Being called to the headmaster's room

It was 1985 when I was first called into the Guru Besar’s room. I was ten years old.

“That’s it! You are dead meat,” a classmate whispered into my ear.

Distracted, I gave him a “death stare,” when my science teacher, Mr Ng, raised his voice at me.

“What are you waiting for, an invitation? Go report to the principal’s office this instant!” the teacher commanded.

I made my way out of the classroom, walked along the corridor, down the stairs and into the school office. The principal’s office can be a scary place for many, but I wasn’t fearful – I knew I had done nothing wrong.

“The Guru Besar will see you shortly,” said the receptionist.

I joined the queue outside the Guru Besar’s room. Everyone else stared at the floor, not saying a word.

Guru Besar SK Kampung Baru Bukit Mertajam, S Thyagarajah was embossed on the principal’s door. I stared at it, blank.

Eventually, the Guru Besar came out, carrying a long, thin wooden rotan.

“Hold out your hands,” he demanded.

Everyone in the queue put out hands, palms upward, mortified with fear. Except me. I clasped my hands.

The Guru Besar raised the rotan as high as he could and smacked the cane against each boy’s palm. Tears rolled down their cheeks.

“Don’t cry! Now, the other hand!” he said, glaring at the boys.

One more whack on their palms.

“What do you say?” he asked the boys standing in line with me.

“Thank you, Sir,” they said collectively, squeezing their hands between their knees.

I thought it was strange of the boys to thank the Guru Besar for hitting them. Perhaps it was easier for them to be reactive than to be proactive.

Next was my turn. The Guru Besar stared at me.

“Show me your hands,” he ordered.

I kept my hands glued together.

“Hands!” he repeated.

I stood there, quiet. I wasn’t going to give him my hands. He might be the Guru Besar, but I refused to be bullied by him.

“What is the problem?” he asked, after giving me a long intimidating glare.

With a soft voice, I said, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He invited me into his room. “Have a seat.”

Without looking at me, he took the piece of paper given by Mr Ng from my hand and quickly read the comments written by the teacher.

“Do you know why you were sent here?”

I nodded.

“I did not memorise the Science notes as instructed by Mr Ng yesterday.”

“Show me your hands,” the Guru Besar said.

My heart sank.

“Sorry Sir, I cannot show you my hands,” I said slowly, almost whispering.

“Why?”

“Because, I didn’t do anything wrong,” I replied.

“Explain.”

“Mr Ng taught us about kinetic energy in our science class yesterday, and made us copy ten pages from the text book into our exercise book. Then we were told to memorise them overnight.”

“Did you memorise them?” he asked.

“I did. But only the first two pages.”

“Ah, so you did not complete the task given by your teacher?”

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t you think you deserve to be punished for failing to do so?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. My voice was getting louder.

“Explain.”

“I had so much homework to do yesterday. I did not have enough time to memorise the ten pages. I am also very bad at memorising, Sir. I usually take a very long time to memorise,” I stated in my defence.

“A demerit is a demerit.”

“You don’t understand, sir, Mr Ng expects us to memorise word for word. He’d call us up to the front of the classroom and check the text as we utter them out loud, making sure we do not miss a single word – and if we do, we are sent to see you to be punished,” I explained.

I had high hopes that the Guru Besar would understand the predicament my classmates and I were in, having Mr Ng as our science teacher.

Unfortunately, instead of understanding, my Guru Besar grunted, “Mr Ng is a very experienced teacher. You should learn from him, instead of complaining about him!”

I received three lashes of the rotan from my Guru Besar that day. One for not memorising my notes, one for complaining about my teacher, and I have no idea what the third one was for.

I could not fathom why I deserved to be punished that day. I mean why was the Guru Besar so defensive, siding with the teacher and not me? As a student at his school, the education I received and my well-being should also have been his priority, no?

In hindsight, I suppose it was easier for the Guru Besar to be reactive than to be proactive.

That’s how it has always been, from the 1980s all the way to 2019. Teachers get defensive about teaching methods employed; Guru Besars get defensive about the teachers employed; and the Ministry of Education gets defensive about policies it employs.

Having spent 6 years in SK Kampung Baru Bukit Mertajam and 5 years in SMK St Anne’s Convent Kulim, in addition to being involved in both my children’s education, I don’t think much has changed in our national education system. Everyone is still being defensive. Not many are focused on solid systemic and structural reform, and still less are receptive to criticism.

I suppose it’s easier for many in the system to be reactive than to be proactive.

Today, as I mull over the Education Minister’s “invitation” to come to his office to discuss my criticisms of Malaysian education policies, I am reminded of that fateful day in 1985 when I was asked to report to the Guru Besar’s room, to join a queue of my peers whose voices were never heard.

That day, like today, I am a pawn in the game of education – a defensive strategy with no game plan, that values pointless rhetoric over real outcome.

If the Minister, who is at the highest level of education policymaking in our country, truly recognises the need for reforms, he would not need to engage one op-ed columnist critical of his spoon-fed policies.

Instead, he would engage every stakeholder in the queue at his door and value their critiques – including parents, teachers, journalists, activists and academicians. 

But as I said – it’s easier to be reactive than to be proactive.

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FA ABDUL is a passionate storyteller, a media trainer, an aspiring playwright, a director, a struggling producer, a photographer, an expert Facebooker, a lazy blogger, a part-time queen and a full-time vainpot. - Mkini