Showing posts with label cultural leanings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cultural leanings. Show all posts
Sunday, July 26, 2020
Not for those who suffer from pollen allergy
Pine flower cake from scratch for those who are against processed food.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
Marked intimacy when killing your enemy
Long ago in Borneo, you can only tattoo your hands if you have successfully completed a ngayau (headhunting) expedition. You need to get up close and personal with your enemy, breathe in his last breath, and feel the sprinkle of his hot blood as you severed his head to take home before raising your phalanges to be inked.
More than just a trophy, the severed head is a talisman against evil to protect your longhouse and its occupants against enemies and disasters. The heads are placed at the highest points in the house, to have a vantage view of all within. And during feast days, the heads are brought down, cleansed and smoked in a ritual as old as mountains, accompanied by the chantings of wizened wise women.
It takes a great deal more skill and power to kill your enemies with a bladed weapon. A will of steel to steady your hands when needed. A dying art of war immortalised in museums and books, little more than ink and paint on paper. The heart of the tribe is now transformed.
The West are better killers, of course. With their phosphorus bombs, high calibre projectiles, cluster munitions, and drones. Now they can kill aseptically from thousands of miles away, viewing death from high tech lenses, spewing bullets and explosives like a child with a PlayStation in the den. Never feeling the gut-wrenching fear of dealing with your enemies face to face, not caring of their names or faces, armed combatant or otherwise.
Nowadays, who earns their tattooed phalanges honestly? Are there still any?
Note: Cross-posted from my social media account.
(1) https://steemit.com/art/@allaboutarts/the-uniqueness-and-meaning-of-the-dayak-tattoos
(2) https://dayakwithgoldenhair.wordpress.com/2013/08/17/the-tattooed-man-is-the-perfect-and-sacred-man/
Marked warrior(1)
More than just a trophy, the severed head is a talisman against evil to protect your longhouse and its occupants against enemies and disasters. The heads are placed at the highest points in the house, to have a vantage view of all within. And during feast days, the heads are brought down, cleansed and smoked in a ritual as old as mountains, accompanied by the chantings of wizened wise women.
Hands of a master weaver(2)
It takes a great deal more skill and power to kill your enemies with a bladed weapon. A will of steel to steady your hands when needed. A dying art of war immortalised in museums and books, little more than ink and paint on paper. The heart of the tribe is now transformed.
The West are better killers, of course. With their phosphorus bombs, high calibre projectiles, cluster munitions, and drones. Now they can kill aseptically from thousands of miles away, viewing death from high tech lenses, spewing bullets and explosives like a child with a PlayStation in the den. Never feeling the gut-wrenching fear of dealing with your enemies face to face, not caring of their names or faces, armed combatant or otherwise.
Nowadays, who earns their tattooed phalanges honestly? Are there still any?
Note: Cross-posted from my social media account.
(1) https://steemit.com/art/@allaboutarts/the-uniqueness-and-meaning-of-the-dayak-tattoos
(2) https://dayakwithgoldenhair.wordpress.com/2013/08/17/the-tattooed-man-is-the-perfect-and-sacred-man/
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Haunted by Sea Maidens
This song is used as part of the spiritual healing ritual based on the tale of the fisherman who lost his heart to the sea princess. Traditionally this was used for treating what now would be called post traumatic stress disorder; to revive the spirits of someone who has had a traumatic experience.
In other words, traditional Malay medicine use music and song and dance to heal psychological illness. Pretty progressive, don'tcha think?
Enjoy.
In other words, traditional Malay medicine use music and song and dance to heal psychological illness. Pretty progressive, don'tcha think?
Enjoy.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Dressed to Kill
You can never dress alone ...
... if your clothes are this complicated.
This sort of fashion was probably the reason why very few European ladies follow their husbands when they go pillaging in the tropics in the 18th century. The suffering when your scapula began to itch; how on earth do you reach that annoying spot?
I don't imagine the garment is terribly comfortable; the boning of the corset looks like sheer torture. Keeping the spine erect is one thing, but the squashing of boobies is another.
Thank God this style is no longer in fashion, no? Although those pockets are really kind of sweet.
*stolen from theLiverpool Museum blog.
... if your clothes are this complicated.
This sort of fashion was probably the reason why very few European ladies follow their husbands when they go pillaging in the tropics in the 18th century. The suffering when your scapula began to itch; how on earth do you reach that annoying spot?
I don't imagine the garment is terribly comfortable; the boning of the corset looks like sheer torture. Keeping the spine erect is one thing, but the squashing of boobies is another.
Thank God this style is no longer in fashion, no? Although those pockets are really kind of sweet.
*stolen from theLiverpool Museum blog.
Monday, March 28, 2016
Ada aku kesah?
Indifference kills lame trolls.
All stolen from here.
When I was a child, to be told that I am unattractive was one of the worst things that could happen to me. I bought the whole ideal of beauty in media: to be thin, to be tall, to be pale complexioned.
Which is daft since:
a) Though I was slender (note the past tense), I'm not media-friendly thin.
b) I was short until I hit 15.
c) I'm a Malay - tan is my default colour.
Luckily for me, I somehow developed this idea that it's okay to not be pretty by the time I was around eleven or so. I gloried in not fitting the ideal, and I stopped scrutinising people for pleasing or unpleasant features or appearances.
Life is so much easier when you don't care what people think of your looks.
When I was sixteen, I attended a co-ed school and got me a pretty nasty culture shock. My idea of what teenage co-ed life was pretty much gleaned from television shows like Saved by the Bell. I had no idea that boys are so much more mealy-mouthed and gossip hungry than girls. Heck, they are even bitchier.
Case in point: one male school mate cornered me one day and told me that I should stop wearing skirts because my legs are ugly. He said that with an air of smug superiority, as though what he said came down from Mount Hira'.
I sat on a table, and looked down at my legs. They were curvy from ballet and covered with scars from scabs that I peeled before they healed. Most certainly not centerfold worthy.
I looked back at him and smiled.
"And who are you to me that I should care about your opinion? Are you my father? My brother? My boyfriend? Not any of those, right? So why should I care that you think that my legs are ugly?"
That was the first time I saw a Malay boy blush.
And frankly, if you are not going to pay for a new dress for me, or treatment for my ugly-ass appearance, why do you need to tell me what I already know? Bodoh, is it?
All stolen from here.
When I was a child, to be told that I am unattractive was one of the worst things that could happen to me. I bought the whole ideal of beauty in media: to be thin, to be tall, to be pale complexioned.
Which is daft since:
a) Though I was slender (note the past tense), I'm not media-friendly thin.
b) I was short until I hit 15.
c) I'm a Malay - tan is my default colour.
Luckily for me, I somehow developed this idea that it's okay to not be pretty by the time I was around eleven or so. I gloried in not fitting the ideal, and I stopped scrutinising people for pleasing or unpleasant features or appearances.
Life is so much easier when you don't care what people think of your looks.
When I was sixteen, I attended a co-ed school and got me a pretty nasty culture shock. My idea of what teenage co-ed life was pretty much gleaned from television shows like Saved by the Bell. I had no idea that boys are so much more mealy-mouthed and gossip hungry than girls. Heck, they are even bitchier.
Case in point: one male school mate cornered me one day and told me that I should stop wearing skirts because my legs are ugly. He said that with an air of smug superiority, as though what he said came down from Mount Hira'.
I sat on a table, and looked down at my legs. They were curvy from ballet and covered with scars from scabs that I peeled before they healed. Most certainly not centerfold worthy.
I looked back at him and smiled.
"And who are you to me that I should care about your opinion? Are you my father? My brother? My boyfriend? Not any of those, right? So why should I care that you think that my legs are ugly?"
That was the first time I saw a Malay boy blush.
And frankly, if you are not going to pay for a new dress for me, or treatment for my ugly-ass appearance, why do you need to tell me what I already know? Bodoh, is it?
Friday, March 25, 2016
"I could make you feel 22 again."
Ah, to be that young and foolish again. Maybe not.
Especially if you are Monica Lewinsky
The scandal broke out when I was in 2nd year in uni (yes, I'm that old. Shut up.). At that point in time, I was perplexed about the magnitude of the scandal. So a public leader couldn't keep his willy zipped up. So what? It's not news.
But apparently, the story of a dirty old man seducing young women in his (Oval) Office was so bloody news worthy, it nearly eclipsed other horrible news.
You know, stuff like NATO's failure in the former Yugoslavia, the economic melt down that toppled Asian economic tigers from their perches, the fall of Suharto, the genocides that kept breaking out with heart-breaking regularity around the globe, and so very many, many more.
I didn't read the scandal online because the Internet was in its infancy in my personal sphere. But her pictures were in the newspapers daily, with minute-to-minute revelations of the Starr Report.
As always, the man got away with a nod and a wink, while the woman was tarred and feathered all the way out of town. That was exactly what happened here, and instead of a three-day-wonder, it became a six ring circus that dragged on for months.
I have always felt sorry for Ms. Lewinsky. She suffered the humiliations of the damned just because another woman wanted to prove that Bill Clinton was a horn dog (duh!).
The constant barrage of the scandal on all news media made it ever easier to snigger at her for being "the other woman", for possessing loose morals, for seducing the "innocent boss", for being foolish enough to dally with a married man and the moralistic, self-righteously judgmental list goes on and on.
It also made it easy to forget that this slut / whore / tart / insert-invective-of-choice is a real person with feelings, who made mistakes in judgement (like your decision to buy that pleather skirt, thinking that you can stuff your fat ass into it once you lost that 20 lbs.), who have family and friends who are smeared by the scandal (her parents did a terrible job raising her, dontchathink?), and most importantly, a person whose life was irrevocably ruined.
Despite all that, she did triumph. She survived a calamitous loss of privacy and personal reputation never before seen in the history of the world, and still made something out of her life. She used her experience to examine how the Internet and social media has morphed bullying into a new monster that no one really knew how to deal with.
I love her take home message in this video: Have compassion for yourself.
And have compassion for others.
So think about this the next time you click the "Share" button. The next time you helped to viral a picture or a story. You don't have the context in which the story happened nor can you be sure that what was posted was truly something true.
Because you could also be a guilty party to a mega bullying event and be completely oblivious about it.
Especially if you are Monica Lewinsky
The scandal broke out when I was in 2nd year in uni (yes, I'm that old. Shut up.). At that point in time, I was perplexed about the magnitude of the scandal. So a public leader couldn't keep his willy zipped up. So what? It's not news.
But apparently, the story of a dirty old man seducing young women in his (Oval) Office was so bloody news worthy, it nearly eclipsed other horrible news.
You know, stuff like NATO's failure in the former Yugoslavia, the economic melt down that toppled Asian economic tigers from their perches, the fall of Suharto, the genocides that kept breaking out with heart-breaking regularity around the globe, and so very many, many more.
I didn't read the scandal online because the Internet was in its infancy in my personal sphere. But her pictures were in the newspapers daily, with minute-to-minute revelations of the Starr Report.
As always, the man got away with a nod and a wink, while the woman was tarred and feathered all the way out of town. That was exactly what happened here, and instead of a three-day-wonder, it became a six ring circus that dragged on for months.
The constant barrage of the scandal on all news media made it ever easier to snigger at her for being "the other woman", for possessing loose morals, for seducing the "innocent boss", for being foolish enough to dally with a married man and the moralistic, self-righteously judgmental list goes on and on.
It also made it easy to forget that this slut / whore / tart / insert-invective-of-choice is a real person with feelings, who made mistakes in judgement (like your decision to buy that pleather skirt, thinking that you can stuff your fat ass into it once you lost that 20 lbs.), who have family and friends who are smeared by the scandal (her parents did a terrible job raising her, dontchathink?), and most importantly, a person whose life was irrevocably ruined.
Despite all that, she did triumph. She survived a calamitous loss of privacy and personal reputation never before seen in the history of the world, and still made something out of her life. She used her experience to examine how the Internet and social media has morphed bullying into a new monster that no one really knew how to deal with.
I love her take home message in this video: Have compassion for yourself.
And have compassion for others.
So think about this the next time you click the "Share" button. The next time you helped to viral a picture or a story. You don't have the context in which the story happened nor can you be sure that what was posted was truly something true.
Because you could also be a guilty party to a mega bullying event and be completely oblivious about it.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Opening doorways to wonder and tragedy
Kafka on the Shore by Haruki MurakamiMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
This was not an easy book to read. I'm used to books that are more action oriented rather than introspective; the shift took some getting used to. The dilemma faced by the fifteen year old protagonist was diametrically different from my halcyon days of the same age; but some things still resonate.
Kafka is a fifteen year old boy who ran away from home to keep himself from fulfilling a terrible prophecy. Nakata was a man who lost himself at the cusp of adolescence and was rendered mentally differently abled as a result. I still don't understand why Kafka's narrative was in the present tense and Nakata's in the past, but I think that has something to do with the different trajectory of their journey.
The book have talking cats, hidden forests, and a sense of lyrical magic that intertwines through the whole story; a sense of foreshadowing, a glimmer of innocence and unexplained resonance with the psyche. A very interesting examination of Japanese culture past and present, as well as a snapshot in a moment that is neither modern nor obsolete.
This is not a book to be read and discarded; but one to be poured over and contemplated. I really had to resist the resistance to scribble on the margins just so I could keep track of what's in my head.
View all my reviews
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
E is for English
... and its myriad accents the world over. From Manglish to Singlish to Aussie to Kiwi to the Indian subcontinent, the language is flavoured by the first language of its speaker. There are ten times more non-native English speakers than there are native English speaker (I pulled this number out of thin air, so don't quote me) so it is not logical to think that there is only one way to use (and abuse) the language.
Methinks that standard English pronunciation exists only in the imagination of snobbish purists.
Methinks that standard English pronunciation exists only in the imagination of snobbish purists.
Monday, May 26, 2014
G is for Gender
(find the lyrics to Arcade Fire's We Exist here)
No, I am not a fan of Arcade Fire but this video caught my eye for obvious reasons (Andrew Garfield, duh).
"GIRLS WHO ARE BOYS
WHO LIKE BOYS TO BE GIRLS
WHO DO BOYS LIKE THEY'RE GIRLS
WHO DO GIRLS LIKE THEY'RE BOYS
ALWAYS SHOULD BE SOMEONE YOU REALLY LOVE..."
Blur - Girls and Boys
This song was the anthem I bopped along to during my pre-u days when Damon Alban and the rest of the second wave of British Invasion ruled the airwaves. We innocently sang along to it without real thought to the underlying meaning of the lyrics.
I enjoy dreams where I am a man (except the time I morphed into John C Reilly complete with flannel shirts); it is amazingly liberating to be so physically dominating, let me tell you. Do men ever dream of being women, I wonder.
"Girls can wear jeans and cut their hair short, wear shirts and boots. ‘Cause it’s OK to be a boy. But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading. ‘Cause you think that being a girl is degrading. But secretly, you’d love to know what it’s like… Wouldn’t you? What it feels like for a girl."
I am among those who benefit from this sexism. I can keep my hair ear length and no one blinks when I buy my shorts from the men's section (women's shorts are too indecent. They barely cover my fat bum). However, all these didn't do squat to make me manly nor do I ever want to abandon my bright lipsticks.
Some people may say that gender is nothing more than a social construct that depends on your location. In some parts of the world, men keep long hair (e.g. Comanche, Iroquois nation) and wear dresses (the Arab men robes are damn comfy and I love wearing them too). Hence, outward manifestation of gender is a fluid thing and has time-place setting parameters to them (Georgian men in Europe used powder and maquillage).
What's it like to be a girl? What's it like to be a boy? For those who do not experience gender dysphoria, these are silly questions. But for those who have felt like they have been in the wrong body for their entire life, it's no laughing matter. It's a terrible discordance to live with and one I wouldn't wish on anyone at all.
The transgender community are often victims of violence and untoward aggression. They are discriminated against not just in terms of service provision, but also in employment and other social mobility. This often pushed them into doing sex work where they are made further vulnerable to violence and limits their economic advantage.
I think we should strive to be kinder to transgendered people. I know that many use religion to smack down transgenders, but if you consider gender dysphoria as something organic, don't you think that it's God's will that they are they way they are? It's not their fault, nor is it something they sought after. So why can't we leave them be and just accept them as they are?
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
M is for Mask
Duplicitious.
Subtle.
Indirect.
Devious.
Women are often portrayed as conniving plotters and vile seducers out to victimise poor, hapless men. From centuries old fairy tales to the latest television hits, pop culture and literature are littered with women who are evil (i.e. has her own agenda that doesn't serve a man's), wily (i.e. respectable intelligence is only for men), bossy (i.e. only men are forceful), and the list goes on.
Why can't women be forthright, many men say. Why can't women be open about what they want and be honest about their true motivations? Why are women always saying A but actually meant B?
Dear readers, we are made that way.
Many women grow up thinking that they need to present a certain front to the world. They are expected to be pretty, to be personable, to be nice, to be demure and subservient to the authorities in their life (namely, the men). They have to be a good daughter - do the chores, mind the younger siblings, cook the meals, be home by 6 pm, and come home with bushels of As for the exams. They are expected to be a great girlfriend - the obedient wife - the undemanding mother.
And if they can't? Well ... fake it till you make it.
Lyrics to the awesome song is here.
Subtle.
Indirect.
Devious.
Women are often portrayed as conniving plotters and vile seducers out to victimise poor, hapless men. From centuries old fairy tales to the latest television hits, pop culture and literature are littered with women who are evil (i.e. has her own agenda that doesn't serve a man's), wily (i.e. respectable intelligence is only for men), bossy (i.e. only men are forceful), and the list goes on.
Why can't women be forthright, many men say. Why can't women be open about what they want and be honest about their true motivations? Why are women always saying A but actually meant B?
Dear readers, we are made that way.
(sic)
Many women grow up thinking that they need to present a certain front to the world. They are expected to be pretty, to be personable, to be nice, to be demure and subservient to the authorities in their life (namely, the men). They have to be a good daughter - do the chores, mind the younger siblings, cook the meals, be home by 6 pm, and come home with bushels of As for the exams. They are expected to be a great girlfriend - the obedient wife - the undemanding mother.
And if they can't? Well ... fake it till you make it.
Lyrics to the awesome song is here.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Are you a lover?
Yes, Valentine's Day was two weeks ago. But watch this anyway.
Love isn't just between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman or a man and a man. Love is not always about romance and happily (n)ever after. Love is more than lust-fueled gropes and short-lived euphoria.
Love is ... ah, it's too complicated.
Easier to talk about what is NOT LOVE. Abuse is not love. Terror is not love. Non-consensual acts are not love. Harming and hurting is not love. Indifference is not love.
So what is love for you?
Love isn't just between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman or a man and a man. Love is not always about romance and happily (n)ever after. Love is more than lust-fueled gropes and short-lived euphoria.
Love is ... ah, it's too complicated.
Easier to talk about what is NOT LOVE. Abuse is not love. Terror is not love. Non-consensual acts are not love. Harming and hurting is not love. Indifference is not love.
So what is love for you?
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Macho macho man?
What makes a male human being manly?
I am glad that I am a female. I enjoy everything about being female, from the softness of my skin, to the lushness of my body, even the insanity that plagues me when the red flag is raised. I am hugely appreciative that I can enjoy and express my emotions and no one will call me on it and scream, "BE A MAN!" I don't have to pretend to not have fear, to not have insecurities, and I don't need to hide what is percolating in my head (to a certain extend, otherwise they'll put you in a mental institution).
However, I get to do all that because I am a female. But men can't do this; especially those conditioned in a machismo culture. Unfortunately, machismo is not helping men become manlier. It cripples men from exploring God's gift of emotions and to be honest with the most basic parts of themselves. When I read about the Prophet Muhammad: about his kindness, his unabashed affection for his wife(ves) and children and grandchildren, his gentle ways, his openness of his tears; all things that are contrary to the rough and ready Arab culture of those days, I am amazed. This was a *real* man who stood for what he felt was right, enjoined righteousness and did not fear society's anger or reprisal.
My fear is that machismo is often a slippery slope that leads to arrogance, misplaced pride and violence. Quite often the violence is directed towards the weaker ones, be it women, children, and even other men.
Let's kill the machismo that is strangling men. Because they deserve better.
I am glad that I am a female. I enjoy everything about being female, from the softness of my skin, to the lushness of my body, even the insanity that plagues me when the red flag is raised. I am hugely appreciative that I can enjoy and express my emotions and no one will call me on it and scream, "BE A MAN!" I don't have to pretend to not have fear, to not have insecurities, and I don't need to hide what is percolating in my head (to a certain extend, otherwise they'll put you in a mental institution).
However, I get to do all that because I am a female. But men can't do this; especially those conditioned in a machismo culture. Unfortunately, machismo is not helping men become manlier. It cripples men from exploring God's gift of emotions and to be honest with the most basic parts of themselves. When I read about the Prophet Muhammad: about his kindness, his unabashed affection for his wife(ves) and children and grandchildren, his gentle ways, his openness of his tears; all things that are contrary to the rough and ready Arab culture of those days, I am amazed. This was a *real* man who stood for what he felt was right, enjoined righteousness and did not fear society's anger or reprisal.
My fear is that machismo is often a slippery slope that leads to arrogance, misplaced pride and violence. Quite often the violence is directed towards the weaker ones, be it women, children, and even other men.
Let's kill the machismo that is strangling men. Because they deserve better.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Baritonia!
Proof that military types know how to let their crew cuts down and boogie. Here is the Russian Red Army military choir crooning some juicy tunes for your pleasure.
*jives along*
I'm sure Freddy would be tickled pink by this.
This is ... irony distilled in its purest form. From Russia with Love FTW!
*jives along*
I'm sure Freddy would be tickled pink by this.
This is ... irony distilled in its purest form. From Russia with Love FTW!
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Vroom! Vroom!
What the interior of my baby looks like on a rainy night.
Like many suburban teenagers, I took the driving test after completing my SPM (high school exam). I remember being terrorised by a driving instructor who didn't understand that I had no clue that there are other gears apart from 1st and reverse. Hey, my first three lessons were nothing except the bit about parallel and and L-parking, okay?
After getting my license, I harassed my Dad to let me drive. I may have gotten JPJ's (Department of Motor Vehicle) permission to drive on the road, but getting past Daddy!JPJ was much harder. It took a while, but I finally got permission to get myself around in Mum's car, even to uni. Lucky for me, there weren't many students driving in those days, so parking wasn't as hellish an issue as it is now in my alma mater.
A lot of drivers, myself included, take driving for granted. We got wheels and can go places, whether because of work (all those hours behind the wheel cursing other salarypeople like myself who are also on the road) or even out of duty or pleasure. Of course we curse the Government with every fuel hike, conveniently forgetting that we pay the least for fuel in this region, but nonetheless, we could continue to choke the highways and widen that hole in the ozone layer over the McMurdo Base in Antarctica.
Ladies in Saudi Arabia do not have this luxury. Bad enough they are treated worse than toddlers (cannot go anywhere without a male family member or written permission), they don't even have the luxury of self transportation. I don't know if there are any public transport system in Saudi (I doubt it), but with the kind of social restraints put on these women, they can't even board a bus without a pass from their husband/father/brother/son/whoever with a Y chromosome in their household. If their child had an accident in the house and needed to be taken to the hospital pronto, she will have to wait for a male member of her household to come home, pick them up and go.
Saudi Arabia is the only country in the whole world that forbids women from driving. The authorities in Saudi Arabia claimed that allowing women to drive would be detrimental to society. Some cleric even said that driving would damage women's ovaries or something equally demented. I am not surprised. It was in Saudi Arabia that I saw signage in shops that says "Women are not allowed!". Like we are dogs. Which is also lousy for business because, hello? Shoppers bring revenue, remember? Who cares what sex chromosomes they carry?
Last Saturday a group of women in Saudi got together and pushed for a campaign to allow them to drive in the streets of Saudi. The website of the campaign was hacked in order to discourage them but at least sixty women donned their hijab and braved the disapproval and got behind the wheel and got to places. It's a start, but hey, even suffragettes didn't get the vote until decades of blood, sweat and tears, hey?
Anyhoo, this guy made this cool video poking fun at the Saudi authority's stand on women driving. Check it out.
Solidarity for our sisters in Saudi!
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Our customers are no good to us dead
Good marketing is not just about getting more customers, but also to maintain the existing ones.
Sometimes the universe surprises you, in a good way.
Sometimes the universe surprises you, in a good way.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Never leave home without a good knife
Sing-a-long in Javanese!
*Stolen from Facebook, hence the tiny quality.
The song is about the process of having a wedding for Javanese families. Traditionally, the family would gather for a meeting to discuss division of labour; roping in aunts, uncles, cousins, etc to help out. Either the parent(s) of the bride/groom heads the endeavour or a family elder is tasked with the coordination of the needful for the event. No need for wedding planners.
I love how well the songwriter included the various elements of the kenduri like rewang (hanging out to help cook, decorate, etc), lining the palm of the host with a money-filled envelope before taking your leave and many more. The title of the post is a reference to how many ladies like my grandmother (and yours truly included) would never depart home for a rewang without our own knife with which to work. After all, the host may run out of knives for you to use or have inferior blades of the kind of sharpness and size that you do not favour (too many people have small, blunt knives. I check out the kitchens). I remember freaking out my grandmother's neighbour as I peel onions with a six-inch (not including the handle) chef knife. But hey, my knife was beautifully sharp and of great heft that slicing and dicing was a breeze.
However, the rewang tradition is slowly being eradicated as our lifestyle change; we can no longer depend on the commitment of families and neighbours with the catering (with perhaps a souvenir from the host for their time and energy in the form of a kain batik/pelekat, etc) and prep, everyone is so busy. Unless you live in a close-knit kampung or community, you are better off engaging professional caterers to get things done. Granted, your event will look like those in the magazines (assuming you have the budget for it), but the camaraderie of showing off your skills, developing talents and just hanging out together gossiping but the uncle who was chased out by his third wife as you peel onions will no longer part of the communal memory.
Ah well. That's the price of progress, innit?
I'm a little teapot, short and stout ...
Little teapots have big ears. And eyes.
Big time.
Don't drink and drive.
Don't nap while you drive.
Don't text/WhatsApp/take Instagram pictures while you drive.
And most definitely, don't take drugs and drive.
C'mon ... do people have to tell you that?
Big time.
Don't drink and drive.
Don't nap while you drive.
Don't text/WhatsApp/take Instagram pictures while you drive.
And most definitely, don't take drugs and drive.
C'mon ... do people have to tell you that?
Friday, September 13, 2013
What is truer than truth?
Title stolen from Isabel Allende in this video.
The following two videos underscore how story telling goes beyond mere entertainment. In the ancient days of my motherland, we have the penglipur lara, the storyteller, who travel from village to village, sharing stories, news and relating historical myths of the ancient kings. Their stories gave wings to the imagination of the ordinary folks and their arrival was much anticipated.
Technology and globalisation have changed the way stories are narrated. The penglipur lara may be dead for hundreds of years, but his stories continue to be told in different media. This is the power of stories: it evolves, are adapted and become incorporated into another narrative. In a way, stories are immortalised beyond the lives of the tellers.
But have we ever examined the origins of the stories we consume? Who delivered them? What was their intention? Were their sources right? What inspired them?
Herein lies the danger of the single story narrative.
I will admit to being guilty of the same thing. You tend to swallow what was told to you, especially as children. I am sure that many of us grew up with all kinds of stories about the "other" people. People who don't look like us, don't behave or pray (if they pray!) like we do, don't think like we do. Some of it is relatively harmless (or not); like mothers of the old admonishing wayward children to behave or "The benggali* will come and catch you!"
The more malevolent were like, "If you have to choose between killing a snake and a (insert ethnic/religious group of suspicion), it is better to kill the ethnic/religious person." This is about dehumanising the other person, making them alien and difficult to identify with. It would also make it easier to denigrate them, and to look down on them.
I am struck by her words about how the people in power made the definitive story and this could be used to dispossess the people, hijacking their history and culture. When a story is repeated over and over again, somehow it gained the veneer of truth and became accepted as a fact. This is some particularly profound for me, as my ethnic group is often painted as lazy, lacking initiative and always looking for a shortcut to solve problems. This perspective of our former colonial masters was countered by the eminent humanities scholar Syed Hussein Alatas in his book The Myth of the Lazy Native (which I will admit to having yet to read). But this idea of Malays being lackadaisical, etc has been so tightly woven in the nation's narrative, that it is difficult to disentangle. And like a self-fulfilling prophecy, we make it come true.
Like Ms. Adichie, the stories I write in my head (and occasionally pen down) often feature people from other countries because I have been steeped in American and Western culture, thanks to a steady diet of books, music, television and films.
*shame-faced*
While Ms. Adichie felt that Asian and African and South American and other non-white writers should be working towards developing narratives that is a contrast from the Western world view, Ms. Shafak felt that the manifestation of identity need not be utterly personal, so one could write from the viewpoint of people who is not oneself.
To her, the most important thing is that the story need to be informative and well researched, written to evoke emotions and perhaps, create connections and empathy. One must not be limited to one's nationality, gender and sexuality. It is a very liberating thought, but I do believe that one should be free to tell the stories that speaks to one. However, it does seem that white authors get more leeway than non-white authors, who are expected to write only about their own culture and experiences.
Ninot Aziz, a celebrated Malaysian author, is reviving the hikayat, the folk tales and legends of the Nusantara. Although the stories are sourced from Malay folk tales, she believes that the cosmopolitan nature of the stories transcends any cultural dichotomy and will speak to us regardless of our background.
Her book, Hikayat - From the Ancient Malay Kingdoms is up for the Anugerah Buku Perpustakaan Negara Malaysia - RTM. Please vote for her here. The author name is Ninot Aziz and the ISBN number of the book is 978-967-61-2540-80.
Here's to more excellent stories coming out of Malaysia!
* corruption of the word Bengali (someone from the state of Bengal in India). Usually the Sikh or other Bengal ethnic man who wore a turban and was an itinerant merchant of cloth and other household items during the pre and post Independent Malaya.
The following two videos underscore how story telling goes beyond mere entertainment. In the ancient days of my motherland, we have the penglipur lara, the storyteller, who travel from village to village, sharing stories, news and relating historical myths of the ancient kings. Their stories gave wings to the imagination of the ordinary folks and their arrival was much anticipated.
Technology and globalisation have changed the way stories are narrated. The penglipur lara may be dead for hundreds of years, but his stories continue to be told in different media. This is the power of stories: it evolves, are adapted and become incorporated into another narrative. In a way, stories are immortalised beyond the lives of the tellers.
But have we ever examined the origins of the stories we consume? Who delivered them? What was their intention? Were their sources right? What inspired them?
Herein lies the danger of the single story narrative.
I will admit to being guilty of the same thing. You tend to swallow what was told to you, especially as children. I am sure that many of us grew up with all kinds of stories about the "other" people. People who don't look like us, don't behave or pray (if they pray!) like we do, don't think like we do. Some of it is relatively harmless (or not); like mothers of the old admonishing wayward children to behave or "The benggali* will come and catch you!"
The more malevolent were like, "If you have to choose between killing a snake and a (insert ethnic/religious group of suspicion), it is better to kill the ethnic/religious person." This is about dehumanising the other person, making them alien and difficult to identify with. It would also make it easier to denigrate them, and to look down on them.
I am struck by her words about how the people in power made the definitive story and this could be used to dispossess the people, hijacking their history and culture. When a story is repeated over and over again, somehow it gained the veneer of truth and became accepted as a fact. This is some particularly profound for me, as my ethnic group is often painted as lazy, lacking initiative and always looking for a shortcut to solve problems. This perspective of our former colonial masters was countered by the eminent humanities scholar Syed Hussein Alatas in his book The Myth of the Lazy Native (which I will admit to having yet to read). But this idea of Malays being lackadaisical, etc has been so tightly woven in the nation's narrative, that it is difficult to disentangle. And like a self-fulfilling prophecy, we make it come true.
Like Ms. Adichie, the stories I write in my head (and occasionally pen down) often feature people from other countries because I have been steeped in American and Western culture, thanks to a steady diet of books, music, television and films.
*shame-faced*
While Ms. Adichie felt that Asian and African and South American and other non-white writers should be working towards developing narratives that is a contrast from the Western world view, Ms. Shafak felt that the manifestation of identity need not be utterly personal, so one could write from the viewpoint of people who is not oneself.
To her, the most important thing is that the story need to be informative and well researched, written to evoke emotions and perhaps, create connections and empathy. One must not be limited to one's nationality, gender and sexuality. It is a very liberating thought, but I do believe that one should be free to tell the stories that speaks to one. However, it does seem that white authors get more leeway than non-white authors, who are expected to write only about their own culture and experiences.
Ninot Aziz, a celebrated Malaysian author, is reviving the hikayat, the folk tales and legends of the Nusantara. Although the stories are sourced from Malay folk tales, she believes that the cosmopolitan nature of the stories transcends any cultural dichotomy and will speak to us regardless of our background.
Her book, Hikayat - From the Ancient Malay Kingdoms is up for the Anugerah Buku Perpustakaan Negara Malaysia - RTM. Please vote for her here. The author name is Ninot Aziz and the ISBN number of the book is 978-967-61-2540-80.
Here's to more excellent stories coming out of Malaysia!
* corruption of the word Bengali (someone from the state of Bengal in India). Usually the Sikh or other Bengal ethnic man who wore a turban and was an itinerant merchant of cloth and other household items during the pre and post Independent Malaya.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Sugar and spice and everything nice
The truth?
*rubs chin thoughtfully*
Did this guy just destroy your Madonna/whore illusion about women?
*chortle*
*rubs chin thoughtfully*
Did this guy just destroy your Madonna/whore illusion about women?
*chortle*
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Jalan-jalan cari makan ...
... extreme polar edition.
I don't eat molluscs; but I suppose seal and whale meat day in and day out would get old during the long winter months. The people of Kangiqsujuaq apparently laughs in the face of death racing against time to collect mussels for a change in their seasonal diet.
Thirty minutes is all they have to hack through the sea ice, grab the delicious mussels and get out. They risk drowning in the frigid Arctic water as the ocean rushes back with the rising tide or being crushed by the shifting polar sea ice.
Can you imagine dying just because you are beyond sick of what is available on the dining table? Malaysians pride our country as a some kind of food Mecca. No matter what your palate favour, you can find it here; cordon blu haute cuisine, weird meats and sago worms, whatever you want, really.
The reality of what was shown in the video above is something that many Malaysians cannot envision, except perhaps those who live in the rural areas or experience economic hardships. This disconnection about where food comes from is probably a contributing reason as to why Malaysians waste food. In the face of the many people who go without, are malnourished or have only one meal a day, do we think about food beyond what we want to eat?
Do we also think about the way the food we eat are sourced? We haggle over the price of fish and seafood, blithely ignoring the warnings of the devastation of over-fishing and the hardships faced by the fishermen to bring their catch to land. We think we are animal lovers, and yet we close a blind eye to inhumane farming practices and abuse of antibiotics and hormones on livestock that we consume. We take for granted the vegetables and fruits we enjoy year around that are grown under unsustainable conditions that also poison our water supply.
For all the ranting above, I am cynically aware of my own apathy about where my food comes from. Unless you are an activist type, reading or even knowing about the stuff outlined above remains nothing more than an academic exercise. I read Fast Food Nation and it still didn't stop me from eating at Mickey D (I reason that the supplier for the Mickey D here are either local or from developing countries that need the economic growth).
That said, I do think that we should be more grateful with and for everything that crosses our lips to enter our gullet. Honour the food that nourishes you; respect the hard work that got it on your plate (your own, the food producer and procurer and the person who cooked it for you) and enjoy it. Don't take it for granted.
Because you could be an Inuit who died because you are tired of eating seal and wanted to have some mussels instead.
I don't eat molluscs; but I suppose seal and whale meat day in and day out would get old during the long winter months. The people of Kangiqsujuaq apparently laughs in the face of death racing against time to collect mussels for a change in their seasonal diet.
Thirty minutes is all they have to hack through the sea ice, grab the delicious mussels and get out. They risk drowning in the frigid Arctic water as the ocean rushes back with the rising tide or being crushed by the shifting polar sea ice.
Can you imagine dying just because you are beyond sick of what is available on the dining table? Malaysians pride our country as a some kind of food Mecca. No matter what your palate favour, you can find it here; cordon blu haute cuisine, weird meats and sago worms, whatever you want, really.
The reality of what was shown in the video above is something that many Malaysians cannot envision, except perhaps those who live in the rural areas or experience economic hardships. This disconnection about where food comes from is probably a contributing reason as to why Malaysians waste food. In the face of the many people who go without, are malnourished or have only one meal a day, do we think about food beyond what we want to eat?
Do we also think about the way the food we eat are sourced? We haggle over the price of fish and seafood, blithely ignoring the warnings of the devastation of over-fishing and the hardships faced by the fishermen to bring their catch to land. We think we are animal lovers, and yet we close a blind eye to inhumane farming practices and abuse of antibiotics and hormones on livestock that we consume. We take for granted the vegetables and fruits we enjoy year around that are grown under unsustainable conditions that also poison our water supply.
For all the ranting above, I am cynically aware of my own apathy about where my food comes from. Unless you are an activist type, reading or even knowing about the stuff outlined above remains nothing more than an academic exercise. I read Fast Food Nation and it still didn't stop me from eating at Mickey D (I reason that the supplier for the Mickey D here are either local or from developing countries that need the economic growth).
That said, I do think that we should be more grateful with and for everything that crosses our lips to enter our gullet. Honour the food that nourishes you; respect the hard work that got it on your plate (your own, the food producer and procurer and the person who cooked it for you) and enjoy it. Don't take it for granted.
Because you could be an Inuit who died because you are tired of eating seal and wanted to have some mussels instead.
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