Life is... something that should be seen through the eyes of a child ( Part II )

“ … kesian kta tengok sek budak2 tu. Dahla buruk x mcm sek.Kawasn pun cam dirty.

Ish I thnk if u tgk tmpt tu u pun akn membebel. Dah la bau busuk sbb dkt dgn loji.

Bgnn skolah buruk mcm bgnn tinggal. Skolah pondok kut ni. Sblh kubur lg.”

A friend laments over the condition of the school ( sekolah pondok ) in which her two step children are being deployed to by their own mother. The fact that both of them are still young and very much in need of their parents’ love and affection ( instead of strangers’ ) moves her more. She even volunteers to look after them, but her hands are tied – now that she is back to work, she has to juggle between her new task and the existing one of looking after her own three-year old son, and … her eldest stepson, as well.

The SMS that I received last Sunday morning reminded me of a similar story narrated several years back. Sending one’s kid to a particularly remote religious school somewhere up north or down south in the name of ‘enhancing one’s akidah’ ( as claimed by some people ) is not a new phenomenon. Personally, I have nothing against the whole thing – after all, even our prophet Muhammad once said, “ tuntutlah ilmu walaupun sehingga ke negeri Cina ” but the fact is – how could those parents bear the idea of being separated from their young kids who, at their age, should be at home - playing konda-kondi or Play Station with their siblings and friends instead of being packed off somewhere and deprived of their childhood? Poverty is definitely not an issue here as most affected students come from well to do families, with parents who serve as civil servants, lawyers, doctors… the list goes on. In other words, these are the parents who can afford to send their children to any respected establishment that offer similar programmes – but who only accept those aged 12 and above ( this could be the set back! ).

Where was I? Oh, yes… It was the year 2000. One of the Advanced Diploma students intrigued me. He sat for his SPM examination after he got back from Russia. Even without going through a formal education like the rest of his peers, he excelled and I remember him being voted as the institute’s Students Council President. Studying his profile, I came to a conclusion that he could be a Diplomat’s son. “ No, ” he denied. “ I went there on my own. We were sent by a certain organization. ”

Being tired and weary of a major project that was being held at that time, a few of us decided to spend the afternoon lounging at the then-famous ABAB auditorium. We were glued, listening to his story – and for the tenth time, I thanked my parents for giving me the most wonderful childhood – falling off the bicycle, poked by a rusty nail while attempting to bring down some jambu air and spent the night wondering whether I would die the next day, etc etc.

Coming from a well-to-do family but nevertheless a broken marriage, his father decided to send him off to stay with a long-distance uncle somewhere in Perak when he was just 8. So off they went to a remote district with a bag which he described as “ Masa tu saya rasa beg tuh besar sangat… Lagi besar dari saya…”. Upon arriving at a kampong which is located far away from the rest, his father entrusted him to an elderly man dressed all in white and promised to return the following week.

He soon discovered that it was a one-way trip. Spending his first night at a surau , with the huge bag as his mere companion, he cried his heart out. Surely his father would return to take him home, he thought. Nevertheless, weeks turned to months, and months turned to years, and all he had was the elderly men ( and the other similarly dressed in white ) as his ‘fathers’ and those more or less his age as his ‘siblings’. “ I never heard from my father, ” he said.

Survival is the name of the game. He soon discovered that life wasn’t that bad if one learnt to accept what is being offered. With the other siblings, they went through life as if it was a normal one. They cooked for the whole establishment – surviving on broth garnished with fried onion and soy sauce ( for the youngsters) and a more luxurious meal for the elders. Simplicity should be one’s way of life. In return, they were given religious education, focusing on the importance of being independent and looking after one self. As they grew up, some of them were given a taste of what outside life was all about, and a chance to earn their own money. Their task was to sell the establishment’s weeklies and for every copy sold, each would earn 5 sen. It wasn’t the meager amount of money that they looked for; it was a taste of freedom – of venturing into other places, instead of being stuck in a remote existence.

“ A person called ‘Abang’ would drive us to the neighbouring villages and towns in an old van that had been converted to accommodate 10, sometimes 15 of us. To do so, the seats were all taken out and we had to squat and hold on to each other, especially every time the driver went through pot holes and corners. We had to dress up in our best attires and often, the van would dirty our clothes! There was a time when the driver went through a sharp bend. The next thing we knew, the door flung open and we were all thrown out into the open, landing on the road. The lucky ones landed on the grass…. ” He was laughing as he narrated the incident – as for the others, we tried so hard to hold back the tears for his missing childhood. His laugh was met with an uncomfortable silence.

“ Since you would only obtain 5 sen from each newspaper, where would the remainder go to? ” Somebody asked.

“ To the organization, to the top people. ”

From a naïve 8-year-old who believed that he was taken to live with his distance uncle, he grew up to be a leader and sent to Russia to spread the organisation’s belief, all when he was just 16. Imagine, at the age when the others would go through what they call as their honeymoon years, this teenager had been entrusted with a serious task and he never complaint. Throughout the conversation on a rainy afternoon, never once he put the blame on his father. “ His upbringing moulds him to be what he is now, no wonder he can still smile when the rest complain about their assignments, tests, quizzes…” a friend mentioned.

Years pass by. I would have forgotten all about him if it wasn’t for my friend’s SMS. I don’t know what would be the outcome of her two stepsons – whether they would last in the so-called sekolah pondok and turn out to be potential Students Council Presidents and the likes – or to just give in - two grown ups who miss their childhood and teenage years, lost and weary, beaten by the system.

Only time would tell.