Monday blues..

You know how sometimes you have too much time on your hands and you begin to brood over what you've achieved in life? Today, a little voice in my head is nagging me: Is this job is really what I want? And more importantly, am I really qualified for it?

I stumbled onto this line of work over two years ago, and began as a journalist cum assistant producer for both business news and current affairs programmes. Then six months later, I was transferred full-time to the business news department. Then one year later, I was made assistant assignment editor for the desk, handling mostly political news and a touch of business happenings.

I guess what I'm whinging about is that I'm a jack of all trades, master of none. I feel that I haven't learnt enough. I'm a crap reporter: I can handle one-on-ones but freeze up at a packed conference hall; as an assistant producer, I suppose I'm alright; as an assistant assignment editor, well, I used to think politics was rubbish and didn't pay too much attention to it until I actually was forced to, and my business knowledge is limited to my ability to understand analyst reports, so there you go.

In short, I feel like crap. Am I really qualified to be in this position? I follow print media, the alternative news websites, Al Jazeera and BBC religiously. But is it enough?

I tell a colleague and good friend of mine: "I don't know where I'll be in 5 years."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," she replies despondently. "I think if I were to submit my resume to Al Jazeera, they would laugh in my face".

"Do you think we've actually learnt enough? Are we really qualified and experienced enough to be manning the desk? Or do you think we'd be relegated to the bottom tier if we ever moved on to another company?"

"Yeah," she replies.

Comforting words. I guess I'm staying in this tv station until I die. But at the very least, I know I'm not as dense as some people, as interviews with prospective hopefuls are proving.

"How would you improve the news?" my executive editor asks an interviewee.

The young reporter aspirant thinks very hard. So hard you can actually see the little cogs turning in her little brain. Then, she replies hesitantly: "Hire prettier news presenters?"

She did not get the job.

"Don't want no short dick man."

I froze in the middle of browsing through the bottles of shower gel in Watsons, One Utama.

"Did you hear that?" asked my fiance with a incredulous look on his face. "Are they nuts?"

And there it was again, blaring throughout the store crowded with families and their little ones.

"Don't want no short dick man."

Times like these, I actually miss elevator music.

Yes, I came back in one piece

It was with great trepidation that I crossed the Rafah border with my cameraman. I had no experience reporting in conflict zones, and I had no training whatsoever, save the survival manuals my colleague had lent to 2 weeks before my departure.

Engineers, the press and returning Gazans line up at the Rafah border

But I was intent in getting my story. And I did.

I spoke to families who say Israeli soldiers had deliberately attempted to bury them alive. To a father of four, whose two children have been 'martyred', killed by bombs that devastated their home. To a woman who described the state of her dying brother and his three children as 'bubbling' after they were hit directly by a phosphorus bomb. To the Hamas deputy health minister, who described aid being channeled in without a lifting of the siege as a "painkiller when you have a chronic disease'.

It wasn't without some resistance that I got to go to Gaza. Some were concerned for my safety. My CEO looked and me and exclaimed, "I'm all for girl power, but you're so tiny!".

Some were concerned that in my absence, they'd have to cover for me back in the office.

Still more protested my choice of assignment. What about Somalia, they asked? Or Sri Lanka? To me, that's like asking the Malaysian Aids Council why they aren't concerned with homeless children, or why they aren't fighting for cancer sufferers. Gaza just happened to be my cause.

Even so, the opposition nearly wore us down. I was supposed to go with Nizam, producer and news anchor for 7edition. She pulled out eventually. But without her help, this assignment might not have materialised.

Residents of Jabaliya live in tents near the ruins of their homes

Yes, we could have just relied on the news wires. But I wanted to know whether the reports we were getting were accurate. Were we being unfair in our coverage; was Israel's invasion truly justified?

I'm not on Hamas's side, nor am I on Israel's. Common sense dictates that both parties stop trading bombardments, and that Gaza's crossings must be opened.

Unlike real war corrspondents, I spent merely several nights of sleeping with gunshots ringing through the night. But after seeing with my own eyes Gazans attempting to smuggle in, not guns, but food and petrol through the Rafah tunnels; after being shot at by Israeli soldiers just for accompanying Gazan farmers to collect their belongings from their home near the border; I believe mine is a worthy cause.

Gazans and activists search through the rubble under the watch of Israeli soldiers. (Fort is left of the picture)

My only regret is that my passport denies me entry into Israel. I would have loved to have the opportunity to speak to Israeli families on the other side, who've suffered under the constant bombings by Hamas.

Just days ago, I was at home when I heard loud cracks splitting the air. My first thought was 'Gunfire!' Then I realised I was back home and that it was fireworks: people were celebrating Chap Goh May. I guess I wasn't quite ready to leave Gaza.

Gaza

An ambulance arrives at a crowded hospital. Paramedics scramble out, carrying two small children, wounded by shrapnel, into the ER. Their father climbs out but instead of following them inside, stands there as if rooted to the spot, wailing in Arabic, his hands in his hair, tears streaming down his face. He knows it's too late: they will not live.

----------------

A man with hollow eyes stands in the middle of a crowd, holding on to the corpse of a little baby. He tells the people around him, his other son is already in the morgue. Nestled in his arms, the baby bears no wounds; it looks like it's merely asleep.

----------------

A young girl, no older than 15, is hiding out in a U.N. school with hundreds of other refugees. The night before, an Israeli missile landed in the courtyard, killing three. She is confused and terrified. She asks, "We didn't fire the missiles. We don't care about the war. What have we done to deserve this?"

----------------

I've never taken particular interest in the Israel-Palestine conflict. For me, it was some never-ending war that occurred somewhere in the Middle East. I shrugged it off.

Then, last January, Egypt opened the Rafah border crossing. Some Western papers went to town with it, declaring that the terrorists were no longer confined, and that the trapped Palestinians were crossing over to go on a shopping spree. My interest was piqued. When the Berlin wall came crashing down, the international community celebrated, families were united. Surely the Palestinians were not rushing out to buy Prada bags?

So I read on, I learnt, and I was horrified. My heart went out, not to Israel or to Hamas or to Fatah. It was the scores of civilians, trapped in the strip, constantly living in fear, struggling to manage their limited rations of food, medical supplies and fuel.


No words can describe how I feel right now about the Israel onslaught. I don't care who the land belongs to, I don't care about the politics, nor religion. What I know is, Israel's invasion in retaliation for Hamas' missile attacks, is akin to shooting everyone in the neighbourhood because someone's dog bit you.

I intend to go to Rafah. The media isn't allowed to enter the Strip, but we're allowed to report on the borders, and medical supplies are being sent in via Rafah. I don't know what I can really do, but I can't sit back and watch anymore.

750,000 people are relying on food handouts, and 150,000 don't have water. Next week, supplies will run out and they will starve. In the meantime, Mercy Malaysia says, not all its medical supplies are allowed in; some of the wounded may have to be operated on without anaesthetic. Meanwhile, the body count is rising, and the wounded overwhelm the Shifa hospital.

Sham has given me the green light; I'm hoping my boss does the same.

"We do not make any exceptions, mam..."

Stewed over the possibility of losing my ring for several days, and I've finally calmed down. Realised that some of my comments were uncalled for, and that it would be silly to burn down the entire town to assuage my anger (although fantasising about it felt damn good!). Besides, I think being extorted for a bit of cash for an engagement ring pales really to a potential Ops Lalang.

Anyway, all courier services have declined to fetch my ring as they don't deal with "valuables that cost over US$300". If it didn't cost that much, it wouldn't be called valuable, would it? Morons. Plus I had to deal with this unpleasantly polite-yet-robotic-unfeeling-I-don't-really-give-a-shit about-your-situation call center guy from DHL:

Moron: We do not handle jewellery, mam.

Me: Yes, but this is an emergency. Can't..

Moron: We do not make any exceptions, mam.

Me: ..you make an exception?

Moron: We do not make any exceptions, mam.

Me: I know, but this is an emergency.

Moron: We do not make any exceptions, mam.

Me: *Groan* I understand, but this is an EMERGENCY. I am DESPERATE. Is there someone I can talk to, I dunno, someone who I can arrange something with..

Moron: We do not make any exceptions, mam.

***

I know he's just doing his job, but I hate him.

Anyway, am trying to get in touch with management; otherwise Sham and I will have to drive down to Rompin. Sigh. Who's the moron now?

Missing: One engagement ring

It is its followers that make me forget why Islam is my favourite religion.

I have just returned from a short holiday in Rompin, only to realise to my utmost horror, that I had left my engagement ring behind. Called up Summerset Resort to speak to housekeeping. Lo and behold, the girl I spoke to *does* have my ring. I asked her to courier it over, privately thinking to tip her for her kindness, and asked her if she knew what the delivery rates are like.

She said, "Awak nak bagi berapa?"

I thought perhaps I may have misunderstood her, after all, which retard in the hospitality line would so blatantly extort money from its customers. I asked her again, how much are the rates?

She said, again, "Awak nak bagi berapa?"

Inside my head, I saw myself speaking to Summerset Resort's HQ in KL to force her to give the ring back to me. But then I thought, what if she decides to 'lose' it? What if Summerset Resort tells me it's not their problem; I left my ring there in the first place?

So I swallowed my anger. Taking advantage of my silence, she had meanwhile proceeded to proclaim how 'jujur' she was to have kept my ring for me, instead of selling or keeping it for herself.

And I thought, you fucking cunt, I may be the kafir, but not only are you extorting money from me, you're doing it in the holy month. You're the one going to hell.

Of course I didn't say that. I am sending City-Link to get my ring and to give her RM100 for the 'inconvenience'. And the whore is happy. This morning she sent me this unbelievable SMS:

"Sharon ni no akaun mybnk sy 156039367888 nti ley r blanj sy bonding rmbt."

For those of you who can't decipher that, she's basically telling me she's using my money to straighten her hair. I can only hope that I really do get my engagement ring back. What I do know is I'm never going back there.

This is a little belated, but...

So they've finally tied the knot.

I feel like it was only yesterday when Shen first started dating Naz; when she blushingly told us she was going to take it slow; when HE blushed and squirmed when she kissed him in public.

And now they are Mr and Mrs.

Shen and I first met online, through our blogs of all places, after a little case of mistaken identity.

My first impression of her was that she was very proper, very lady-like, and basically a woman I would *never* introduce to anyone I was dating.


Some six years later, I still think any man would fall head over heels for her; as for being proper and lady-like.. that perception may have changed somewhat ;)

Anyway, congrats to the lovely couple, I love them both.

On a different, yet similar note, I truly admire them for doing a couragous thing: getting married *and* doing up their new house at the same time.

My fiance and I are doing only the latter, but we're always stressed out, and snapping at each other for no good reason.


As much as we love each other and our new apartment, doing your own place, hiring contractors and kau-timming the furnishings is a completely new ballgame for us.

Buying a chimmey hood without realising we have to make holes in our walls for the ducting, buying spotlights thinking they were downlights, buying stuff that doesn't necessarily fit - we've done all that.

And the budget keeps swelling.

Yesterday, after realising we were going to move our furniture this very Sunday into an apartment that we were *not*going to be living in yet, sans curtains (!), I decided to go to Ikea to grab some lah.

I rushed there after work, tired and wearing my sky high heels, and I found myself surrounded by shelves and shelves of fabric, and realised: I need French pleat curtains; these are all tabbed.

So, it was either I waste money on tabbed curtains and new railings, or I waste money on just tabbed curtains and somehow hook them onto my existing railings.

Either way I lose.

And I did lose it, at home. I bawled my eyes out in front of my very confused fiance, railing, "Why does everything have to be so complicated? Where are we going to get the money to pay for this? And why the hell can't they call them 'curtains with those hook things' instead of French pleats?"

With tears in his eyes, Shamsher hugged me gently, obviously concerned for my state of mind.

He said,"When I'm king of the world, baby, they *will* be called 'curtains with those hook things', I promise."