Pandan Perdana - Narrow road and an inaccessible walkway.
File photo dated May 21, 2006.

There was a slight drizzle. It was dark. The tree just below the street lamp shaded the illumination. It was ten past eight. It was an accident waiting to happen. And it happened. Wuan was pushing me along the walkway from the shops back to her house after dinner yesterday. As always, she would slightly lift my wheelchair and manoeuvre around one particular lamppost along the way because there was barely enough space between that lamppost and kerb to allow my wheelchair to pass.

Pandan Perdana - Lamppost in the center of walkway.
File photo dated May21, 2006.

While she was lifting the wheelchair, the right front caster went off the edge of the kerb. She desperately tried to pull it back onto the walkway. It was an impossible task even if she had the strength. She lost her balance. The back wheel went off the kerb as well. In a split second, my wheelchair tilted right, dropped onto the road and landed on its side. I was thrown onto the road by the impact. I could feel the rough surface of the road scraping against some parts of my body and the stinging pain that ensued. From her muffled voice, I knew that Wuan fell onto the road too.

Pandan Perdana - The narrow space between lamppost and kerb
File photo dated May21, 2006.

She got up and kept apologising, “I am so sorry darling.” I could see the panic in her face. She had turned a few shades paler. I could see the fear in her eyes when she asked if I was injured. I kept reassuring her that I was all right and asked if she injured herself. Nevertheless, at the back of my mind, what I feared most was being run over by a passing vehicle, especially by a bus, as I was lying helpless on the road in the semi-darkness.

Pandan Perdana - Car parked on the walkway.
File photo dated May21, 2006.

A beat-up van passed us by as I lay sprawled on the road. It stopped a short distance away. Two men got out from the van and came running towards us. I could hear the sounds of a motorcycle stopping behind me. In those few seconds of confusion, someone asked how he could help. A man wearing a helmet was just behind me, helping Wuan with the wheelchair. The two men from the van were standing in front of me.

Pandan Perdana - Another car parked on the damaged walkway opposite.
File photo dated May21, 2006.

I instructed Wuan to put the brakes on and push back the armrest on my side to make it easier to put me back on the wheelchair. Someone held my right arm, another my left, and with a single heave both placed me back onto the wheelchair. Before Wuan and I could thank them enough, they had already left - the van and the motorcycle melting into the distance and darkness. Without them, Wuan would not have been able to get me back onto the wheelchair.

Superficial wounds on my left palm and right forearm.

“Are you all right? Did you injure yourself?” I asked Wuan, worried that in the ensuing commotion, she had not realised that she was injured. She did a cursory check. There were some minor scrapes on her leg from falling onto the road. I lost some skin and flesh on my left hand, the result of attempting to break my fall with it. There were also some superficial wounds on my right arm, elbow, leg and foot. My right triceps ached. I must have pulled that muscle when I fell.

Close-up of the cuts on my right forearm.

What pained me most were not the minor injuries to Wuan and myself but the stupidity of planting a lamppost right in the center of the walkway. It does not take much intelligence to know that walkways are for pedestrians. They are to prevent pedestrians from walking on the road and endangering their own lives and those of motorists. Here, we have a lamppost that stuck out like a sore thumb blocking easy access of the walkway. Walkways are roads for pedestrains. Would anybody in his or her right frame of mind install a lamppost right in the middle of a public road? Wuan could have been seriously injured. The fall could have broken a bone or two in me or I could have killed because the engineers and architects at Majlis Perbandaran Ampang Jaya and Tenaga Nasional Berhad did not see it fit to relocate the obstructing lamppost. Idiots!

Close-up of the wound on my left palm.

Walkways in many parts of Malaysia are a hazard. Never mind that they are devoid of kerb ramps at the ends for accessibility. If there are kerb ramps, most time they are not constructed to be functional. Some are in a state of disrepair with uneven surfaces while some have uncovered holes that could cause a fracture if a leg was trapped in it. Every time I want to get onto the walkways to reduce the risks of being hit by a vehicle on the road, I needed assistance. Malaysian kerbs are being constructed higher and higher to prevent vehicles from being parked on it. This has greatly inconvenienced those who have mobility problems and are unable to climb the 6-inch height, especially the elderly. Then, there is the danger of falling from misstepping on the sudden drop at the end of the walkways when getting off them.

Close-up of the wound on my right elbow.

Very often, walkways are adorned with street furniture that causes great inconvenience to disabled persons, namely wheelchair users and the visually impaired. Refuse bins, traffic signs, post boxes, lampposts and even trees are left to obstruct the flow. Apart from that, we have to contend with inconsiderate drivers, motorcyclists and trishaw riders who park their vehicles indiscriminately on the walkways. Hawkers and shopkeepers are culprits to such inconveniences too with their carts and goods.

Close-up of the wounds on my right leg.

Now, Wuan and I have to think of ways and means to go to the shops without getting on the road and risk being hit by passing vehicles or get on the offending walkway and risk falling off it again. For wheelchair users, safe options are very limited or even non-existent. That is how much we are worth to the government and the local authorities. According to Wikipedia, Malaysia has the best expressway network in Southeast Asia and is ranked third in Asia. That is something that I have always been proud of as a Malaysian. However, in my eyes, Malaysia ranks zero in terms of accessible walkways. How ironic.

Note: The photos taken on May 21, 2006 were for an entry I wanted to write on inaccessibility in Pandan Perdana. The accident expedited the process.

Related entry:
A Day At Pandan Indah - Pandan Indah is also under the jurisdiction of Majlis Perbandaran Ampang Jaya.

This just came in the mail. It is a timely reminder, considering this period of mourning that my kinsfolk are going through. Thank you Calum for sharing this very touching story.

My mother used to ask me what is the most important part of the body. Through the years I would take a guess at what I thought was the correct answer. When I was younger, I thought sound was very important to us as humans, so I said, “My ears, Mommy.”

She said “No, many people are deaf. But you keep thinking about it and I will ask you again soon.”

Several years passed before she asked me again. Since making my first attempt, I had contemplated the correct answer. So this time I told her, “Mommy, sight is very important to everybody, so it must be our eyes.”

She looked at me and told me, “You are learning fast, but the answer is not correct because there are many people who are blind.”

Stumped again, I continued my quest for knowledge and over the years, Mother asked me a couple more times and always her answer was, “No. But you are getting smarter every year, my young child.”

Then last year, my grandpa died. Everybody was hurt. Everybody was crying. Even my father cried. I remember that especially because it was only the second time I saw him cry. My Mom looked at me when it was our turn to say our final goodbye to Grandpa.

She asked me, “Do you know the most important body part yet, my son?”

I was shocked when she asked me this now. I always thought this was a game between her and me. She saw the confusion on my face and told me, “This question is very important. It shows that you have really lived in your life. For every body part you gave
me in the past, I have told you was wrong and I have given you an example why. But today is the day you need to learn this important lesson.”

She looked down at me as only a mother can. I saw her eyes well up with tears. She said, “Son, the most important body part is your shoulder.”

I asked, “Is it because it holds up my head?”

She replied, “No, it is because it can hold the head of a friend or a loved one when they cry. Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on sometime in life, my son. I only hope that you have enough love and friends that you will always have a shoulder to cry on when you need it.”

Then and there I knew the most important body part is not a selfish one. It is sympathetic to the pain of others. People will forget what you said; people will forget what you did; but people will never forget how you made them feel.

Author unknown

What needed to be done was accomplished yesterday evening. It took me a long time to psych myself up to make that call. What was I supposed to say to a woman who has just lost her son? It all happened so suddenly. It all happened so unexpectedly. He went to work early in the morning and came back in a coffin. I was lost. I did not know what I should say. In times like this words alone would not be sufficient.

I looked at the clock. It was eight. I looked at Wuan. She gave me a reassuring look. I was hesitant but I had to made that call anyway. My hand felt weaker than it usually was as I picked up the phone. My fingers were trembling when I pressed the numbers. I called Peter. He has been with them the whole day assisting where needed. He passed the phone to her. I told her who I was and became tongue-tied. The two silent seconds felt like two hours.

“You have to eat. You have to take care of yourself,” I continued.

Seeming oblivious to those words, she said, “Bo liao.”

I started crying when I heard her voice breaking, and we both cried over the phone.

“You have to look after yourself too,” she advised me. She had always been concerned for Mum’s and my welfare. And still caring for me at a time like this made me really lost for words.

“He has constantly been asking about you. We wanted to go see you but we did not know if you were around.”

My chest felt tight upon hearing those words. I tried to speak but all I could manage were intelligible grunts. I was bawling. Wuan grabbed some tissues from the box, removed my glasses and wiped my eyes. She had expected me to cry but not to this extent. When we both have calmed down, we spoke for a short while more and hung up. I wished I knew how to comfort her but I did not. What do you say to a mother who has just lost her child?

Related entry:
Death Came Suddenly

Source: Think Online - No Limits

No Limits
by Cheryl Mohan

Helpless and fragile - the disabled have long been looked upon as social outcasts. But there are three people who are bent on breaking the rules.

A cool draught blows across the packed hall. Rows of foldable chairs and black curtains hang from the ceiling at the Kuala Lumpur Performing Arts Centre.

Within seconds, the room is pitch-black. A musical strain intensifies, and a faint ray of light emerges at the left corner, lending an eerie air to Pentas 2. Slowly, a balding, disfigured image in a skin-coloured leotard snails its way beneath the hem of the curtains. She is crawling, gliding, rolling back and forth; struggling to make her way to the centre of the hard surface.

This was the opening scene—‘The Fetus in the Darkness’—of the performance entitled My Mother, by Taihen, the first performing arts group in the world made up purely of physically handicapped people.

“I prefer to use the word ‘metamorphosis’ to define Taihen,” explains the troupe’s Korean-Japanese artistic director and chief headliner Manri Kim.

The word taihen is in fact a deformation of the Japanese word hentai, which means queer. But for the 53-year-old Kim, it appears that physically able people sometimes need a bit of mental readjustment. “Society needs to break free from their fixed mindset that if a person is severely disabled, it means that person cannot do anything and needs support in everything.”

From a young age, Kim often mimicked the performance of mother Honju Kim, a Korean traditional dance artiste who actively performed during World War II in Japan. She was the anointed successor—until she contracted polio at the age of three, leaving her severely disabled. She was then sent to a home for disabled children at seven, and stayed there for the next 10 years.

It was here that Kim honed a fierce resolve to be more than just a social white elephant. “My mother and teachers had the mindset that it would be hard for a person with a severe disability to blend in with the public. I was determined to prove them wrong.”

Together with her similarly disabled friends, Kim decided to learn to live as an independent, contributing member of society. She went from college to college with her comrades, handing out flyers and seeking volunteers who would be willing to support and help the group.

“The movement was based on the idea that you didn’t have to be specially trained to take care of a disabled person,” she says. “Anyone and everyone can and should be a helper or supporter of the disabled.”

It was a cry of freedom. A statement of strength. It carried the message that despite your limitations, you can help yourself and others around you. And Kim was not alone.

BIGGER THAN THEIR BODIES
At 18, Peter Tan was diving at a swimming pool when he broke his neck. The accident left him with an injury to the spinal cord, and Tan was left paralysed from the chest down. Soon after, his mum was diagnosed with cancer and was referred to Rumah Hospice for more than a month before she died.

Tan remained resilient however. “After my mom passed away, I explored ways that I could help the hospice. These were people who gave hope when all hope looked lost.”

Immersing himself in numerous charitable organisations such as the Independent Living for People with Disabilities and the Japan International Cooperation Agency, Tan hasn’t looked back since. Now a popular blogger, the 39-year-old Penangite recently shaved his flowing long hair to raise funds for the Hospice-At-Home Programme at Rumah Hospice. Together with four other friends, they pledged to shave their heads for a donation of RM5,000. To their delight, they raised slightly more than the targeted amount.

Another person who has risen above her plight is Yvonne Foong, a 19-year-old diagnosed with neurofibromatosis type 2—a genetic disorder that causes tumours to grow in her brain, spine, and along various nerves. Together with her friend John Ling, they have both embarked on a mission to encourage creative writing in the nation.

“Whenever we come across any aspiring writers or even people looking to get published, we encourage them wholeheartedly, offering advice and even helping out where our abilities are needed,” says Foong. Her website has even helped someone obtain a proper diagnosis of neurofibromatosis after his wife stumbled upon Foong’s blog. Her husband was spared from further complications, and they have become kindred friends ever since.

“Many people tend to look on people with disabilities as a group that needs help and welfare,” says Tan. “[But] given the right tools, support and a suitable environment, we surely are able to contribute more to society and help others who are in need.”

For a polio casualty, Kim is remarkably busy these days with Taihen. The ensemble was birthed in 1983 after Kim’s simple observation of the way each of her handicapped friends ate, talked and moved about.

“I became aware that every physical movement made by them was unique and different from each other. Although their mobility was restricted, they were still able to crawl, wriggle, squirm, walk, run and jump without aid. There was beauty and artistic form that went along with their supposed twisted and distorted body,” she describes.

Traveling to various parts of the world such as Kenya, Taiwan, Korea and Malaysia, Kim’s message is always the same: be proud of who you are. “Don’t be afraid to acknowledge that you are disabled,” she declares. “Don’t compare your body movements with someone who is ‘normal’. You can do what others can’t do. The more physically impaired you are, the more unique your movements can be.”

With a golden opportunity for physically handicapped individuals to express themselves and inspire others, people with cerebral palsy, spine tuberculosis, muscular dystrophy and other disabilities have jumped at the chance to demonstrate their passion and spirit. A dream once thought lost has been reignited.

As Foong puts it, encouragement has brought her past the stereotyping into a new level of confidence, best seen by the publishing of her autobiography I’m Not Sick, Just a Little Unwell. “Do buy my book when it’s published,” she says. “Even if you think the book is not good enough, at least it gives me a sense of accomplishment, that even a limited person like me can publish a book and sell it. It’s about giving us hope, directly or indirectly.”

With only a malformed arm to assist her, Kim manoeuvers her lifeless legs and shapeless body. She rolls on the floor, using her mouth to move her legs by biting the toes, and her chin to push it around. She plays the Chinese drums by placing the drumsticks in between her crooked fingers. She proudly shows off every detail of her disability—from her twisted hip to her bent limbs—with only intermittent pauses in between acts.

As the fifth and final scene closes, Kim takes a bow from her sitting position. Without hesitation, the crowd gives an awestruck standing ovation. Those who can’t stand, bound by the constraints of their wheelchair or walker, rain their own applause down, mesmerised by the sheer determination on display.

Cheryl is an editorial intern. E-mail the author.

Early morning phone calls are not something that I welcome. 9.26am was not exactly early but I was still in bed and asleep. Before leaving for work, Wuan would always place the phone within easy reach of my right hand. The phone rang. I was jolted into semi-consciousness. My eyes were still shut. No point opening them. Without my glasses, everything would have been a blur anyway. I reached out and groped for the phone. It was exactly where it always was.

I answered. It was that familiar voice of my cousin Peter asking me when I was going back. “Next month,” I told him, “I will be attending a course here in early-June.”

His next sentence propelled me into full consciousness. “Ah Yin ay kia Peter bo liao.”

Those were extremely unpleasant words to hear so early in the morning. Apparently, my cousin sister’s son, who shares the same name as Peter and me, had died in a grisly traffic accident. After we hung up, I lazed in bed, confused and troubled. I felt lost. I could not go back to sleep anymore. I got up. As I was sitting on the edge of the mattress, what Peter said hit me squarely in the face. My eyes were wet. There was an ache in my heart. I was unsettled. Sad news always do this to me.

Peter was a young man, in his mid-twenties, and was carving a career for himself as an engineer in one of the MNCs in Bayan Lepas. There was always a smile on his face. He never failed to address me respectfully as “Ah Choon kiu kiu” every time met. Until now, the full reality has still not sunk in yet. Death is not an easy thing to swallow, especially when it is of an extended family member whom I am fond of.

I worry for his mother. I am concerned with how she is coping. I dread having to make that phone call to her. What should I say? I know for sure I will break down the moment I hear her voice. I am undecided whether I should go back. Would it cause an unnecessary disruption to the rigmarole of the preparation for his final journey? As I sit here contemplating on the next step I should take, I pray for you, Peter, my dear nephew, that the Lord may have mercy on your soul; and may your parents and loved ones find comfort in this hour of grief. Rest in peace.

Related entry:
Earthquake Update: The Aftermath in Penang