I LOVE THE NAME AZIZ

Somehow, I could get along with anyone by that name. My favourite Aziz person is En Aziz Hamdan, the former THR.fm's CEO.

We hit it off instantly over a telephone interview. We became friends after I interviewed him over the suspended Kontrolversi programme, which was helmed by Richie Rahman. This controversial program was axed as it allegedly carried certain sexual innuendoes. Kontrolversi had created a stir after an MP brought the matter up in Parliament.

We spoke at length over the telephone. It was almost like meeting up with an old friend. From friendly talks, we gradually progressed to discussing projects. En Aziz is a supportive person who is open to new ideas. So, when I propose to do a radio talk-show called "Scoop Sensasi" a collaborative effort between WHAM and THR.fm, he was more than willing to give it a go.

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The talk show became a hit and En Aziz was quick to credit me for it. How could an idea take off if the support system wasn't there? With En Aziz it was so easy. He gave a lot of room for me to grow.

It was always..."Ok, we'll do it." And the rest just flowed.
En Aziz and I was especially proud of "Scoop Sensasi" as the program was a hit and ran for over a year. It featured journalists, top artistes and public relations practitioners in the entertainment industry. For one year, we had to field the best topics, issues and top drawing artistes to pull in the crowd.

It was hard work but no one complained. My reporter friends were all so supportive to chip in when the need required. I felt guity having to call the same people again and again but that's how it is. The reliable ones are a handful like Dalilah Ibrahim, Wani Muthiah, Abie Abdullah, Saharuddin Mustapha, Saniboey, Zainal Alam Kadir and Siti Rohayah Atan.
We had called Hani Mohsin and Chef Wan on air to discuss the dispute between them. The reporters acted like a team of firing squad who behaved more like a batu api. We felt guilty of instigating the hot discussion.

But memorable all the same when Chef Wan broke down on air and the phone never stopped ringing since. When we tried to grill Mohsin on the air in the next episode, En Aziz called in to ask us to go easy on him. Mohsin was an old friend so it was understandable. However, En Aziz rarely interfered in the running of the programmes but he was very involved.

He would listen raptly and passed his comments after the show. If we get an invite for an assumptuous lunch at American Chillis then we know it was a job well done.
Scoop Sensasi was provocative which touched on current issues like the failed Malay movies, the sensational cuts in Embun, the "bias" policy of Istana Budaya and how to master several langguages with multitalented Mahadzir Lokman.

Scoop Sensasi was created in 2002. Four years down the road, we have Fenomena Seni over TV1. Somehow, it sounded tame compared to Scoop. Maybe I am bias.
The next project that we worked together was the “feel good” mission for the Siamese twins Ahmad and Muhammad, inviting listeners to send cards, e-mails and letters to wish them a quick recovery after an operation to separate them in Saudi Arabia.
The station hit thousand well-wishes.

Then it was "Sumber Ilhamku" paying tribute to the greatest Malaysian composer Datuk Ahmad Nawab who had written more than 2,000 songs and groomed over 75 artistes which include the biggest names in the Malaysian music industry.

Having been around for 40 years in show business, Ahmad Nawab is still a hit with Malaysians. He could still blow his saxophone away to the delight of his fans. The program featured more than 200 golden melodies and it was aired non-stop for 14 hours from Aug 22 at 8pm.
The unusual record-breaking feat entitled Ahmad Nawab for entry into the Malaysia Book of Records as “Composer with the Most Number of Songs” and for THR.fm to get an entry for “Most Number of Songs in a Show”.

"20 Best Hits of Ahmad Nawab” on Aug 23 rounded-off THR.fm’s feat for that day. There were exhibition of Ahmad Nawab’s works, a karaoke competition and performances by music students from higher institutions, all were displayed and conducted at the Menara Kuala Lumpur.

“An exclusive dinner at the private Mega View Banquet Deck with 300 special guests was the culmination of the whole show." It was indeed a rare night for everyone. Especially so for me because I ended straight into Pantai Hospital on the night of the event as I had food poisoning which almost costs me my life as I was seven months pregnant.

En Aziz is a special friend who is almost like a sibling. We could sit down for hours at the coffee house sharing a plate of mee mamak and if we become the brunt of wild gossip. Our open friendship is an envy to many. Can't help it if we could click instantly.

Though we hardly spend time together as both of us are tied up with work, we would catch up whenever we have the time. Our favourite meeting places were Coffee Bean infront of PJ Hilton and Eastin Hotel, as it was most convenient for me.

En Aziz is a man of few words when he chose to. He often advised me to start writing my book and get it published as he thinks I am a good story-teller.
He still cuts a handsome figure with his distinguished good looks though he is a bit on the heavy side. A good friend is a rare gem and En Aziz is just that, the kind of friend who would help you no matter what.

Just last week he bailed me out again when I told him about my battle with termites. En Aziz has a soft spot for kids and seeing how my kids live in the ramshackle house infested by termites must have moved him.

I remember En Aziz giving me a Nokia handphone when I was mugged at McDonalds in SS2 in 2001. It was the sweetest gift that left me speechless for a while. I needed a handphone badly as I lost everything in my handbag. I was like a woman with no identity, no money and personal belongings. He knew a handphone is important so he gave it to me. Rosni, En Aziz's most trusted aide and our common friend, was just as thrilled when she saw my joy.

We also share the same passion for food. Evertime I talk to En Aziz, he would always ask me to be patient and take it one day at a time. Just because he has a jovial disposition, not many people know that he is actually a sensitive person.

He used to tell me stories of his "fair weather" friends. I could detect the hurt in his voice. Naturally, he felt the hurt and betrayal after helping these friends. I know exactly how he feels. I was there once and I am still there!

MY NEW FRIEND AND HIS MOLE!

This new friend of mine is queer in many ways. Though he has a humble and prince-like disposition, he is quite humble. DDSA is his acronym. I want him to remain as my mystery friend. Though we've only met, I found his traits most fascinating. He has a quick mind yet he could not stay focus for a long time. His attention span is rather short. Wonder how he does his job?

DDSA turned 45 last Saturday and he celebrated it with all his rich and famous friends including his circle of royalty friends. Now you know why he should remain anonymous. We are worlds apart. I would never be able to fit into his life. He may not talk about his socialite friends as often but I know he is in that circle. His affluent lifestyle makes me want to abstain from dwelling into him.

I choose my friends and most of my friends are like me. I prefer them down-to-earth, jovial, simple and warm. DDSA has all these qualities and more. He lives in comfort. From stories that I hear of him, I know he is a man of fine character.

I prefer writing about him than talking to him. DDSA is a true blue Taurus. And I know Taureans like the back of my palm. My late father was a Taurean. Like other Taureans, DDSA thinks he knows the most, loves good things in life, is a loyal friend and has great generosity.

This handsome looking chap has a notable Taurean characteristics - a picture of calmness, charming in every way and is a pleasant company. But I believe he has a volcanic temper that would erupt when sufficiently aroused. Somehow I just knew that.

Though still new in the friendship, I could sense his stubborn streak just like a raging bull's nature which is incredibly opinionated and decisive. His friend, WN, would not dare to vouch for this. For DDSA, when something has been decided, its embedded in stone and nobody can alter it. Taureans are said to treat their love as their sacred possessions. I've not had the privilege to venture into this private zone. Asked him once and he denied it. I think I just burst his ego by asking him that.

DDSA claimed he can hold a tune and loves music. I have yet to hear how good his vocals are but judging by his artistic fingers, I think he is gifted with a natural artistic nature. And I think I know why he likes to express himself through singing because he has a tendency to hide his true feelings. His dogmatic qualities especially when he is persistent, pushy, thorough and single-minded can drive anyone crazy. Wonder how WN lived through this.

But WN is full of praise for DDSA. He thinks the world of him though I see it often that this young bull is constantly bullying WN. The patient and ever so cool WN has no complains.
"He is a real friend. Humble to a point that you would not think that he is what he is. We've been friends for a long time. And we've passed the test many times," said WN.

I would have dismissed DDSA as an arrogant chap the first time I met him. I suppose he is just shy. Underneath that humble, kind and soft-spoken exterior is a man with a facade. I accidentally chanced upon his black mole on his right palm one day and I told him that I know the meaning of moles like reading tea leaves.

Well, the black mole means something. But what? he asked. I had the pleasure of leaving him doing the guessing game. He begged for an answer. Its killing him to know what the mole means, knowing how persistent and pushy he is. It would cost him sleepless night he said. I pitied him so I presented the meaning in a riddle form, through an abstract poem, both in English and Malay.

He had no inclination what I was talking about. He was clueless. As if to console himself, he had to tell me that a Malay bomoh once forecast that he could make good use of his hand by helping people. Which is exactly what he is doing now being in the medical profession. Well, my prediction is rather different. I think he would turn gold anything he lay his hands on be it business. Whatever he chose to do, he would excel and shine.

Once I sms him wanting to know something in his office. He replied asking who I was. I knew straight away he had not saved my number. I felt slightly embarassed and irked even after he had apologised profusely blaming on the way the number was saved. I knew it was just an excuse. Ah, well. As I said to him many times before..."nothing hurts me anymore." The pain that I went through in life has made me numb. He should know that, afterall he is an Anaesthetisiologist.

He is MOST popular among his friends. His friends called him incessantly regardless where he is. He has the patience to chat with them even though he has people with him. Oblivious to what was going on around him, DDSA would still carry on his conversation. Now, I wonder if he just loves talking.

Despite his popularity, I don't think I can ever reach out to him because we are in different world. He is in a class of his own, in a different league. Though I enjoy teasing him with my repartees some friendship are just not meant to be. A man of fine class and distinction like him would never be at home with someone like me. I am just a poor woman in rags and close to penniless. Even in another life, I would never be able to be anywhere near his class. Well, as they say, birds with same feathers flocked together. And I shall add this, ONLY birds with same feathers fly together.

My friend has this endearing character which I find so fascinating. He loves to nag and nag until the cows come home. Its not an acquired skill because he is born with this trait like most Taureanst. He could repeat the same story four times without feeling guilty about it. No, its not boring or offensive, just amusing. And because of that, I shall call him

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from now on!

THE DIAMOND IN MY LIFE!

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I wrote this story straight from my heart and it was published on Valentines Day this year. It was my senior editor friend Veera Pandiyan who first suggested and then coaxed me into writing this beautiful love story of my parents.

Though many parts of the original story was butchered by June Wong the editor, she managed to capture the essence of it. It pained me to read the story. Yet, I always have this urge to read the story again and again. It's a therapeautic thing. Having lost both parents, this is the only way I feel "connected" to them.

Every moment, every second and every time I look at myself, I yearn for my parents. The memories they arched in my heart are so enormous. I just could not find the right words to express how MUCH I miss Mak and Ayah. Each time I thought of them, I would blink a tear or two. Its not just sadness. Its much more than that. Maybe its just loneliness and longingness.... Sigh!


Through thick & thin, for keeps

Sub Head: The diamond in his life
Byline: ZIEMAN

SHE was a rich city girl who became a nurse to escape her wicked stepmother. He was a poor, uneducated soldier from the kampung. They were both 21 when they met in war-torn Congo, Africa, and fell in love.

Such was the beginning of a nearly 40-year love story. It’s a story that I am intimately familiar with because the two sweethearts were my parents.

Father, Mohd Johar Bachik (left) and mother, Maduah Kamarzah@Maznah Kamariah Ghulam Dastagir. Standing in the front row (right) me, brother Marzuki Jamil Baki and my late sister Murni @ Nona.

My father Mohd Johar Bachik was a Javanese serving in the army. He was the first group of Malaysian troops to serve as peacekeepers with the United Nations Operations in Congo (UNOC) in 1960.

My mother, Maduah Kamarzah @ Maznah Kamariah Ghulam Dastaghir, who was of Indian Muslim and Pakistani descent, was a nurse sent on the same mission.

Their desire to marry, however, met with objection from both sides. Hence, there were no family members present at the ceremony. Their “wedding” photo show them both in uniform Despite the lack of wedding finery, they made an exquisite couple. Each time we looked at the picture, my mother would repeat the story of the “great Congo days” and how they “eloped”. My parents did not have an official reception or a proper bersanding but they had no choice since they had little money and no family support.

My stern maternal grandfather, Ghulam Dastagir Ghouse Miah who hailed from Uttar Pradesh, looked down on my father as a “stupid kampung boy” because he had merely scraped through his Primary Three in Malay school in Merlimau, Malacca.

In contrast, my mother came from a good family and was city born and bred. She was only a month old when her mother, Mas Jumah Bibi, died from a fall. She was raised by her stepmother with whom she did not get along.

The youngest of seven siblings, my mother passed her Junior Cambridge at the Convent Bukit Nanas with flying colours. The only reason why she quit school and joined nursing was to escape from her stepmother. Her dusky colouring did not meet the approval of my paternal grandmother, a typical Malay woman, who described Mak’s skin as “the lowest bottom of the kuali.”

After the wedding, my grandfather gave my father a cheap mattress and pillow as a sign that he had given away his rebellious daughter.

They and their children would become the outcasts of the clan. My siblings and I were never invited to any kenduri or weddings. But despite their different backgrounds, my parents made a formidable pair who raised us well.

My mother, Maduah Kamarzah@ Maznah Kamariah Ghulam

Because we were so self-sufficient, we never had the need to reach out to the rest of the family, no matter how rich or influential they were. That, in a way, shaped our individualistic minds and independence.

Ayah made up for his lack of education with charm and a great sense of humour. Though simple, he had a beautiful heart, endlessly helping those in need. He was extremely affable, and would hold conversations with anyone on the street, regardless of race, age or gender. His best buddies were Ah Seng, the fishmonger, Haji Bakar, his mosque comrade and Raju, the Indian barber.
He hardly knew a word of English but after being around Mak for more than three decades, he could speak the language quite decently. And each time Mak corrected his pronunciation and made fun of his tenses, there would be hearty laughter from them, which was a pleasure to hear.
Over the years, our family lived in several ramshackle wooden houses in squatter areas around Kuala Lumpur. Ayah finally presented Mak with their first, proper “brick” house, 15 years after they got married.

After the May 13 tragedy, Ayah quit the army and became a guard. He took up night classes and plunged into the goldsmith business, risking the little “gratuity” money that he got from the army.

His hard work paid off and he was finally able to give Mak her first gold chain, a modest car and a terrace-house in Petaling Jaya, in late February in 1990.

Ayah had always called his wife Intan, or Tan for short,which means rare diamond. And the name stuck throughout their 38 years of marriage.

Mak and Ayah were almost inseparable, except for when they were both at work. I remember fondly the bahulu, muruku and capati-making sessions, which were very much family affairs.
We kids would gather around the stove on the floor and my father would dish out a spoonful of ghee on our capati that Mak had made.

Only Ayah was allowed to break open durians or cut mangoes, Mak’s favourite fruits. We children got our share but the best pieces were always reserved for her.

Where our religion was concerned, we had to balance between my father’s deep religious principles and mother’s liberal ways which shaped us into reasonable, moderate, well-grounded Muslims.

My father developed diabetes in 1995 and two years later had to have his left leg amputated. Mak was devastated. A day before his leg was amputated, he insisted on coming home from the hospital to hold a kenduri.

He invited all of Mak’s siblings who by then had accepted our family. His last message to them: “Please look after Tan when I am gone.”

My father passed away on April 2, 1997, a day after the operation. It was so unexpected that we were all in shock. Mak broke down and, like a scene from Bollywood, wailed, yelled and howled.
We had always joked that she was a drama queen each time she threw a tantrum with Ayah but we were still unprepared for the “drama” during the funeral.

Mak fainted three times causing much alarm. The most pitiful sight was when she collapsed at the grave.

My mother was an exceedingly voluble person but she changed overnight after Ayah left us. She found solace in religion. She wept openly in the months that followed, missing my father even more each passing day. After that, she withdrew into silent grief and locked herself in her room.
In August 1999, we learnt that Mak was dying of leukaemia. She took it very calmly. She loved us dearly but her love for Ayah was much more. During her last days she would whisper to me, “Zie, your father is waiting for me ... I can see him already.”

She passed away three weeks later on Aug 23, just five days before her 60th birthday.
I miss my parents very much but I always console myself that Mak and Ayah are together again and as madly in love with each other as ever!

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!