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t was 11 pm on a dark, cloudless night last March when 32-year-old Azura Bt Lazim, a marketing clerk, left her sisters

house in the village of Kampung Pida 4 with her adopted mother Hayati Bt Ahmad, 41, her fianc Fairul Izwan Sholahudin and his best friend Mohd Riduan Mohd Yusof, both 22 and police officers. Azura turned her Proton Saga onto a dimly lit road that ran parallel to a 15-metre-wide waterway. The waterway is usually dry, but each March and September, water is released from a nearby river so farmers can irrigate their paddy fields. Tonight, water roared through. Fairul told Azura to slow down she must have been driving faster than she realised. Before she could step on the brakes, the car spun out of control and plunged into the waterway. Panic-stricken, they scrambled through the windows as the car slowly sank into the four-metre-deep water. Battered by the current, they clung on to the car and yelled for help. Nearby, in Kampung Pida 9, 43-year-old Mahazair Khalid was visiting his father-in-law with his wife Siti Hajat and their three children. They had stayed out late because the next day was a holiday. Just before 11 pm, Mahazair decided to go home. Shortly after driving out of the village, Mahazair saw a figure waving a light in the middle of the road. As he slowed down, an old man told him there had been an accident. Squinting hard in the darkness, Mahazair saw a half-submerged car in the middle of the waterway. A group of teenaged boys was standing nearby, watching as two of their friends scrambled out of water. Its too dark to see anything, one of the boys said, and the undercurrents are very strong! As Mahazair pulled his car to the side of the road, his 14-year-old daughter Siti Aishah screamed, There are people in the water! Mahazair, an experienced swimmer, leapt from the car, threw off his shirt and shouted out a prayer. Then he dove into the dark, swirling waters and swam towards the car. In the darkness he couldnt see anyone. After thrashing around the car for two minutes, he found a middle-aged woman clinging desperately to one of the doors. It was Hayati. Grabbing her hand, Mahazair started swimming to the bank. By the time he reached dry land, she was unconscious. Mahazair laid her on her back, and pressed on her abdomen to force the water out of her lungs. Gaining consciousness, Hayati spluttered, There are three more people in the car. Without hesitating, Mahazair plunged into the waterway again. He dove repeatedly in a desperate search for the other victims. Just as he felt his lungs would burst, he brushed against what felt like a hand. Grabbing it, he struggled to reach the bank, towing Azura behind him. Breathing hard as he fought against the current, he could feel his energy draining. Then he saw his family, who were crying and calling out to him, and the boys close by. Help, Im too tired to carry on, Mahazair pleaded silently as he waved frantically with his free hand. Stepping closer to the edge, they pulled him and Azura out of the water. Although he knew there were two other people in the car, Mahazair was too exhausted to go back into the water. Instead, he waited with Azura and Hayati until the Kubang Pasu Fire and Rescue Department arrived. Later, with Mahazairs help, the rescue team found the bodies of Fairul and Mohd Riduan ten metres downriver from the car. Both men had probably drowned immediately after the crash. A week after the rescue, Mahazairs wife and children threw a thanks-giving party with the help of the villagers. I didnt think I was going to make it that night, says Mahazair, who strained his shoulder and elbow during the rescue. But the thought of my family, who were crying out for me, helped me pull through.

RING MY FIRST seven semesters as a medical student at Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, I spent most of my time studying and in classrooms. I rarely spoke with real patients in a hospital setting. Then last year I started visiting the neurology ward at Dr. Sardjito Hospital. I was gathering data for my thesis, an assessment of the oral contraceptive pill as a risk factor for ischemic strokes. This type of stroke is the most common and it occurs as a result of an obstruction within a blood vessel supplying blood to the brain. At the hospital I would review the

medical records of newly admitted stroke patients, then interview them to find out if they were taking the pill. It was a slow process. One cold, rainy evening last October, I was in the neurology ward desperately hunting for the final three patients I needed to complete my study. The records showed that there was a 43year-old stroke patient, whom I will call Ms A, in the ward. Holding a patient questionnaire, I walked towards her room. I didnt see any doctors or nurses; the ward was quiet. Ms As dimly lit room had eight beds. I could see dark clouds and heavy raindrops through the window. The familiar hospital odour hung in the chill air. Ms A was lying on bed 4B, clearly still weak as she was still recovering from her recent stroke. There were no relatives or friends with her. Even the bed beside her was empty. I sat down on a chair next to her bed, and in a low voice I introduced myself and asked how she was doing. She softly replied that she was getting better but the left side of her body was still weak. When I told her that I wanted to gather some additional information from her, she agreed. The questionnaire consisted of three simple yes-or-no questions. After I finished, I prepared to leave so I could go through more medical records. Before I could stand up, Ms A spoke up in her weak voice. I havent seen you here before, doc. Are you new? Not really, Maam. Its just that I dont come here every day, I replied. She started making conversation, asking where I was from and why I was working so late in the evening. I was surprised someone in her condition would want to talk. Doc, do you think I can get back my normal life? Ms A asked at one point. Deep in my heart, I thought, God, I wish I was your doctor so I could answer you properly. I replied that while I didnt know much about her case, I could tell her what I had learned about the recovery of stroke patients. Depending on the severity of the stroke, quite a number respond well to rehabilitation. I was reluctant to go into too much detail as I was only a medical student. Ms A started talking about herself. She told me that she had three children in primary school, who were staying with a neighbour. My husband died a year ago and Im the sole breadwinner of my family. We are not rich and my pay as a cleaner is exactly enough for me and my kids. I didnt know what to say. Looking into her eyes, I desperately tried to remember the lessons from a communication skills class I had taken a few years earlier, but my mind was blank. I cursed myself for not paying more attention. Without realising it, I had begun holding Ms As hand. Since I didnt have anything to say, I just sat quietly while she talked. Thats when it occurred to me that she was not expecting any reply from me. She just wanted me to listen. The conversation went on like this for about 20 minutes. She shared her difficulties and sufferings, talked about her husband, who was killed in a car accident, and her struggles to earn money. She also expressed her fear about what would become of her children if something bad happened to her. All I did was nod my head as a way of showing my sympathy. Finally, Ms A stopped talking. Im very sorry for keeping you here to listen to my problems, but I feel relieved now. I had no-one to pour out my problems to.

A single tear fell from the corner of her eye. I stroked her hair and continued to hold her hand. Finally, I knew what to say. Its OK, Maam. Its part of my duty. Thank you, doc, thank you so much. She let go of my hand. I stood up, covered her with a blanket, waved goodbye and left her alone in her bed. A few days later, when I returned to the ward, I discovered that Ms A had been discharged as her condition had improved, though she would still need rehabilitation. Ms A taught me one of the most important lessons a doctor can learn. Sometimes patients do not need expensive medicine or state-of-the-art technology. They just need someone with the patience and willingness to lend an ear and spare a little of their time. For me, that is one of the best things a doctor can do for a patient. MUHAMMAD FAIRUZ BIN ABDULLAH, a 24-year-old Malaysian, has now entered his clinical studies at the Gadjah Mada University Faculty of Medicine. He will complete his medical degree next year.

y head is spinning Ive never seen so many people. In the yard outside the courthouse, a crowd is bustling in every direction: men in suits and ties with yellowed files tucked under their arms; other men wearing the zanna, the traditional ankle-length tunic of northern Yemen; and all these women, shouting and weeping so loudly that I cant understand a word. Its as if I were invisible. No-one sees me: Im too small for them. Im only ten years old, maybe not even that. Who knows? People say judges are the ones who help people in need. So I have to find one and tell him my story. Im exhausted. Its hot under my veil, I have a headache, and Im so ashamed. I notice a man in a white shirt and black suit walking towards me. A judge, perhaps, or a lawyer? Excuse me, mister, I want to see the judge. Over that way, up the steps, he replies with hardly a glance at me, before vanishing back into the throng. My feet feel like lead when I finally step onto the marble floor. I spy a group of men in uniforms. If they see me, they might arrest me. A little girl running away from home. Trembling, I discreetly latch on to the first passing veil, hoping to get the attention of the woman it conceals. I want to talk to the judge. Two big eyes framed in black stare at me in surprise. What judge are you looking for? Take me to a judge it doesnt matter which one! She stares at me, astonished. Follow me, the woman finally says. The door opens onto a room full of people, and at the far end, behind a desk, a thin-faced man with a moustache. Its the judge at last. I sit down, rest my head against the back of the chair and await my turn. And what can I do for you? A mans voice rouses me from my dozing. It is a curiously gentle voice. I rub my face and recognise, standing in front of me, the judge with the moustache. The room is almost empty. I want a divorce.

KHARDJI
In Khardji, the village in Yemen where I was born, women are not taught how to make choices. When she was about 16, Shoya, my mother, married my father, Ali Mohammad al-Ahdel, without protest. And when he decided four years later to choose a second wife, my mother obediently accepted his decision. It was with that same resignation that I at first agreed to my marriage, without realising what was at stake. At my age, you dont ask yourself many questions. Omma Mama gave birth to me the way she delivered all her 16 children: at home. I grew up watching Omma take care of the house and itching for the day I would be old enough to tag along with my two big sisters when they fetched water from the spring. I was two or three years old when a violent dispute broke out between my father and the other villagers. All I knew was that Mona, the second daughter and 13 years old at most, had suddenly gotten married. We had to leave right away. Our arrival in Sanaa was a shock. The capital was a blur of dust and noise. We moved into a slum building in the Al-Qa neighbourhood. My father finally landed a job as a sweeper for the sanitation authority. Two months after our departure, Mona arrived with the husband who had so suddenly imposed himself on her life. In the neighbourhood school, Id done very well my first year, and had just begun my second. One February evening in 2008, Aba told me he had some good news. Nujood, you are to be married. The news came out of nowhere. I didnt really understand. At first I felt almost relieved, because life at home had become impossible. Aba had never been able to find full-time employment after losing his street-sweeper job, so we were always late with the rent. My brothers joined the street vendors who tap on car windshields at red lights, hoping to sell a packet of tissues for coins. Then it was my sister Hafas and my turn to try it. I didnt like that. More often now, Aba was spending his afternoons chewing khat with neighbours. He claimed it helped him forget his troubles. It was during one of those khat sessions that a man of about 30 had approached him. I would like our families to be united, the man had said. His name was Faez Ali Thamer, and he worked as a deliveryman. Like us, he came from Khardji, and he was looking for a wife. My father accepted his proposal. As next in line after my two sisters, I was the logical one to be married off. That evening, I overheard a conversation between Mona and our father. Nujood is too young to get married, Mona insisted. Its the best way to protect her. She wont be raped by a stranger and become the prey of evil rumours. This man seems honest. He has promised not to touch Nujood until shes older. Besides, we havent enough money to feed the whole family. My mother never said a thing. She seemed sad, but resigned. In our country its the men who give the orders.

MY WEDDING

My wedding preparations moved rapidly ahead, and I soon realised my misfortune when my future husbands family decided that I must leave school. I loved school. It was my refuge, a happiness all my own. On my wedding day, my female cousins began to ululate and clap their hands when they caught sight of me arriving. I, however, could hardly see their faces, my eyes were so full of tears. I advanced slowly to avoid tripping over my outfit, which was too big for me. Id been hastily dressed in a long tunic of a faded chocolate colour, which belonged to the wife of my future brother-in-law. A female relative had gathered my hair into a chignon that weighed down my head. Barely two weeks had passed since I had been spoken for. The women celebrated my wedding in my parents tiny house; there were 40 of us. Meanwhile, the men gathered at the house of one of my uncles. Two days earlier, when the marriage contract had been signed, the event also had been men only. My dowry had been set at 150,000 rials, (about $740). At sundown the guests took their leave and I dozed off, fully clothed. The next morning, Omma woke me. My little bundle was in front of the door. When a car horn sounded outside, my mother helped me cover myself in a black coat and scarf. From this day on, you must cover yourself when going out into the street. You are now a married woman. It is his honour that is at stake. I nodded sadly. In the back of the SUV waiting in front of our door, a short man was staring at me. He wore a long white zanna and had a moustache. His short wavy hair was mussed and his face poorly shaved. He was not handsome. So this was Faez Ali Thamer! When the motor rumbled to life and the driver pulled away, I started crying, silently, with my face to the window as I watched Omma grow smaller and smaller. A woman was waiting for us on the threshold of one of the stone houses in Khardji. I felt immediately that she didnt like me. My new mother-in-law was old, with skin as wrinkled as a lizards. She gestured me to enter. The inside of the house had hardly any furnishings: four bedrooms, a living room, a tiny kitchen. I fairly fell upon the rice and meat that his sisters had prepared. After our meal, some grownups from the village gathered to chew khat. No-one seemed surprised by my tender age. Later I learned that marriages to little girls are not unusual in the countryside. There is even a tribal proverb that says, To guarantee a happy marriage, marry a nine-year-old girl. How relieved I felt when they led me to my room. A long woven mat was lying on the floor: my bed. I didnt even need to put out the light to fall asleep. I would rather never have awakened. When the door crashed open, I was startled awake. Id barely opened my eyes when I felt a damp, hairy body pressing against me. Someone had blown out the lamp, leaving the room pitch dark. It was him! I recognised him from that overpowering odour of cigarettes and khat. He began to rub himself against me. Please, Im begging you, leave me alone, I gasped. You are my wife!

I leapt to my feet. The door was not completely closed, and spying a glimmer of light, I dashed towards the courtyard. He ran after me. Help! Help! I shrieked, sobbing. My voice rang in the night, but it was as if I were shouting into a void. I ran, panting for breath. I stumbled over something, and scrambled to my feet to take off again, but arms caught me, held me tightly, wrestled me back into the bedroom, pushed me down on the mat. I felt paralysed, as if I had been tied down. Hoping to find a female ally, I called out to my mother-in-law. Amma! Auntie! There was no reply. When he took off his tunic, I rolled into a ball to protect myself, but he began pulling at my nightshirt. I tried to get away again, moaning, Ill tell my father! You can tell your father whatever you like. He signed the marriage contract. You have no right! He started to laugh, nastily. You are my wife. Now you must do what I want! Suddenly it was as if Id been snatched up by a hurricane, flung around, struck by lightning, and I had no more strength to fight back. Something burning invaded the deepest part of me. No matter how I screamed, no-one came to help me. It hurt, awfully. I shrieked one more time, I think, then lost consciousness.

RUNNING AWAY
I had to adjust quickly to a new life. I had no right to leave the house, no right to complain, no right to say no. During the day, I had to obey my mother-in-laws orders: cut up the vegetables, wash the floor, do the dishes. Whenever I stopped for a moment, my mother-in-law pulled my hair. One morning I asked her permission to go play with the children my age. Impossible! Thats all we need, for you to go ruining our reputation. He left every morning and returned right before sunset. Each time I heard him arrive, the same panic seized my heart. When night fell, I knew what would begin again. The same savagery, the same pain and distress. On the third day he began hitting me, first with his hands, then with a stick. And his mother egged him on. Whenever he would complain about me, she would tell him, Hit her even harder. She must listen to you shes your wife. I lived in permanent fear. Whenever I could, I would hide in a corner, lost and bewildered. Days and nights went by like this. I missed Sanaa and school. My brothers and sisters. I thought of Hafa, hoping she wouldnt be married off like me.

One morning, worn down by all my crying, he told me he would allow me to visit my parents. At last! He would go with me and stay with his brother in Sanaa, but afterwards, he insisted, we had to return to the village. I rushed to gather my things. It is out of the question for you to leave your husband! I had not expected my fathers reaction, which quickly put an end to the joy of my return. As for my mother, she kept quiet, simply murmuring, Thats how life is, Nujood: women must endure this. But why hadnt she warned me? Now I was trapped. Nujood, repeated my father, you are a married woman now. You must stay with your husband. If you divorce your husband, my brothers and cousins will kill me! Honour comes first. I was going around in circles, with no escape in sight. My father, brothers, uncles no-one would listen to me. I went to see Dowla, my fathers second wife, who lived with her five children in a tiny apartment across from our street. I climbed the stairs, holding my nose to avoid the stench of garbage and communal toilets. Dowla opened her door wearing a long red and black dress and a huge smile. Nujood! What a surprise to see you again. Welcome! I liked Dowla. Tall and slender, she was prettier than Omma, and she never scolded me. The poor woman hadnt had an easy time of it, though. My father neglected her completely. Her poverty forced her to beg in the street. She invited me to sit on the big straw pallet that took up half the room, next to the tiny stove where water was boiling. Nujood, she ventured, you seem very worried. I poured out my heart to her and my story seemed to affect her deeply. She thought quietly for a moment, then poured some tea. Handing it to me, she leaned over and looked into my eyes. Nujood, she whispered, if no-one will listen to you, you must go straight to court. To what? To court! But of course! In a flash, I saw images of judges in turbans, lawyers in a hurry, men and women coming to complain about family problems, thefts, squabbles over inheritances. Id seen a courtroom on a show I used to watch at the neighbours house. Go to the courthouse, Dowla continued. Ask to see the judge his job is to help victims. I hugged Dowla tightly in thanks. She slipped 200 rials into my hand, the entire pittance worth barely 70 cents shed managed to beg that very morning. The next morning I waited impatiently for my mother to get up. Nujood, she said, handing over 150 rials, buy some bread for breakfast. Yes, Omma, I replied obediently.

I took the street leading to the corner bakery. At the last minute, however, I changed direction, heading for the main avenue. I brought the folds of my scarf over my face. For once, this niqab turned out to be quite useful. I jumped in the yellow-and-white minibus to the centre of town, hoping to get out of my neighbourhood before my parents realised I was missing. The door closed. Through the windows I watched the city stream by. End of the line! shouted the driver. With trembling fingers I handed a few coins to the conductor. I had no idea where the courthouse was, however. I was overwhelmed with anxiety. Huddled by a streetlight, I was trying to collect my thoughts when I caught sight of a taxi. Id taken such taxis, going to Bab alYemen with Mona. I raised my hand and signalled him to stop. I want to go to the courthouse! I exclaimed to the driver, who stared at me in astonishment. The driver had no idea how grateful I was to him for not challenging me with questions. With a sharp stab on the brake, he pulled his car up by the courtyard gate in front of an imposing building. The courthouse! I hurried out of the taxi and handed him the rest of my money.

Before 2000, I was resigned to being a bachelor for life as I was bad tempered and unsociable until I met my angel in 2001. She was pure, kind, beautiful and tolerant. She was always there for me when I needed her, just like when I was enlisted for my National Service, and her care and concern saw me through the two years I dreaded the most. About the same time I met my future wife, I was dealt a blow. There was a tumour growing in the left side of my gum, which doctors said could be cancerous. Instead of running away, she stayed to face the problem with me. Although it was not cancerous in the end, the tumour still had to be removed as it was eating up the gum veins, meaning I could lose all my teeth. So I went ahead with the operation. I was very weak and breathless every day I stayed in the hospital. But she was always there with me, sleeping by my bedside, until she nursed me back to health. This incident showed that she was willing to go through any adversity with me, and I was sure then that I would hang on to her no matter what happened. After saving enough to purchase our dream home and being confident of giving her a comfortable life, I finally proposed to her at the Marina Bay Sands in 2010 after ten years of courtship. She accepted my proposal and set her mind to slimming down for our wedding, so she would look her best for our big day. Despite my repeated attempts to get her to eat more, her determination saw her embark on a strict diet with daily exercise, which I accompanied her for daily. For someone who likes to eat and gets plump easily, it was no easy task for her. From a high of 80kg in 2010 when I proposed to her, she now weights just 52kg and easily fits into her dream wedding dress. I am so proud of her and we were happily married just this

My friends and I had just finished lunch at a hotel when it started to pour heavily. When it became lighter, I decided to brave the drizzle to get my car, which was parked at my office three streets away. My friends argued that I shouldnt go, mainly because I was seven months pregnant then. I assured them that Id be very careful. One of them wanted to come with me but I insisted that she stayed with another friend who needed help with her baby. I walked out of the hotel and started making my way to the car. At the traffic junction, a van stopped and the passenger alighted with an umbrella. Before I knew what was happening, he walked right beside me and told me hed escort me to my destination. I was very embarrassed and declined, but he was very persistent. During our walk, he kept telling me to walk slower, as the ground was wet. When we got to the car-park, I thanked him and we parted ways. I did not get his name and may not even recognise him now. Did he purposely stop for me? Ill never know. So how did I pay it forward? I was at home when I noticed two Indian construction workers walking in the heavy rain. They were probably on their way to the construction site near my estate, which was a long walk in. I went out and passed them an umbrella. They were taken aback by my gesture, and I told them they should take the umbrella and keep it. They were very grateful and like me, probably wondered why a stranger was offering such kindness

"Dont lose yourself, the old, bedridden man said. I was four or five at the time, and my family was visiting him. To be honest, I cant remember his name or how we knew him. But two decades later, his words haunted me as I lay paralysed on my bed and struggled to come to terms with my life.

For years, I had suffered from depression. The first incident I can remember happened when I was 14. As I walked to my home in Singapore after school one day, I was overcome with the urge to sit in a corner and weep. I barely managed to reach our flat before bursting into tears. These overwhelming, unexplained feelings frightened me. By the time I was 16, these outbursts were happening about once a month. Most of the time I lived my life normally, but then my mind seemed to take a life of its own. Initially they happened for no reason, but now everything became a reason a frown from a teacher, first prize for an essay, a long queue at a canteen stall. It didnt matter whether the incidents were happy, sad or indifferent, all would be twisted by my mind into something horrible. One incident I recall vividly was a call from a friend. After we chatted for a while, she said she had to go because her mum was calling her. I spent the next two days agonising over whether she had hung up because she hated me. It was like a demon had possessed my mind. And all the while a little voice in my mind kept telling me how worthless, hopeless and stupid I was. For the most part, I kept all this a secret because I was scared and confused. I remember once trying to explain what was happening to my friend Ani*, but I couldnt find the right words to express myself and eventually gave up. Not that my friends were completely unaware of my problems. More than once they tried to talk to me about my difficult home life. My father subjected my two younger sisters and me to terrible verbal abuse, and my mother did little to support us, or even look after us. I now realise my family problems were a major factor in my depression, but at the time I denied anything was wrong. When I was 17, I concluded that the only way to stop my suffering was simply not to feel anything. This wasnt difficult because I was overwhelmed with my studies, two part-time jobs and looking after my sisters. I had no time to think, much less feel. At first the numbness was a huge relief from the mood swings, but it wasnt long before I realised that there was a vast emptiness in my heart. I could feel no joy, hope or pain. It got to a point where I would cut myself just to feel something. I had become afraid of being by myself. I felt as if I was being chased by a black hole that would swallow me whole. Finally, when I was 25, I decided that this living hell had to end I was going to kill myself. Fortunately, I never got the chance. That night, I opened my bedroom door just as my 16-yearold sister Banu* opened hers. Her face was puffy, her eyes were swollen and she was sobbing. I cant stop, I dont know why. I cant make the crying go away, she said. I was horrified someone I loved was going through the same hell I was. I knew that depression could be hereditary and that it wasnt unusual for more than one family member to suffer from it. But I was so consumed with my own problems I had failed to see that Banu was suffering too. This incident jolted me to my senses. The desire to help Banu prompted me to help myself. I called my best friend Raj*, and he came over with another friend. I told them everything, and on their insistence I visited a Family Service Centre and arranged to start counselling. After a few sessions, my counsellor explained that my depression stemmed from the extremely

negative and abusive family situation. The key was to acknowledge my problems and continue counselling. I also joined a support group and started reading self-help books. More important, I made a decision to get out of depression. I forced myself to go out and make new friends. I also convinced Banu to start counselling, got her involved in community work and made her come out with my friends and I instead of being cooped up at home. Today, two years later, she is much better. She is taking a pre-university course and has a circle of supportive friends. Depression is neither a choice nor a bad mood you can snap out of. It is an illness with an underlying cause. But no matter how much other people try to help, only the victims can help themselves get better. I am not saying that without help I would have been able to survive depression, but if I had chosen not to get out of it, I would not have. My depressive bouts havent disappeared, but they are less frequent and less intense. I now recognise the early symptoms and take action to head them off, usually talking to a friend or writing about my feelings in my journal. I have also become more positive. I am enjoying my life and my work as an English and Science teacher at a tuition centre. It has not been easy to open up or share my feelings, but its getting easier all the time. And the best part is, I have been able to help Banu. I did lose myself, but I managed to find myself again.
REALLY USEFUL SCHOOLING

Life is complicated. It starts before were ready, it continues while were still trying to figure out the point of it. And it ends long before weve worked out just what to do. Its vital then that young people prepare for that journey as soon as they can. Were lucky because there is a brief, special time in their lives when they are meant to do just that school. For a few short years, our children are our captive audience. We are able to impart whatever knowledge we think will benefit them at some point of their lives. This is where the school system fails us. Because we try to make schools do a lot of other things at the same time. We want schools to act as cheap childcare centres, to keep our children occupied while the adults are occupied. So, we start school days early and stretch them throughout the day, even when we dont really need to. We also think our schools should separate clever kids from average kids. So we teach them fiendishly complicated subjects like calculus and chemistry in order to see which kids are 2.3 percent better than their peers at those subjects. Apart from mathematicians and chemists, very few of us have any use for those subjects in the years ahead. If we agree that the function of education is to prepare us for life, then there is very little time to waste. We know that before long, our children will become bored, disillusioned, and far too large to intimidate. So, while we can, we ought to concentrate on teaching them really useful things. Here is what I think our schools should teach. Courtesy The sooner our young people learn this, the better. Politeness and consideration are the hallmarks of civilisation. In any case, a lot more can be accomplished by a smile and good manners than with a PhD. Managing Money Like it or not, for most of us, our adult lives will be consumed by the struggle for this. It baffles me that we dont make an effort to teach our young people the rudiments of managing it. Is borrowing on a credit card a good thing? Should you take a second mortgage if you have no income? How do you live within your means? No-one should be

expected to pick this up after leaving school (or worse, after getting a job). We have a responsibility to teach our young people this basic skill from the outset. Critical thinking Today, were swamped by fact and opinion. Theres always a temptation to accept something we are told, especially if its well-crafted, especially if its something we agree with. But thats not what educated people do. Educated people are rational and reasonable. They look at facts and they apply logic. If our schools teach nothing else, they should at least teach critical thinking. Health Kids should learn to take care of their bodies. They should know that if they eat junk, they will become fat and unhealthy. They should be very clear about what happens to their bodies when they drink, or smoke, or take drugs. They should know how people become pregnant. Thats crucial when they enter puberty, and beyond. They really shouldnt have to learn about sex from the latest rap video. Society The idea here is that all of us are part of something much bigger. We have rights and responsibilities. We ought to understand what they are, and why they are that way. We have to know a little bit of our immediate history and geography, because we need to have a context in which to relate to the people around us. How will we test students on these subjects? We cant. How then will we know they are learning? We wont. At least not immediately. But thats not a reason to avoid teaching important topics. We dont close down churches, mosques and temples just because were not sure that the congregation is paying attention. We keep at it, because we cant afford not to. Are these subjects too low-brow? Perhaps. Dont get me wrong: science and literature are important. There will always be a place in the world for quantum physicists and Shakespearean scholars. But our schools cannot be designed to enable the best and the brightest to excel. They must also equip the weakest among us to survive. I cant think of a more noble purpose for our schools than for them to spend every moment they have telling this to our kids: This is life, this is what you are going to face, and this is how you deal with it. Everything else is superfluity. Adrian Tan is a lawyer and author from Singapore. He is best known as the writer of the novels The Teenage Textbook and The Teenage Workbook Preserve THE COUNTRYS OWN CULTURE I live in Mumbai, India, a big city, but Im acutely aware that I came from a remote Kerala village. When I was a boy, hardly anyone spoke English around me. So, at age nine, Dad decided to pack me off to Montfort, a boarding school in another state. There, I had to speak English or be punished. I wore grey flannels, blazer and tie, and played cricket so different from Kerala in the 1960s, where little boys went around in shorts and half-sleeved shirts that were never tucked in. The men woredhotis, a traditional Indian garment. Villagers walked barefoot or wore slippers, but nobody had shoes. As for cricket, hardly anyone had heard about that English game. My boarding school, nestled amid pines and silver oaks, was once meant to be a home away from home for the children of British officers serving in India. By the time I joined in 1961, nearly all the boys attending Monfort were Indian, but many English traditions continued to live on. At the end of the school year, when I went home for the holidays, I must have forgotten local dress codes. Everybody was staring at me just because I came back in shoes and slacks. Sahib! one or two local boys hissed, the word used for lordly Brits who once ruled India.

Hey you, speak some English, some of my neighbours used to tell me, half in jest. Looking back, I think I unwittingly brought a bit of English culture to my village. But English and too much Western influence are precisely what many traditionalists and political leaders fear. They ask: Will such influences distort or finish off our own culture? Some Indian leaders have tried very hard to erase our colonial legacy. Theyve pulled down old British statues and replaced many colonial city names like Bombay and Calcutta with older native names, Mumbai or Kolkata. British street names too are disappearing. Diehard nationalists have even suggested we make Tuesday, the Hindu holy day, our weekly day of rest instead of the Western Sunday. Extreme responses I say. You cant alter history, and it is only natural for foreign influences to permeate a nations culture. So Indian culture, as it is today, is really a hybrid derived from centuries of Aryan, Greek, Afghan, Moghul and European invasions. Add to that the massive changes of the 20th century resulting from the semi-conductor revolution, the pill, jet-age travel, the Internet, etc. Everything from clothes and language to food keeps changing, yet we remain every bit Indian and Asian. I believe that Asian cultures, like Chinese and Indian, are too ancient and deeprooted to be distorted by any kind of foreign influence. Allow me to illustrate my point. Some time ago my wife Sheila and I took a close relative, who was visiting us from Singapore, to a Chinese restaurant in Mumbai. The relative, born and bred in Singapore and who often enjoyed cooking Chinese delicacies for his daughters, ate a full dinner of sweet-corn soup, fried rice, Manchurian vegetables and chicken chilli fry with us. Later, while driving home, I talked about the fine Chinese food wed just had. Was that Chinese food? our guest exclaimed innocently. Oh, I didnt know. It must have tasted too Indian for him to realise it. Meanwhile, like countless other Asian villages, my rural community in Kerala has transformed over the past decades. Lots of people wear shoes and trousers even some of the girls. Cable TV brings live cricket to drawing rooms and playgrounds and even village elders follow every major match. Theres also an English-medium co-ed boarding school run by missionaries, just a five-minute stroll from my home. There, you overhear the kids giggling, yelling, flirting all in English, but with an Indian accent, often mixed with local touches. Just like the Chinese or Italian food you get in India. Are these foreign influences something we should be worried about? I dont think so. Indias Chinese food tastes pretty good to me!

FREEDOM FROM WANT

In 1997, I found myself in a situation I never thought Id be in: alone and begging for money in New York. I was 16, homeless, and desperately searching for a high school that would let me enrol after years of truancy. My father had been estranged from our family for a while, and though I knew he was in a nearby mens shelter, he was in no position to help. My mother had recently died from

complications related to AIDS, and Id spent the few months since her death sleeping in friends homes or on a staircase landing in some random building in the Bronx. What I remember most about such nights is lying on the cold marble floor and using my backpack for a pillow, my worn out flannel shirt draped over me to dim the unrelenting fluorescent lights. Id listen as the sounds of families echoed up to me in the staircase children calling out for their parents, TVs playing cartoons, dinner plates clanking all the sounds of life that transform an apartment into a home. To deal with the isolation, I escaped into daydreams. With my eyes shut, I would envision my family together again: snapshots of Ma alive and the way shed get those little lines around her eyes whenever she laughed really hard, and the four of us Ma, Dad, my sister Lisa, and me safe under one roof again. But the most vivid daydreams were about my future. I would see myself sitting in school, diligently taking notes. Id see myself walking across a university campus filled with tall stone buildings drizzled in autumn leaves, my attention focused as I walked briskly to class. The feelings of safety, belonging and hope helped soothe me to sleep. My life today bears no resemblance at all to my life then. I graduated not only from high school but also from Harvard University. I no longer wear tattered clothes or sleep in hallways. Instead, I am safe each night in my own apartment in Manhattan. And my passion for the past 11 years has been to travel around the world helping people transform their own lives. In short, I am unrecognisable from my former self. Oddly enough, even after all that Ive been through and maybe because of it I believe that a certain amount of want is healthy. In fact, freedom from want was never my goal. Indeed, want served as a catalyst for my dreams, not a hindrance, and my dreams have always been what motivates me. When I was that young homeless woman struggling to find a break, Id spend hours trekking the footpaths of Manhattan searching for a school any school that would admit me. What would have been torturous for most was not for me. Thats because I recognised that I was on the verge of enacting the very scenes I had imagined back on those frozen stairwell landings where I slept. These scenes even had their own soundtrack. In my pocket I carried an old, busted-up CD player on which I played inspirational tunes: Paula Coles Me and Cakes The Distance. I saw my future and clearly envisioned stepping into it. Even though I had lost my family and was carrying around nothing more than some music, a photo of my mother, a few articles of clothing, and some shoplifted food, dreaming about my future and then acting on it was as exciting as getting into Harvard. Much the way a captain orients his ship to a constellation, I realised there was a place I wanted to be, and my goals guided my daily actions as I took steps to get myself there. While I made choices every single day to turn my life around, equally critical to my journey were the people there to see me through. There was the alternative high school, Humanities Preparatory Academy, that was my one yes in a world filled with no. There was also the haven for homeless teenagers called the Door, a non-profit organisation that provided me with counselling, medical care and food, all of which kept me going while I completed my homework in train stations and under hallway lights. For me to have succeeded, there had to be people to meet me halfway, and when I searched for them they were there.

Perhaps the most surprising help though, I did not seek out; it found me. After Id spent two years as a homeless student earning As in my courses, The New York Times told my story. In the weeks that followed, dozens of strangers reached out to me from all across the United States. At my high school, I began receiving handwritten letters of encouragement. Strangers showed up bearing brownies, clothes, books, and even hugs. Since the article mentioned I was applying to Harvard, one woman knitted a blanket for me. She attached this note to the box it was posted in: It gets cold in those dorms. May you warm yourself knowing that people care about you. Before these people some of them nameless I just didnt realise how good people could be. But now I do, and I can say that the people who helped me have forever changed me. They are the reason behind my decision to join the board at the Door so that I can be part of a small team of people opening a high school for homeless teenagers. They are the reason I dedicate my life to opening pathways for others.

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