SOUL SCRIBBLES

I was born just five years after independence.  As such, Merdeka is not a date I read in history books. It is not merely the parades on television or the flags fluttering in the wind every August.  Merdeka is a lived experience — a rhythm of life that has shaped me as much as it has shaped this nation. My childhood unfolded while Malaysia was still finding its footing as a young nation. I remember classrooms filled with children from all walks of life, our accents mixing, our friendships unburdened by politics.  Those early days carried the innocence of a country still learning what it meant to stand on its own.  As Malaysia grew, so did I. I entered my teenage years as the country entered its first flush of rapid development. I watched skyscrapers rise where old wooden shops once stood. I saw factories bring jobs, highways stretch across states, and the idea of progress become part of our daily vocabulary.  Alongside these triumphs, I also saw the struggles — ...

I’ve let go of the past — or at least, I’ve done my best to. I’ve chosen peace over bitterness, growth over grudges. But some memories still find their way back. They don’t knock; they just show up — in quiet moments, late at night, or in the middle of a perfectly normal day. And when they do, I still wonder:  What did I do to deserve what was done to me? I’ve replayed events in my mind more times than I can count, searching for clues, turning over every detail like puzzle pieces that just never quite fit. I ask myself, again and again:  Did I trigger it? Was there something I said, something I missed, something I didn’t see coming? I’ve received one apology. Just one. But he never explained why it all turned out the way it did. He never gave me the truth. Was someone else whispering behind the scenes, manipulating things? Was I caught in someone else's game? Or was I just guilty by association — collateral damage in a story that was never really mine? And then there’s the que...

Once upon a time, the average Malay man was known for his clean-cut appearance and pomade-slicked hair, parted with military precision—almost always sporting his parents’ silent (or very vocal) stamp of approval. Hair was more than just style; it was discipline. Growing up, my father had a simple, unwavering rule: his two sons were to keep their hair short while they were in school. It wasn't up for debate, nor was it a passing preference—it was a standard, one he believed reflected discipline, order, and a proper upbringing. Every month or so, like clockwork, my brothers were marched to the barber’s chair for their trims. At the time, short hair was just part of the routine—as natural and expected as wearing a school uniform. As we grew older, the haircuts never stopped. Long after our father stopped enforcing the rule, my brothers continued to keep their hair short. Not because they had to, but because they had come to prefer it that way. But in recent years, a quiet rebellion ha...

Books have the power to transport, teach, connect, and transform us. We turn to literature not only to entertain ourselves but also to deepen our understanding of people—fictional or real—and the world they inhabit. A book that truly resonates tends to feature evocative writing, compelling structure, memorable characters, fresh insights, and emotional depth. When all these elements align, the experience becomes deeply satisfying: we feel both seen and challenged, comforted and moved. And, there’s a particular kind of frustration that comes from reading a book that promises depth but delivers only gloss.  Ku Li: Memoir 205  is one of those books.  With a figure as complex, storied, and politically significant as Tengku Razaleigh Hamzah, the expectation is naturally high. His life intersects with nearly every major chapter of Malaysia’s political and economic history—finance, oil, UMNO schisms, royal lineage, near-premiership. The material is all there. But the memoir never...

I write this not knowing if I’ll survive the ordeal. No Wi-Fi. No cell signal. And — most devastating of all — no electricity.  The cell signal was the first to go, thanks to a forgotten phone bill. That one’s on me. Then, as if the universe had a personal vendetta, the condo management decided it was the perfect time for “preventive maintenance” on the electrical system. Just like that, the power was cut. And with it, the Wi-Fi — our last fragile link to modern civilization — blinked out. I was officially off the grid. No Facebook. No Instagram. No TikTok. No Netflix. Not even a sneaky WhatsApp message could get through. I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan, which — thanks to the outage — was also taking a break. For 30 minutes, I contemplated life. My choices. And how long I could survive without memes. Then I heard it — the soft whisper of the wind squeezing through the closed window like a polite ghost. I got up and opened it. Fresh air. Nature. I was beginning to rem...