TRIBUTE TO ALL MY SIFUS
When I started journalism, I was like a lost sheep groaping in the dark, wondering for the right words to come to mind. I failed miserably the first few months. But I never gave up because of all these people that I mentioned below. Without their help, I would never be able to make THAT first baby step.
In all my 23 years of journalism, I failed to take the time to say thank you to these special people who I will forever be indebted. These are the very people who showed that love and care goes hand in hand. And that means a lot to someone like me.
I WILL forever be eternally grateful to the angel-like N heart-of-gold Fatimah Abu Bakar, the Entertainment editor of NST who tolerated my nonsense for 13 years. Patiently and lovelingly, she showed me the rope on how to be a sensible journalist. We shared many memorable stories together. Most of it were so funny like how I wore a top inside out to my assignment in Central Market. Then there were the mismatched pair of shoes and counselling hours that she gave me. Fati was not only my boss, she was a big sister to everyone on the desk. She was a shoulder to cry on. I could talk to her about any subject and she world listened raptly. She would empathise with all my problem. She is warm, gentle, caring and most of all the pillar of strength for this "lost" cadet journalist.
I wanted the pseudonym Zieman for many reasons.
For the next 23 years, no one really know my real name. Even if people bothered to ask me, I just refused to explain why. The story is a long one. And sad.
To all my seniors who taught me how to get good stories and scoops, thank you for being there for me. Until now, I still have this habit of sourcing for a good story because somehow I feel my sifus are watching over me. Its just a feeling. And I hate to disappoint them.
Fatimah Abu Bakar, Rose Ismail, Aishah Ali, Fauziah Samad, Ku Seman Ku Hussain, Bahyah Mahmood, Tajaiyah Ihsan, Saodah Ismail and award-winning scriptwriter A.Wahid Nasir. All these special people have shaped my writing, influenced my way of thinking and have been there to pull me up when I fall. And somehow I always "fall".
Of all my sifus, Wahid is the closest to me. The prolific scriptwriter who has churned hundred gem of scripts is the kindest soul I've ever met. Though he is gentle, soft-spoken and slow in his mannerism, he is such a darling. At times my impatience would get the worst of me and I would snapped at him. Yet, the ever patient Wahid never take to heart the cruel jokes that I made of him. He would always retort in an expressionless way. He is almost like a big brother, only not so forceful because I often bully him and this I love to do. Sometimes I think Wahid looks like an ageing Thai prince who got lost in Malaysia. I suppose one of the reasons why I like to be in Wahid's company is because he is good looking and kind. Wahid is young for all his 50 years of age. It must be the tons of vitamins he takes. Yet, he would fall asleep at any opportunity he can seized, even in classroom right under the watchful eyes of our lecturers Garvan and Russell. The masterclass that we went together was full of fond memories. The asam-eating session, the long lunches and the short tea-break and the ride home with Mak (Quraishah) and Jayanthi were so meaningful. Wahid has always encouraged me to write my script. I made many promises. I guess I have to really deliver my "Izzara" soon as we would be working closely in future for our debut feature film.
I still keep in touch with Fati. Each time I thought of Fati, my thoughts would bring me to Jalan Riong where it all began. My NST days were both happy and sad. There were moments which I do not want to think how I have struggled to keep my sanity back then. I was coping with lots of personal problem. It was a bad patch in my life and Fati helped me a lot. The stress was tremendous.
But one thing that I still can't get rid off is living with the "humiliation" of being called deragotary offensive names. At 24, when I started my reporting days, everything was so tough, hard and painful. It was as if I was thrown into a place that I do not belong. Strangely though, I never had the urge to give up. I tried to cope and juggled with all the peer pressure, domestic problem and the demanding datelines. Each time, I encountered A snag, Fati would always be there for me. I really love that woman. She has a beautiful heart and it shows in all her dealings with the people around her. She has influenced me a great deal. I idolise her so much that most of my rail of thoughts aboit journalism and working habits are inspired by her.
Another man whom I can't take my mind of whenever I think of NST is the stern Shaik Osman Majid.
The late Shaik was a tyrant and tormentor. He literally shoved a Thesaurus on my first day of work. He was so irritated that I have not heard of the book. He wanted me to replace the word shy to describe Sudirman, my first article to be published. He decided the word used should be "reticent."
"Haven't you heard of Thesaurus before? Which school did you come from?," the mean looking editor said on my first day of work. On the months that followed, Shaik grew more tolerant with me. Perhaps its the naiveness, simplicity and my meek ways, giving in to him each time he barked at me.
The other oppressor was Pak Samad, the Father of all journalists. He was always judgemental about new female reporters. He hated to see me in long kebaya. The fact that I was a young divorcee somehow irked him. There was never a moment of peace whenever he is around me. I get yelled at ever so often. First I broke down and cried when he screamed his head off, then I started the defence coping mechanism by ignoring him. None worked. His scoldings were like music to my ears. Very soon, my rubber ears could take his insults, dirty jokes and vulgar remarks.
You really toughened me Pak Samad. Breathing down my throat with the grouchy "Mmmm" and shouting across the floor with "Mana janda tu?" was the ultimate attention that he had ever given me. And when he described my first story as "not even fit to be an essay", let alone be published, Pak Samad made it all the more dramatic by crushing the print, reducing it to a snowball size and threw away. As if the humiliation was not enough, he had to step all over the snowball and asked me to pick it up. The shameless me did as told and when I looked up, guess who was grinning?
With his shoe marks engarved on my masterpiece "story", I knew my life as a journalist is not going to be easy. But that old man has a beautiful heart. Though his actions were painful for me to accept as a rookie, I learned that he had wanted me to be a good reporter.
In the months that followed, he personally too the time to give me assignments that were out of this world. I knew he was thrilled with all my scoops. Well, Fati was the mediator who would counsel me with her gentle words.
One day, after I came back from Brunei, my first overseas assignment with Aishah Ali and Wirda Adnan covering the Royal wedding of Mazuin adn Pengiran Sufrie, Pak Samad summoned me to his room. He gave me a small card. I almost couldnt believe my eyes when I read the words..."Congratulations, you are now a full-fledged journalist." And to who do I honour this....THANK YOU SIFU!
