tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89106212012-02-17T09:00:47.902+08:00My Life in FragmentsThe Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.comBlogger161100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-60132475158869242912007-08-24T01:27:00.000+08:002007-08-24T01:29:14.434+08:00

Today I was told by my friend that the NGO I used to work for will be returning to Sudan to identify new projects. I felt a pang of envy because I wish I was going to join that mission and who knows, would have perhaps managed programs in the country again. But the feeling soon passed as that chapter in my life is clearly closed now.Still it got me to thinking about my year in Sudan, especially

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-7195056089200133632007-08-01T12:59:00.000+08:002007-08-01T14:48:40.728+08:00

And so with another sigh I read an article in the Guardian entitled 'A very private war' on the hire of private companies which provide security services to American individuals and interests, and how more often then not, they hired locals to do a lot of their dirty work, and worked under no jurisdiction, American or Iraqi. As I read that, two images sprung to mind, a pot bellied, tatooed,

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-26671883320435778342007-08-01T12:16:00.000+08:002007-08-01T12:23:29.761+08:00

Just a short note to the few who read my blog...I'm still alive and have safely risen from the ashes of doom. What I can't change I am burying for now to deal with when it's worth my while, if ever. Thank you JK Rowling and the Syed Al Attas family (and the Al Bukhary lecture series) for letting me see light in my mind's darkness. And so she continues to whirl and whirl...

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-5482204963115762962007-07-26T15:14:00.000+08:002007-07-27T02:26:52.002+08:00

Why do I always seek to understand people who will never explain themselves to me? Why does it mean that much to me to know why an ex employee would purposely leave me out of events that I should be a part of? Why does it mean that much to me when people whom I thought were my friends, and with whom I took a step too far, but without force, not wish to associate themselves with me on any level

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-7509435667888531282007-06-12T11:56:00.000+08:002007-06-12T13:13:27.818+08:00

I'm sure we have all felt at some point in our lives that the song we hear over the radio or which a friend recommends just describes how we feel about something or someone. I have many such songs that I no longer need to write a diary. I just play a song and I am instantly brought back to a time and place in my mind's eye.Offlate I have been listening to "All Good Things (Come to an End)" by

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-61256076483456303922007-05-23T19:47:00.000+08:002007-05-23T19:51:52.490+08:00

I’ve started a new job. It’s proving to be a bit of an adjustment as it’s been sometime since I’ve worked in a proper setting in Malaysia or anywhere else for that matter. It’s a deskbound, 8am-4pm kind of job you see. Gone are the days when it took me a second to work – because my office was quite literally at my foot step. Thankfully my new job isn’t with the private sector so I can still run

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-45829767974556730302007-03-29T03:13:00.001+08:002007-03-29T03:23:28.651+08:00

After some months of trying, I have finally got a job offer. I have for a while now been thinking it’s time I moved on from the NGO I’ve been working and been associated with for the last four years. While I am ever grateful to its founder and staff for helping me get to where I am professionally and personally – sometimes you have to venture further to be of better service because you have

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-2695081154725935032007-03-28T01:32:00.000+08:002007-03-29T02:33:54.932+08:00

(Thanks Brother M for giving me the courage to share my inner self)I haven't really cried for sometime now. Not my atypical crying. I used to cry a lot because it always made me feel better. Some people get mad, hysterical, drunk...I simply cry my eyeballs out. I used to cry just about anywhere - most of the time on my own - as my thoughts drifted to old memories, regrets, loss, heartbreak,

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-92011712110944633592007-03-15T00:18:00.001+08:002007-03-15T14:42:56.076+08:00

In 2002, I volunteered and then was employed to work for an NGO on aid projects in Afghanistan. Although our projects were in the country, we lived in Pakistan very near the border. As the distance between where we lived and where our projects were, was not within walking distance and foreigners were not encouraged to walk in the streets due to security - we were usually driven to project sites

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-76541848590081892962007-03-15T00:15:00.000+08:002007-03-29T03:26:08.959+08:00

Today as I was entering the loo in The Curve, a shopping mall, I heard a lady tell her friend "skinny is better than fat, so don't complain." I couldn't help but smile, because as a fat lady, I felt inclined to disagree.Whenever I come home after a long trip, it always strikes me how most Malaysian women are tiny, boobless and buttless. And when they look like they have boobs, I suspect their

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-54586353484341821832007-03-13T16:28:00.000+08:002007-03-15T13:19:58.787+08:00

Not so long ago, someone told me "Hey...it's not good to be drifting for so long you know". As usual I never react fast enough when some someone says something that takes me completely by surprise. So I didn't respond by asking why she thought I was drifting.I get the impression she thinks so because I do not have a full time job and haven't had one for more than a year now.It makes me sad and

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-5288179410905088002007-03-13T00:58:00.000+08:002008-12-09T06:49:44.102+08:00

Yes, I confess. I smoke. But no, I am not a smoker. I suppose you could call me a social smoker of sorts.I remember my first cigarette. I was 5 and it was a Dunhill. My Mom was a smoker then and curiousity got the better of me. Tried it, didn't think anything of it until I (Photo by Amr Fekry, Egypt) was in university. I can still remember it clearly. It was 1995 and I was so stressed out because

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-49444600092380121302007-03-12T20:19:00.000+08:002008-12-09T06:49:44.332+08:00

I am the receiver of many random acts of kindness. Random acts of kindness makes me feel good, gives me hope that this world doesn't suck so much, makes me look forward to a new day with new surprises.The wonderful thing about random acts of kindness (ROK) is that it can come at anytime, anyday, anywhere. My last experience with a ROK was a few days ago at a craft exposition where I was

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-11878762738368097572007-03-12T19:46:00.000+08:002007-03-12T20:44:12.554+08:00

I was thinking what else to write about. For some strange reason the first thing that popped in my head (while sitting in a cafe in Hartamas Shopping Center) was the image of a kindly old man working in the garden in Pakistan near the border to Afghanistan.I still remember his name, his gentle smile and his fondness for plants. We never really spoke except for a few words through an interpreter.

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-43945904842476949702007-03-12T19:24:00.000+08:002007-03-12T20:46:02.583+08:00

Last January I was in Singapore visiting a friend. I stayed with her and her husband in a really nice apartment in Bedok. I was in a relaxed mood most of the time because their place was rather like a resort - palm trees, gentle breeze, swimming pool and an apartment that was spacious and had nice wooden flooring and furnishing.I hadn't met my friend's husband in a while. As expected he asked me

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910621.post-44819492115327698782005-03-05T01:50:00.000+08:002007-03-15T14:32:29.923+08:00

The other day, my program coordinator, JL and I were invited for dinner at World Relief, after Darren, one of the staff there found out JL was leaving Geneina, Darfur for good. After settling in, we talked about how it felt to go home after being away in remote and conflict areas like Geneina, or in a country that was so different from your own.I found out we shared one thing in common - it is

The Windhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841708703305769908noreply@blogger.com0