Tribute to my father
M Bakri MusaPublished: Feb 24, 2001 11:49 AM | Updated: Jan 29, 2008 6:21 PM
A depressing aspect of my visits to the old kampung is meeting former schoolmates - they are stuck there; their Malay education had failed them.
We were together initially in an English school, all bright boys. But this was the 1950s. The air was filled with the excitement of impending independence. Nationalistic fervour was at its zenith, and with it unrestrained resurgence of pride in our heritage. Malay would be the language of the new nation - Bahasa Kebangsa'an.
We no longer need to study in an alien colonial environment. We could continue right up to university level in our own language, parents were soothingly assured. Ministers and leaders were extolling the virtues of these new "national" schools.
Among Malay teachers, as my parents were, the peer and social pressures were intense and unrelenting; after all, if they did not send their own children to these new schools, who would? Subtle pressure and whisper campaigns were directed at those not showing sufficient nationalistic zeal. Parents who persisted in sending their children to English schools were variously labelled as stooges of the colonialists, or worse, petualang bangsa (anti-nationalists). Serious charges, bordering on treason.
My father was a graduate of Sultan Idris Training College, a bedrock of Malay nationalism, and had, as his contemporaries, such nationalists as former deputy prime minister Ghaffar Baba. But he was also acutely aware of the limitations of vernacular schools. So he kept his children in the English stream.
Earlier he had been unsuccessful in getting my older brother into an English school. When it came to my turn, he resolved not to repeat the mistake. He noticed that just before the registration of new students, the school had conveniently launched a "fund drive". Never one to miss subtle signals, my father promptly made his donation. Sure enough, I was later accepted. On opening day I was very proud to see his name displayed prominently. He had made a sizeable contribution.
I, too, had given my fair share to my children's schools. But not even in my most generous mood had I considered donating the equivalent of my month's income. Yet that was what my father did. Having gone through all that, he was not about to let a mere minister suggest that his decision was not a wise one.
My father also painfully remembered the missed opportunity of his youth. He was awarded a scholarship to an English school, but the thought of his son learning the ways of the white men did not sit well with my grandfather. "What? You want to be a Mat Salleh?" was the old man's devastating put-down.
My father's disappointment was more keenly felt when his friends in neighbouring villages who took the challenge all succeeded. One became a doctor and later, chief minister; another, an engineer; and the third, a brilliant attorney. I am sure that my father, in his rare moments of solitude, never failed to imagine the what-might-have-been had events unfolded differently for him.
The British provided Special Malay Classes for students who could not get in at Primary One. Luckily, my older brother was accepted into that programme. After Merdeka, Tun Abdul Razak Hussein as education minister started the "Remove Classes", providing yet another portal into the English stream. This wise move, fortunately little noticed by the nationalists, was greatly appreciated by many lucky students and their parents.
My father had other good reasons to be confident of his conviction. He noted that while these leaders were loudly extolling the virtues of these new national schools, they were quietly switching their own children to the English stream. My village representative to parliament, a fiery nationalist of note, was quietly transferring his two daughters into English school.
With the exodus of students out of the system, responding to the chauvinistic exhortations of our leaders, he had no difficulty securing places for his children. Many ministers, Tun Razak included, were sending their children abroad, to Britain no less. My father wisely concluded that until these leaders heeded their own advice, he would ignore them.
I felt sorry for the parents who blindly followed their leaders' dictates without critically evaluating the choices and consequences. Most of all, I felt terrible for those young children - my friends and schoolmates - their potential aborted because of their parents' blind nationalism and misguided allegiance to the leaders.
Years later, as a temporary teacher, I came face to face with the grim realities of these national schools. Their curriculum was the same as the English stream, but the similarity ended there. Their textbooks were outdated and quality wanting, with irritating typos, missing pages and loose bindings. The translations were erratic and inconsistent, and when they were not hilarious or silly, were simply incomprehensible.
Towards the end of my tenure, I suddenly felt guilty. There was no one to replace me, as none were being trained. During the last few weeks, I could barely look at those bright young faces as I would soon be abandoning them. Their next few years, in fact their whole future, remained uncharted. The kindest view was to regard them as pioneers blazing new trails for others to follow. But in my heart I knew they were sacrificial lambs for a dubious cause.
I wonder whether our leaders then knew the impact of their policy. Those politicians knew they did not have the teachers or books, so why did they aggressively push the new system? Why not start small, test the model, correct the deficiencies, and once established, sell the idea? Perhaps they considered those young minds expendable, so much cannon fodder for the nation's battle for supremacy of the national language.
If so, these leaders should have informed those innocent souls so that they could at least savour some sense of martyrdom and sacrifice. These kids and their parents would then not have their hopes so high or dared dream of a bright future. Perhaps these leaders had supreme confidence or arrogance in their ability that they zealously exhorted others to do their bidding. Whatever it was, these young promising minds bore the burden of the policy's idiocies.
Have we learned from the past? Sadly, no. Then, nationalism was the bane; today, it is religious fanaticism. Then, it was national schools; now, religious ones, where catechism masquerades as education. Religion should be an after-school activity, not an all-consuming curriculum. Precious young minds from the villages are still being wasted.
My ailing father died recently after a long struggle with Parkinsonism. On reflection, as we are wont to on such occasions, we, his children, are deeply grateful for his conviction in letting us continue with our English education. No, we have not become brown Mat Sallehs and his grandchildren still love durian. That single difficult decision of his made all the difference.
Back in the kampung, my old friends on seeing me now would, like my father a generation earlier, be wondering the what-might-have-been for them had they and their parents not succumbed to the prevailing emotions and politics of the time.
For me, meeting them heightens my tribute to my late father.
We were together initially in an English school, all bright boys. But this was the 1950s. The air was filled with the excitement of impending independence. Nationalistic fervour was at its zenith, and with it unrestrained resurgence of pride in our heritage. Malay would be the language of the new nation - Bahasa Kebangsa'an.
We no longer need to study in an alien colonial environment. We could continue right up to university level in our own language, parents were soothingly assured. Ministers and leaders were extolling the virtues of these new "national" schools.
Among Malay teachers, as my parents were, the peer and social pressures were intense and unrelenting; after all, if they did not send their own children to these new schools, who would? Subtle pressure and whisper campaigns were directed at those not showing sufficient nationalistic zeal. Parents who persisted in sending their children to English schools were variously labelled as stooges of the colonialists, or worse, petualang bangsa (anti-nationalists). Serious charges, bordering on treason.
My father was a graduate of Sultan Idris Training College, a bedrock of Malay nationalism, and had, as his contemporaries, such nationalists as former deputy prime minister Ghaffar Baba. But he was also acutely aware of the limitations of vernacular schools. So he kept his children in the English stream.
Earlier he had been unsuccessful in getting my older brother into an English school. When it came to my turn, he resolved not to repeat the mistake. He noticed that just before the registration of new students, the school had conveniently launched a "fund drive". Never one to miss subtle signals, my father promptly made his donation. Sure enough, I was later accepted. On opening day I was very proud to see his name displayed prominently. He had made a sizeable contribution.
I, too, had given my fair share to my children's schools. But not even in my most generous mood had I considered donating the equivalent of my month's income. Yet that was what my father did. Having gone through all that, he was not about to let a mere minister suggest that his decision was not a wise one.
My father also painfully remembered the missed opportunity of his youth. He was awarded a scholarship to an English school, but the thought of his son learning the ways of the white men did not sit well with my grandfather. "What? You want to be a Mat Salleh?" was the old man's devastating put-down.
My father's disappointment was more keenly felt when his friends in neighbouring villages who took the challenge all succeeded. One became a doctor and later, chief minister; another, an engineer; and the third, a brilliant attorney. I am sure that my father, in his rare moments of solitude, never failed to imagine the what-might-have-been had events unfolded differently for him.
The British provided Special Malay Classes for students who could not get in at Primary One. Luckily, my older brother was accepted into that programme. After Merdeka, Tun Abdul Razak Hussein as education minister started the "Remove Classes", providing yet another portal into the English stream. This wise move, fortunately little noticed by the nationalists, was greatly appreciated by many lucky students and their parents.
My father had other good reasons to be confident of his conviction. He noted that while these leaders were loudly extolling the virtues of these new national schools, they were quietly switching their own children to the English stream. My village representative to parliament, a fiery nationalist of note, was quietly transferring his two daughters into English school.
With the exodus of students out of the system, responding to the chauvinistic exhortations of our leaders, he had no difficulty securing places for his children. Many ministers, Tun Razak included, were sending their children abroad, to Britain no less. My father wisely concluded that until these leaders heeded their own advice, he would ignore them.
I felt sorry for the parents who blindly followed their leaders' dictates without critically evaluating the choices and consequences. Most of all, I felt terrible for those young children - my friends and schoolmates - their potential aborted because of their parents' blind nationalism and misguided allegiance to the leaders.
Years later, as a temporary teacher, I came face to face with the grim realities of these national schools. Their curriculum was the same as the English stream, but the similarity ended there. Their textbooks were outdated and quality wanting, with irritating typos, missing pages and loose bindings. The translations were erratic and inconsistent, and when they were not hilarious or silly, were simply incomprehensible.
Towards the end of my tenure, I suddenly felt guilty. There was no one to replace me, as none were being trained. During the last few weeks, I could barely look at those bright young faces as I would soon be abandoning them. Their next few years, in fact their whole future, remained uncharted. The kindest view was to regard them as pioneers blazing new trails for others to follow. But in my heart I knew they were sacrificial lambs for a dubious cause.
I wonder whether our leaders then knew the impact of their policy. Those politicians knew they did not have the teachers or books, so why did they aggressively push the new system? Why not start small, test the model, correct the deficiencies, and once established, sell the idea? Perhaps they considered those young minds expendable, so much cannon fodder for the nation's battle for supremacy of the national language.
If so, these leaders should have informed those innocent souls so that they could at least savour some sense of martyrdom and sacrifice. These kids and their parents would then not have their hopes so high or dared dream of a bright future. Perhaps these leaders had supreme confidence or arrogance in their ability that they zealously exhorted others to do their bidding. Whatever it was, these young promising minds bore the burden of the policy's idiocies.
Have we learned from the past? Sadly, no. Then, nationalism was the bane; today, it is religious fanaticism. Then, it was national schools; now, religious ones, where catechism masquerades as education. Religion should be an after-school activity, not an all-consuming curriculum. Precious young minds from the villages are still being wasted.
My ailing father died recently after a long struggle with Parkinsonism. On reflection, as we are wont to on such occasions, we, his children, are deeply grateful for his conviction in letting us continue with our English education. No, we have not become brown Mat Sallehs and his grandchildren still love durian. That single difficult decision of his made all the difference.
Back in the kampung, my old friends on seeing me now would, like my father a generation earlier, be wondering the what-might-have-been for them had they and their parents not succumbed to the prevailing emotions and politics of the time.
For me, meeting them heightens my tribute to my late father.
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