offensive. Not once was an apology offered for all the inconvenience caused, and we were all made to stand at the transfer counter like fools! And not once were there any MAS ground staff available in Paris or Heathrow to help us with our queries in the confusion! So much for being Enrich members!

It is unacceptable treatment from a national carrier. If this is how MAS, as the national carrier of Malaysia treats its own citizens, then all the celebratory pride over the awards won is for nought! Furthermore, the distasteful and unhelpful attitude of the ground staff at the transfer counter is going to be such a nice welcome for tourists visiting Malaysia in 2007. If this is the kind of attitude you want tourists to be exposed to first hand upon arrival at KLIA during Visit Malaysia Year no less, then I must say, KLIA and MAS, you have definitely trained your staff very well indeed! Kudos for offending not only tourists, but your own Malaysian travellers (and Enrich members) as well!

I have, without much direct planning, stumbled into teaching humanities-based topics in university and English as a foreign language to spakers of other languages. If you know me personally, you’d (probably) know that given a choice I’d much rather prefer to earn my keep doing other things. Preferably something that doesn’t require me to face a large group of people where I have to do most of the talking at designated times or places, week in and week out. Alas, life isn’t a fairytale. And what else can one do when one’s PhD is in something that is ultimately foreign (or alien, forgive the pun) to a majority of people.

For some, I believe, teaching is a vocation. I have met people who truly believe that they’re contributing to society by teaching, or that they can incite change (or make a difference) in people’s lives by contributing their talents. Good thing teaching is unlike medicine, where people’s lives are at stake! Else, I’m sure they won’t want a cynical, temperamental and often-depressed sociophobe to have any direct contact with the so-called future generations.

My first intro into the world of teaching wasn’t exactly a very friendly experience. I supposed it happens when you’re plunged into holding seminars (or tutorials for those of you non-British educated) for disinterested 2nd year undergrads who were resisting the course/module they had to attend. Didn’t help that I had no background in the subject, or that this being one of the top fine arts college in Greater London, it meant a large number of politically active students who thought they were resisting the system by being extraordinarily lippy in class. Never mind the fact they’re in university meant that they’re participating in a system they claim to despise and want to resist anyway!

But it might also have to do with the fact that being green and inexperienced myself, I just didn’t know how to deal with them properly. Furthermore, the culture I was surrounded with at the time wasn’t very conducive to admitting that, in reality: “I don’t know how to teach”. If I’d been accepted to do my doctoral research at this seemingly prestigious institution, then I was expected to somehow, by default, master the art of teaching. Kind of like throwing you into the deep end of the pool and expecting you to swim, not just float. In circumstances like these, you develop defence mechanisms where these students (or kids in general, for me) are evil incarnate. If you don’t wise up or put up walls, you’d be eaten alive.

The point of this piece is to reflect that perhaps the nature (and structure) of the institutions may have something to do with the experience of those of us at the bottom of the pyramid structure of higher education institutions. After a hiatus of a few years, I found myself facing more 2nd year undergraduate students. In a different institution in another part of the UK. This time around I actually have supportive people telling me it’s OK to not know how to teach or get everything right the first time, that it sometimes take years to cultivate the skill. That even then, you may learn a thing or two from your students. Doesn’t mean I’m going to let my walls down just yet though.

But perhaps being older and having more hours of teaching under my belt also helped. I know a lot more now than what I did before. And sometimes it can be as simple as breaking the knowledge down into simpler, everyday terms so as not to intimidate the students, and in the process, myself.

For a while there, I toyed with the idea of not continuing this site after letting go of the domain name. I was heading towards a creative wasteland, I felt. Words had become meaningless, and I felt emptier writing them. Furthermore, I felt like I’d submitted myself to it by enrolling in a intensive course that would earn me a certificate to teach English to speakers of other languages - a course that, while serving to be a means to an end, had drained my mind of affording that space to form any coherent observations. To put it simply, I was dead tired. Of everything. Of real life.

I’d wanted to escape. To go to a place that was beautiful, that would inspire or re-ignite that spark to sit down and observe the people around me, and all our interactions within society. To do that, it meant time alone. At least time alone spent doing the things I love doing; but it was difficult. Like trying to get back on a horse that seemed to keep running away just when you think you have the animal all figured out. My thoughts were like a wild horse that refused to be tamed.

But discontinuing the site wasn’t going to bring my inspiration back. In fact I’d probably regret deleting all the things I’d written. Like it or not, it represented a moment of time in my life. Like a snapshot ot texts. And knowing me, I’d probably pick it up again sooner or later.

So I let the site stay; with the hope that someday soon, it’ll be easy to come here, kick back and just write!

Recent events have convinced me, that not only do the laws of Murphy plague you at every corner without so much as letting you take a breather for months on end, but also perhaps karma, is very much part and parcel of our reality. Peace of mind is very important to someone like me, who views sanity and rationality as a precious and rare quality to possess, particularly in one’s day-to-day life. But, there is only so much a person can take before he/she breaks.

So, what does one do in these instances? How does one find that sparse moment or activity that could bestow us that zen stillness amidst a world that is clearly spiralling to a frenzy?

I’ve been in some situations before which some considered highly stressful (as stressful as a one-month intensive course in teaching English to speakers of other languages can be), and have seen my colleagues burn out from the workload by bursting into tears at the weirdest and incongruous moments. But do these crying fits soothe their wounded (and overworked) souls? Would it ensure them a peace of mind? I honestly don’t know, because to me, crying fits somewhat defeats the purpose of this search. Because after a crying fit, the problem will still be there and as far as I’m concerned, they’d still have to deal with the problem.

I supposed what I’m inherently looking for is something more profound, and more long-term. A way to see through all the negativity perhaps, and find the silver lining in the greyest cloud; a way to go about finding executable solutions to solve the problems and still maintain one’s sanity, wits and most importantly, sense of humour.

The more faithful of the lot would perhaps suggest prayer. Years ago, I’d probably gone down this route myself. But lately, I’m not so sure anymore. I don’t doubt the possible existence of a higher being, or that prayer can bring peace to some. I was after all, raised a Catholic, and to a certain extent, believe that prayer works for those who unquestioningly and undoubtedly believe. Simply put, my faith in organised religion, or that the believe that we should leave our troubles to a Divine Being who would find ways of showing us the answers/solutions is just not as strong. Have I mentioned that I’m a control freak? To put real-life problems that are plaguing me into the hands of a Divine Being that hypothetically exists means giving up too much of a control. And there are enough things going on in my life already that are beyond my control. I am not saying that those who do believe in the ultimate power of prayer are wrong – it is your choice. Likewise, it is my choice, made through a series of experiences, which lead me to this decision.

So, what else is there? Yoga, or any form of exercise that encourages deep relaxation? Organise a trip deep into the Scottish Highlands or a less populated island somewhere in the Pacific, where no one knows where you are and there are no mobile phone receptions or internet connections?

Writing used to help until my muse decided a game of hide-and-seek is in order. At the moment, it feels like the muse is still M.I.A. (missing in action). Words, while they come out, feels empty. Like they are strung together for the sake of being strung together with no correlation whatsoever to anything creative. Or perhaps I’m just expecting something more when it isn’t possible?

At the end of the day, how do I go about achieving a sense of peace that I desperately need now? A blatantly hypothetical question, if there is ever one; the answer to that which is – I haven’t the slightest clue!

Feel free to share your methods.

The Muse has been playing hide-and-seek with me for the past couple of months. Though, to be fair, it’s been in hiding more than it’s been sought. I supposed it’s a stage every writer, professional or otherwise, goes through. It’s getting through it, and how you achieve that feat that matters, so I’ve been told.

At times I wonder if writers’ block stems from the authors’ own emotional state. I’m one who believes that in order to write (particularly a good piece of work, be it creative or technical or academic), one has to feel. Embrace the emotions – fear, anger, sadness, exhilaration – emotions that are both positive and negative. But is it possible that when one feels too much, that empathy creates more harm than good? Or when one spends too much time focusing on producing work that is not enjoyable on a daily basis, within a short period of time that one forgets how to savour those emotions?

My inspirations sometimes come from observing the people around me. It’s not about drawing a line between me and them; it’s just a way for me to try and understand society on a smaller scale. Although that doesn’t always work, of course. My personal email address somehow got roped into some kind of an ex-schoolmates’ mass email update recently. It was like watching a train wreck which you can’t seem to take your eyes off really. I have not spoken to most of these people in more than 10 years, and for that matter, I hardly spoke to half of them while I was still in secondary school (high school for those of you who speak American). I was like a voyeur, peering into these seemingly ‘private’ conversations as these people moan about their age and urge each other to procreate. It was really like watching a bunch of peacocks showing off their fancy tails to the token female in the group. I immediately wanted to retreat back into my sanctuary of solitude! Or at least, be able to maintain enough distance from humankind to allow me to make some anecdotes.

Alas, this is not to be! I’m still frustrated over the loss of my Muse. And I’m still trying to recover from a prolonged daily exposure to people in a 9-to-5 environment. To think that I managed to live through that experience was a miracle in itself. But it was strange; not that the experience itself is a complete disaster. Reflecting back upon it now, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a situation where I have so little time to myself, and yet be faced with the same group of people everyday.

Perhaps I should be thankful that I hadn’t reacted more violently. But then again, losing inspiration can be a difficult thing for writers. The door to the secret garden has been shut – I have been left out. Worst of all, I can see inside and see the characters calling out to me. It is so dark that I can’t find the way in, nor find the key that can unlock this door once again. More importantly, when is night going to turn to day so I can find the key?