I used to dream of the world
24 would be the age
everything had become achievable

A man was going to come and propose
I would have thousands to dispose
Weekends in yacht parties
Weekdays in a tower
I would buy art from galleries
Because I am in power

I was fifteen.
I made two hundred dollars in a day.

I was eighteen.
I made fifty bucks an hour.

I was nineteen.
I made five hundred bucks overnight.

I was twenty-two.
I made a grand in a week.

But I stopped looking.
I stopped trying.

Maybe I’ve found the spiritual conquest
sooner than the rest.

Money pulls, strangles, and drowns.
Takes you around the roundabout.

Smaller than the ant on a boulder
on a moonless night, I am.
I’m older. And hopefully wiser.
Nothing but a single lamb.

I’m happier now touching earth
watch her give birth to life of
velvet petals of hues of purple
and I wonder if I would ever
arrive in this peaceful circle if
I’m only trying to feed this mortal.

But these days a looming triangle
has been poking my peaceful circle.

“He won’t like you if you’re poor,” it dissed.
“Be sharp and edgy like me,” it hissed.

I step out of my sphere and my fears
whisper, very carefully:
“Why not me?”

I watch every single successful woman
and I wonder if he would’ve liked me
if I had just followed my plan
at least I wouldn’t end up being this

But it’s okay Fifi.
Here are my words of comfort and strength for you.
What you’re going through right now
Is what you’re supposed to go through.
Perhaps when your land is to be ploughed and sowed
Under the Sun you stand with a rake in your hand
He’ll say hi and you’ll say:
“I don’t have time for this child’s play.”

#strong #independent #woman


It’s a fact unmarried girls used to stay home accompanying their mothers to later in life make housewiving a legacy, right? It’s almost unheard of these days that there are still girls who stay home to do “nothing”. The idea itself is generally frowned upon for having no “dreams” and not being “independent” because we’re also seen as naive and uneducated. I’ve never met anyone else like me, actually. Girls actually tell me they want to support their family when I’ve never even thought of that. Girls. They want to be able to do everything. Heroic. A round of sincere applause.

4.30 AM I half asleep rise and open my door to let the begging cat out. If I’m tired I’ll slam myself back to slumber.

5.30 AM I fully awake, listening to the gentle air, aligning myself with the frequencies of the day and singing tunes of timelessness.

7.15 AM Load the laundry, feed the cats, clear the potty, scrub the cat’s bathroom, clear cat food, tend the garden (or kitchen), clean the porch (or kitchen), hang laundry, do some more laundry, mop the ground floor, sweep the ground floor, mop all three upper rooms, mop the staircase, sweep all three upper rooms, sweep the staircase, hang the laundry.

10.00 AM Scrub the bathroom, bathe, connect self with the universe, do house admin paperwork (I’m the house secretary), clock in my 1000 words per day practice, decide if we’re having lunch outside or cooking.

11.30 AM Either go out or start cooking

12.30 PM Nap time

1.00 PM See what else is there to do. I usually write, or I’ll be out running errands.

5.00 PM Prepare dinner for the breadwinner

6.00 PM Tend the garden, feed the cats, clear the cat food, mop and sweep some more.

7.00 PM Maghrib berjemaah

7.45 PM Check everything’s cleared downstairs. Lights out.

8.15 PM Isyak berjemaah

9.00 PM Done with Isyak, either I go to bed straight or chat with whoever who wants to chat to me, or read, or write.

So when I was told to “dream” and “do something” as a human being I am by a pinch of salt slightly offended. Or when girls freely say that they “want to be a housewife” because they assume the house is always magically clean, when they call frying nuggets “cooking”. When they call themselves cat lovers but don’t know their cats are sick. Et cetera. Of course I can also go out and start making money, but I don’t feel that’s what I seek. Perhaps I can’t tell left from right. Perhaps I don’t know engineering. Perhaps I haven’t sailed the seven seas. Perhaps I am still immature and not thinking of the future. Or perhaps it’s because this is what I’m meant to go through right now.


Don’t seek to be someone you’re not.

What “I’ve Never Had A Boyfriend” Means

One of my mistakes in this human experience is that I always assume people understand what I mean when I say something. I forget that my mind works as an interconnected highway and having to concentrate on my road while looking out for the speeding cars on the left and the motorcyclists on the right, I can only say one thing at a time. I forget you’re not the driver of my mind. You don’t see what I see, as I miss out the blind spots that you may see.

I readily tell people (specifically men) that I’ve “never had a boyfriend“. To me this means “Steer Clear” but it’s only recently I figured out that to some it actually meant: I’m single, available, desperate, looking. And men come closer to me believing that I am all these.

Nope. That’s not what I’ve Never Had A Boyfriend Means. It’s not green light for you to come closer and assume I want you, because I’ve never had a boyfriend. It’s not that I’m bored so I’m telling you this because I hope you’ll get me out of singlehood. Nope. That’s not what it is.

It’s just that … it’s just that…it means…it means…

1) It’s not fair for my future theoretical husband for me to have a boyfriend right now.

Of course I think about who he is. But I am also realistic, which to me means until we sign the papers showing that we are legally and Islamically bound together, you may not be my husband after all.

I am friendly. I do let myself out in the open to be read like a book. That’s the reason why: print is dead. I’m not a fashion magazine. I am a walking autobiography. People are accustomed to reading 140 characters on Twitter and Notes on Facebook that sometimes they assume the front cover, the preface, or the introductory, or even the summary of the book to be the whole content of the book. And you can’t read a whole book at the bookstore standing at the book shelf even by speed reading. You have to buy it.

The thing about the book is that it can choose who will be her future owner. She’s going to choose the one who will read her every night, carefully flip her pages and take care that she doesn’t yellow too soon. She’s not going to choose the one who picked her up because she’s available, and then to be placed at the bed stand. She’ll know.

Books from the secondhand store? They’re fine, they’re as good, they’re as knowledgeable but nothing beats the smell of fresh new books. For my future husband, I want to be the fresh new book.

2) I’ve hung out with boys all my life.

Thank my mom for allowing me to play with the neighbourhood boys and their adventures while my girl neighbours were not allowed out to play with us. Since young I’ve been adventurous, hanging out with the older kids as we climbed trees and ran from cows together. To me I was no different from a boy; I could do everything they did. As a result I’ve never seen men/boys as anyone I should be attracted to, or should feel shy around. It stems from childhood. I am not a flirt. I’m just not one of those girls who get nervous and giggly around men, and I will hardly fall for the baits or lures men throw to get a woman, because I’ve helped men in these myself. Nope. I probably just see you as those silly men and boys I’m friends with. Doesn’t spark anything in me.

3) I have my own plans.

And in its nature, I don’t know where you’ll fit in. Because I spent planning it without the equation of a man by my side. For a man to come in,…I haven’t been flexible enough to bend my thinking through to accepting you in my plan. If you noticed I’ve grown too comfortable walking by myself outside too. That’s because I’ve never really seen myself with any man at all in my life.

Should I ever get married, though, I want to be the wife who dedicates her time to her husband. The husband who has plans and visions for our future. Not the husband who plans to live only to breed, survive, and die. I will (note the tense and intensity) say bye to my plans to fully support him. I don’t mind. I don’t need anybody’s validation or applause for anything. I’ve been alone enough to know that. But my husband will need me.

4) I will choose you.

People have told me, “You’re so picky!” or stuff like “Just give him a chance.” It’s not that I am choosy. I have a solid, never-changing checklist with the kind of man I’m looking for. I’m not going to settle for anyone just because I’m bored being single (a man has told me this, that he’s bored so he wants to marry me. He was serious. How about a NO.) or that I’m just going to accept anybody who wants me. Unfortunately I have not been moulded into that way of thinking. It is honourable and acceptable, neither better than me nor lower than my set of beliefs, but I am sorry, I cannot take anybody into my life just because he “wants” me. I must be the one who wants him first. And he exists.

I hope.



That One Friend Who Condemns

Unlike people whose phone I’ve seen, I don’t have many friends. At least this means I don’t keep in contact with them all the time. My phone is not constantly buzzing. I won’t have a list of unopened text messages because I just don’t talk to people all the time. Sometimes multiple people would text me simultaneously and I’d go “Whoa,” and reply one by one slowly.

There was a time in my life nobody talked to me. I didn’t want to reconnect with old friends, at the same time I needed a human communication with to stay alive. This was when the feelings of being a nobody, emptiness, and just feeling rejected off life were the core emotions I felt. Of course, I didn’t tell anybody this. I was trying to learn how to get over it.

Except that I did have one person who was talking to me. At that point of time I literally trusted nobody but that person was all I had to talk to. We met in 2008 and I guess I enjoyed keeping him in my company because from we first met he was the only one who “dared” (or should I say bothered?) to disagree with me openly. He had no qualms telling me I’m wrong, and we could argue but at the end of the day we’ll be fine. That’s what friendships are, I tell myself.

But during ~that period of time~, that kind of support was not I needed. I actually started to believe whatever this friend was telling me and believed that everyone else felt the same about me. That whatever I did was wrong, I shouldn’t, blah, blah. This was like crushing the petals that had been kept alive through the strength of the stalk despite the storm. He was not helping.

I tried making new friends, but they were not the right ones. It just happens. One day at the bus stop I realised what lonely world we live in, individual souls, each trying to make a connection with someone else through internet while ignoring the human beings around us.

I looked at the man with bandages next to me, and casually asked him, “So what happened to your hand?” And he opened up a whole story about how he got into an accident and now he’s lost his job, et cetera. Whoa, I was mind blown. I did not expect this stranger to be comfortable enough to tell me about his life. I’m not comfortable with telling anybody about my life.

So I started talking to more strangers afterwards. Quite surprisingly to me at first, everyone was more than willing to tell me their stories. I realised that that was my calling. I felt that people trust me with what they wanted to tell me, and that was important to me. This slowly lifted my garbage feelings, which were the experiences I was supposed to go through anyway.

We humans live in communities. It’s important to know how to be alone and be content with it. It’s also important to know how to make meaningful connections.

With that I personally see changes in me that I am okay with. I no longer have dark, depressing thoughts about who I am. Nor do I put any false expectations of me. Right people start coming in and I am okay.

That friend and I we eventually stopped talking, but I believe we’re still friends.

Recently he told me he’s not a fan of anything I post because he doesn’t like “public preaches” or “preaches about being good”. These words have no negative effect on me anymore, since I now come from a good place of calmness and serenity. I thought about how when we met eight years ago he didn’t like the things I said or did, and he still doesn’t like them now. Eight years ago I never wrote about being “good”. He admits that it is a personal bias and he just doesn’t like me for some reason. I used to use this statement as a generalisation that nobody likes me, but I know now it’s only him.

Everyone needs someone they could blame on, to talk to, to vent on and yet expect no reaction from. Why do sane people hit on punching bags when angry? It’s because they know there won’t be any reaction from that bag. And it’s safe for them on all levels of being to punch a punching bag. Is it wise to pour hot water into the boiling oil? Nope. Is it wise to fight an angry dog? Nope. We all have anger we need to release, and when we don’t know the right channels we result to transferring them to things or people. People who think would know it’s wiser to find a punching bag to punch, or a bear to hug, or a tree to kick.

I am that punching bag. I am that teddy bear. I am that sturdy tree.

I am the ground trampled on.

I am the rose petals crushed.

I am the breeze that passed.

And I am fine with that.

Just don’t think that everybody has the same mental strength as I do (now). Your unknown anger for yourself could result in emotional destruction for the weak. I’m not talking about my friend; my friend is just the archetype of that one individual who has anger needed to be released.


I was trying to memorise one surah from the Quran, listening to it over and over again on YouTube. It would be easier if I had a word-by-word Quran, and should’ve gotten it when I could. Meh there is a phone app anyway. I was told we have them in the store, but too lazy to dig. I should add that I have a random rough breakout on my forehead and pimples on my chin, that immediately developed upon my return from Indonesia. Days about my face and feeling stressed and ugly over them are long gone (thank goodness). I still don’t like it and do my best to get rid of them, but I’m not feeling stressed or crushed. Pimples don’t define you, Fifi.

Oh, oops. Got sidetracked. So I was replaying and replaying certain surahs to memorise them (two of them simultaneously, lolz) when my father walked in.

“I have something to tell you.”

And he sat down on my bed for forty-five minutes basically telling me: I was born already perfect, I didn’t need to try to be someone else, I just need to be Salamahafifi, I need to learn how to do nothing and achieve inner peace, I didn’t need to think of a husband, I didn’t need to read so many books (my room is flooded with books), because all answers are within me. And that I just need to be reminded of my perfection, because humans have been conditioned to think that they’re not good enough. But what we humans forget is that none was created the same, and I am me and you are you. Perfection.

It’s not that he’s not encouraging development. I believe he doesn’t want me to want to achieve these while feeling stressed out. He wants me to learn to take life one step at a time. And that’s what I’m trying to do.

Dear Fifi,

You were doing fine, peace, joyful, but now you find yourself doing things in hopes of an acknowledgement. You were never this way, Fifi. Please, return to the previous version of you, one who is secure and confident with her thoughts and beliefs, that nobody else who comes her way could shake her. He does seem perfect, too bloody perfect, but do not let him carve you into a different Fifi. Keep observing people and writing about your beliefs because that is how you share your ideas. Fifi, please retrace your steps because you are now going in circles. Fifi, you are lost. Get out of this spiral thoughts RIGHT NOW. You can do it.

Fifi Who Is Lost


since everything I feel
is a reflection of
where I stand

why am I allowing myself
to stand at the edge
of the cliff
when I can easily
take a step back
and still
enjoy the view
without compromising my

Impostor Backpacker

I am trying to be as open and as emotionally vulnerable as possible so I am forcing myself to sit down to list out the things that happened to me the past week. Emotional vulnerability is not about emotional insecurity, but in my definition it is about learning how to accept things as it is without being guarded. I’ve decided to write about this trip because it’s a bit different from my usual business/leisure trips. I think stories like these are BORING AS HECK, but it has to be told, I guess….

I am call myself an Impostor Backpacker because …I have a mental illness where I don’t want to be caught wearing the exact same thing twice. In my backpack there are blouses and even platform shoes. Who brings these on a trip up the mountains???

Two weeks before the 1st of August my father came into my room to tell me that a particular place in Bogor would be conducting a memorizing Al-Quran workshop, and asked if I would be interested to join. I had plans on pursuing my Quranic studies since I am just in love with the genius in poetry the Quran is. So I said okay, why not. The plan was that I’ll be going on my own, and then visit my baby siblings in Tangerang. I made no other plans. At this point of time I was also writing, and thinking too ahead of the future, that I found myself living in it. It’s suffocating, and unhealthy for my soul. So I decided not to make any concrete plans.

I know a medical student who was doing his practical in Bogor. I contacted him to ask about directions. He wasn’t much of a help; busy guy plus he wasn’t local. I kept thinking, “I have so many friends in Indonesia yet I don’t know anybody in Bogor?” I turned to ask the school for directions; they gave me lots of options, which was good, but I’m glad that after that something in my head kept telling me that I KNOW someone in Bogor.

It wasn’t until a week after this incident I realised that this someone was my friend named Karin. She didn’t reply me until days later. The last I met her was December 2014. We agreed that we’ll meet at her university in Depok (she’s a lecturer and she’s my age!). She offered her place to stay for one night. I was to take the bus from the airport to Depok, and then take a cab to her university.

So the day came and my flight was scheduled to fly at noon. Living in Johor and frequently flying to Jakarta, I would always be rushing for time trying to catch planes. I hate it. I hate rushing. I like to be early. Told my father that we’ll leave the house at 4 AM, so that I could chill and stroll to the airport. We prayed Subuh at Masjid Temenggong (opposite Vivocity), since my father had something to do in Harbourfront. I prayed that if something is good for me, bring it closer to me and if it is not, bring it away from me.

Here is a tired awkward selfie of me, of someone who slept at 11 PM to wake up at 3.30 AM to catch a noon flight:


Back to my prayers: That is why when my flight was delayed for SEVEN HOURS I was all right. SEVEN HOURS. Never happened in my life. But I can’t complain. Allah had made me avoid something, or bring myself closer to something, I tell myself.

I talked to some people during that seven hours: a man who says Ahok is a good governor (thank goodness, because in Indonesia the word AHOK is mentioned many many times), a holistic massage therapist, a baker with a baking academy, a human rights (?) lawyer, an abused maid safe and flying home, a maid on a break, a Halal competency specialist and another maid on a holiday. Oh, I’ve also given myself a mission to talk so as many people as possible on this trip. You know, to strengthen human bonds and learn something new.

The only seeming problem was that my 12 noon flight which would have allowed me to explore a new city in broad daylight now gave me no choice but to arrive in Jakarta when the Sun rays have exited the city and darkness have blanketed the skies.

All right, what an adventure. So much for wanting to live in the moment! I found the bus terminal at the airport and this was my first time stepping foot on it. I find it quite embarrassing, that if in a year I fly to Jakarta many times, the only mode of transport I knew was the taxi. Not cool.


It was very kind and hospitable of Karin, a young, unmarried woman, to go out of her house at 11 PM to pick me up. We are good Asians. We don’t do things like these! But I’m glad she did. Karin is a friend of mine from 2008 😉 If you’d known me from that period, you’ll know how she is my friend, then.

If I hadn’t listened to my instincts to contact Karin, I wouldn’t know where to go since my flight was delayed for seven hours. True, the school had given me directions, but they were only safe to be followed in the day haha. Very different travelling in the day and night, and night time travel was not in my head at all. I guess planning is important after all. But my point is my plans were NOT CONCRETE, and that I wasn’t too stressed out over the delay.

My limit to ~adventuring~ is before 12 midnight because you know, at home I am Cinderella.


I love Karin and her house. Indonesians as always are very hospitable people, and I could learn a thing or two from them. She’s also a damn good haggler. When we met in 2014 she could bring down the price of something from 40 to 25. She’s a statistics lecturer, of course. I guess she’ll know the stats of …how much they earn or something O.O I have no idea. In other words, she’s amazing, and I wish I was as smart as she is. Weather was cool in Bogor, she owns NO fans/air-cond.

The next day she sent me off via cab while she took the train to work. My Grabcar driver was a man who used to work in Singapore. He graduated from Pertamina University and was earning USD2300 per month. The price of oil dropped so he was sent home.

I don’t want to write much about what I did at the workshop, but here are some pictures. Yes, it is somewhere in the mountains. I don’t want to talk much about this, because I don’t think it’s important.

I bathed at 3 AM in freezing mountainous water, though. That, is important 😉 *pats self on the back*.



At the workshop I was the youngest participant, and the other young girl is a pre-school teacher aged 25. Most of the participants there already have tahfizs built, or are planning to build one. Tahfiz is a school for Quran memorisation. Interesting connections made, in case it is my calling to build a school one day (:

After my workshop ended I finally got the chance to visit Karin’s university!!! So exciting to finally take a train, lol. I want to take all public transports, if possible! I think it’s a good chance to live the life of the everyday people there.


Indonesian trains are considerably smaller than Singapore ones, but what I appreciate is the women cabin AND the staff making sure no man stayed on the cabin. KL has a similar system, but I had never seen a staff inspect the cabin. It’s not an issue of gender discrimination. Some of us are not comfortable squeezing with males.

The next day I took the train from Bogor to a particular station, to my sibling’s school. The total time taken was 2.5 hours. 😉 Not bad, I think. I love it. Appreciate train rides when I am not rushing anywhere.

Last Ramadan I met a Malaysian dentist student named Suraya and for this trip we planned to meet up, but alas she had something to do in Surabaya (the names rhyme, I love it). I didn’t plan to meet the following people, but in the middle of Quranic memorisation their faces flashed before me. That’s just how it works; that your heart tells you who you should meet for absolutely no reason. And then you just go with the flow.

Of course I was hesitant. They’re strangers, and they seem to be very busy. These guys I met last Ramadan too, but because I was into talking to Suraya, I didn’t talk to them much. My friend Atikah did.

There’s Muhammad and Shazwan, Malaysian medical students in Jakarta. The only characteristics I could draw/assume about them is from their social media. One gave me the #totallychillguy kind of vibe with his posts while the other I felt a bit heartbroken reading his posts about being tired. It’s not that I wished everyone remained happy forever, but you know, I feel words easily.


And yep my assumption about them was correct, or at least, according to my shallow visual perception. One was a #toochill dude, while the other was tired and you know, um, #toocool. They’re smart people, absolutely very nice and friendly, and I could learn how to be as chill and as cool as they are.

I slept at Miss Indri’s house that night! Aaaaah, another person I am so impressed by her hospitality. She’s my ex-colleague who teaches English. Someday when I have guests, Karin and Indri are my inspirations. I swear, I will try to be as hospitable as they are in treating guests.


That evening I met the people I facilitated an English Camp with: Selvi, Inay, and Anday. Another impromptu meeting. At 1 PM we agreed to meet at 4 PM. We talked about how to find our husbands (after the boss left). We don’t know how, because none of us has ever had a boyfriend. It’s quite pathetic, at the same time laughable.

(same shirt, different tudung; #mentalillness)


The next morning while Indri was doing her laundry I told her I’ll go out to look for my other friends (husband and wife). Something in my head told me to. I had NO IDEA where they lived. She only told me it was in front of a tamarind tree. I had NO IDEA what a tamarind tree looked like and when I looked it up, all trees looked the same. I didn’t inform my friend I was coming because I didn’t want her to break her routine or prepare anything for me, also I planned to only stay for a while.

But after a while of walking around the kampung, and after calling her to ask for directions, I found the place. Her husband was my colleague, was a Physics teacher and now a Physics lecturer. His wife was also in Physics, but after marriage and children she stopped. They are Fajar and Fanny. How cute is it that you marry someone whose names start with the same letter as you? I learnt how to be good parents through them. Their daughter bumped her head on the wall and they didn’t panic. So she didn’t cry. She just got up as if nothing happened. My cat could bump his head on the railing and I would already be crying for him. Smh.


One of the pleasantly surprising things was I met Miss Alfi 🙂 Alfi, too, married a man whose name starts with the letter A. (is that how jodoh works? My parents are both Y-Y too) She helped me drive to places a couple of times. An ex-colleague who taught Arabic. I attended her wedding in Indramayu, and after her wedding she immediately got bad morning sicknesses she quit her job. I thought I was not going to see her anytime soon, since she is now a mother. But hey, it turned out she just moved NEXT to my friend the day before. If I had chosen to visit my friend earlier, I wouldn’t have met Miss Alfi.

Trust in life.

That afternoon I had to say bye to my baby siblings… #sad


But true to the prayer I made at 5 AM at a masjid, that I prayed meet the people that I need to meet, and that these people were my prayers answered. I don’t know what goodness it will bring, but surely there is a lesson I can learn from everything. That’s why this post is more people-centric.

Smooth flight to Singapore, but upon my arrival home a sense of loneliness swept me.


Because I realised I was alone. Surrounded by people, but I am alone. Prefer to be alone, but I see now how lonely it can be. What loneliness really is. I’ve gone through my other solo trips not feeling this way at all. It’s a new feeling; emotional vulnerability. I am allowing myself to feel this way. It is okay. I am only human.

Perhaps was it because unlike my previous trips, I didn’t share them on social media? But this time I did? Or was it because everybody, now even strangers, kept telling me about how I shouldn’t be alone or I might end up being alone forever?

I don’t know. I’m still exploring the whole *other* emotions thingy. Experienced a lot, seen a lot.

Yet I know nothing.

I Was Angry

warning: didnt bother editing this post sorry not sorry

On my Facebook I write my enlightening posts. On SalWalks I write dark posts. On Instagram I post spur-of-the moments (no snaps, please). On Twitter I just go to see my old friends.

I’ve written about forcing myself to feel angry, or sad, when I’m not, because I’ve felt it’s odd that I don’t feel anything when something happens to me. How do I write about anger if I don’t get angry? So I’ll try to fake it. And exaggerate it. It’s true. I don’t get angry.

And then it happened. It finally happened. I felt real anger burning.

I was walking outside looking for Carpet. I heard a man say in Mandarin, “Is Carpet the name of a cat?” He probably thought I didn’t understand because he didn’t know I gave an introductory speech when I was in China many years ago (l m a o). I couldn’t hear a reply as I continued looking for Carpet.

Then I walked past his house and he spoke to me in his very Singaporean accent, “Are the cats yours? They shit on my grass and the cats are angry!” Yes, the cats are mine. Five of them followed me back and forth in my search for Carpet.

I’m in my ugliest clothes ever. If he was judgemental he would think I only spoke Malay. You know, I looked very kampong. He probably could’ve spoken to me in Malay too, but to have an upper hand, always speak English.

Hm, I thought. Is it possible that they go to his house to do their business? And…wait a minute. Did he say…angry?

“Did you say my cats are angry?”
“They shit!”
“Big cats or small cats?” (important for me to know)
“I don’t know, lah!”
“I’m looking for my cat right now.”
“I don’t care, lah!”

And I walked away. I think he meant that there were cat fights. There’s a nasty neighbourhood Siamese Tom who initiates the attacks with other cats, I wanted to tell him. But he didn’t care. Guess I shouldn’t too.

Years ago in our other house my neighbour complained of our cats doing business in her garden. I reached out to her by purchasing a pricey cat repellent and lots of those cat rubber spikes thing. She refused them. I don’t get it. Why would you refuse my help but you tell me about what’s happening? I’m here to take responsibility over my cats.

And then a new neighbour told my mother that he’d hit the cats if he sees them coming. Another neighbour claimed that my cats waited for him at the door in the morning, which I think  is a fabrication formed out of his hatred for cats. My cats are extremely skittish. They don’t like people they don’t know. He then said he would poison the cats, and tells us that we are sinners for depriving them of “all of life’s goodness” (ie mating) for spaying them. I’m helping to lower down the cat overpopulation!!! And I try to take responsibility over it but if the parties are just being rude and mean about it, how can we ever deal with respect and mutual understanding? I don’t want to hear any shouting. We can work things out if both parties agree to communicate. Nobody else makes sense but you when you shout.

And this recent event I’m trying to look for my cat to bring him inside, and he tells me, like a child, that he “doesn’t care.” Don’t say sorry, Fifi. I hear my dark thoughts whisper to me. I didn’t.

I was, however, cool in my facade, replying simply “okay,” but I am guilty of harbouring much dislike for him after that. If he wished my cats were dead, I was going to tell him “Your child will too.” I could feel my heart palpitate as I become very conscious of its pounding like a hammer on the anvil. I was not in my usual relaxed spirit. It’s as if my heart had beat extras. The drumming of a wedding kompang reflected the state of my heart. Uneasy. Loud. But Rhythmic. This is it. This is what anger feels like. The unusual lub dub lub dub lub dub in your chest. It’s tiring to feel that way too. Your heart works extra hard as you try to keep a calm demeanor. I find myself forcing cheerfulness and cherry merry stuff. Forced. Very bad business.

I should’ve written it down as soon as I was feeling those things, but after that I realised how childish I sound. How childish I am to be offended over this. He’s right, anyway. It may or may not be my cats. Why would I get angry over something like this?

These were my real feelings. Now I’m back to feeling as cool as a cucumber. I hope we learn to be calm when dealing with upsetting situations.

The other day I had my post plagiarised. I saw it being posted as hers, and the next thing I knew I was blocked. The last time someone copied the things I wrote as his own, he didn’t block me. So I don’t really mind. I would like credit, but if that person thinks I don’t deserve credit for my own writing, so be it.

I was, however, left not with anger, but sadness over this situation. She had thousands of followers, an influential person with hundreds of likes over a silly post about her encounter with a cockroach. I can’t even hardly get ten likes over a writing I spent time on. I believe she received hundreds of likes for that post of mine too. I felt sad because people don’t know that’s my post, and will continue supporting her over her ~genius original~ posts. My respect for her didn’t dwindle, I still saw her as human as I am, but I just wish we would look out more for sincerity. She used the hashtags #positive #goodvibes (I don’t use them) that followed that post of mine. It means nothing if the whole post actually belonged to me. So please, people, learn to look at sincerity and not credibility. She has a good job and education to back her up, but that post was not hers.

This morning I wrote about al-Waqiah, a surah in the Quran. I received a message thanking me for that post. I thought about how I get no “likes” from her on that post, but hey, it shouldn’t matter. Sometimes people would message me to discuss about the things I wrote, and most of the time they’d tell me they like it without even leaving a like. So yes, thank you for telling me you like my posts. Because sometimes I feel not good enough, and I have been gauging my good-enoughs with the number of likes I’m getting. That shouldn’t be the case. Let me write because I want to write, not for recognition or glory.

And then in the afternoon I was at Tesco, writing. My mom went grocery shopping. I had my notebook and writing energy flowed through me effortlessly. Suddenly received a text message.

“Are you alone?”

I looked around. It was from a girl I had met at an event a few months prior. We exchanged numbers, but we didn’t keep in touch. She didn’t have a profile picture so I couldn’t remember her face at all (I am HORRIBLE at faces).

“Where are you?”
“I’m at Tesco too.”

I waited for a wave or something as I scanned the hall. None. I continued writing.

A petite lady then came up to me after I wrote a whole page and said hey. We talked. She told me about how she was my “stalker” and had looked me up online, and enjoys reading the things I post.

“Why didn’t you add me?”
“I was shy.”

Nonetheless, I was very grateful that she told me she liked reading my posts. I had a new tumbler that says “Reach For The Stars” (it was at 50% discount, couldn’t resist, no matter how cheesy and Un-Fifi it is). My notebook was brand new. I was wearing my writer clothes: terrible mix of striped cardigan, old grey Girl Guides shirt and batik pants. It’s the same pants a magazine editor pointed out and said it screams “Writer”. Overall, I was feeling optimistic about being a writer, but I was also wondering if anybody would even like anything I wrote.

So this lady coming up to me to tell me she likes my posts was a blessing. A godsent, much-needed compliment and validation. That hey, if I can’t get thousands of likes for my posts, at least one person acknowledges it.

And that’s enough, I guess.

the trumpet

an audience of all eternity
standing naked
stripped off everything
who am I
I don’t know
am I safe
I don’t know

when my lips are sealed
and my hands and feet
start to talk
my eye replays into the projector
my ear plugs itself to the speaker
will I be content with what I watch?

the scale appears
gunny sacks await on each side
which is more?

I stand at the end of the bridge
people in the river watched me
ahead of me such beauty
below me, a purgatory
an abyss of blaze

fingers down there point at me
no! they charge
she is one of us!
a majestic but unnerving winged creature
pushes me off the hair-thin bridge

I join them
and now I look for someone else to blame.

Eid Update?

I feel like I haven’t written anything personal these days. Don’t you worry about my ‘heartbroken’ poetry and other funny stories – they are but a fantasy, at the same time real-life occurrences manifested by the thirst of romanticism and poetic tendencies. They are real, but I am turning them into my own version of fairy-dark tales because I am inclined towards darkness. I want to feel my heart break so that I can write about it. But a friend told me that good writers are the ones who know how to not get too carried away with what they’re experiencing. A good writer is one who knows how to write a story about them not be about them. And that’s what I’ve been doing, I hope.

On the bus, staring outside, I tried to find more sad words and metaphors to describe a heart break I wasn’t feeling. Nothing came out. I couldn’t. Maybe it’s because I need to feel at least a bit of heart break to break the ice. But I am not heartbroken. I am at peace, but I do not want to write about me being at peace on this blog. Because I am writing a whole book about it. Please pray that I may find the wisdom and strength to continue writing about my Peace.

My mother had a radical hysterectomy after I returned from Jakarta (oh, I was in Jakarta and I didn’t write about it). Should I write about Jakarta first? I don’t know. I’m not someone who likes to tell people about the things I’m doing (other than my writing, which I am trying to get comfortable with telling others about), show my passport and itinerary, take picture with landmarks, or the plane. They mean nothing to me, for I am a traveler of life.

I was in Jakarta for two weeks. That’s all.

So my mother’s not strong enough to be walking about for Hari Raya. We didn’t go anywhere on the first day of Eid. My family will always be done with our Hari Raya visitings on the first day itself, and it’s usually only three houses. Fast for thirty days for a day of celebration, that’s my immediate family’s tradition. I realised everyone in my family is an introvert, that’s why we prefer to stay home. Visiting other people and establishing a long-lost relationship is good, but I feel it’s only good if the connection is maintained. Not only once a year.

My father and my baby brother went to Singapore on the first day as representatives of the family in order not to offend my grandparents. Myself, my sister, and the other brother went on the second day to their houses, also in order not to offend. It’s a tradition. I visit them on other days, so I don’t really see the point in visiting them on specific days, but older people make a big deal out of it so I’ll just respect their wishes.

This is a candid shot taken by my brother which I like. My sister looks smitten:


At night, after prayers, I heard my father ask my baby brother “Why do you kiss everyone’s hands? Even those only slightly older than you?” I laughed. My father is not into the idea of my brother kissing everyone’s hands. It’s only cultural, anyway. When I was in Jakarta, my friend’s mother insisted on ‘respect’ for everyone older than you by referring to them by titles. I was not taught that kind of ‘respect’, though. My parents are fine with me calling other people by their names, as long as I am not being rude or offensive. But then again, dropping titles is offensive to some people. That’s what living in Asia, rooted by Asian values is like. It’s something I appreciate. Don’t get me wrong.

As I was leaving my grandfather’s house, my step-grandmother started making a prayer for me to find a husband soon. “May you find a good man,” she started in her prayers. For the first time in my life I find myself saying Amin. All these while I resist them, because all these while I didn’t want to get married. But that thought has changed. Heck, I’m turning twenty-four. My biological clock is ticking. My uncle, perhaps confused by my sudden Amin, asked, “Oh, you already have a boyfriend? You should bring him here!”

And my reply was: “I don’t. I’m not even looking.”

I pondered over my answer on the way home. I’m not even looking? Wait, am I supposed to be looking in the first place? Am I not the sugar ants swarm, and the flower bees visit? Am I not the honey sought by the bear and am I not the wrapped candy preferred by many? And then I thought again: why am I objectifying myself?

I don’t know if I want to be a part of a love story for human love or if I want to be a part of a love story for my poetic appeal. I still lean on the latter, but at the same time I don’t want to hurt anybody.

So I shall break my own heart, to break my own tomb, so I may rise from the dead, be dead before I die, in order to live again.


I listened to a classic that had these written:

“Siapa tahu, betapa berat cinta yang di tanggung sehingga dia sanggup untuk lakukan biar apa saja demi mendapatkan restu sultan cahaya hatinya.”

Which translates into (my rough translation): What do you know about how heavy the burden of love is, that she would do anything to receive the blessings of the man of her heart.

I’m guessing that the song is about Sufism and the love between man-and-God, but I took it in the literal term between man-and-woman. That it is about me. Is the burden of love really heavy? I found it mindblowing. It’s true I guess, people seem to be able to do anything for love. It’s just something I don’t understand. Very interesting.

You should listen to it too, it’s like a song high on weed, even if you don’t understand it:

I want to write something real and boring and unimportant things!!! Like what?

Learnt how to anyam ketupat, to weave a ketupat. This is a ketupat:

I don’t know. It’s not a dark theme. Ketupats are symbols of happiness and achievement. I want to write about heart breaks. Like the effort you put in weaving this ketupat, and then the beautiful green turns brown because you put it to boil. The rice inside absorbs the leaf extract. The leaf loses its youth to what’s inside. The leaf doesn’t mind. It’s for the heart it protects.

And then you take it. You cut the ketupat into half. And you eat the rice that the ketupat had endured four hours of boiling coconut milk in and you enjoyed it. You forgot about the leaf and its extracts. All you want is the goodness of the rich-flavoured rice. You forgot the hardship it went through. You don’t think of the one who weaved the ketupat. All you want is the rice.

That’s what I feel humans are like when they want to find a partner. They don’t want the ones in-process. They want the ones done so that they can enjoy immediately when served.

So mean.