http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_archive.jsp?ccid=51 Reader's Digest Asia - My Story Fri, 26 Feb 2010 06:27:00 -0000 http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=7490 var addthis_pub="rdasia"; var addthis_brand = "RD Asia"; var addthis_options = 'email, digg, facebook, delicious, friendfeed, linkedin, multiply, friendster, twitter, technorati, more'; http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=7373 As I peered through the open doors of Ward 41, a voice from behind me asked, ''Are you looking for Sister Boey again? She's gone home already.'' http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=7237 Mama sat quietly in the corner of her bedroom, sewing a torn shirt. Her reading glasses flashed momentarily in the light when she looked up to see who had come in. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=7155 Reaching Flight Operations at the airport the next morning, I was warmly greeted by Captain Ghias and First Officer Mumtaz-ul-Haq, the crew members I was assigned to check. Together we reviewed the plan for our Karachi-Quetta-Lahore-Quetta-Karachi flight.Our take-off was uneventful and about an hour into the flight, we began preparing to land at Samungli Airport in Quetta. Mumtaz, the pilot on the controls, said: ''Gear down and final landing checklist.'' I pulled the gear handle into the down position and heard the familiar sound of doors opening and the landing gear dropping into position. But there was something unexpected; I felt the aircraft do a bit of a sideslip. Looking at the control panel I saw that the indicator light for the nose gear was red instead of the usual green. Landing with unsafe gear at Samungli could prove fatal; Karachi was better equipped to handle an emergency landing. I decided to turn back.The cockpit was deafeningly quiet. I guess we all were weighing the consequences. I recalled all nose gear-related accidents I had read about – in every case the aircraft had been badly damaged or destroyed.I glanced around. Captain Ghias, seated right behind me, looked pale. Mumtaz and Ferdinand, our flight engineer, looked grey. I collected myself, put on a brave face and said: ''Come on, guys, we are trained and paid for this.''As we headed towards Karachi, we reviewed all the manuals and circulars from our airborne library. All relevant checklists were repeatedly consulted, but we could not determine what was wrong with the nose gear.Finally, we entered Karachi airspace. Approach Control asked us to maintain a holding pattern at 3000 feet to burn off excess fuel. As we circled the airfield, we kept trying to lower the nose gear, but without any success.Once we were ready to land, I took over the controls and asked Mumtaz to request Karachi Tower to start foaming the runway from 4500 feet from the point where we would touch down. The specially formulated foam would absorb the massive friction when the nose started dragging along the ground.On our long final approach I could see the fire trucks enter the runway. But instead of starting from 4500 feet, they began foaming the runway from the beginning.I almost shouted at the control tower. I was informed that the personnel had mistakenly foamed the runway for a belly landing. Even worse, the foam truck had broken down and there were no alternate arrangements. There was nothing I could do. The fuel tanks were almost empty. We had to land now.Any sideways movement while landing on the foam, with the main gears extended, could prove fatal. I had to land smack in the centre of the runway, without any rudder pressure. The other thing I realised was that the enormous friction of 150 tons of metal rubbing on the hard, foam-less tarmac would produce flames large enough to engulf the aircraft.and nbsp;''PK-324, on finals,'' Mumtaz radioed the tower.''Pakistan 324 cleared to land. Wind from 120 at five knots. Ambulances will be going with you as you land. God be with you,'' Karachi Tower responded.It was a soft touchdown, and within seconds we had rolled past the foam. I held the nose up as long as possible. When our speed dropped to 110 kilometres per hour, I slowly started to lower it onto the runway.The initial impact was feather-like but within seconds the aircraft filled with the loud and sinister screeches and thumps as the underbelly scraped along the runway. Just then I heard Captain Qazi transmit: ''Inna-lilla-hay-wa-inna-elahay Raaj-e-oon'' – an Arabic verse uttered only for the dead.I froze. Were we dead? I looked at Mumtaz. The grin on his face told me that we were still alive, at least for the moment.Captain Qazi later told me that when he saw the aircraft disappear in flames, he thought all was lost. He didn't realise he was transmitting. I managed to keep the aircraft on the centreline of the runway. Finally, we shuddered to a stop. The cabin crew threw open the aircraft doors, and the passengers rushed to evacuate. I quickly completed the after-landing checklist and headed towards the door.By this time, the cockpit had filled with black smoke. As I passed through the cockpit door, I heard a child cry out. It was a boy of about six years old crying for his mother, who was nowhere to be seen. I picked him up, handed him to senior purser Michael Webb and ordered him to evacuate.Then I saw a young man sprawled on the floor with a pair of crutches at his side. I managed to help him get up and helped him evacuate. When I later learned that no-one on the flight had been injured, not even bruised, I could not stop smiling. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=7154 My son looked at me strangely and I explained. In 1991, I had spent five months in a bleak African country, Niger, ravaged by sandstorms and blistering heat. There were many things I found difficult about this place – the climate and beggars were my biggest and most constant gripes. Street urchins would continually thrust their hands into your face, shouting ''Cadeau! Cadeau!'' [gift] in French, the former colonial tongue. After I'd finished my nursing stint there, a friend and I headed for neighbouring Burkina Faso to work in a health clinic. ''It's much greener in Burkina. Even the Coke tastes better,'' the locals assured us. Arriving by taxi at our destination in Burkina, we began to unload. I had a large backpack and a smaller daypack. With my daypack wedged between my legs, I reached for my larger piece of luggage. Out of the darkness, a motorbike with two men approached slowly. Without warning, one of the men grabbed my daypack as the motorbike swept close by. Within seconds, the two were out of sight, swallowed up by the night.The bag had my passport, money, traveller's cheques, camera, an airline ticket and other paraphernalia precious to me. I was in deep trouble. And the nearest Australian consulate was in Ethiopia.In the weeks that followed, I zea-lously guarded the rest of my valua-bles and regarded all locals with suspicion. I endured interrogations by the and shy;authorities with thinly veiled frustration. All I wanted was to leave this hellhole.Then, walking through Burkina's streets one day, I was accosted by an old woman who thrust her hand in my face. ''Cadeau! Cadeau!'' she cried. I'd had enough. I was sick and tired of the country: its poverty and corruption, its thieves, its inefficiency, the heat, the dust and its time-wasting officials. I told her firmly in French, ''I have no ‘cadeau'. I have no money. A thief stole all my money two weeks ago and now I can't get out of your country. I cannot give you anything.''The beggar woman listened attentively and pondered my words. Then her face crumpled into a toothless grin as she reached into the folds of her dress. ''Then I will give you a cadeau,'' she announced. Kindly, she placed an old, dark brown coin in my palm. I looked at it in shock. It was a minuscule amount of money – but for this woman, the coin represented a meal. In that moment, I felt the shame of affluence and the humility of charity. She had given me a gift disproportionate to anything that I had ever donated. In the midst of her poverty, she was able to give me something priceless. I saw then the unexpected beauty of the people of Burkina Faso – and appreciated profoundly the quiet dignity of the poor. Humbled by the old woman's gift, I hope never to part with the coin she gave me. With one small token, she turned my perceptions upside down. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=6976 baul is. It is a wooden trunk made of two compartments where old folks store their clothes. The first compartment is a shallow one and stores underwear and other small things. The second compartment is deeper so it can hold bigger garments. Camphor balls keep away the rats and cockroaches. My mother had a baul. It was her hope chest.I was only 13 years old when Mama died. Father told me that after giving birth to my youngest brother the previous year, she had become very sickly. Yet she went on with the usual household chores. It was my role to see to my five siblings, whose ages ranged from one to ten years old. I saw to it that they were properly bathed, clothed and fed.Not wanting to worry us, Mama carried on with her usual calm disposition, never faltering in her speech or in her steps. Still, we noticed her sudden loss of weight and paleness.Being an optimist, Mama had strong faith in God. We would have our morning ''promenade,'' as she called it, praying the rosary as we went along. Our home - in Barangay Sagpon, Albany province, in central Philippines – was a stone's throw from the church, so after our walk, we would attend Mass.During one of these walks Mama casually told me about her baul. She said it contained her burial dress and some treasures she was leaving for me. However, she explicitly told me that I should only open it in the event of her death. She handed me the key of the baul for safekeeping.Her words didn't have much of an impact on me. Not having experienced death in our family, I thought that it was nothing to be reckoned with. As days went by, Mama's health did not improve. Gradually she became weaker and weaker.One day, I saw her sewing a brown dress by hand in spite of her condition. She was adept at sewing and needlework. It was from her that I learned all these things.In spite of all the medications, her condition became worse. The doctor, who visited regularly, diagnosed lung infection. On her final day, a Thursday, she woke up in the middle of the night. We found her profusely sweating and struggling to breathe. But her mind was clear and lucid. She called us one by one - my father, my brothers and sisters, my maternal and paternal grandparents and myself - to ask for forgiveness. She also told me that, being the eldest, I had to take care of my siblings and love them. She finally breathed her last breath after the priest gave her Holy Communion.My father, who had never been away from Mama, was inconsolable in his grief. Immediately after she died, he seemed to be lost in time, not knowing what to do. God must have given me the strength and the courage to take action. I went to my father and told him about Mama's burial dress in the baul. He broke into tears, for how long I cannot remember. He must have come to his senses at some point because he eventually started making preparations for the wake and the burial.Obeying my mother's request, I took the key and hurried to the baul, which was kept in a storeroom. I was apprehensive; a feeling of mysterious expectancy overcame me. I wondered if a genie, like the one in Aladdin's lamp, would spring forth when the baul was opened. As the key rattled in the lock, the lid lifted with a melodious ring. The room was filled with the scent of camphor, reminiscent of clothes stored for ages. There on top of the first compartment was Mama's burial dress. It was the brown dress I had seen her pain-stakingly sewing by hand. I felt a tug in my heart. Mama must have imagined herself wearing it on her deathbed. Optimist that she was, she still had a premonition that death might come to her any time. So she prepared to face the Lord in proper attire.Occupied with thoughts of the funeral, I quickly removed the dress and closed the baul without looking any further. After the burial, I could not contain my curiosity; I went back to the baul to see what else Mama had left for me. There, underneath bed linens at the bottom of the second compartment, I found dozens of hankies - some embroidered by her own hands, others fancy ones - fans made of silk and paper, and bottles of perfumes. Were they the treasures that she had lovingly set aside for me?That day marked the beginning of my fondness for all these things. I would rather lose a dress than lose a hanky. In my free time I embroider hankies. I collect fans. I make rag dolls, which I give to my grandchildren.I am nearly 90 years old but my love for these things have never waned. To some they may seem trivial, very material things, but to me they are the symbols of Mama's love, mementos too sweet to forget for they bring poignant memories of a tender, loving mother. My mother is still with me when I daub her favourite scent, jasmine.My memory fails me now, but there is a line in a song, which says, ''If you lost your mother, you lost the best of all.'' http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=6790 Father sighed quietly as he looked across his fields. The cotton-wool plants were starting to shrivel in the heat. He had done everything he could to salvage his crop, but it seemed there was nothing more he could do.Both my parents were from Myingyan, a Burmese district town 100 kilometres south of Mandalay. But Ko Kyaw Zin, my elder brother, and I were raised as "country kids" in a small village near Myingyan, where Mother was a high school teacher. Father also had a bachelor's degree in education, but he had trouble finding a job. So he bought a few acres of land near the village and tried to make a living as a farmer. Unfortunately, the country's struggling economy and the region's harsh weather never favoured him. Mother's salary was not enough to support a family, and they struggled to make ends meet.Father had to labour all day long under the scorching sun. Mother also worked on the farm on weekends to save the expense of another worker. Most of the money they earned at harvest time was used to repay loan sharks.Despite their hardships, I never heard them complaining. They were happy and believed that their sons would someday become great men.When Ko Kyaw Zin was nine and I was eight, we spent our summer holidays with our grandparents in Myingyan. During a visit to the Twin Cats Store, we spotted a red battery-operated car. It had real headlights and flickering tail-lights. To our eyes it was an angel in the world of all toys.Infatuated as we were, we did not enquire about the price. Why bother when it was obviously too expensive for us? We had never owned real toysand nbsp;- all of our playthings were make-dos built from cardboard boxes and broken housewares.Still, Ko Kyaw Zin and I often talked enthusiastically about that beautiful car. Later, our parents joined us in Myingyan, and when Father heard about the car, he announced that if we loved it that much he would buy it for us. When he had enough money we would go to the store and get it. We were elated. From that day on, we never stopped talking about our big plans for our car. We even prepared a bamboo box with a lock to keep it in. The summer holidays were almost over; we would have to go back to our village soon. Then the big day came. Father said we could buy the car.During the ten-minute walk to the Twin Cats Store, my brother and I giggled and hopped and bounced along beside Father. When we arrived, I walked straight up to the display case and pointed to the elegant little car.The store clerk glanced at us and hesitatingly took it out. No doubt she thought that a weary-looking man and his sons in worn-out clothes could only be annoying window shoppers."It's 370 Kyats," she told us in a monotone. That's about $57 now.I stood there, holding the car and waiting for Father to pay. He smiled at us and said in a soft voice, "Ah, Sons, that's a little bit more than what I've got in my pocket at the moment. We'll have to come back later."There was a silence. We might have been young but we understood. Then Father pointed to another toy car and asked the clerk, "How about that one?""That is more expensive." She wasn't even looking at us.Father had always been a brave man, but I wonder how much courage he needed to face his boys as he took their hands and retreated from the store.We walked back to our grandparents' house in silence. "Well, with 370, your mother can buy a new uniform," Father said as if talking to himself. We knew mother had only one school uniform, which she had to wash each day after school and wear again the next day. Ko Kyaw Zin and I never spoke about the toy car again.Years passed and my parents decided there was no future for us in the village. We moved to Myingyan and Father started giving private tuition classes to matriculation students. It turned out to be a lucrative job. We no longer struggled to get by.My brother and I attended the Mandalay University of Medicine, and we only saw our parents on holidays. One day when I was back home, I saw Father counting his money after evening classes. Holding a stack of notes, he said to Mother, "What do you think I'd like to do with all this money?""No idea," said Mother."I want to buy a car from the Twin Cats Store."Mother only smiled. At first I was astonished they had remembered such a small thing after a decade. Then I realised how stupid I was to have thought it was just an unimportant incident in their lives. I pretended not to have a clue what they were talking about. Why would I let them know that their little boy, too, could not forget his favourite toy, the one he couldn't have? http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=6679 When I was growing up, my parents took teaching jobs in a remote town in Quezon Province http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=6678 During my first seven semesters as a medical student at Gadjah Mada University http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=6681 Grantham is a market town in the English county of Lincolnshire . Its most famous son is Sir Isaac Newton, one of the foremost scientists in world history. A statue of the great man stands proud and erect in the town centre, with the name ''Newton http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=6397 "You don't understand! You are going to make me die an old maid! You don't even know what romance is!" http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=6266 It was a story I heard often during my two weeks in Northwest Afghanistan with a team of volunteers from Singapore and Malaysia. It was June 2002, seven months after the Taliban had been driven from power. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=6269 Having raised five children, I knew that it would be better to let his emotions cool down and pursue the matter later, rather than force the truth out of him then and there. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=5754 Almost 30 years ago, Khin Khin Lay and I were medical students in the town of Mingaladon, 17 kilometres north of the capital Yangon, then called Rangoon. We were together all the time - attending lectures and tutorial classes, doing laboratory experiments and studying bedside cases. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=5295 While working with the Royal Guide Dog Association of Australia as its puppy-breeding manager in the early '80s, I received a request from Hawaii. A vision-impaired woman there, whose husband was allergic to dog hair, had written to our centre in the hope that we might have an allergy-free guide-dog. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=5264 I knew Jefri* for only a few years, but I came to like him very much. I originally met him through my husband Danial*. They went to school together, and later, when Danial went overseas to pursue his engineering degree, Jefri stayed in Malaysia and attended a local university. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=5108 The whispers and giggles woke me up. I felt the cold, hard surface of the table on which I was sleeping, and sat up quickly. Across the room, curious children peeked over the open window’s edge. Feeling a little embarrassed to be caught sleeping on the table, I waved them off and got myself together – refugee camp or not, I still needed the first few minutes of the day to myself. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=4682 In a village in Selangor, Malaysia, where I grew up, coconut trees shaded the wooden houses, where fathers bowed to the earth working the paddy, mothers stayed at home and their children ran around barefoot. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=4455 When the phone call came through, it took but a moment to dash the hopes I’d held for days. I thought I’d had an excellent chance of landing my dream job, but it wasn’t to be. http://www.readersdigest.com.sg/rd/rdhtml/en/magazine/mag_content.jsp?cid=4415 I’m sure many great, powerful and rich people think about how they can make a difference in the world. There are so many big problems, and they require big solutions, right?