Freezing Time

I can't believe it's been almost 4 months since I've left matriculation. Seems like it's only yesterday I've waltz away from my high school years and into matriculation. The ongoing flow of time make those little moments in life a lot precious. One moment we're deciding on which college to enter, the next we're already on stage receiving the degree. Time has been the most powerful instrument of ageing, the unstoppable act of nature we sometimes think will never happen to us. Weather we like it or not, it will happen. We will live life like an ongoing journey with no stop until the end of the road, death. Despite that, there's always way to freeze time. Be it taking memorable pictures or writing poems, making movies or recording a song, or simply living in the moments. We all have our own way of keeping the version of ourselves as we know it now safe in the memory box for the future version of ourselves to reminisce and smile upon. These are some memorable photos of my matriculation days, one of the best time in my life. This is how I freeze time.

Matriculation 
27th May 2013 - 29th April 2014

Buka puasa with classmates and mentor.
One of the first highlighted moments of the first semester. 
When strangers becomes family.

MEMBERS OF ROOM F.2.24
Caring for the care. Funny for the fun. They are the perfect roomates. Waking up to each other's alarm, coming back after class exchanging funny moments, making fun of each other almost all the time, giving the worst birthdays prank ever. I would't want it other way. 
( Shida, Atirah, Syafiqah, Venesa)

MT 9

Class of 2013/2014

The friends who laugh with me in times of joy and held my hand in times of despair. We were introduced as strangers and leave at the end as family. Perhaps the best thing about matriculation is being a part of this wonderful family. 

The Dark Art of Ignorance

The Dark Art of Ignorance

“….and finally I twist my heart round again, so that the bad is on the outside and the good is in the inside and keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like be, and what I could be, if….. there weren’t any other people living in the world.”

I close the book. I was fifteen then and throughout my fifteen years of living, I’ve never felt this way before. It was the end of childhood for me. The end of fairy tale fantasies and the beginning of reality.  I find myself afflicted with emotions, stunned, overwhelmed with goosebumps.

It was Anne Frank’s diary.

Perhaps you wonder, why is this such a big deal for me?

Well, the truth is, I was blind to the ugly truth of life. I’ve never seen reality before. My little world of childish fantasies has sheltered me from the true colors of the world. I don’t know a thing about the world. I’ve never heard of the holocaust. I don’t know who the Jews were. I can’t even point out Germany on the world map. I was clueless. Trapped in a dark, dungeon of a thoughtless life. Writing this makes me feel embarrass of my ignorant past. Nevertheless, I feel it is important for me to remember how it feels. Perhaps I will be more aware of ignorance in the future.

Yes, I remember those feeling well. I remember being shockingly impressed by Anne’s knowledge of the world. The fact that reading and writing excites her. Who live like that? I can’t even read without falling asleep, let alone writing. I was envious. Why do I know so little when she knows so much? Why does she even bother to think so deeply into things that do not even matter to me? We are of the same age, yet why do we have such a significant gap of knowledge.

That was when I realize I have lots to catch up with. The moment I realize people out there are not as clueless as I am. People my own age are out there fighting for human rights and writing essays about global warming and there I was, crawling in my baby steps to understand the whole structure of the world. Of course, it wasn’t like a magical moment or anything, it takes years of reading and documentaries and question marks every now and then but yes, it was my starting point. As for now, I still have lots to learn, I still have tons of question marks, and I know there will be no end to understanding this funny world yet again I am freed from my dark forest of ignorance. Definitely, a better place to be.

I have to make it clear here, I don’t think it is just about the process of growing up, it goes deeper than that. It is about choice and chances. I was given the opportunity of getting access to books and informational media, I know for the fact that not everyone in the world is as lucky as I am. So, is it really their fault if they don’t know how the world map looks like if they are not even lucky enough to own pens and papers? Yet again, I also understand that that is not always the case. There are those who fail to make a better choice despite the great luxury they have, access to education and information. We all know there are adults out there who still have no clue about the Middle East conflicts and we have young adults who are passionately involve in stopping human rights abuses. So, is it really the matter of growing up? Do we really need to be in the right age to start understanding life? I don’t think so.

I have been on both sides of the story. I have been the clueless girl being laugh at for lack of understanding of the world and I’m have been one of those people who can’t help from banging my head from the silliest logic people have about the world when they clearly have no idea. Well, I guess it’s the same with everyone else. If you were to dig deep into your own life history, you would somehow know how it feels to be the clueless one and have a ‘know it all person’ telling you stuff you are not really interested to know. I mean how annoying would it be when you just want to have a good cup of coffee with an old friend while gossiping about unimportant rumors when he/she critically ask your opinion about complicated world issues you never ever heard about. At the same time, you know how annoying it is when people care more about the ups and downs of a celebrity dramatic ‘make believe’ life rather than the blast that killed millions. Somehow another person’s personal life seems more interesting than the typhoon that wipe away millions of life. It’s just another life cycle. Sadly, most people around the world are not in this cycle. They grow old and eventually die not knowing the real story behind the world while living their life passionately believe in a lie.

So what? So what if people chose to be happy with their sheltered life and live a wonderful life anyway? So what is people don’t want to know about the world? Why does it bother me when people don’t want to take effort into understanding the world? Does it really matter?

Yes, it does.

It does matter when people live their whole life hating another group of human being without understanding the real situation. It matters when politicians take advantage of our ignorance for political agenda that tears the world apart. It matters when pseudo facts make people kill others they believe are purely evil. It matters when people only know one side of a complicated story and draws a dangerous conclusion based on that. It matters when millions of people die in the genocide that is spark by the lack of understanding. It matters when there are issues out there that can actually be solved if there are more participants. It matters when we choose to not understand. It matters when we choose to embrace the dark art of ignorance. 

Poem #4

Whisperer
by Venesa Devi

Dear whisperer, know my story. I am not needy, nor am I seeking for shelter from all miseries, I am just me, as strong as I can be, I hold on to me, for I know who I want to be, I love life for its mysteries, and I know there's more to discover in me, but maybe, just maybe, I'll need you to whisper to me, when life is hard and happiness is unseen, when faith and hope are all gone, would you please whisper to me softly, "Life must go on." when I start to tear, whisper, "Let me wipe away your tears." when I am in fear, whisper, "I am here for you, my dear." I am not needy, I just need you to remind me, of that lady inside of me, the one I sometimes can't see.

The Storyteller by Jodi Picoult

         It is more than just a book for me. It resembles life.At first,I thought the characters fits me perfectly, as if it was written just for me. Sage who rather be alone and immerse deep into her own thoughts and Leo who finds it difficult to comprehend the ignorant ideas society held. However, as I dive deeper into the story, I realise, it’s not just about me, it’s about everyone. Not the story but the characters. The good and the bad in every heart, the demons and the angels of every soul. Thanks to Minka's character, the storyteller who don’t just tell story but paint the words in extreme clarity, the grandmother who was once a little girl with big dreams, who writes her story of 'upior' and blood, who see the beast and the beauty of those who love and hurt her. 

      Josef’s character on the other hand is something really new to me. It’s not like I’ve never thought of any SS soldier, I have but in that way. The writer turns into a very different angle of the whole horrific hell of the Holocaust or any other genocide alike. Perhaps anger and sorrow of the cruelty of these people have made me blind to the bits of goodness they might still have hidden behind the thick clouds of cruelty. I forgot that these monsters were once human before the war and maybe even after the war. I forgot to look deep into their old eyes and see the regrets they held as they tell their part of history,the same way they might have ignored the tears of toddles and mothers begging for their life. The hell of memories that still hunt them every single second of their life. Those sleepless night. Those pointless regrets. The shame they carry to their dead beds. The fear to continue living in the judgmental eyes of the world and the fear of facing death and God.

       I started asking questions to myself. Would I have done the same if I am in his shoes? Will I be influence to believe in the lies that were told by the ones I thought of as God? Will I reject those nonsense, stand up for the truth and die in honour? Will I say yes like everyone, ignoring my moral compass? Am I really as pure or as good as I want be, given the same situation? Will I kill a mother just so that my mother could sleep in peace? Will I kill a child just to make way for my own child? Would anyone? Sometimes questions are best left unanswered. Besides, who would want to think of themselves as monsters?

       Perhaps those are just excuses. Self defense maybe. A way for people like Josef to stay sane. A lie perhaps to constantly remind them that they are as normal as any other human being. So that they can pretend to hold their love ones with clean hands. Just so that the guilt might corrode as time pass by. No matter what they tell themselves, the truth or just another lie, the damage had been done. The blood and bodies of about 6 millions people has vanished into the air. Worthless. Stories are all there is left now. Of torture and of pain. Of death and of blood. Of regrets and of tears. Nothing more. Just stories and vanishing memories of people and places.

By,                

Venesa Devi

Poem #3

Storyteller

by Venesa Devi

Those eyes,

they tell stories,

of torture and of pain,

of death and of blood.

That broken smile,

they bring memories,

of family and of friends,

of love and of life.

I don't know your name,

I  don't know your life,

I don't know you.

Were you a dreamer like me?

Were you a lover of seas?

You see,

you're a mystery.

Yet I know you well

in my fantasies,

as if I am part of your memory,

as if we are in the same century.

but you see,

You were long gone before me.

You're just a forgotten history.

One of the many faces I see,

in the remains of a torture chamber of the Khmer Rouge,

just another untold story.

Now you see,

I will tell your story,

your misery,

will never again be a mystery.

Let the people hear and see,

the truth about you written by me,

of every tears and every cries,

of every wound and every bruise,

of the blood and the body.

For it could even happen to me or my family,

maybe we were lucky,

but tomorrow is still a mystery,

might be my time for the pain and the misery,

maybe then there'll be another 'me',

who will write another untold story.

You see,

you might be just a fantasy,

in the mind of a writter wannabe,

but you have to trust me,

I'll write your story,

beautifully.

Poem #2

Hope
by Venesa Devi

Perhaps there's still small pieces of hope in the sky,
hidden behind the thick cloud of despair.
Perhaps hope is just an illusion our lonely heart long to see.
Perhaps hope is the only goodness in the darkness of life's cold reality.
Perhaps hope is an easy escape from all misery.
Perhaps hope is just a lie that will never change the colours of the seas.
Perhaps hope was made by people like you and me,
desperate for shelter from the violent storm of failure we see.

Poem #1

Death
by Venesa Devi

Death,
the everlasting sleep,
the eternal pause,
the endless silent.

Death,
remains a mystery,
remains an unknown story,
remains as God's greatest secret.

Death,
perhaps the end,
perhaps a new beginning,
or perhaps is nothing.

Death,
the reason memories are precious,
the reason life is priceless,
the reason we are only human.