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I stumbled through this article as I read it. Going word by word and paragrapgh by paragraph to find where the logic might stand with the writer, but by the end of it I only managed toroll my eyes in annoyance.

The article I read discussed on why the writer refuses to vaccinate their child. And honestly, literature wise, it was a well written argumentative piece. It showed great characterisation of the ‘vaccination’ epidemic as well as clear cut examples that would easily convince people to support their argument. They showed great knowledge on the matter as well as presented an eloquent point of view in the form of neatly written words.

However, regardless of how neat or tidy or amazing one’s writing is, it doesn’t mask the fact that the argument is absolutely ridiculous. As a person who supports the vaccine movement, I was miffed at a single point the article made that seemed to be the main idea of her whole argument. It was that herd immunity exist therefore I do not need to vaccinate my child.

The writer seemed to forget that the term herd immunity is derived from the words ‘herd’ and ‘immunity’. The word herd itself suggests that it is a joint effort, meaning that a lot of people have to acquire the immunity for the masses to be safe. In addition, herd immunity isn’t just to make sure that the person who is vaccinated is safe, it is also to contain a disease so it would not affect people who are susceptible to the disease. Such as people with naturally weak immunities and the elderly.

It boggled my mind on how they would have such a selfish mind-set. They disregarded the fact that it only takes on child who is not immunized to start a pandemic that could wipe off a whole town. I sincerely hope the child is immunized in the future or if they aren’t they would not suffer any life threatening diseases which could have been avoided through vaccinations.

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My favourite quote is a quote by the late Yasmin Ahmad.  With a smile graced upon her lips, she had said, ‘To be a part of something amazing, one must step back and let go of themselves’. Though she said it during a ted talk almost a decade ago, and with not even the slightest intention of it being a quote, her words still resonate in my life today. And somehow, I feel as if the quote is a guide on how I should live my life as well as how I should express myself.

As someone young, I find myself being very greedy when I do some measly work or put my thoughts into paper. I tend to be emotionally invested. Obsessed perhaps with the ideas I present. I try putting myself into the work I do as a statement that ‘This is my work, this is the work of Khairul Anis’. And more often than not, I become dissatisfied looking at the end product that I present to myself. Never mind what others think, but I myself the person who created the product feel a sense of disappointment when I review what I have made.

And the quote made me realize. That by being obsessed with my work and putting myself into it, self-inserting my persona into the characters that I build I ultimately had just created a mirror. A distorted mirror of sorts. And by the quote I realized that by letting yourself go when creating something, a different end is achieved.

I started not inserting myself into my writing. I managed to convinced my thought process from thinking ‘What would I do in this situation?’ to ‘What would a person who is such and such do in this situation?’. I find myself to be happier with what I create now. So I think I can truly say that this is my favorite quote

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In five years realistically, at the age of 24, I would be a medical graduate. Idealistically, I would also be a film school graduate but one’s imagination is a far off estimation on the future.

By that time, I plan to have had a strong stand on my long term life goals as well as be able to sew in a button without pricking my fingers for at least 10 times doing so. I also plan to be able to be more mature in handling situations and more understanding of the economic scene in Malaysia. Other than that, the need to be healthier should also preferably be a continued thought from now. In five years, I set to see myself in a small apartment all to myself with a stable income as a doctor waiting for me as I start involving myself in humanitarian work.

But idealistically, I also see myself as someone who has published a book that has moved millions, has dabbled in directing and writing stories that touch people’s hearts. Someone who has seen the plethora of cultures wrapped on this earth and has managed to find the beauty in each and every one of them. I plan to be someone who can see the beauty and appreciate the flaws and nicks of these different influences and ultimately immerse myself and bask in what they offer.

But realistically, in 5 years I just hope to be a better me.

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I had spent the morning carding my fingers through the open books in kinokuniya, searching for literature books. I had a strong urge to make myself tear up that day. A masochistic urge to make oneself cry like a baby over jumbled up letters in thin pages.

As my father decided which trinket he would add to his ever growing collection, I found myself face to face with a problem. I didn’t really know which book would make me cry. I’ve already omitted ‘the fault I our stars’ knowing in the book there would be a sentence that repeated a word for 7 times in a row. I figured it was an attempt to evoke a sentimental emotion from the reader but I digress.

So, I googled up the phrase ‘ Books that would make me cry like a baby’ and the book that I found that was most recommended was ‘ You in five acts’. So I searched the book with the help of a store assistant. The book was settled in between a romance book aimed for teenagers and the dreaded ‘fault in our stars’. I found myself cringing at the thought of being influenced to read a carbon copy of TFIOS. But I swallowed my pride and paid the RM35 for the book.

After that I had spent the day with my father going through shops and spending time together. Staying in cyberjaya, I hadn’t had a lot of time to spend with my father. Weekend in my house were filled with running errands. So it was like a breath of fresh air getting to spend time with my father.

He is a quiet man. Someone who preferred to show his love and emotions through his actions rather than words. Growing up, I had developed a sort of understanding with my father, words were not always needed between us.

However on that day, my father seemed more talkative, talking about random childhood experiences, his friends, his new hobbies and his week. Mind you, my father and I have never had a conversation as such. So I was pleasantly surprised with his change.

When I got home, I told my mom how talkative my dad was that day and she fondly said to me ‘Abah missed you this week, you know? He’s been asking about you all week.’ I felt guilt rise up in me. I didn’t call my father that much that week, the workload effectively eradicating the thought of calling my parents at night.

And I realized after that day, that my time to spend with my parents are slowly decreasing. As we grow older, we’ll have to shoulder more and more responsibilities, making it almost impossible to spend time with our loved ones. So we should make time for them as much as we can because sometimes we never know that we’re pushing people away when we focus on one thing. So we should find a balance in what we do and our time for our family members.

That night, I didn't shed any tears from the death of a fictional character. However, under the sheets of the moonlight, my heart ached at the reality. There will come a day where slowly I won't be able to speak to my parents anymore.

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On the 10TH of march, it was my birthday. I spent the day at the hospital as my mother worked on the huge piles of documents in her office. The whole morning was spent, idling around silently in her office, letting the scratches of her pen lead the silent conversation we had. My father had comfortably settled himself on a couch and proceeded to graze the cusps of dreamland with his snores. He had a 4 hour nap that morning.

As lunchtime came near, at around 11.30, we went in a car for a 45 minute drive to have lunch at an obscure restaurant that every person above the age of 35 seemed to know yet was vapour on the internet. With a rundown signboard, decorated with Chinese characters, I at least knew that we wouldn’t be eating pasta this year for my birthday.

After the cozy lunch, we went back home where I spent the day continuing my silent idling in my own room. I received wishes from my family of course, a few from my best friends and an obnoxious notification on facebook. With that my birthday finished at the strike of 12 at midnight and that I had now grew a year older.

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On the 3rd day of March, I had followed my father to the ACTS clinic in Brickfields. More so I had actually begged my father to let me tag along to his visit to the clinic. Known to be a clinic catered to refugees that hailed from effected parts of Myanmar and low income families in the area, my interest had been piqued. Finally on a bright Sunday morning where I managed to supress the anxiety of a Monday chemistry test looming, my father had allowed me to follow him.

My expectations of the facility just by listening to his stories were that of a high end building, funded by UNICEF and maybe by the big wigs in Malaysia. Through my father’s stories, I had conjured an impression that this clinic would be filled with people and trained medical staffs that had ample of medical training just waiting to be used. I had expected there would be high tech info boards screening medical announcements, air conditioning blasting through the rooms, doctors clad in their white coats speed walking to attend to their patients.

However, when I got there I was humbled by the reality of it.

The clinic was anything but luxurious. In fact, if you were to pass it, you wouldn’t even know you did! The clinic is obscure and hidden from plain sight. Nestled on the second floor of an abandoned shop lot and sandwiched between an Indian barbershop and a paper shipping lot, it was a clinic that was almost shying itself away from patients. On the wooden door leading to the clinic, past the Burmese signs along the stairs, a large sign with Burmese lettering was patched on. With what seemed as the glue-work of a cross-eyed man, the sign drooped in an all too depressing manner to the left.

The idiom of ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover’ should be disregarded in this situation as the inside of the clinic had the same vibe as its outside. Quaint, hidden yet still lovely. My father’s greetings were answered with smiles and wonderful chirpy voices.

Tagging along with my father meant that I stayed in the examination room with him. And just as my father sat down, a translator that worked as a nurse came into the room, bringing with her a clipboard. I assumed the papers were of the patients profiles.

As the first patient came in, I immediately recognized his symptoms, protruding eyes, swollen limbs, and enlarged areas at the neck. The man had grave’s disease and had apparently been facing it for the past 6 years. Then came a woman with her child, both refugees. I noticed there was a lacking fatherly figure in the documents and at her side. My head wrapped around the reality and I quieted down my thoughts. After them, a young child and her father came in, both with different illnesses yet struggling all the same together.

My father went through a few patients that day, some of which held stories that would make one feel a sense of loss and despair if to be empathized. I then realized. I am a very fortunate individual, secured with the privilege I have and out there, exists people who have absolutely nothing.

I came to a conclusion that as people who can help these people, it becomes a silent agreement to ourselves that we should use what we have for these people and let them feel just a tiny ounce of security and comfort in their lives.