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Not Your Ideal Woman

“There was always a sense of having to shrink myself to be considered as acting in a culturally appropriate manner or to just not make the people around me uncomfortable.”

A contribution by Wani Gapar

My mother would sometimes say, “If only I had the opportunity or guidance that you have back in my time, things would be so different”. She would also say things like, “Your grandmother is very smart. She could have been a career woman if she completed her education instead of staying home to take care of her siblings.”

When I was in my 20s, I used to get irritated that she’d say all this and reply thoughtlessly.

“It is what it is.”

“That’s life.”

“Everything happens for a reason.” 

To me, it’s the natural order of things that women had a disadvantage starting out in life due gender and cultural factors. I had already resigned myself that, in spite of all the feminist books I read or the Spice Girls songs I used to sing while growing up, being considered an equal in society is a nice ideal but not actually a reality to live in.

Then something changed for me as time went on. I’m not sure when exactly but it felt like I was just more aware of my place in society and the constraints that I face. There was always a sense of having to shrink myself to be considered as acting in a culturally appropriate manner or to just not make the people around me uncomfortable. Nobody made it explicit that I need to be ‘proper’ in professional settings or in mixed company but it felt like an unspoken rule. Being ‘proper’ meant not to call out instances of harassment or any kind of inappropriate behaviour because to do so would make me ‘sensitive’ and ‘serious’. Being ‘proper’ meant I couldn’t speak my truth on issues because to have an unpopular opinion in a no-nonsense tone made me sound ‘angry’ and ‘scary’.

These tired gender tropes are an everyday feature of life here in a predominantly Muslim, conservative society. I used to be annoyed at all this but slowly, I started to be curious about why it was this way and why I was so bothered to feel like I have to play by these rules. I had started getting involved in discussions around feminism and gender equality and it used to be just that to me – a faraway intellectually stimulating discussion - but these issues never seemed more real than when I felt it first-hand.

I took up boxing a while ago and the gyms were abuzz with an upcoming tournament held locally. It was a big deal because martial arts competition in this field was rare and garnered a lot of excitement among sports enthusiasts. I knew ladies in other gyms who were keen to compete and had already started training. Then one day, we were informed that no women were allowed with no real reason given. Some of the women athletes asked but were told off for even daring to ask. It’s instances like this that makes me wonder if women are truly recognised as equal, contributing members of society. We can do sports but only if not in a way that is seen to be flouting religious or cultural rules. We can participate professionally but we shouldn’t be too assertive lest we’re seen as aggressive. We can be working mothers/wives but we need to be perfect in splitting our time to do chores at home, be caregivers, be attractive and interesting to our spouses and also climb up the corporate ladder or else we are absolute failures. We can be strong, but only to a degree that doesn’t make others feel threatened.

It sounds extreme but it’s sadly an everyday reality that I see around me. All these observations started to prick at my consciousness and I question why it has to be this way and what I could do to be a more authentic person. I don’t want to feel trapped by boundaries that may or may not be there. I have experienced and survived trauma, and I am even more aware since of how these factors can impact an individual seeking healing and growth. I am even more appreciative of the agency I have as a person, regardless of whatever rules I’m supposed to play by.

Where I used to shrink and made myself invisible in society, intentionally or otherwise, I am now more mindful of what is considered the norm. It isn’t easy to question my own biases that I grew up with. It’s an uphill battle some days. But I refuse to stop questioning even if it’s to my detriment, and I refuse to allow myself to be molded into a neat little box just so it’s comfortable for everyone else.

These days when my mother says things like, “I would’ve done more if I had the kind of education you had,” I validate her, and this time I truly believe she could have too. I also tell her this, “You are your mother’s daughter. I am your daughter. All of you built each other, including myself, up to where I am today. Even if you think differently, you achieved a lot in your time.”

A contribution by Wani Gapar

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[faiqairudin]

Blogging, with feeling

via @Kurapak  https://www.instagram.com/p/BSq1D9TBbc6/

Last night was my first real hug to my mom when we all greeted her happy birthday at midnight. The previous one when I was still a teenager. I don’t know the feeling but I always wanted to hug my mother. - Ranoadidas http://rano360.com/2017/04/08/a-sons-love/ 

two posts over last week caught my eye. an instagram post by kurapak and a long post by Ranoadidas. it was from two veterans (long serving members) of the blogging community and what interested me was how their individual stories felt anachronistic to the type of content they usually provide. 

their posts, usually filled with dry advertisements and humor-filled captions offered something more. it perhaps could be said that decades in the limelight have left them wanting from their social media. as rano writes: 

"There are many times that I’ve really wanted to post something more on a personal level." 

this also indicates perhaps a shift in what social media content bruneians are more willing to consume. personal, emotional, raw. are brunieans more willing to open themselves up to the public?

the answer could be yes. this content, which hits a nerve is found aplenty in places like songket alliance and to a lesser extent in musylfe. there are glimpses when a facebook post goes viral, recalling an anecdote or an intensely personal moment. however, the effectiveness of posts on rano and kurapak is that they offer a glimpse to something that we didn't think was apparent. it's a look into a personal social media account that doesn't seem so personal. their names are tied with their social media handles, less so with their personality, what views they are representing or their emotional viewpoint. 

it’s a stretch to call it a shift, but it’s certainly an indicator of the tone that people expect from public figures. the tone that is reflected in the most shared Brunei FM posts, Instagram captions of our most memorable moments and  Tweets which recall our worst fears. 

[happybrunei]

Another packed weekend! . #repost @progresif_cellular - Café Night @rysentertainment Sunday Fun-day @bandarkuceria Retro Rides @bigbwncookout Charity gigs by the Council on Social Welfare Night Walking @rysentertainment Live music galore @ks.bn @itsagrindbrunei Classical compositions @toyotabrunei Laugh out loud at Ramshackle by Songket Alliance Think Pink @bigbwncookout Hot Wheels @motoringbn Art and Hidden Treasures at Seri Qlap Mall . #thatsprogresif #progresifweekend @visit_brunei #happybrunei http://ift.tt/2gJUt39

[songketalliance]

I’m The Forgettable Friend

“I don’t have any best friends, not since high school. I am the background character of my friends’ lives. I am not the first one they call, and often, I am not the one they call at all.”

An anonymous contribution

Hello there. Remember me? The one who asks if you’re okay when you’re down and glum. I’m the one you turn to because I am the Good Ole’ Reliable One: the one who will drop all plans for you when you ask for company to go out. I’m the one who keeps offering my time; “if you need anything, just tell me”. 

That’s me. That’s my mantra--”just tell me”.

I am a definition of a good friend. I like to think I am kind and giving, loyal to the core and reliable at the very least.

But I am not anyone’s number one priority.

I am the forgotten one when there are hang out sessions, the last one to know of exciting news of my friends. I learn of updates through osmosis of conversations from others, not via one-on-one interactions. I learn from keeping up with Instagram stories; ironically, also the place where I find out that I’ve been excluded.

The books I read and films I watched as a child and a teen emphasised on the importance of friendship. Baby Sitter’s Club focused on the importance of communication and togetherness. Sweet Valley High signified that despite conflicts, strong bonds can get us all through this. Harry Potter taught me that families can be chosen, and the chosen one are your friends.

I integrated these qualities because these characters, in my eyes, are the best of the best. They are good people wandering in a world full of dirty laundries. I want to be that person, so I chose to be a good friend as much as I can. And I think I am. I try to be selfless, and give people my time. I listen before I talk. I offer solutions fit to my friends’ abilities and haves. I try not to be judgmental and scathing. I don’t talk behind them because I know how much that hurts.

But I am no one’s priority. I don’t have any best friends, not since high school. I am the background character of my friends’ lives. I am not the first one they call, and often, I am not the one they call at all. I try to open up myself to them, making sure the door into my life is visible to them. But to them, the door is closed only when it needs to be opened. When all the other friends’ doors are not available to them do they enter mine.

I understand that not everyone is meant to gel with each other—that’s okay, I know that. But navigating my life without a close friend is a very difficult and lonely ordeal, one that I have gotten used to. Who do I share things with? Where do I go when things get too much? How do I learn about myself when no one calls me out or draw me in?

Recently, when I received very good news, I wasn’t sure who to tell to outside of my immediate family because I know none of my friends would care the way I want them to be. And I have seen it in the past: for every good news, there is a remark of lethargy in their voice. So I celebrated with my family, no friends present in any of the occasions I mark as milestones in my life. I know I should not expect people to react the way I want them to, but then I compare my friends to the ones I see on timelines and feeds, and I see how people offer grand celebrations with balloons and cakes, and streamers and overtaking of restaurants to celebrate a person. 

I have never had that.

I am Good Ole Reliable, but I am no one’s best friends. I hear of heartbreaks first, because of my willingness to listen, but I learn of other things of my friends last or from other people. I am the one to call when there are things to carry, burdens to shoulder, ears for listening. I am not number one, and after all these years, I am okay with that.

Hello, there. Remember me? I guess not, but I’ll always be there for you.

An anonymous contribution

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Science or Arts

“Looking back at it now, it angers me as to how I was made to feel like nothing when I still had achieved something.”

A contribution by Adam

From the moment you enter high school, you hear all this talk about the 'Big Exam' SPE. You have 2 years to prepare for it and it all comes down to whether we end up in the Science or Arts stream.

When we hear about science stream, we hear how smart these people are and how they are set to achieve the best grades and end up with lucrative jobs in the future. Everyone from parents to teachers give you this feeling that science stream is the only way to go if you are looking to be successful.

Then when people think of art stream students, people look down on them and assume that they are ‘not as smart’. Being able to write about and understand the complexity of human behavior is seen as nothing when compared to a mathematical equation.

Then, when you are in science stream, all this pressure is put on you and would always be expected to behave in a certain way. Once you do something that goes against the norm, you would hear things along the lines of “you are a science stream student, you should know better”. Missing a single homework assignment can result in the ‘you are a science student speech’. A student’s personality should not be defined or confined by which subjects they pursue.

Getting an A in a science subject would always be seen as a bigger achievement than the same grade in a language or a social science subject, while at the end of the day, no matter what subject it is, getting a good grade should be something that students can be proud of.  

Instead of pressuring students to target a certain stream, they should be given the exposure to more career options beforehand which could then help them decide which stream would be more suitable for them and their ambitions.

So many students who took triple sciences in O’level decided to take different subjects in A’level that had nothing to do with their high school subjects. Having dropped their science subjects in A’level did not make them any less intelligent than those who decided to continue with those subjects. The same thing goes for those who decide to continue their studies in other institutes. Not continuing in a sixth form centre after O’level is no measure of their intellectual abilities.

Personally, I never gave it much thought in which stream I would end up in. In the moment, all I could focus on was making it through high school and what would happen afterwards. The thought of which stream I will end up in seemed minor.  It didn't matter to me until the moment when I received my SPE results. I didn't get into the stream that I was expected to. I had gotten into Science stream when I was expected to be in Express class. To me, it was never a big deal but the weeks after my exams proved me wrong. I was surrounded by people who were disappointed in me. Lectures from parents, talks from teachers as to how I could have done better and the constant need to justify why 'I did not do well'.

Entering upper Secondary with the thought at the back of my mind as to how I was not good enough really didn't make the preparations leading up to O'level any easier. I was constantly followed by the lectures and disappointment from my SPE results that I felt like it would not matter how I performed in my O'level because I had already failed either way.

Looking back at it now, it angers me as to how I was made to feel like nothing when I still had achieved something. It took me a while to get the motivation back  to actually want to do well in school and apply myself, but not for anyone, just for myself. Once I did, I wanted nothing more than to prove everyone wrong. To show everyone that despite having not achieved what everyone else expected of me, I was going to make it.

Writing this now almost 6 years later after having finished my A'level exams made me realize just how much unnecessary pressure was added to my high school experience. It was a tough time to get through, but it taught me a very important life lesson which is to believe in myself. When everyone looked down on me for my results, it took me to believe in myself that I could prove people wrong and still get somewhere in life where I wanted to be.

At the end of the day, no one will care what stream you were in. With the rough competition for jobs nowadays, people are glad to take on jobs outside their desired field and no employer in general fields would care whether the person they hire has an O’level credit in a science subject or not.

Not getting into science stream is not the end of the world just as it is not a measure of a student’s intelligence. So before pressuring students into targeting a certain stream, find out which fields they would actually be interested in and would be a better suit for them.

A contribution by Adam

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How to Ghost Someone Effectively

ghost

ɡ��ʊst/

slang/noun

1.     The act of ending a personal relationship by cutting off all means of communication

“Despite having a good date diThe Mall, Amirul decided to ghost Amirah because of an argument they had on whether the right way to say it is ‘Di The Mall’ or ‘Di Mall’.

2.     A corporeal being (arguable) that haunts

“The Supernatural (television show) boys have been fighting ghosts for years now and someone needs to stop them because the show is not good anymore.”

So, you wanna ghost somebody, do ya. You thought maybe that you’re so importantand that your time is of such essence that explaining to someone why you no longer want to talk to them is unnecessary? Well, fine, you son of a gun. Here are some steps on how to ghost somebody.

STEP 1: Identify the ghostee.

STEP 2: Delete them. Everywhere.

On Instagram, WhatsApp, Facebook--delete them, everywhere. Delete them from your heart, and your head. Go to the Immigration Office, tell them the person is deceased. Go to their bank and close their account. Get. Rid. Of. Them.

As a cautious additional step:

STEP 3: Move.

But, like, not just move to another kampong or another country. If you want to make it a point to never talk to this person again without having the decency to explain it to them, train yourself to be one of the most skilled scientist/engineer/botanist/anthropologist the world has to offer. And then sign yourself up to the Mars mission to colonise Mars. And then move to Mars. We get it, you don’t want to talk to this person again because you’re so beyond human that telling them you don’t want to contact them again is such a futile feature of humanity. Get the hell out of this planet. If you’re going to ruin something or someone, go big. Take up the Mars mission. We won’t miss you on Earth. WE WON’T, BECAUSE SCREW YOU, AMIRUL! HOW COULD YOU GHOST ME! IT’S ACTUALLY DI THE MALL!!

Article written by Amirah.

This article was featured in the Songket Alliance Zine issue #4: Brunei AntamTia Guide. Order a copy and get your reliable lifestyle tips on how to survive Brunei here! 

[songketalliance]

My Experience with the Stigma Surrounding Mental Health

A contribution by Anonymous

In looking at living in the Bruneian society along with the topic of mental health issues, I would like to provide a first-hand experience into my own issues. This article is written in hopes to aid in the voices that speak against the stigma of this topic in this specific society.

A short context would be that I moved here in 2010. I was born here, but I was not raised here, so there is an obvious culture and environmental difference present in my life. Not only was I dealing with the shock of the culture exchange, it was not fully understood why I was going through anything at all, as I was perceived as “looking the same as everyone else”, so I must be fine, I must ‘normal’.

That was not the case and I hold that stance very heavily. Dealing with a lot of confusion as to where I “fit in” into the academic and cultural world of Brunei, it only dragged me down further, thus my depression was only amplified. I was not made to feel better about being different. I am in no way stating that my depression started in 2010, I can attest that it started pretty young for me.

I chose not to speak out about it because I have tried multiple, multiple times. Not only that, my family started to notice a difference in my behavior, as my depression was heavier and I had to spend more time at home, as opposed to the life I had before coming to Brunei. So I told them but I was disheartened just as quick, as the easiest and most common reaction to the serious matter of mental health was “I needed to have faith” and flat out denial.

I will not go into very much detail. The important thing is, it is 2019 and I am still struggling immensely with having depression. I was discouraged to get help: it is a prevailing outlook that having anything to struggle with in my head and feelings is something to ignore, or to go about it with religion. And this personal ‘diagnosis’ is problematic in itself, I just knew that I did not feel I fit in. It seemed at most times that nobody would understand the ‘demons’ I struggled with. I have tried to go into a sort of counseling therapy, but just talking about it did not make me think anything has changed considerably.

So the highlight with this overall statement is that there is still a stigma quite visibly in the Bruneian society, even with the new various ways provided to the public to “seek help”. However, individuals still need a push towards the right direction, there is still the overall judgmental view of mental health being something unfamiliar and different, that it should be frowned upon and ignored, or approached in a religious manner.

I partake in hobbies that help me get by with my depression, which includes writing, reading and trying to understand the stem of where my depressive thoughts came from, giving myself the chance to look at the world in a different perspective. I also have supportive friends who would listen and relate to how I feel. One day, I hope to be able to get the help I need with furthering coping mechanisms.

I hope this helps in providing an insider’s view on how difficult it is to have to live with mental health issues and respectively how difficult it is to seek any help in dealing with it. The difficulty lies in whether or not people are willing to change their narrow path in understanding what mental health is and the issues that are included within that scope. There are a lot more struggling, with a lot more urgency in the matter yet are not really helped in seeking the help they don’t know they need. I hope in the future this stigma will be worked through and in order for that to happen, more catalysts in educating about the scope of mental health should be prioritized.

A contribution by Anonymous

Songket Alliance urges those with mental health conditions to seek out help, which are available in the form of school counsellors, in selected private clinics, as well as major health centres including RIPAS.

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Friendship Didn’t Cure My Mental Health

“In my own version of hell, I felt that it was easier for me to fake a mask than to tell my friends what was wrong with me mentally, beyond the facts of my life circumstances that made me despair. Stigma caused me to hold my tongue as I did not want another problem on top of my difficult situation.”

A contribution by Anonymous

Trigger warning: mention of suicide

A little less than a year ago, my life circumstances took a drastic change for the worse. From the start to the end of that dark period of my life, even up until today, I never told my friends that I was crying and researching the most efficient methods to kill myself nearly every single night.

I was never officially diagnosed as clinically depressed. However, my emotions were extreme and I felt that I was on the brink of doing something extremely foolish. I wanted to die because I wanted to escape the pain. Yet, somewhere within me, rationality still ruled and a small voice whispered, you can’t do this to your family, or your friends. So, I scheduled several visits with a private psychologist.

I never told my friends about my visits to the psychologist, much less tell my friends about the full extent of my problems. In my own version of hell, I felt that it was easier for me to fake a mask than to tell my friends what was wrong with me mentally, beyond the facts of my life circumstances that made me despair. Stigma caused me to hold my tongue as I did not want another problem on top of my difficult situation. Furthermore, my friends are neither trained nor ready for a confession of suicidal thoughts that persisted throughout my waking hours. Why share my struggles with anyone beyond a trained professional, seeing as my friends could do nothing to change my life circumstances?

Yet, the psychologist could do nothing to change how my life turned either.

However, every session, he checked in with me to see if I had a good support system. He told me I didn’t have to tell my friends anything I wasn’t comfortable with telling and urged me to do more activities I used to enjoy with them.

Even though all I wanted to do was hide away and disappear from the world, I took the psychologist’s advice. I scheduled more activities with my friends. Walking. Having a meal. Movie. Anything.

To be clear, my friends did not cure me of my depression, or whatever it was I was going through. However, similar to one’s body as it is ravaged by the flu virus, my friends are like the honeyed water and chicken broth I would have to strengthen my body’s immune defences as my body’s antibodies go into overdrive to fight the flu. With every “yes” they gave to another outing, another meal, I had one more reason to postpone killing myself. They helped to treat my sadness and despair long enough for my soul to pick itself up again, and for the last ravages of the darkness to leave my mind.

It was not like I never hung out with these friends before, and all these activities were mundane ones that we have done a hundred times before. Yet, when I was drowning in the flood of darkness, these activities took on a new significance. Every joke was another breath of air and even moments of companionable silence were a balm to my troubled soul. Ironically, my troubled time made me treasure each moment all the more and I was more present than I ever had been in our times spent prior because I did not know whether I will be seeing them again.

And, just like true friends, I believe some of them suspected that something was wrong. Even though my friends never pried, I could sense the effort they made on my behalf to lighten the mood, and they kept showing up and being there for me even though I turned up to gatherings pale and wan, a shadow of my former self, neither joking nor talking much. Out of the blue, a friend of mine who was out of the country also asked her mom to bring me my favourite meal and her kind gesture really warmed my heart and helped me fight a little longer.

My life circumstances have not changed. In all honesty, even though I have stopped searching for ways to kill myself for the past few months, I am a little scared that I may fall into the darkness again. 

However, I take courage in the fact that I have made it this far because of my friends.

Even though my friends don't know anything, they showed me that they didn't have to know everything to be a good friend.

A contribution by Anonymous

Songket Alliance urges those with mental health conditions to seek out help, which are available in the form of school counsellors, in selected private clinics, as well as major health centres including RIPAS.

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The Reasons Why I Love My Friends

“To me, friends are those who build each other up to goodness.”

A contribution by Siti Nazurah Mohd Ajimy

Life is like a wave. At times we are up high, and at times we are down low. At times of the latter, we tend to feel tired, lost and helpless. Who wouldn't be, as Life doesn't go the way you want it to?

Yet, at these low times, do we really get to immerse in the people around us. The people who are by your side at this time, the ones who would tell you that it'd be fine or those who help you to stand back up to chase back the highs of life- the true friends who are always there.

The true friends in life, I believe, are truly hard to find. These days, it's uncommon to actually find some one or some people who truly understand your stance and if you do find them, trust me- you're lucky.

I, thankfully, am one of the lucky ones. I love my friends. My friends to me are not friends, but rather family that I can count on. These are the individuals who I care for and who care for me back. As an only child especially, I feel extra lucky.

The reason why I praise or love my friends so much is the fact that these people truly understand me and do not judge the way I am. Accept me and offer me advice whenever things get rocky. They're like the brothers and sisters I've never had. They would hear me out, listen to my constant blabs of rants and help me to solve my problems. Most times, they'd lend me a helping ear to listen to me.

I remember during those times at school, whenever I felt too overwhelmed and anxiety would build up, I would immediately go to an empty class to weep and cry. Yet, my friends were always so quick to know that something was wrong and immediately ask me,'Are you okay?'

Not only that, but after moving to different schools, my old friends from my previous school would frequently check up on me, asking me as to how I was doing and if school was fine. At those such moments do I realise, 'Wow, there are people who truly care about me', 'I mean something to someone,' and 'I matter.'

It is even more heart-warming when these people would build me up, cheer me on and help me whenever things get rough during straining practical classes. They would help me to even understand even more further, making me feel thankful and lucky to have such friends who would support me. Their words and actions comforted me when my family weren't there to do so and in a way my family couldn't. Basically, they, my friends are the reasons as to why I never felt like giving up even when things get hard.

To me, friends are those who build each other up to goodness. Wishing each other success, facing problems and helping each other to conqure it. Friends are your non-blood related family who love you and support you. As an only child especially, with no siblings to lean on to, these people become the siblings I've never had but wished on having.

And it's amazing. It's amazing how friendships are from being strangers to being acquaintances and to finally being friends. In retrospect to that, it's amazing how everyone is connected together in a bond that's tight enough to the point where everyones comfortable with each other. It truly is to me, and I am forever grateful for this bond for existing and to have friends to have this bond with.

A contribution by Siti Nazurah Mohd Ajimy

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The Walls I Built and Took Down

“I learned along the way that not menstruating also means not ovulating. And not ovulating means I will be in a bit of a pickle when and if someday I want to have children.”

A contribution by Mariana

Today, I went to a very inspiring storytelling workshop and as an exercise, we were given a very vague word to use as a theme: Courage. And I sat there, wondering, what have I done in my life that has anything to do with courage? Have I ever been courageous? What does courage even mean to me? I picked up my phone to procrastinate, thinking I would just forget about it, maybe I don't have a story to tell and this just wasn't for me. Then I got a picture message from my family group chat and it struck me.

Courage to me is vulnerability.

When I was seventeen, I was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome. 

PCOS means that I very rarely get my period, maybe once or twice, three times a year if I'm lucky. This is because my hormones are a little 'out of whack', too much of this, too little of that. When I found out as a young kid, I did not understand what was happening inside my body. All I knew was that I was not menstruating and it was painful. Funny story, whenever I am sick, doctors always, ALWAYS test to see if pregnancy is what's causing it because my periods are so far apart. (Which, by the way, was never the case.) 

I learned along the way that not menstruating also means not ovulating. And not ovulating means I will be in a bit of a pickle when and if someday I want to have children. 

I was a dopey romantic kid; I loved love, I loved people and being human, I loved the warmth and care that my family pours onto me, and I grew into that especially when I had partners and started looking forward to starting my own little family with them. But when I put the two and two together, it pained me.

It is in our culture to want to pair up, to want to see people paired up and have children. That also comes with being invasive and asking "When are you going to have children?" Knowing of my infertility and understanding the difficulties made me feel unworthy and undeserving, as if I am wasting my partners' time. So I began shutting people out, I stopped myself from feeling and connecting with people that I swear, in my little hopeless romantic heart, was then 'the one'. And I stayed that way for years, always cutting people off when it got too real, breaking my own heart and theirs because I did not (and still sometimes don't) know how to tell them that where they want to go, I can't go with them.

Out of my four sisters, one of them has the disorder too. I watched her fall in love, get married and have everyone question her when she'd have children and ask her if she even wanted children, almost demonising her when counting the years. It hurts. It hurt her, it hurt me. But of course, we brushed it off because it is just how things are in our culture of well-meaning aunties. We stayed in our own pain and we never talked about it.

Last year, my sister got pregnant and gave birth to my beautiful niece. And I have never cried so much from being so happy. I look at this beautiful little person, this gift, this miracle of life and I have never loved anyone so much in my life. She gave me hope that I could someday be blessed with my own little me. 

Sure, I would probably face some difficulties but her very existence means proof that it is not impossible. This little person just radiates pure love and makes me feel like everything, even when it's just when I'm holding her, is alright in the world. She gave me the courage to slowly, brick by brick, take my walls down, open myself up to connect and feel, be authentic, vulnerable yet open to be happy. A year later and my beautiful little niece still inspires me to this day and I'm sure years ahead to put my insecurities out in the open and be courageous in living a full life.

A contribution by Mariana

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August’s theme is ‘Letter to My Past Self’.

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I Am F.A.T.

“An overweight person could very well clearly be as metabolically healthy as a lean, muscled boxer but our mindsets are so determined to believe otherwise.”

by ShaSha Cuadra

“You’re actually cute! But if you lose a few kilos, you’d be beautiful.”

Can I just say that these words, are unfortunately, something a girl can relate to at least one point in their life? I’ve heard it from my mother, her friends, aunties, cousins, grandmas, and friends. For whatever reason, there seemed to be a universal agreement that when you see a fat person on sight, your mind immediately seemed to cross the threshold of ‘basic decency’ to plain rude thoughts.

So let’s talk about fat. Let’s talk about the damaging effect it has on self-esteem and a person’s validation of their worth. Let’s talk about how being “fat” is seen as shameful. Let’s talk about the extra rolls and layers you have on your body that is designed to keep your body warm. Let’s talk about this in a current time where lookism is the new discrimination.

Recently, I had to listen to a child tell me that she had expected me to have a ‘nice, thin’ body because I looked pretty. Did I reprimanded her for saying such things? No. A child is not responsible for what they say because they only imitate what the adults around them says. I simply question her why does she think so? Why does a person need to be thin to complete the full circle of what is considered beautiful? Being ‘thicc’ or fat has never been a choice but even then, why is it seen as shameful?

It doesn’t even matter if it’s in the form of a joke, a small comment, and of course a disgusted remark. It’s a fact that sticks to you as lipid deposits into your cells. You are fat, and the tone at which this is said to you grates on your consciousness. The idea that lookism has a lot to do with how a person perceives you and your ability to do a task efficiently might seem incredulous but pulling up the statistics, it’s no wonder marketing strategy depends on it.

Look at South Korea for example. Their economy is built on beauty standards. Do you see chubby singing boy/girl groups on the rise? Do we even see them in their most basic human fugliness that isn't edited or make up on at least? Even the current Miss Korea was bashed on hardly for not deserving the title because she was considered “fat” - at 56 kg. Are you seriously kidding me? This is Lookism, people, wake up and see it.

I have the bad habit of binge-eating. I have no idea how it started but what I do know until now is that food makes me feel better. Even when they become tasteless, when my stomach complains of being full, even when I start to feel sluggish from being bloated, I still eat. Eating had become a form of escape, a slow build-up of destructive tendencies until all I find myself doing is to listen to mind, not my body.

As a child, stuffing your face was considered normal, encouraged even. We had lots of room to grow into our developing body, and food was the fuel to drive it. If only someone mentioned that moderation, not compulsion was the key to eating healthily, maybe there would be less fat-shaming in the world.

Why?

Because if you weren’t cute when you were small and chubby, then you’re just considered to be fat – negative connotations written all over the word itself. If you aren’t cute now even when you have fats and tummy rolls every time you sit down, then you’re just fat. To be acceptably fat is to also play by the rules of beauty.

Never mind your genetics, or conditions you have that makes you slightly above the scale of normal weight. Never mind the many diet fads and extreme exercise you’ve done in an attempt to be acceptably thin. It’s your fault that you didn’t try live healthier that you’re fat right now.

If I could be thin, I would have done it a long time ago. But I struggled with pains and aches of pushing my body to the bare limit for the sake of an acceptable body image. I have so many abandoned clothes in my closet that I still keep around for when I ‘slim down’. I have thrown away so many chances to buy myself nice clothes because I’ve been told they are ‘not for my body type’.

This concept of weight = health is a whole lot of BS. Your weight is not a direct correlation to how healthy you are. An overweight person could very well clearly be as metabolically healthy as a lean, muscled boxer but our mindsets are so determined to believe otherwise. Passive aggressively fat-shaming chubby people like me is not a game you should be playing to induce your superior boner of an ego.

We live in a society that firmly believes that weight is temporary and can be altered as easily as the seams of their brand new, more fitted clothes. I’m not here to tell you that we are trying to glorify obesity by being comfortable in our own skin. I’m here to tell you that we demand to be acknowledge as the very same human beings we are to everyone else.

So here’s my little parting message - when you’re fat, they’ll judge you; when you’re thin, they’ll judge you; as long as you exist, they’ll still and always judge you. So you do you, be healthy, be happy, and most importantly, love food for what they are and not as a fortress you keep running away to. Be F.A.T, and be glorious in your standing.

by ShaSha Cuadra

Photo by Rodolfo Clix from Pexels

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Keep Your Head Down

“Some might ask why did I bother to fit in to the Brunei norm. The real question is, did I really ever had a choice?”

by ShaSha Cuadra

“This is not your place. Just behave, stay quiet and keep your head down.”

These were one of the earliest lessons that were drilled into my head as a child. Back then, I didn’t know there was such stigma to different races and foreigners mixing together in one school. I didn’t even know what stigma meant. All I knew was that we were kids being sent to spend their days in school to learn.

As far as my young eyes could see, school assembly was a mass of white and black towering over me. Boys wore black songkoks and girls wore white tudongs as per the standard school uniform. I just transferred from private school then who had no need of enforcing the use of a tudong. I had no idea how to wear one.

Of course, when you were a kid, all you had to do was just wear the tudong like you would a shirt. But the actual trouble came when I went to high school and I had to learn how to wear one properly, without the user-friendly, kid wheels of a tuck and go tudong. I didn’t own any pins that would hold my tudong in place at the bottom of my chin so I resorted to using safety pins before receiving a second-hand collection from my aunt and teachers.

Through trial and error over the years, I’ve managed to decorate a hijab atop of my head without embarrassing myself as easily as pulling on some sweatpants. To others, this may seemed like such a trivial thing to talk about but to me, an outsider living in a completely different environment to the one at home, it’s an achievement. It was necessary to adapt to survive socially.

Because at the young, young age of 9, that lesson was a precaution for me. It was a clear distinction that my parents made me recognized when they told me those exact sentences then.

That I am not a child of this country.

I am an outsider.

My parents came from a different continent altogether, their pride in their nationality automatically ties to me, mine in default. I was a kid, what did I know? But growing up, I didn’t see this distinction of treatment they expected to happen to me as a foreigner’s child.

Yes, there were instances where I felt outcast because my native language was English, not Malay. Which pushed me to adapt it as my second language to keep up with my peers and do well in school. Trial and error as they say, trial and error until I could speak in it fluently enough.

But because of what my parents said to me, I learned to be more observant of my surroundings, watchful of the steps I have to take in order to survive a world they weren’t familiar with. Every day in school, I was left to fend for myself. Every day in a supposed foreign country, I was left to adapt to their culture and community.

Didn't know how to read Jawi? I put in extra effort to learn it to pass my Ugama subjects. My parents didn't know how to read it so I had to depend on willing friends and teachers just to catch up.

Didn't own a baju kurung for special events at school? I had to borrow the second-hand ones my mum had and and just double fold where it's too loose for my then small frame. To this day, I don't own any new baju kurong that isn't second-hand or one that I share with my mom.

Didn't understand the concept of segregation and racism? I observed what was acceptable and isn't and imitate it accordingly. After all, you're not a bad guy if you follow their social rules.

Right?

Dead wrong.

Some might ask why did I bother to fit in to the Brunei norm. The real question is, did I really ever had a choice? If I was to survive in an place that even my parents weren't familiar with and are wary of, I had to blend in and quietly hope that I would not be picked out of the flock.

Needless to say, I’ve acclimatized to being as one of their own convincingly.

But I am constantly reminded of my place by diplomatic and political technicalities, that I am still, in fact a foreigner. This may be where my life and home is, but paperwork dictates it's not, and I need to pay money, blood, sweat and tears to be here.

At the end of the day, I am merely a chameleon in a hijab trying to fit in and avoid mistreatment or discrimination for being anything but a Bruneian.

by ShaSha Cuadra

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The Value of Women’s Cooking

“But I know now that’s sexism in action, and their reactions to my and my uncle’s dream just underscored the point: the value of my skills in the kitchen is made for and confined to homemaking and pocket change, while for a man, it’s a potential career in the making.”

A contribution by Hardina

It amazes me how much discrimination a woman can face within her own family. I notice this in families other than mine as well: a woman can be just as skilled as the men, sometimes even more than, but still while the boys and men get encouragement and are motivated to take risks, and the woman faces doubt about her abilities, be it in academics, art, or sports.

For me, it’s about my cooking. My dream and my uncle’s dream are the same: to open a restaurant to serve the food we love. There are a few differences, though: where my uncle prefers Western dishes, I lean towards more traditional and local food.

The other difference: my dream does not receive the same amount of support as his does.

I remember when my uncle announced he was quitting his job to start up a food business. The family was so excited to hear about it, peppering him with “good luck”s and congratulations. It was the logical next step for him, they all thought. Only a couple of years older than me, we were both taken under my late grandmother’s wing to help in her restaurant, sometimes running the kitchen ourselves when her illness took over.

I took my family’s approval to his new venture as a good sign that my own plans would be taken just as well, or maybe even more, considering they like my food better. To my disappointment, the idea was immediately shot down, citing concerns about my being too young, still a single woman, how I’m going to balance the business with a husband and children in the future, and it would be better if I found a husband first that would support me before making any big decisions, because apparently women can only make sound decisions with men’s approval.

These concerns weren’t brought up to my uncle, whom I graduated with in the same year, and who is also not married, of course.

I was aware that my family viewed our skills differently before this. While both of us received praises, my relatives had always told my uncle he should open up a business, while I was told how lucky my future husband will be to have a wife to take care of him (i.e. his stomach) so well, and it could even make for great supplementary income! I always thought that they said those things because of their conception that Western food, even lasagna, was “fancy food” and traditional dishes were more suited for the home.

But I know now that’s sexism in action, and their reactions to my and my uncle’s dream just underscored the point: the value of my skills in the kitchen is made for and confined to homemaking and pocket change, while for a man, it’s a potential career in the making.

This isn’t to knock on women homemakers who find joy and purpose in cooking for their family –I enjoy it too! But it’s a problem when the home is the limit to where I, as a woman, am allowed to take my abilities. It feels like an even bigger problem that we need a man’s opinion for our skills to be more credible.

It also feels like an antithesis in our community: women are expected to be skilled in cooking (among various other things), and if you look around the night markets and street food stalls, you’ll see so. many. women. Further, the bakery industry is filled with women who sell their baked goods! Women making money from their cooking isn’t a novel idea at all. When I bring this up to my relatives, they tell me that baking cakes is naturally feminine (how even?) and those women who are vendors at the night markets do it to support their family, meaning they do it for survival rather than it being a choice.

And maybe that’s true. I know my grandmother didn’t start her restaurant until after she got married and to supplement her husband’s income during hard times, but finance-wise, she could have quit long before she received her diagnosis. Lord knows everyone told her so. But she loved running the kitchen and making sure the restaurant was in good shape. It gave her purpose. Maybe it didn’t start out as a choice for her, but it sure became something she felt was worth getting up for every day.

My grandmother couldn’t have been the only one. The notion that women who sell the food their make for a living instead of serving them exclusively for their family should be pitied is incredibly outdated and insulting. It strips down all the hard work they do to improve their skills and their ability to choose for themselves. But it seems that on top of trying to prove that I am capable of pursuing my dream of becoming a restaurateur, this sexism is just another layer I have to get through to get there.

A contribution by Hardina

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The Emptiness of Our Traditions

“While I could largely keep my mouth shut, seeing how much joy my mother had in giving, I am increasingly unable to ignore the disparity in her belief and reality especially since my father fell ill.”

A contribution by Wan

I am not looking forward to Chinese New Year.

Much as it is part of my cultural heritage, I am not looking forward to the reunion dinners and seeing my relatives again, even though the same blood runs through our veins.

In its purest essence, Chinese New Year was often the only time families, often separated by many days travel, could see each other. Many a joyful tear might have been wept over seeing a family member again. In the time when my grandparents were uprooted immigrants living in Brunei,Chinese New Year was a wistful time as they could not board the ship and sail back to their core

families back in China. Instead, my grandmother tried to recreate the taste of home using the closest ingredients she could find in Brunei, and made it a point to buy roast meat, a real delicacy in her poverty, to portray the spirit of the Chinese New Year feast so many miles from home.

Today, Chinese New Year abounds. Food is plentiful and enough red covers the walls of any Chinese house, symbolising blessings and happiness.

But Chinese New Year feels like a decorative lantern without a light inside.

Each Chinese New Year, I remember going to visit several of my relatives’ houses, and dutifully, I would memorise the honorific for each uncle and aunty. Dwa Pek, Dwa Em. Eldest Uncle, my father’s brother, and Uncle’s wife. Soi Cik. Youngest Uncle, younger than my father. Dwa Gu, Dwa Kim. Eldest Uncle on my mother’s side and Uncle’s wife. And so on and so forth. Their children, likewise, call me by honorifics, depending on the order in which we are born. The insistence of calling each other by the correct honorific is a reminder of our shared ancestry, and how we all have roles to fulfil within this extended family. The elder would look out for the younger, and the younger would look up to the elders.

Tradition holds a special place in my mother’s heart. The importance of the family unit was firmly imprinted in her mind, when, having lost her father at the tender age of eight, and having her mother fall gravely ill shortly thereafter, she saw her older brothers and sisters step up to help care for her, the youngest member of the family. Some of her teenage brothers even dropped out of school just so that they could supplement the meagre family income and provide a roof over all their heads.

It is no wonder that she believes that “blood is thicker than water”, for her family has sacrificed far more for her sake and the sake of the family unit far more than any friend had. Perhaps, out of the experience of her childhood, my mother is paying off a lifetime of indebtedness to the siblings that helped raised her – she believes in the unbreakable bonds of family – generously pouring her heart into baking cakes and cookies, and she will make time to visit any family member who is ill to bring them good cheer. Such is her conviction, she extends this generosity to my father’s side of the family as well.

However, I always had an uneasy awareness the one-sidedness of the relationship between my mother and some of my extended family members. While I could largely keep my mouth shut, seeing how much joy my mother had in giving, I am increasingly unable to ignore the disparity in her belief and reality especially since my father fell ill.

My father’s illness, dementia, is a long-term illness. Unlike a broken leg, which could heal and get you in and out of the hospital in two weeks or less, it is a terrible disease which steals more and more from the person each day. Ever since his diagnosis in five years ago, he had since forgotten how to bathe himself and today he is totally wheelchair bound.

Through these many years, I could count on one hand how many times certain extended family members visited. Sure, they visit him in hospital when he is hospitalised, but once he is back home, I have not seen them around. Even the hospital visit is a customary one – one visit to “show face”, get the gossip on why and how he is hospitalised – and not seeing them again despite his being there for longer than a week.

Maybe they don’t understand that my father’s condition of dementia is a lifelong one. Or maybe they too have their lives to live, and the fact that their brother or uncle is sick for the inconvenient period of the rest of his life is too troublesome to bother with.

However, their sudden ability to visit every Chinese New Year, Brunei’s small size, car travel, and their houses all less than thirty minutes away make the concept of a reunion during Chinese New Year a mockery of the spirit of the family and togetherness. I have seen more care from my friends, even my mother’s friends, than some of these family members.

How useless is the unbreakable family bond, if they only bring family voluntarily to your doorstep once a year.

A Contribution by Wan

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I Got Asked Out As A Joke

“I knew I was worth more than how society reduces me to my body, but to come to terms with a real person essentially telling me that all I am was a punchline was hard to get up from.”

As told by Amal R.

“Hey, do you want to get dinner, just us, after you’re done tomorrow?”

It was a long shift at work with just the two of us left to close up the store, the third having left early for one reason or another. He -let’s call him B- would have the morning shift tomorrow and I had the late afternoon shift. We’ve had dinner together before, but always with the others and always when all of us were getting off the same shift. His question meant he was going to wait for me especially, and for the two of us together. B was asking me out on a date.

I felt my face heat up as I agreed. I remember him stammering out a, “g--great!” that I thought was attributed to the same nerves and excitement that I was feeling.

I was excited as I went home that night, thinking about how lucky I felt. My recovering self-esteem told me how this was proof that there will be people who don’t think being plus-size wasn’t a dealbreaker: here was a man whom I found attractive and nice who thought I was also attractive and nice enough to spend time alone with!

I had never been asked out on a date in my life, and I wanted to experience what it was like to be on one.

I still want to know what it’s like to date somebody, because as I found out the next day, it was all a big fat joke.

No, not a ‘big, fat joke’-- but a prank pulled on people who are plus-sized.

The next day came, and I went into work with more enthusiasm and a slight impatience with the time.

Then, finally, my shift was over. It was time. I like to think that it was probably God’s mercy on me that I was there to catch a colleague I was particularly close with working the next shift arriving.

Being comfortable with her enough to tell the truth, I confessed about mine and B’s dinner. She was shocked, and immediately told me of how some of the other staff had joked around, daring each other to ask out “unattractive girls”, of which they included me by name, saying how “membari malu” (embarrassing) it would be if they ended up actually being together.

I felt nauseated. I wanted to believe that B wasn’t the kind of person who would be so cruel, but doubt had already taken over. Upon finding him outside the restaurant where we promised, I immediately confronted him and demanded the truth. He had the decency to look ashamed as he admitted that it was all a dare, stupidly betted on dibs for shift days and time. He apologised, but I felt so ashamed that there was just no going back.

It should have been my first experience with romance, but it turned out to be a night that almost destroyed my already tenuous self-esteem. I knew I was worth more than how society reduces me to my body, but to come to terms with a real person essentially telling me that all I am was a punchline was hard to get up from. It has made me wary against any romantic prospects.

This doesn’t get talked about a lot in Brunei, but it does happen. This kind of prank is also known as “pull a pig”, where somebody is goaded into asking out the plus-sized person (the “pig”) as a joke, because apparently, making somebody feel special and then humiliating them is considered funny.

I wanted to share my story to let B and others like him know that this behaviour towards plus-sized people, regardless of gender, is not okay. We deserve the same kind of respect as everyone else is afforded and that means treating everybody as more than a potential punchline to an already terrible joke.

As told by Amal R.

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