Friday, February 17, 2012

2nd 23

In the past year, there is one song that I kept on replay every time I am happy, and especially when I am sad (also when I am angry). It is my go-to song when swirls of emotions take hostage of me. The song is called “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry. I am not suicidal, but the lyrics are too beautiful to not be poignant to a sensitive soul.

As I turn a year older, it cannot be helped for me to think of the fact that death is near. Sure, we hear older folks verbalize their anxiety over death, but how many people of my generation have death at the back of their mind? More importantly, how many of us entertain the idea of a young friend or family member passing? How would we feel if someone close to us dies an untimely death? How many regrets would we have?

“A penny for my thoughts, oh no, I’ll sell them for a dollar
They’re worth so much more after I’m a goner
And maybe then you’ll hear the words I’ve been singing
Funny, when you’re dead how people start listening,”

Growing up, I have a lot of self-doubt. Not a lot of people believe me when I say so. Where do you think my courage to tread the unknown comes from? But that is where the problem lies; I was brave enough to take a small step, never gallant enough to fully plunge into the abyss. Part of that equation is the faceless figure sitting on my shoulder that keeps whispering, “You’re not good enough. You’re a child! How can a young person have an idea worthy of the world?” My drive to prove them wrong is strong, yet the grip of this figure is stronger, pulling me back every time. So I kept telling myself, “One day . . . one day when I’m gone maybe then they’ll start listening.”

Today, a day after my 23rd birthday, something amazing happened—something that I can only call a miracle by its magnitude. Today, after 23 years of living my life on earth, I finally find out that I AM WORTH IT. Indeed, it is pathetic for me to feel this way after all I have accomplished, but this time it is different. I put my entire life, passion, love, intellect, and honor code into the universe, whilst praying a meteor would not hit me back in the face. Today I found out that I do not need to wait till the day I die to know that there are people out there willing to listen.

Thank You, God, for the greatest birthday present yet.

Syaza

Monday, February 13, 2012

Blue, green, or red?

I am not going to claim absolute knowledge on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. I am neither a scholar nor an activist. What I am is a person who thirsts for the truth. More than that, I am someone who longs for peace, in accordance with the definition of my faith, my religion. Thus, I am here not to defend or to accuse, but simply to ask.

As I have always stated, I am not a scholar of Islam. But I do have ample knowledge on the history of the region and of the conflict. So if I am in the wrong, please someone do correct me: the third holiest site to Sunni Muslims after the cities of Mecca and Medina is Jerusalem, and not the region called Palestine, correct?

Jerusalem has tremendous religious significance to Muslims no less for its role in the Prophet (pbuh)’s ascendancy to heaven and for the fact that it was the first Qibla and the second house of prayer built, but also because we share historical importance of Haram ash-Sharif (or the Temple Mount) with the Jews. The kings and the prophets that lived before—Daud, Sulaiman, and Isa among others—centered their message of revelation in palaces and courts in Jerusalem, not Palestine.  Simply put, other parts of what is today the State of Israel, from Haifa to Tel Aviv to Be’er Sheva, are not religiously important to Muslims.

Nonetheless, there are understandably tangible grievances held by Palestinians—Christians and Muslims alike—for they were literally thrown out of their homes when Ashkenazi Jews bought lands in the territory. For that, we should certainly continue to seek restitution.

A two-state solution that addresses these issues, where Palestinians have the right to either govern their own country and/or have the right to return and live harmoniously under Israeli laws if they choose to do so, should be supported as long as the city of Jerusalem remains free and open to Muslims all over to visit and worship especially at Masjid al-Aqsa.

Jerusalem is holy, but Islam is peace.

If the Prophet (pbuh) can return insults with tolerance, why do we, sinful beings, resort to violence?

Syaza

p/s: Do correct me if my understanding of history and Islam is marred by ignorance in this post.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Whose Peace?

Should religion be a strictly personal experience, or a community-based faith? Should state interfere, or can beliefs and practices be interpreted 7 billion different ways? "People should be guided to the path of truth"; isn’t that statement an irony, for if it is the truth, shouldn’t it be self-evident?

These are questions that are worth asking given the paradox we find ourselves living in. What recently ignites my ingrained curiosity with Islam and the Western world is a book called The Butterfly Mosque, by G. Willow Wilson. Expecting to read a story about a Muslim convert trying to live a normal life in the United States post 9/11, it was a nice surprise reading about her feeling of attachment in an Islamic country that to me resembles home.

Rather than writing my opinion on the book, let the book speak for itself through pages that spoke to me.

...the street where we were harassed on a daily basis. Cairo was crawling with unemployed, furious, infantilized men who were still sleeping in their childhood beds and taking order from their mothers. Parents of girls were demanding more and more in bridal settlements and real estate, putting marriage—and therefore adulthood—out of reach for many in this poverty-stricken generations. As the middle class shrank, marital expectations rose; by marrying well, a working-class girl could help her family climb back into a “respectable” social stratum. There was no higher goal than being an ibn i’nas or binti i’nas, the son or daughter of genteel people. The stress this put on working-class men was almost unfathomable. These were the men who hunted us and hated us. In their eyes, they had been betrayed by female social mercenaries and denied their dignity by a class-obsessed society. I was marrying into a country on the verge of a meltdown.” (page 59)

Doesn’t the paragraph above hit a bit too close to Malaysian society?

I was surprised by how often Islam, in its purely textual form, took my side. There is no religious limit on the public spaces that women can inhabit; nothing prevents them from running businesses or driving cars, there is no reason they must walk behind men or cover their faces. A woman’s role is not defined by the kitchen and the nursery.

…The Prophet’s first wife, Khadijah, one of the most beloved women in Islamic history, ran her own successful business. Muhammad spent much of his early life working as her employee; they were married after she proposed to him. She was almost fifteen years his senior. Her death plunged the Prophet into mourning so intense that it is known even today as the Year of Sorrow. The Virgin Mary, known to Muslims as Maryam, is mentioned more times in the Quran than she is in the Bible, and raises her miraculous son entirely on her own; Joseph is not present in Islamic version of her story. Asia, the wife of the Pharaoh, is revered by Muslims for having disobeyed her husband in defense of Moses. A powerful entrepreneur, a single mother, and a rebellious wife: all three women are revered as the embodiment of perfect faith.” (page 80)

The women’s car was a moveable, segregated hothouse—a determined peace prevailed there, and produced a miniature society. I began to write an essay in homage to the women’s car, picking out narrative threads that I thought might help a western reader understand its subtler implications. I sent the essay to the New York Times Magazine.

…When several furious responses were published a week later, full of blistering language about gender apartheid, I was totally unprepared.

…Japanese officials announced that a women’s car would be added to the Tokyo subway to protect female commuters from inappropriate male attention; precisely the reason the women’s car had been implemented in Cairo. The Tokyo car was hailed as a step forward for women’s right.” (page 260-263)

If that is not blatant discrimination against a religion with more than one billion adherents, I don’t know what is.

Time to re-write the narrative, perhaps?

Syaza

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

1st 23

It is always fun when people find out we are married, regardless if it’s a friend, a teacher, or just the owner of our favorite restaurant. The shock on their faces is priceless. The next question to follow would always be, How old are you? And then they start to do the math. When, then, did we get married if we’re so young?

We got married when we were 20. Too young, to most. A fellow Intian, who barely spoke two words to me in a year, sent a message on Facebook after our wedding asking, How do you know he’s the one? I remember saying I just know.

Now, two and a half years later—and after four years of being together—I can finally answer that question. I know that he is the one because I could not imagine a person better than him. A lot of people thought he was too good for me, and maybe they are right. But maybe he is God’s gift to me for doing something right, who knows? With no disrespect to the men I know, I simply couldn’t think of a person better than my husband. He is kind, gracious, patient, smart, loving, independent…and have I mention patient? It is not easy being with me, or any woman, for that matter. But I’ve never met a person whose love really does conquer the demon in me. On top of all that, he helps me with house chores—now that’s a real man.

Today is his 23rd birthday, and as I said to him yesterday, I can’t believe that we’ve been together for four years now. But since I have the time to ponder on it, I realized that being with him has actually been the easiest thing I have ever done in my life.

Happy 23rd Birthday,

video

Love,

Syaza

Friday, January 6, 2012

Sphere on shoulder

Culture shock is a dead term in our Malaysian dictionary. As my wise husband aptly puts is, “culture shock” went out the window years ago when we fervently brought Astro into our living rooms. May I add, the term further perishes into obsolescence with the ubiquity that we now call the Internet. Malaysia is no longer a “third world country”—whatever that means—but a developed country (albeit being behind Singapore, Indonesia, and Thailand). Thus, I’m going to be frank here: there is no more escaping from the reality of sex, drugs, and booze, unless you live somewhere deep in our rainforest with no immediate means to access the outside world.

I am tired of people making assumptions that the recent news of our students going “astray” abroad was caused by culture shock. My guess is that who they are, and who they have become, is merely the result of western infiltration into our living rooms since the early 1990s, mixed with their eastern upbringing. I am not saying it is either right or wrong, but it has nothing to do with supposed “shock”. Perhaps by being away from home, away from the shackles of miscommunication, this new-found freedom finally provides these young adults with the opportunity to experiment with the alternatives that they have known of all along. They are not shocked by western culture; if anything, they are shocked by how similar their friends and classmates are compared to the people back home.

To the parents and teachers that talk about westerners like they know them from the back of their hands, I have a few questions: Do you know what your locally-studying Muslim children were up to last weekend? Can you for certain tell me that they have not once tasted a drop of alcohol? Or that they don’t have drugs hidden behind their headboard in their dorm rooms? What do they do at their so-called innocent birthday parties? To further prove my point that culture shock no longer exists in our Malaysian vernacular, I dare you to take a stroll through KLCC, or MidValley, or One Utama, or Pavillion, and tell me that the girls you see are not dressing exactly like the western idols they look up to. Again, I’m not judging, but simply sending a friendly reminder to stop using culture shock as an excuse.

Don’t treat the symptom, treat the disease.

Syaza

Monday, December 12, 2011

Drowning in Sweats of Love

3 months, 15 weeks, 92 days, and 2208 hours. That was how long it took me to finally get back on this site. I wasn’t going to quit blogging, mind you; blogging has been a part of me for more than eight years. The reason I was away for so is long is because of the hectic semester I had.

Last semester (wow, can’t believe I’m actually done with my second-to-last semester), I took the capstone seminar class in political science. Basically, we were supposed to produce a worthy research on political science. Sounds simple enough, but do not be fooled. Every week we had to write at least three different papers, each not as short as I would have preferred. This on top of three more classes. When I showed my syllabus to a friend, who is a graduate student, he said he would not ever want to be in such class. The class was every Monday, and every Sunday I feel like dropping it, all the way till the final week. Heck, over the semester, I had considered dropping each of my class at different times, all because I thought I could not be able to carry all these classes simultaneously. When I finally submitted my final paper today, it was definitely a celebration…until I realize I have to do it all over again next semester for my other major. Oh well, next semester is three weeks away, so I am not going to think about it till then! Right now I just want to dig into the pint of ice cream in the freezer!

This semester was also the first time ever in my life I actually worked for pay. I am a bit behind when compared to those who have worked since their first semester in the United States. Regardless, it was a first personally, and I have enjoyed every second (and every penny) of it. It is the first time in my life that I can say I earned what I bought. When I was younger, my parents would reward my good grades, and I used to say I earned it. That was a different situation. This time I put hours and efforts, making new friends along the way! I pride myself for not depending on my parents since coming to the States, and this semester, I took it a step further. All while enrolled in that tortuous class!

Finally, this semester I had the chance to put hours into an internship that I am passionate about. It was not a lot of office work; nonetheless, I had the freedom to do something I truly enjoyed—reading—while getting credit! Given how I have just spent a whole day writing about my experience in a paper yesterday, I am not going to lunge into it right now. All I want to say is that I am grateful to be able to work with such an amazingly knowledgeable supervisor who opened my eyes about the plight of Muslims in the United States and worldwide. It was an honor to discuss and to debate with him.

While doing all these, I also had to do some other personal stuff on the side. I am so grateful for my rock, my husband, who was by me all the while, supporting me and pulling me out of my dark days. He’s definitely my number one supporter, even when I doubt myself (which is often).

This is just an ‘update’ post. In order to keep in tone with the direction of this blog, I will post more of my perspective on global events—and everything else in between—that matter to me. Given the many changes we witnessed last spring and summer, believe me, I have a lot to say on the rise of the democratically elected Islamist parties in the Middle East. Yet, I am not going to go into it right now. Let me enjoy reliving the moment I handed in that final paper earlier today.

Syaza

Sunday, September 11, 2011

My Paradise


On the 10th anniversary of 9/11, I would like to share a video that I fell in love with the first time I saw it. It is four years old, nevertheless it is as relevant today as it ever will. Because of where I am currently, physically and spiritually, I could relate to the video (especially the Victoria's Secret portion). Enjoy!

Syaza

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Faith in faith

In my previous post, I tried to make it clear that not all Muslims are Arabs, and not all Arabs are Muslims. Now I am asking permission to tweak that statement to take it a little bit further: Not all Muslims in Malaysia are Malays, and not all Malays should be Muslims. This is going to be one of my more controversial post, so click here if you don’t feel like being sapped into my thoughts.

Once, I was scolded for bringing up my discontentment with our constitution, but it is not going to deter me today. I do not agree that all Malays in Malaysia must be Muslims. My reason is simple. In sports, you only want to keep those who are committed to your team or you would trade them off for someone else who does, no? Yes, religion is more complicated than a baseball league. We should not want to trade our fellow Muslims away, but if they so wish to not be part of the Muslim community, why force them? What good will it bring? From the outside, people would get confused by these Muslims who do not defer to the teachings of Islam; from our own perspective, there is a proclivity by these people to disparage Islam and its adherents for forcing them to believe in something they do not. Ultimately, no one wins as the ummah would be weakened by these dissembled munafiks.

Where I am today, on average 3 to 4 people take the shahadah over the phone every week, and to think there is no such thing as a National Department of Islamic Development breathing down our neck. This may be an amateur observation, but what I could conclude is that people in the west, especially in the United States, are attracted to Islam because the Muslims that they encounter in their everyday life are genuinely sincere in their submission to Allah. We are Muslims, and we act as one, because we want to, not because the law tells us to do so. And when others see this, the true beauty of Islam shines through, and people are attracted to it. Instead of trying to emulate so-called Muslim nations in the Middle East where the black market for alcohol has never disappeared, why not we study how Islam has become the fastest growing religion in the United States, a Christian nation that promotes freedom of religion? Opponents to my argument would contend that this is a false analogy. Muslims in the United States are mostly professionals and rich immigrants, thus they are capable on their own, whereas Muslims in Malaysia range from high school dropouts to our highest intellects, and so some of them need guidance from a religious department. If this is so, it makes my argument easier. It seems that the best way to keep Muslims from turning their backs away is not to compel them to believe in something they do not, but to educate them so that they could think on their own regarding matters most crucial to a person's spiritual health.

One of my first conversations with Sofiya four years ago was regarding this topic. Then I asked her what her father’s opinion is, since he is a professor of philosophy and Islam. Her answer intrigues me. Apparently her father said that if people want to convert away from Islam, let them be, because eventually they will realize the light they have abandoned. For me, that statement is empowering. It is simple yet powerful. If you truly believe in Islam and its truth, why fear? Why do you feel like Muslims would leave this beautiful religion of ours in masses if they are allowed to? Do you lack confidence in this religion you call your own? Or are you calling your own brothers and sisters fatuous, not capable to distinguish right from wrong? I read in a forum somewhere where non-Muslim Malaysians believe that a majority of Malays would not be Muslims if not for our constitution. My response would be, "Let's prove them wrong and allow these people to make their own decision."

Me, for example, is handed out pamphlets upon pamphlets on Christianity and Jesus almost every other day on my way to school. But do you see my faith dither? I hope not. Because I know the truth, I politely decline them. There is no need for a department of religion to take these fine men and women away in handcuffs because they are trying to proselytize me. That is what they believe in, and I respect that. After all, I believe in Jesus, son of Mary too. Just because they want to sway me away does not mean I am swayed. Simple. In fact, the best way to counter their actions is to increase your own. Be gentle, provide amenities to the weak and poor, and pray for them. God listens to prayers by those who believe. Essentially, hidayah is not ours to force on people in the first place as it belongs solely to God. We may guide, but guidance has to be handled with care, and more importantly, with respect.

As to those who reject Faith, it is the same to them whether you warn them or do not warn them; they will not believe. Allah has set a seal on their hearts and on their hearing, and on their eyes is a veil; great is the penalty they incur.” (Al-Baqarah: 6-7)

Syaza

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Fool me twice

Only three out of forty five Muslim-majority nations are considered politically free according to the fastidious analysis of Freedom House, an international institution supporting and advocating global freedom. How do we explain such inconsistency with what Islam stands for with this grievous ground level phenomenon?

The answer lies not in the historical root of Islamic Empires of the Caliphates, but further back to the quotidian culture of Arab tribes whose loyalty by blood paves the way for the kinds of human relationship established since.

Fourteen hundred years later, some still experience the numbing distortion and inability to discriminate between Islam and Arab culture. Not all Muslims are Arabs, and not all Arabs are Muslims. Thankfully, the spinning arrow of Illusion has finally come to a halt last January and the fog has cleared to those who dare to dream of upholding the truth on Islamic democracy.

Unequivocally, Islam taught its adherents to respect all leaders as we do elders for their contributions in comparison to ours, mere citizens, are inimitable in grandiose. However, an aspect of this equation that many fail to take into account is that a leader’s contract is functional to his or her services to the state. No where in Islam were we taught to be pathetically complacent when a leader fails to uphold the rights we have as Muslims, and more importantly as humans. In one simple phrase, if they do not provide, we do not abide.

Anarchy has been a term thrown from corner to another to justify the subjugation of a disparate group that threatens to destabilize power and harmony. Human rights violation is condoned in the name of special rights. Dare we still call ourselves Muslims by this low standard we hold? The Gaza flotilla incident on May 31st 2010 was castigated severely by the Muslim world as inhumane while it was rationalized by paranoia of the state in keeping peace and harmony within their boundary. One is supported while the other, the one happening in your own land, is condemned. Ironic or munafik?

Education and sophistication does not come hand in hand as one might predict by the incongruity of both in interpreting analogous events. The trade one has to make in choosing to put social benefits or religion on the back seat is discernible by the words and actions taken as he or she continuously be mentally blinded by earthly Illusions.

In commerce there needs to be an exchange of payment in order to receive better goods or services. Indulgence has to be renounced for a future all can be proud of. If an Illusion is all that one has in going on with reality, doomed shall the person be for Illusion is just a fancy code name for Trickery.

Syaza

Monday, June 27, 2011

Once Upon A TIME...

In honor of my father, Mohamad Shukri Ahmad's, 53rd birthday today on June 27th, I want to share this essay I wrote two years ago that I think reflects the unique inspiration he had on me as a photographer, and more importantly as a person. Thank you for everything, and may you have a blessed day, year, and life ahead of you. I love you, Papa.

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Six years old. “Use both hands to hold the camera!” Click!

Eight years old. “You need to hold your breath when you’re pressing the shutter button; you don’t want the picture to turn out blurred, do you?” Click!

Twelve years old. “Look at this picture here you took during our vacation. Why cut me off at the knees? And this one here. Why isn’t your brother at the center?” Click!

Photography has always been a part of my life. Always. My dad, an ardent fan of anything artsy, was the main reason for it. He is a photographer, a painter, a musician, and an architect. As a father of two, he encourages his only pair of kids to pursue the same path…well, not exactly. Neither my brother nor I am an architect. But we are both taught to appreciate arts since a very young age. My brother chooses drawing and animation, I choose photography and music. Art is beautiful. Art is the best way to put one’s self out there into the world. Photography, a form of realist art, is the best way to capture one’s self.

Unlike Roland Barthes, I do see myself as an amateur photographer. He does not for he is “…too impatient for that: [he] must see right away what [he has] produced” (Camera Lucida, pg. 9). Since he is not a photographer, Barthes recognizes the need for one in order for him to even begin scrutinizing a photograph. Thus, for a photograph to be produced, two important entities are required: the Operator and the Spectator. The experience of both the photographer (the former) and the one glancing at the photograph (the latter) is too different to be talked about together. Barthes, a Spectator, is more interested in explaining the feeling one experiences when looking at a photograph whereas I, an Operator, definitely lean more towards “…the emotion [that] had some relation to the “little hole” through which [I] look, limit, frame, and perspectivize when [I] want to ‘take’” (Camera Lucida, pg. 10). For acknowledging this distinct feature of photography in his effort to dissect its true meaning in relation to one’s self, Camera Lucida certainly fits its own title as a book on the ‘Reflections on Photography’.

Photography is an amazing way for one to capture an emotion and also for one to materialize a feeling that has been building up. In simpler terms, photography is a perfect means for people to express the identity without having to put it into words. But then again, photography is not the only way to do so. After music, painting is the next best thing to be considered a universal language. And of all the paintings I have encountered in my life, this is one of my least favorite:



Tarian ©

This painting is basically of three unknown figures dancing happily together. It is a painting called Tarian (dance) by an unknown artist to most. Even though it is not a photograph, I do see it somewhat in a way that most view photography. For starters, there are distinguished objects in the painting which include the three dancers in red, the tall grass, and the clear, cloudless sky. To think about it, one could even consider those as the studium* of the painting. A studium to me is whatever one can see in an artwork that represents the setting, whereas a punctum** is the something that stirs up an emotional response from a viewer. The punctum of this painting is obviously there, but I won’t point it out, yet. Although painting and photography, together with sculpture and cinematic art, are the same in that all of them are visual arts, a painting differs from a photograph where the studium and punctum are there on purpose. The background and the details are all created by the artist. Even if a photographer intentionally chooses his subject, the subject in itself is real. In contrast, whatever is in a painting has to be thought of first before it could be produced on a canvas.

The main thing, however, that needed to be stressed about Tarian are the three figures in a dancing pose that viewers are instantly drawn to. In the chapter He Who Is Photographed in Camera Lucida, Barthes talked about this unique process of posing. In a sense, for him, it is quite hopeless for one to try to appear natural in a photograph for that is a definite unattainable feature of photography. This is because, in Barthes own words, “…I derive my existence from the photographer… I experience it with the anguish of an uncertain filiation: an image – my image – will be generated” (Camera Lucida, pg. 11). In other words, people unconsciously pose because they are conscious of a photograph that will be developed which will contain his or her image, thus their identity too.

An image of a person is not only about the face and the body, but also of the way his or her personality is expressed. When someone chooses to smile, it is because he wants to be associated with happiness. That is why fashion models are asked to have different expressions for different catwalks; not all fashion shows are about feelings of contentment. Even when a person is supposedly not posing for a picture, that is the identity he wishes to portray – one of impatience. Similarly, when an artist paints, especially that of human beings, he is indirectly putting them in poses since no such thing as a natural form exists in the first place to painted figures. In Tarian, although one cannot make out the facial expressions, the fact that these figures are in a dancing posture helps viewers form a mental image of the self that is being portrayed. Every artwork in this world has a purpose, and the purpose of this painting is for the artist to express his feeling of ecstasy to the world hence the dancing postures.

According to Barthes, the pose which one puts up when in front of a camera is not to be mistaken for one’s true “self”. A person’s self is too complicated and too dispersed to be caught in a moment. Instead, the character that is developed on paper is “…heavy, motionless, [and] stubborn…” (Camera Lucida, pg. 12) since it could not progress with time the way that the self does in real life. As in the case of Tarian, the artist painted those figures in that particular manner because he wants those characters to vibrate the joy and merriment of being in one another’s presence; it has nothing to do with the painter’s self except that of what he felt during that specific moment. A single moment of delight in his life could never do justice to the artist as a person since there are more angles to his personality than just what is obvious in a painting.

Likewise, in the real world, it is impossible for a person to put his entire self out in the open when confronted by unfamiliar faces in an unknown environment. Nobody can depict an entire self to those he had just met except, of course, if he decides to scream his likes and dislikes for others to take note of. Because of that, one needs to pose differently for different occasions. Therefore, it should be understood that this idea of posing is not exclusive to artworks as every person on earth is known to have posed, especially when in the presence of the mass public. Some call it a facade. Nevertheless, the concept is still the same. As how Barthes wants his picture “…to ‘come out’ on paper…endowed with a noble expression…” (Camera Lucida, pg. 11), so does a person wishing to make a solid good first impression with his fellow human beings. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Posing, or wearing a mask, does not imply an absence of identity but simply portrays the side of a person that he wants to be associated with. For that reason, the Spectator should not take for granted and conclude a person’s identity based on a single pose, but at the same time it is important to recognize a pose as part of a person’s wider identity.

Yet, as a photographer myself, I hate it when people start to strike a pose whenever they see me holding a camera. True, I understand their concern of wanting the photograph to look ‘good’ but honestly, an ‘ugly’ picture could even turn out more beautiful if they just give it a chance. As mentioned, what excites the Operator is the vision framed by the keyhole. Therefore, a thought-of pose could never be exciting to the photographer. I am not interested in the product so much as what is in front of my eyes. If a friend is twirling in happiness, that will be my target object regardless of how her hair would look like in the picture or how distorted her body would appear. In Photography as Adventure, Barthes talks about how a photograph is only considered a photograph if it stirs a feeling of adventure in him. My sense of adventure, however, comes not from looking at a photograph but from the real life experiences that I try to capture on camera – objects in motion. For me, that is beauty. That is truth.

But since I have no control over a painting that is not done by me, I cannot talk about Tarian the same way I would a photograph I personally took. Yet, Tarian is a painting that has always caught my attention. I do not like it, but honestly, I have always found it interesting. Although the motion is not one of extreme movements (the kind that I usually love to capture on camera), it is in the simplicity that I found the adventure. Borrowing Barthes’ term, that painting advenes. It attracts my attention. How so? Although Tarian is one of my least favorite paintings, I find it fascinating not because of its punctum, but of the fact that three faceless figures could exert such strong emotions to its viewers. As individuals living in a society, we have always been taught by our culture that the face – especially the eyes – is the window to human emotions. Facial expression is important as part of our everyday non-verbal communication. But as we see here, that is not the case. Colors and lines constituted the human figures that are interpreted as dancing, hence joy. No eyes or mouth, just lines. And just like Barthes, I do not believe in lifelike photographs but if “…it animates me [then] this is what creates every adventure” (Camera Lucida, pg. 20). This best explains why this simple and lifeless painting brings about such a strong reaction from me for it brings out a consciousness within.

Alongside advene, Barthes is interested in Photography for sentimental reasons. He puts it best when he said, “I see, I feel, hence I notice, I observe, and I think” (Camera Lucida, pg. 21). Since I have evaded announcing the punctum to Tarian for a while now, I feel it is time for me to do so. Back when I was a young Spectator, years ago, the punctum to the painting had been, and in fact still is, the signature at the bottom right corner. That is the signature of my dear father. Yes, Tarian is painted by my father. For being the daughter to the artist, I have a firsthand knowledge about the story behind the painting: the figure on the left is him, my dad; the one on the right is my mother; the smaller figure in the middle is my brother. Me? I am not in the painting. This artwork was done way back before I was born. Actually, it was started even before my brother was born. But right after he came into the world, he was quickly added as the third figure. The question now is, why wasn’t the same done for me? When asked, this was his answer: “After you were born, your mum asked me to stop painting so that I could focus more on the family.” Noble indeed, but what about my sense of belonging? I do not like Tarian for the sake that I was not included in it. Narcissistic, maybe, but hey, I am part of the family, aren’t I? This is the sentimental reason behind Tarian being my least favorite painting by him. This punctum of his signature is the “…something [that] has triggered me, has provoked a tiny shock, a satori, the passage of a void” (Camera Lucida, pg. 49). This painting reminds me that there was actually a time when I was not yet born but the History of the world does not stop to exist in my knowledge.

Barthes wrote about History being the time when his mother was alive before him in History as Separation: “Thus the life of someone whose existence has somewhat preceded our own encloses in its particularity the very tension of History, its division” (Camera Lucida, pg. 65). This division in History is noted in the photograph of his mother wearing clothes no longer worn in his period. Obviously Barthes was not talking about History in the sense of human being’s gradual transformation from past to present – History is seen in this context as a personal transformation. As History is seen to be divided between two existences, the moment one passes a second, that last second becomes History as it ceases to exist. This is described further by Barthes when he points out that the living soul is the only thing contrary to History. And so, in relation to time, a person’s identity is not easily defined as it could already be ‘History’ when it is talked about. A person may have a certain interest when he was in his 20s but what about twenty years later? Or thirty years later? Who is going to say that the person will not evolve? This, however, is the beauty of one’s identity. Nobody can pinpoint it. Nobody can really say, “I am this, you are that.” People change and a photograph is just a document that holds evidence to a person’s self at a particular point in his life.




Pekan ©

Given my opinion on the painting Tarian, it is understandable for one to assume that my favorite painting by my father would be one done after 1989, the year I was born. However, Pekan (town) is actually one of those paintings which I used to stare at a lot when I was younger. For some reason, my father is not too proud of this one. In our old house, this canvas was nailed at a corner where no one except family members would usually passed by. In other words, this painting is almost invincible, even to me after a while. But once in a blue moon, I would sit upside down on the couch where this painting was hung above, and stared at my father’s recollection of his past. Those small figures are supposed to be him and his friends (including his then-girlfriend, my mother) and the scene, or studium, is of them having cendol – a Malaysian dessert – under a tree where the hawker has his stall. But unlike the first painting, the punctum of Pekan is not my father’s signature at the bottom left corner. Even though this painting was finished in 1986, I love it anyway because the overall scene of those young architecture students reminds me that my parents were once young too, and I am certainly not the first person in the family to have such strong patriotic feelings over my fellow countrymen.

The punctum to me in this painting is the name of the store furthest left: Syarikat Chan (Chan Company). Chan is a Chinese surname, and in this painting, it is the only legible element of it. My father has no problem acknowledging in this artwork that Chinese are advancing much better in business at a time when Malays were fighting for economic equality. This is the kind of History that I am proud of. Even if I am not part of the painting, these college students in the 80s are proofs that regardless of skin color, everyone can live side by side without beliefs, cultures, or personalities getting in the way. A person’s self may change given time, but the course it chooses to take depends on its History. In the same way, although the Malaysia of now is different from the Malaysia back then, History could be the remedy all of us have been waiting for. As mentioned, a person’s old behavior that is captured in a photograph – or painting – may not dictate him any longer, nonetheless it is still considered part of his self. History may be why I hate Tarian, but History is also why I love Pekan.

Photography, in definition, is the art of creating still pictures. It is an art – a way for the artist to appeal to the senses and emotions. Nothing more. Spectators do have the opportunity to make their own interpretations of a photograph but the real photograph lies in the view of the Operator, the photographer. The identity which the photographer chooses to capture is no more than a tiny fraction of a person’s self at a certain period in his own History. By studying a photograph one may be able to form a rough idea of that person, perhaps, but Identity, with a capital I, will never ever be successfully captured by both the amateur and professional photographers even if they try, for it is not there to be caught on camera in the first place.

*According to Barthes, studium is an application to a thing, taste for someone, a kind of general, enthusiastic commitment…without special acuity (Camera Lucida, pg. 26).

**Punctum, however, disturbs the studium as it stings, specks, and cuts (Camera Lucida, pg. 27).











Syaza Farhana Mohamad Shukri
Fall 2009