TFM Alumni Induction Speech

Yang Amat Mulia Tengku Ali, Yang Berbahagia Tan Sri Dr Jemilah, Yang Berbahagia Dato’ Noor Rezan, Yang Berusaha Encik Chen Li Kai, Board of Trustees, guests of honour, Teach For Malaysia staff, 2013 Fellows, 2014 Fellows and my brothers and sisters from the 1^st cohort of Teach For Malaysia Alumni.

A very good afternoon to all of you. My name is Abel Cheah, and I stand here on this day of Induction and celebration, on behalf of the 2012 Fellows, to speak about the Fellowship journey as it draws to a close, and the Alumni movement as it begins here today.  

2 years ago, on this very day, the 2012 Fellows, sat together in room L415 in Institute Aminuddin Baki for a lesson on Checks for Understanding with Reid Hickman, after a morning in Kem SKORlah, where we met our very first students. So much has happened since then. In the last 2 years, each of us has spent over 75,000 minutes teaching over 250 young lives. Some of these moments were shared with you, our corporate partners, government officials, TFM staff and Board of Trustees. Together, the Teach For Malaysia community has touched over 11,500 lives.

This week, as the school bell rang in the corridors and classrooms for the last time this year, an incredible chapter of our lives closed; an amazing journey drew to an end. And we are here today to thank you, the people who walked with us, spurred us on, even carried us up at times, along the way.  

How does one move on, at the end of a journey both so heart-breaking and inspiring?

Today, I find solace in the words of Mr. Frodo Baggins from the Lord of the Rings, who at the end of his own Fellowship (no pun intended!) said: "And the Fellowship of the Ring though eternally bound by friendship and love was ended... We were home... How do you go on when in your heart, you begin to understand there is no going back?"

Today, I recognise that, at the end of a great journey, one may be too easily tempted to do one of two things: to either spend the rest of his days living in the shadows of his travels; or to be overly contented with his current conquest, declaring that he has ‘arrived’, that there are no more journeys left.

All of us in this place can too easily fall into either of these categories.

We, the fellows, can choose to revel in the accomplishments of our two years and remain nostalgic, in the fact that under our care, students have improved academically (some, by 2 or 3 grades), or that our students have become confident young men and women, who can now stand before crowds to present ideas, perform choral speeches, tell stories, act, or solve an Algebraic equation.

These are indeed achievements worth rejoicing over but we do a disservice to ourselves, our students and the Teach For Malaysia community if we bask in them for too long. The truth is none of what we did was by our strength alone, or even by TFM’s strength. We have, in the words of Isaac Newton, “stood on the shoulders of giants” – giants who are present with us here today, in our schools and communities, who often take less credit than is due.  The truth is there is more to be done.

Perhaps, we could be overly contented with what we have done, deciding that as our two-year commitment to educate and inspire the youth of our country has ended, so is our obligation as citizens of Malaysia. We could choose to pat ourselves on the back today, and set camp right here, at the end of this journey, declaring that we have ‘arrived’.

But that would betray one of the most valuable lessons we have learnt from our Fellowship: that ending education inequity will take more than just a humble teacher, much like us fellows who spent the last 2 years teaching in the obscure villages of Simpang Durian, Juasseh and Kampung Sungai Manggis. It will take extending the boundaries of our villages to Putrajaya, Jalan Travers and Jalan Sultan Ismail where an entire community of leaders, from all walks of life in a diversity of fields, come together and collaborate for this cause, over the long-haul.

The mission to end education inequity would need more than just good lesson delivery; it would need a corporate CEO who will inspire our students with stories of success and hard work, or a policy-maker who will craft useful and teacher-friendly policies, or a government official who will champion the cause of making quality education available to all children in Malaysia; all of these working together.  

We will not declare that ‘our job here is done’-- not when every day, thousands of students walk to school with empty stomachs, and return home with emptier dreams. We cannot afford to stop fighting -- not when thousands of other passionate Malaysian teachers continue to educate the next generation, or when that Teach For Malaysia staff stays back in the office to organize that school trip, or when that Dato’ squeezes in his time to make that meeting to discuss how he can further contribute to the organization.

Today, I will speak about a fellowship that never actually ended, and a journey that never truly stopped. There is more to be done!

For us, the fellows, these last 2 years were far from just a mere stint of charity, or an exercise at feeling good about ourselves (in fact, I’d argue that we barely felt good at times), but an initiation into something bigger: to lose ourselves “in the service of others”, as Gandhi said. 

That is how we’re moving on, at the end of a journey both so heart-breaking and inspiring.

“There is no going back”, as Frodo said.

For no longer can our eyes – eyes that have seen what a student can achieve with a little bit of hope and patience -- now look upon the children of Malaysia with apathy and ignorance.

No longer can our ears – ears that have heard heart-wrenching stories of our students’ childhood and the sound of over 250 students shouting at the top of their lungs every day for 2 years – now ignore the unheard voices of the next generation. 

No longer can our hands – hands that have carried one too many teaching aids, or that squeezed the shoulder of a discouraged child, or that marked a thousand essays – now fold themselves in the face of great need.

No, we will do more than revel in an incredible experience. We will do more than remain satisfied in the little we have achieved. We will do more for the kids, all of us, from the high-powered boardroom seats in Putrajaya, to the chalk dust-filled classrooms; from the oil rigs in Miri, to the recruitment talks in a university; from the corporate cubicles, to the teachers’ tables.

We will do more, because the Zuls, Kai Longs, Roganis and Melvins of our Fellowship have taught us the joys of giving and in doing so, growing as individuals and leaders.

We will do more, because another journey awaits us.

Happy Induction Day; and to the Teach For Malaysia community, thank you once again.

When the last bell rings

On the 9^th of November last year, the bell rang for the last time in the busy corridors and stairways of the school, as 900 overjoyed students began their stampede to the gate.

That significant moment marked the end of a full year of teaching for me, and as I packed my things for the last time, I pondered upon the year and where I stood in terms of my goals.

2012 had been a particularly challenging year. It was a year of many firsts: first time living in a rural area, first time having to be responsible for more than 160 students every day, first time facing the challenge of educating students 8 academic years behind where they should be, first time consoling a student who sobbed over her poor marks, first time fighting to replace my students’ smoking-time with English-time and literally dragging them out of the toilets to learn, first time being cursed at for refusing to have a sleeping student in my class (this is why teaching a foreign language is both important but difficult).

They say that the greatest opportunities arise from the greatest struggles, and no big victory is won with small losses. 2012 was also the year I learnt to live simply: to replace the air-conditioners and ceiling fans for a rotating fan, the shower heater in the cold mornings for a bucket, fancy restaurants for pots of boiled-through-the-night potato soup (I’m pretty good at this by now), sophisticated conversations with the educated for basic exchanges in broken English (or Malay, on my part). This was both humbling and liberating.

In 2012 I saw students achieve grades they never imagined they could, listened to students as they read their English books with a new found confidence, was inspired by the many outstanding peers I have in the TFM Fellowship and decided that ultimately, even if I do not continue teaching in schools after this, I will aspire to live the life of a teacher.

The year has only begun and it is one of great hope and potential. So many possibilities lie in the dark, undiscovered road ahead, waiting to be lit up by courage. In a sense, life is like a big examination paper that we prepare for, not knowing fully what the questions will be until they finally arrive. The exam comes according to its own schedule, waiting not for us to be prepared, and we often only see the fruits of our labour when the results are released -- when we can’t do anything about it anymore. It is then that we either rejoice for our perseverance, hardwork and determination, or regret at what could have been.

Here’s hoping that it will be the former --  when the last bell rings this year. 

Speech at Opening Dinner for 2013 TFM Fellows

The year is almost over, and what an eventful one it has been! Last night marked a new chapter for Teach For Malaysia as the new cohort of fellows (batch of 2013) began their training. This was the 'induction speech' I shared at the dinner. 

*****

Yang Amat Mulia Tengku Ali, Yang Berbahagia Tan Sri Abd. Ghafar, Tan Sri Dr Jemilah, Board of Trustees, guests of honour and the entire TFM Family. Good evening to all of you. 

My name is Abel Cheah and I’m a 2012 fellow. On behalf of all of us here, we congratulate you, the 2013 fellows, and warmly welcome you as the second Teach For Malaysia cohort.

When we, the 2012 cohort, sat in your seats this time last year, we had the same emotions as what you are probably feeling now. All of us knew why we signed up for this mission, but none us were fully prepared for everything we would soon face – and are still facing today.

Like you, we were apprehensive, anxious, excited, ecstatic -- and we had a very vague idea of what to expect, except that the journey would be long and hard, but immensely rewarding and inspiring.

Like you, we began our journey as strangers from a diversity of backgrounds who were united by a common cause -- but have today, the bond of a family (some of us will actually be real’ family’ after the Fellowship…)

Like you, we gave up something to commit to this mission -- including the comfort of our homes, the luxury of our jobs and the solace of being close to our families.

A year has now passed since we embarked on the journey you are starting today. And the question that is being asked is: how has it been for us? What have we experienced and done in the past year – that you will?

As an English teacher, I wrote down some verbs to answer this question. And because we’re still only a year into the fellowship, these action words are written in the present tense:

Learn at the Institute. Practice at Kem SKORlah. Sleep little. Prepare. Laugh heartily. Weep for our country. Step into school. Crawl back home. Squat with the students to learn about plants. Look into their faces as they tell their stories. Read about their broken homes and lofty dreams. Brace for 200 more days of school. Celebrate the small successes. Recover from the daily disappointments. Stay up working on the Kertas Kerja, Buku Kehadiran, Buku Program, PBS filling, exam paper setting and essay marking, etc. Stay back to teach in extra classes. Converse with the teachers in the staffroom about the latest kuih muih to order in town. Connect with business leaders and future partners.

Rest and reflect. Start over again, but this time, better.

Teach for the kid who works in the workshop every day after school. Teach for those boys who walk to your house every week to learn the difference between ‘is’ and ‘are’. Teach for that girl who is abused by her father, but who wants to be a teacher herself, someday.  Teach for your country. Teach for Malaysia.

2013 Fellows, once again we congratulate you and we know you’ll do a great job! All the best.

Liquid Paper

Pacing around the classroom to check on my students' guided essays, my eyes caught J staring into space, with his pen placed on his opened book.

"Have you finished, J? That's really fast!"

He smiled nervously as I inspected his work, immediately finding scores of mistakes in his 2 paragraphs. "If you're talking about one  building, it's 'a building', not 'a buildings'. Take out the 's' here, because we only use 's' for plural nouns, remember?"

After correcting a few other similar mistakes, I left him to change his errors, moving on to other students who were raising their hands for my attention. When I made a full round and came back to him, I saw him as I had left him before: staring into space, with his pen left on his opened book.

Disappointed, I asked him why he hadn't changed his mistakes, making it clear that I noticed his lack of effort. He stammered through his excuse, "Sir, I'm waiting to borrow M's liquid paper".

"Okay, borrow it quickly. I'll be back to check on you again in 2 minutes", I said, unconvinced.

*******

I didn't think much about this exchange of words until two days ago, when J walked up to me after class, with his journal in his hand. "Sir, can I give you my journal this week?", he said, barely audibly.

This was what it said:

Teachers hold so much influence, and this power could either be immeasurably destructive or immensely constructive. I can only pray that God breaks my heart for what breaks His.

*he has since been given a correction tape and told not to feel guilty for not having enough money

"I want, I can, I will"

1. A kid walks over from her home to attend my extra class and competes enthusiastically to answer questions, despite being sick.

2. Three new students hear about the same extra class, but wait at the wrong place. They then walk over to my house to ask why it was cancelled, and ask for another class to be scheduled.

3. A dude who thinks he's a taiko and curses at me because I won't let him sleep brings a new exercise book to school to get back on track and participates in the questions and answers in class for the first time.

I'm inspired by underprivileged kids who want to learn!

Chef Jon

This is "Chef Jon" (pic by Sawittri), demonstrating to my students how to make an egg sandwich. For over a week, I had built up some anticipation in this classroom by telling them that I'd be bringing in a guest to meet them someday, and on this day, I walked out of the classroom to call the 'guest' in -- and in came Chef Jon. His job: to teach my students how to write (cooking) instructions. Weeks before, "Rapper Jon" (he also looks uncannily like me) did a grammar rap for them, but the whole act failed when one student pointed out that he stole "Abel Cheah's" nametag. This time, the apron from the Mak Cik Kantin took care of that! 

National Unity with 3B

In the dark, dank classroom of 3B, I stood in the middle of two lines of students whose shadows had blocked out the rays of the morning sun. We were doing an activity called "Cross the Line", and it was my third Civics lesson with them. It was only 2 weeks ago when the school timetable changed again; I walked into the class for the first time this year and introduced myself to them as the brother of a girl who shares the same age as them. I wondered, then, if that fact intrigued them as much as it caught me. During that first class, they requested that I teach them English instead of 'boring Civics'. Encouraged by their love for the language, I told them I'd try to do both as their new teacher.

I understood their dislike for Civics – it’s not a ‘main subject’ -- and in the bigger scheme of things, not as important as English. Still, I relished the change of teaching something different, something less ‘academic’. Today’s lesson on national unity was going to involve an activity inspired by the movie “Freedom Writers”, and I wondered how everything would pan out eventually, as I stood in the centre of the classroom, under the gaze of 35 pairs of young eyes.

"For today's Civics lesson, we will play a simple activity called ‘Cross the Line’. There are only two rules to this activity: firstly, that you must be honest to yourself, and secondly, that you must remain absolutely silent and respectful towards the others who are obeying the first rule."

I warned them that the activity would get increasingly challenging as it went on, but assured them that nothing was going to compel them into responding to the statements except for their own honesty. I told them that this activity had a purpose, and that we would talk about the lesson of the day at the end of it.

And so, we began.

As I read the statements, pockets of students made their exodus from one end of the classroom to the other, crossing an imaginary line at the centre. There were beaming faces, cheeky smiles and muffled whispers. The statements were neutral at first, and my students had no problems owning up to them by ‘crossing over’.

 "I have two parents"

Everyone rushed through the rows of tables and chairs to reach the other end.

"Sometimes, I hate coming to school"

A few boys gleefully ran across the classroom.

But soon, the statements became a little more difficult.

"I've seen fights that happened before my eyes"

"I've witnessed a friend being bullied terribly"

And they became more personal.

"I’ve been bullied”

"I've been betrayed by someone I trusted"
"I've seen my mother cry"

There were less people crossing the imaginary line now, as were the smiles.  I felt a lump in my throat as I braced myself for the next few statements: 

"It's difficult at home, because we don't have enough money"

A pause – and then about 20 students moved.

"I've watched a loved one die"

5 shocking students paced across the room, as their classmates looked on.

Suddenly, I realized that no one was smiling anymore. An unusual hush had fallen upon the same classroom that been so accustomed to being the place of teenage jests and loud chattering.

I cleared my throat and told the students that the next statement would be difficult to say and even more difficult to admit to, but there was no compulsion to cross the line if they felt uncomfortable to do so. And then, I read it:

"I've been abused"

A moment of hesitation elapsed. Then a girl, with pain all over her face, took a small step towards the other end of the room. A handful of other students followed her and broke away from their lines, walking silently. Never had I fully realized how far away my home was from this place, till then.

I instructed them to return to their seats, and as the students moved away from the windows, the classroom seemed brighter than before. How did a topic like national unity relate to what we had just done? How could one of the vaguest, most politically-contested terms in our national discourse possibly be taught to a group of 15 year-old students, whose solemn faces betrayed their own individual stories of pain and loss?

How could I prove to them that despite what our parents, teachers and media have been showing to us, we are truly the same: a people? That beyond the politics of race and colour, the different cultural norms we were born into and the diverse mind-sets we were raised to hold, we are simply and merely humans in need of each other and a Creator, and nothing much more? And that because we are inherently the same – broken – we should be a little more humble about who we are and what we deserve?

I couldn’t. And so, Pain became the teacher for the day, reminding us that we aren’t so different after all, that despite the innumerable variations between us, we have more to gain by being united and empathetic -- than being comfortable in our own isolated shells of familiarity and apathy. That’s where national unity starts: looking beyond our own walls of differences and serving others.

Maybe Civics isn’t going to be so ‘boring’ after all.

On an extremely exhausting day

On an extremely exhausting day,

Two students stood at my gate.

"Hello sir, we are here for the class!"

Their voices, glad, despite the wait.

"Didn't you hear, it's cancelled?", I said,

Masking my exhaustion with a smile.

Ten hours of teaching and meetings,

And now, this, to break my evening lull?

But the kids had walked here, my heart reasoned,

To learn English, like I told them to.

And so I left them to learn on their own,

Instructing them to read the book through.

"Knock on my door, if you need any help",

I returned to my room, seeking rest.

But just as I laid my head to the bed,

I heard the voices of my young guests.

Left to themselves, they began reading aloud,

Correcting each other, starting over.

Their voices soared above the weight of the day

Pried open, my eyes began to water.

The teacher's job does not end after school

It's not limited by its menial pay

This I learnt, as I abandoned my rest to read

With two students, on an extremely exhausting day.

Conversations

[translated]

"Why are you always sleepy in class, M?"

"Work, sir"

"What work? "

"I have to tend to the farm, fix the motorcycle, do the chores…"

"And your parents? What do they do?"

"My mother is always busy working."

"And your father?"

"He died last month"

************

"With your partners right now, I want all of you to practice using the word "angry" by saying, "I am angry because…." Use your own reasons."

"Cikgu, apa itu 'bercerai' dalam Bahasa Inggeris?"

"Bercerai? Kalau untuk boyfriend dan girlfriend, kita guna "break-up". I am angry because I broke up…?"

"No, sir. Bercerai"

""Divorce". What is your sentence?"

"I am angry because my parents divorced yesterday night".

The thing about Today

The thing about today is that no matter how many people tell you to plan for it -- it is immeasurably unpredictable; anything could happen today which no one could fully foresee. No matter how old you are and how many 'todays' you've seen, you've never seen a day like this one, and no one has either. No matter how regimented your routine is and how tight your schedule is, today will not be the same as yesterday, and was never meant to be. Today contains new people to meet, new jokes to laugh at, new tears to shed, new thoughts to think, new fears to battle with.

Today is unique, and it came purely by Grace; we didn't deserve to have today. But we have it nevertheless, and we have a myriad of choices on how to use it. And, when today leaves to be replaced by another day, it will never return -- it is lost forever, swallowed by the black hole of time -- like the thousands of days before it. Photographs, writings, monuments and recordings will try but fail to fully re-enact the majesty of today, reduced to faded portraits of the truth. The man of the future will do every thing in his strength to return to today to change or re-live it, but will tragically be forced to merely remember it.

We are stewards of today. Live it like it lasts for only a day, but treasure it like it echoes throughout eternity. 

Half-time reflection

June is almost over, and six months have passed since the day I stepped into school as a teacher. It’s interesting how one’s perspective can change in a relatively short time, yet this year has not been ordinary either, to say the least. Six months ago, I became a teacher because I thought my personal inclinations, skills set, experiences, passions and concern for my country were adequate reasons to step into what I knew would be extremely challenging. Six months on, I am reminded daily that the teacher, in fact, learns the most in the classroom. I'm still trying to find the best ways to engage with my students, figure out the best methods to spur their learning and test out new classroom management techniques. I am consistently humbled by the kids that I teach, and by the other Fellows who work so hard for their students.

In an ever-demanding, exhausting and emotionally draining profession, it’s easy to resign to the fact that it is all too difficult, and succumb to the belief that some students are beyond redemption. Every day, teaching may mean facing angry, indignant, cynical, apathetic, interruptive and ‘bored-out-of-my-mind’ kids who want nothing more than to leave school the same way they came in. Every day, we teach so that they wouldn’t, so that someday, excellence in both their careers and character would be within reach. And because of this, every day in the last 6 months has presented itself in a myriad of ways: a battle over the hearts and minds of the students, a battle between my personal comforts and the sheer inconvenience of teaching difficult students, a battle with the rejection that comes with standing before a class that would rather sleep than learn a language that’s foreign to them, a battle of loneliness. Yet, it is only in the great battles that great victories are won.

Over the last 6 months, I have seen the commotion of a circus calmed into the quiet of a library, the disruptive shush the others who are interrupting the lesson, the apathetic raise their hands for the first time to answer a question, my boys cycle through the rain to get to an extra class to learn more English, my girls read their storybooks aloud while waiting to be taught. It’s during these unpredictable days and months that I have eavesdropped on students playing self-made English games with each other, witnessed Form 1 boys correcting each other in English, caught unsuspecting girls reading model English essays on their own initiative, walked into class to find the students ready and standing with their books arranged on the table, and laughed at the hilarity of my kids acting out the random words of an English poem.

Teaching in a high-need environment has been both heartbreaking and exhilarating at the same time.

This week, having returned all my students’ mid-year exam papers, we celebrated our success by recognizing the students who improved significantly. I handed out certificates, made a grand speech about working hard, and read the names of the students who failed in their previous English exam, but passed this last exam. The students cheered for their classmates joyfully, and then one student suggested that we shout our class motto (“Work hard, get smart!”) together, in true Malaysian-political-rally style. Hope had found its way back into their hearts! I used the opportunity to address the ones who didn’t do as well, and encouraged them to work harder. I told them we are going to be relentless about catching up, and in the process, learn about the stuff beyond books too. Only God knows what they can achieve with the right backing.

At this half-time point, it isn’t very clear whether my kids will eventually rise above the education inequity they were born into. But hope is growing and there’s a greater sense of possibility with these kids. For that reason, I am glad to be where I am at this moment in time, however long or short it may be - in the heat of the battle. 

FTK

For P, a student from 2J, who said in jest while I was waiting to enter another class the other day: “Cikgu, masuklah ke dalam kelas kami. Dia orang sudah pandai”. A joke notwithstanding, those heavy words made me ponder upon the fact that they were spoken by a Form 2 student, outside a Form 1 classroom, whose classmates do not know what “grass” is, or how “green” could be used to describe its colour.

For the many students I teach who failed their recent Monthly Test, and are sadly used to it.

For A, who wouldn’t stop singing in my classes at the start of the year, and who kept testing my patience over and over again by disrupting the lessons and disturbing the other students. Once, during an especially difficult day with him, I sent him outside the classroom after deciding that the class was better off without a major distraction, only to find him drawing obscenities on a piece of scrap paper. Today, A is my regular class “Policeman”, a classroom role reserved for the best behaved students. He’s on-task, gets into his sitting position immediately and is silent as a mouse when I call for it. In a recent house visit, I learnt that his mother left him early in his childhood – and that behind every disruptive kid is a story.

For the 8 students who braved the heavy downpour on that Tuesday evening to learn English in our makeshift extra tuition class, who jostled for books when they found out they could borrow them. I was dumbfounded by K, who had cycled in the rain to come, but did not see it fit to park his bicycle under the house roof – and left it outside in the rain. I thought of home and the city life; a world only 2 and a half hours away but one that is entirely different from K’s, where mothers run to their children with umbrellas after tuition classes.

For KS, who sleeps through my lessons despite countless warnings, consequences and one-to-one (or ‘man-to-man’) conversations, up till today. I'm at my wits' end with him and will be visiting his mother soon. 

For T, who washes cars for 5 hours after school, and whose mother works 2 jobs - every day - to put food on the table. 

For L, who has learnt 190 new English words in these 3 months and achieved 95 correct words in her recent "Word Bank Test" (I need to teach her how to spell "Challenge" now).

FTK is "For the kids"

"Teacher, berapa markah saya?"

"Hi, W, you got 64% for your English paper. Congratulations, it's a 'B'. Let's work hard to get you an "A" in the next exam."

"Teacher, I will work hard."

Unlike the student above, many of my students barely passed their recent exam (40% is the passing mark), and some have evidently written themselves off after so many years of underachievement and negative reinforcements of false beliefs ("saya memang tak pandai"). To top it all, for every student who tries to speak the language, two or more will put him/her down, discouraging any potential growth or increase in confidence. This is the reality of the streaming system: the good become better and the poor become worse, and the path of these students is really decided from the first day of school, unless some intervention is done.

Yet, some students have decided to change that. I've been so encouraged to hear stories of students who deliberately speak the language despite the flak they get from their friends: "Biarlah mereka, kami suka Bahasa Inggeris." They stutter and they stumble, getting it wrong more often than right, but they are my 'fire-starters'.

And I hope this fire catches on.

"Bolehkah sir membantu saya?"

22nd February

"Thank you, class"

"Thank you, sir!"

I place my well-used marker pens back into my bag and pack up as the students line up to thank me. This is my favourite part of the day. At the end of a long day of school, my Form 1 students typically take my hand and touch it to their foreheads to say their goodbyes: the 'salam', a part of the Malay culture which I've come to love.

N, the class monitor, seems to linger at the back of the class while I bid goodbye to his classmates. As the last of the students leaves the room, he walks up to me and speaks softly, "Sir, bolehkah sir membantu saya?"

"Ada apa, N?", I reply.

"Tak, tadi di dalam dewan semasa pelawat itu datang, saya sedar bahawa Bahasa Inggeris saya sangat lemah. Saya tak mahu fail lagi. Bolehkah sir ajar saya lebih lagi?"

3rd March

Word is getting around that I am opening our house up for tuition. It's free and it's for the students in my English classes - that should be enough to attract the attention of the students who cannot afford the overpriced tuition centers here. We can start a little later so that the students (and I) can rest after 7 straight hours of lessons, and parents would be involved as they'd have to send their children to our house.

Two girls meet me in the staff room to ask if the hearsay is true and if they can come along. Moments later, in 1M, I see an open invitation written in large words on the whiteboard, detailing my house address and the tuition time for anyone who is interested!

6th March

S, a new student from 1B, appears from the canteen and walks towards me, visibly sullen. I stop walking and we meet in the middle of the assembly grounds.

"Cikgu, maaf cikgu. Hari ini dalam Ujian Bahasa Inggeris saya tak buat soalan summary dengan baik. Saya tak tahu. Maaf cikgu", he says, choking on his words and occasionally wiping his eyes.

I reassure him that we still have the rest of the year to work on writing a good summary, and I invite him to the tuition class later. 

Today was our first day. What's so amazing about this class? I didn't start it. They did. These kids came despite having exams tomorrow (and after the English paper has already ended!), realizing there is much to do to catch up. 

For every disruptive kid, there is a kid who genuinely wants to learn and take back those stolen years. That's why I teach for Malaysia!

How on earth did I end up here? (a quick pictorial update)

... was my question to myself at 5:30 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, as I drove to Gemas from the only city I've known, Petaling Jaya. Here's a quick update of the last few months:

My awesome students from class "A4"

Teachers' training (in Nov and Dec) came by in a flash. We sat in lectures, cracked our heads for the best lesson plans, learnt and practiced best teaching techniques and practices, brainstormed activities - and taught students in what we called "Kem SKORlah", a holiday-school programme.
My proudest moment was when we got them to participate in an actual debate with another class - a feat they would have otherwise shrugged off for being "too difficult" (and they won!). I learnt - with them - that a sense of possibility is very contagious. We, the teachers and their leaders, need to believe in them first, and soon, they would too.

Cards by the students. "I will continue working hard after this...Work Hard, Get Smart!"

Gemencheh, one town before Gemas

My favourite part of the journey

Gemas, the town where my placement school is located at, has a lovely old-town feel. Everything can be found or reached within 5 minutes, and at night people run from shade to shade for safety because hordes of birds descend upon the town (and so do their lunches and dinners!). Dusty electrical shops decorate the roads, and a giant picture of the Nokia 3310 hangs from one of the shop's walls. I love it.

Gemas town

Uncle, can give discount?

Outside our weekday' home

Wai Khong and Yin Yee, my Teach For Malaysia colleagues who are teaching in the same school with me have built a home out of this house... our home for the next 2 years.

Before...

After (---much scrubbing)

Tomorrow marks the second week of school (and work). As Teach For Malaysia fellows, we have been allotted the last few classes to teach, and along with this privilege comes the challenge of engaging our students and keeping them interested. It's what we signed up for, but many of us are starting to feel the daily grind of a teacher's day-to-day routine: the bureaucracy, lethargy and challenges that come in all shapes and forms. Yet, at the end of this week, the question bounced back to me, "How could we NOT teach - when we see what we see?"

I'm reminded of how I ended up here.

Crossroads

Today represents the transition between two distinct phases of my life. 

Yesterday I bade my student life farewell. Tomorrow I'll stand before my class, a teacher.

There are many things that remain the same -- family, friends, values, faith, goals -- but with the other things, life rarely stops to let us catch up. Let tomorrow come!

J

 

"Many here do not have the basics in academics as most were never  enrolled or allowed in the mainstream education system. Most are not even able to write their names. Could you teach some to write their names so they can sign their monthly wage slips? A daunting task?"

I spent no less than 4 hours with this big guy today, as we sat down to write his name : Jia Yung. We never got past "J". The abovementioned daunting task, amplified by the words of head of the centre ("many have tried teaching him and have given up, discouraged") seemed like a challenge - and so we flipped page after page of his worn-out notebook, trying to get the letter right. I decided to stop teaching only when he gave up trying - and we kept going, because he never stopped trying.

For hours, Jia Yung learnt and re-learnt those 3 strokes that form the first letter of his name. We advanced from tracing 12 dots to 6, to just 2, and occasionally we would try writing it without any dots, but the outcome was never always a perfect "J". At times, the letter was a singular downward stroke; at times, he made his own versions of the letter. He would laugh when that happened, and then he'd go back to trying the real "J" again, unperturbed by his forgetfulness and failure. Now and then when he got it right, the smile of achievement beamed on his face, if only for a moment before he had to re-learn the letter again.

I wish I could say we finally got it right, but we didn't. This sort of task would take months to master and requires a teacher who would sit with him every day for the next 6 months, drilling into him those 3 strokes: "straight line…down…up!" (my utmost respect is for the full-time volunteers here). Yet despite the seemingly insurmountable task, each try always began with rigour, determination; he never stopped wanting to get it right. Jia Yung didn't write his name in his exercise book today, but he will some day, because he knows it.

What a great display of persistence...

"The Christian gospel is that I am so flawed that Jesus had to die for me, yet I am so loved and valued that Jesus was glad to die for me. This leads to deep humility and deep confidence at the same time. It undermines both swaggering and sniveling. I cannot feel superior to anyone, and yet I have nothing to prove to anyone. I do not think more of myself nor less of myself. Instead, I think of myself less." 

Tim Keller, The Reason for God

The empty space

The scene was impressive: physically challenged, wheelchair-bound residents found their mobility in the able-bodied ones, who despite being mentally challenged could push them around. In the garden, the older ones poked at the soil in the pots to plant their seeds and tilted their bottles to water their plants - despite their twisted, frail hands - while the younger ones looked on to learn.

Then, out she came from the darkness of the corridor, with a crooked smile and a clumsy walk. She shook our hands as if we'd been friends for ages, said a few things we couldn't comprehend, pointed outside to tell us her friends were returning from work - smiling always.

We excused ourselves to take a tour around the home on our own, and she walked with us, eager to be the one acquainting us with the place she had known for so long. I've always admired their innocent friendliness. At the corridor, we passed by a board of photographs; each picture had a name below it.

There, she pointed to an empty space in the middle of a sea of smiling faces, saying something indistinct we couldn't understand, "Kawan…". Pressing her finger against that empty blue space where a photo once was, she repeated herself, but this time, gesturing with her right hand. She was trying to say something important.

"Kawan"

"Kawan kamu?"

"Ya"

"No more?"

"Ya"

And then I understood. "Your friend, no more?"

She nodded, still smiling her unassuming, crooked smile. But this time, her face betrayed an ineffable sadness. In her childlikeness, she had wanted to show us a part of her little world - the home - but first she wanted us to know her friend: a faceless person whose story we would never know about, yet was so important to her in life, and now in death. That empty space was not empty for it meant something dear to her. 

That day, I saw more humanity in a place than I've ever seen in most places.