My life journey - Kampung Boy

 CHILDHOOD ERA (1958-1964)

I was born on the 11th of November, 1958, but my birth was officially reported on the 15th of November, 1958. As a result, the latter date became my official date of birth, recorded on both my birth certificate and identity card.

I came into the world in a humble village setting, delivered by a local midwife. The experience was undoubtedly different from the clinical atmosphere of a hospital birth. Life in the village at that time was simple, and the serene yet bustling environment occasionally led to small oversights. One such instance was my father forgetting to report my birth promptly at the Slim River Police Station.

Looking back, these details about my early days reflect not just the circumstances of my birth but also the way of life that shaped the beginnings of my journey.

This is the house where I was born and where the story of my childhood unfolded—a place filled with cherished memories. 1968
Front (L-R) : Awi, me, Izan (my sister)
Back (L-R) : Tahir, Azmi (my brother), Jalil, Atuk (my grandfather), Seni

My father’s name was Mat Yusup @ Yusoff bin Jasip bin Dusin (or Mat Yusup @ Yusoff bin Esah binti Hashim), while my mother was Busu binti Imam Adam bin Hj. Mustafa (or Busu binti Shamsiah binti Bagus). My father hailed from Kg. Sungai Tiang Baroh in Bagan Datoh, whereas my mother was a true native of Kg. Balun.

As a child, I was often unwell, and there were moments when my life seemed to hang by a thread. On one occasion, my grandfather, Imam Adam Hj. Mustafa, made a vow to sacrifice a goat if I recovered from my illness. My mother, too, made similar vows on several occasions, pledging to offer a goat in gratitude if I regained my health.

These moments of vulnerability remind me of the unwavering love and faith that surrounded me during my early years, shaping my journey in ways I continue to cherish.

My father, mother, and we three siblings—Azmi, Izan, and I—lived together with our grandparents, Atuk and Opah (Hjh. Shamsiah bt. Bagus), under the same roof. Atuk was a strict and commanding figure, known for his discipline and "no-nonsense" demeanour, while Opah was his complete opposite—gentle, patient, and endlessly kind. My father worked as a security guard for the Public Works Department (JKR), and my mother shouldered the dual responsibilities of being a house-wife and a rubber tapper, a demanding job that often began before dawn.

Sungai Balun was the lifeblood of our village, a central part of daily life. It was our source of water for bathing, washing clothes, and even served as an outdoor “toilet,” as clean piped water was non-existent until 1968. For drinking and cooking, we relied on water drawn from a nearby well, which stood conveniently close to the river. The river wasn’t just a utility; it was a communal space, where laughter echoed as children splashed about, and neighbours exchanged stories while completing their chores.

Evenings in the village had their own charm, though they were shrouded in darkness. We relied on the soft, flickering glow of oil lamps since electricity only came to our village in 1971. However, even with this advancement, many families, including ours, could not afford the high cost of installing electricity at home during the early 1970s. As a result, our nights were dim and quiet, and dinner was always served before maghrib, taking full advantage of the lingering daylight.

Life was simple, shaped by the rhythm of nature and the constraints of the time. Yet, those moments etched unforgettable memories of resilience, community, and gratitude.

The village atmosphere was serene yet cloaked in darkness at night, as the entire area was surrounded by tall trees that cast long shadows under the dim glow of oil lamps. The nights were peaceful, almost eerily quiet, with no television or other electronic devices to break the stillness. However, if you walked through the village after maghrib, you would hear the gentle sounds of children reciting the Quran as many houses became informal gathering places for Quranic lessons. These recitations echoed gently across the village, a hallmark of the evening hours.

The village roads were narrow and unpaved, making them a challenge to navigate, especially during the rainy season. When it rained, the paths would transform into a muddy quagmire, clinging stubbornly to bicycle tires and making even short trips feel like an uphill battle. It wasn’t until 1978 that the village finally saw the luxury of paved roads, bringing a long-awaited sense of convenience to our daily lives.

Primary School Years (1965–1970)

My schooling journey began in 1965 at SK Balun, Slim River—a momentous step into a world that felt both exciting and intimidating. The first day of school was nothing short of terrifying. I was surrounded by unfamiliar faces, each child grappling with the same mix of curiosity and fear. Some classmates cried inconsolably, their tears reflecting the overwhelming newness of the experience. Outside, anxious parents crowded near the classroom windows, their watchful eyes tracking every move of their little ones.

One memory that remains etched in my mind is the sight of a few children still being carried in their parents' arms, their reluctance to walk a testament to their innocence. It was a scene both endearing and comical, capturing the essence of childhood in those simpler times.

The school building resembled a long hall, designed to accommodate six classrooms separated only by movable cardboard partitions. These partitions could be adjusted to suit the varying class sizes, but they offered little in terms of soundproofing or privacy. From one end of the building to the other, the entire stretch—from Standard 1 to Standard 6—was visible, with the Headmaster’s Office seamlessly connected at the far end. Remarkably, if the Headmaster opened his office door, he had a clear view of all the teachers’ desks within the classrooms.

After recess, typically between 10:30 a.m. and 12:30 p.m., lessons were often conducted under the shade of the trees surrounding the school. The classrooms, with their zinc roofs, became uncomfortably hot even in the late morning, prompting teachers to take us outdoors. Each of us carried our chair across the school field, creating a procession of students maneuvering carefully to avoid tripping on the uneven ground. The field itself was scattered with "touch-me-not" plants, whose prickly seeds often stuck to clothing. It was not uncommon for a teacher to ask us to remove these seeds from their trousers—a quirky chore that added a lighthearted moment to our day.

Our Standard 1 teacher, Cikgu Hamidah, was the daughter of the Village Head of Kampung Balun. She lived downstream near the tali api (a term we used to refer to the area near the electrical poles) and cycled to school every day. However, the final stretch from the village intersection to the school required her to walk uphill. Her trademark was her high-heeled shoes, which left tiny, sharp indentations in the dirt road with every step. We often amused ourselves by counting the trail of holes she left behind—a peculiar but fond memory of those simpler days.

Under Cikgu Hamidah’s guidance, we took our first steps in learning the alphabet. Some of my classmates grasped reading and writing quickly, but many, including myself, struggled. It wasn’t until Standard 3 that I finally learned to read, though there were others who never managed to fully grasp it.

Sitting (L-R) : Cikgu Megat, Cikgu Tufandi (Headmaster), Cikgu Ghafar
Standing (L-R) : Cikgu Ahmad, Mr. Muhammad, Cikgu Yaakob, Ustaz Abd Rahman, Ilut

Throughout my primary school years, I was taught by several dedicated teachers: Cikgu Hamidah in Standard 1, Cikgu Ahmad in Standard 2, Mr. Mohamad in Standard 3, Cikgu Ghafar in Standards 4 and 6, and Cikgu Yaakob in Standard 5. In addition to them, I was also taught religious studies by Ustaz Abdul Rahman and Ustaz Jamsari.

Our Headmaster, Cikgu Tufandi, was a figure both respected and feared. With his large build and booming voice, he left an impression of authority that could send shivers down our spines. To us, he embodied the very definition of discipline and leadership during those formative years.

During school holidays, I often accompanied my mother to the rubber plantation. The plantation was about 3 kilometers from our home, and we would walk along the back path, crossing two small bridges and a swamp behind Pak Olid Hitam’s house. The early morning walks were especially challenging, as we made our way in the dim light of our lanterns, carefully stepping over bridges made from coconut tree trunks and wooden planks. There was one instance when I slipped and fell into the river, soaking wet, but we continued on without hesitation, determined to reach our destination.

One day, just like any other, my mother and I set off from home in the pre-dawn darkness, walking toward the plantation. The journey, which took about half an hour, was exhausting. Once we arrived, I made my way to our usual resting spot at the base of a tree, while my mother immediately began her rubber tapping. I, on the other hand, lay down to sleep again in the stillness of the dark morning, surrounded by the sounds of the jungle, as the rhythmic sound of my mother’s tapping filled the air.

I could only manage a light nap, as my mother often called out to me to make sure I stayed alert. In the oppressive darkness, I began to hear sounds as if something was moving behind me. I turned around but could see nothing, for the night was so pitch black. I pulled the cloth over my face, though I could not shake the unease that gripped my heart. When I finally removed the cloth from my face, I was startled to find a shadowy figure standing just a hand’s length away.

I screamed at the top of my lungs and ran straight to my mother. At the same time, my mother screamed and ran toward me, and we embraced each other tightly. It turned out, my mother had already sensed something unusual would happen. She had seen a red light glowing in the nearby Sempa cemetery, not far from the plantation. That was why she had been calling out to me, urging me to stay close to her.

My father usually arrived by 7:00 a.m., after completing his duties as the night watchman at the Slim River Water Pump Station. Once we finished tapping the rubber, we would take a break at the base of a tree. The most delicious breakfast was the roti canai bought by my father on his way to the plantation. After our break, I would help my father collect the latex.

At that time, there were two rubber machines at the back of our house, owned by my mother. It was here that my uncles and aunts would take turns using the machines. I had the chance to help my father turn the machine, flattening the rubber before leaving it to dry. Each piece of rubber had a distinctive mark, making it easy to identify whose it was.

Occasionally, my mother would take me to the plantation in the late afternoon, accompanied by Wenda (my mother's older sister), to collect firewood. In those days, firewood was our sole source of fuel for cooking. The best firewood came from dead rubber trees, which we would cut, saw, and split right there in the plantation before bringing it home. Sometimes, we only carried back logs that were roughly 2 meters long and not yet split. The cutting and splitting were usually done at home.

I was quite active in co-curricular activities during my time in Standard 5 and 6, likely because there weren’t many students. I represented the school in football, Sepak Raga, and badminton. I was also selected to represent the school in a speech competition during the celebration of Maulidur Rasul in Slim River.

In addition, I also represented the school in a traditional costume competition during the independence celebration carnival in Slim River. My mother was incredibly excited as she dressed me in a special Malay outfit, complete with a songkok and intricately folded sampin. That night, to everyone’s delight, I was crowned the champion.

Every evening, except for Friday nights, my brother and I would go to Ayah Uda’s house (Hashim, the kompang teacher, and Wenda’s husband) to study the Quran. We would read together with his two children, Sani and Tahir. Alhamdulillah, we completed our Quran memorization together when I was in Standard 5. The celebration of our Quran completion was joyous, as we were all paraded with kompang from Tok Tulis’ shop to my home.

At my house, we took turns reading the concluding chapters of Juz Amma, witnessed by many people. If there was any mistake in our recitation, they would immediately correct us. Officially, we had completed the Quran. The next day, my brother Azmi, Tahir, and I, along with Pili, were circumcised by Pak Ariffin, a hospital attendant, at my home.

After that, I continued learning to read the Quran with Cikgu Yaakob’s wife, Johan Qariah from the Kerian district. When Cikgu Yaakob was transferred, I studied under Ustaz Jamsari at his house next to Wan Deiri's shop. Later, when Ustaz Jamsari was transferred as well, I continued my studies with Ustazah Zawiah.

During one long school holiday, which coincided with the month of Ramadan, Tahir, Azmi, and I took our Quran, mats, and pillows to Che Din's house in the ‘tanjung.’ The house was uninhabited, and it became our study and resting place as we read the Quran and slept until the afternoon.

Today is a special day for me. Early in the morning, I woke up, take a bath, and prepare to go to Ipoh with my father. This day was significant in my life because I had been selected for an interview as part of the admission process for the renowned Izzudin Shah Islamic Secondary School in Ipoh. I, along with two other students from SK Balun, had been called for the interview after achieving a Grade 1 in the Islamic Studies examination organized by the Perak Islamic Religious Council.

Ayah had to hire a taxi for a round trip to  Ipoh, which was certainly costly at the time. The interview was held at the State Mosque in Ipoh. It was my first experience with an interview, and I was overwhelmed with a mixture of nervousness and fear. The presence of more than seven panel members only heightened my anxiety. In the end, only one of us was successful, and he later became a respected ustaz, Sharifuddin Abd Rahman.

SECONDARY SCHOOL (1971 – 1978)

In 1971, I enrolled at SMJK(I), Slim River, marking the beginning of my secondary school education. My mother had always hoped that I would join the English medium, so I first attended a “remove class” for one year before being placed in Form 1. Only four of us from SK Balun chose the English medium: Sulaiman, Salmiah, Mardiana, and myself. The rest of the students opted for the Malay medium, and several others were unable to continue their education past Standard 6 due to financial difficulties.

The results of the final exams in 1972, when I was in Form 1, remain vividly etched in my memory. I secured a second place in the exam, with my close friend Kow Chai taking first place. My father was overjoyed with my achievement and, as a token of his pride, gifted me a light blue colour “Pilot” pen, engraved with my name, “SAZALI BIN YUSOFF.” This pen became a treasured possession, and I used it until I continued my study at university in 1979.

Form 1D, 1972

During Form 2, I dedicated myself to studying intensely, with the sole goal of entering the prestigious 3A class in Form 3. The school followed a streaming system, where the top 40 students from the final exams of Form 2 would be grouped together in class 3A. In the final exam of Form 2, I ranked 39th out of 160 students. Alhamdulillah, I, along with three other classmates from 2D (Kow Chai, Baharum, and Rohana), successfully made it into class 3A.

Due to my high inferiority complex, I was determined not to be the last student in 3A class, which drove me to study even harder. In the mid-year exams, I ranked 33rd, and in the LCE trial exams, I improved further to 27th in the class. When the official LCE results were released, I achieved an aggregate of A18, placing me among the top 11 students out of 160. The top students at that time were: Lily Leong, Marimuthu, Woon Chin Kean, Subramaniam, Tun Bakli, Ding Poi Hee, Lim Taw Siang, Sulaiman, Abdul Halim, Lim Taw Yoke, and myself.

Form 3A, 1974

Form 4 marked a shift in my academic journey. I had been so driven and focused in the previous years, but now, I found myself drifting. The thrill of being in the Science stream, which should have been a proud achievement, began to feel like a weight on my shoulders. I could feel the gap widening between the person I once was and the one I had become.

I no longer had the burning desire to study. My enthusiasm was replaced by an overwhelming fatigue, not just physical but mental. I had lost my spark. The lessons, once so engaging, now seemed like an insurmountable wall. Instead of studying, I found myself on the court —playing sepak takraw, something that gave me a temporary escape from my reality. The game became my solace, my safe space.

For the first time, our school’s sepak takraw team had made it to the semi-finals of the inter-school competition in a state of Perak. The exhilaration of that achievement was like a drug. The focus, the team spirit—it gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt uncertain. The rush of victory in our early rounds, the thrill of hearing our coach’s voice urging us on—it was intoxicating. But as we reached the semi-finals and fell short, I felt the weight of failure press on me. Not just from the game, but from my studies too.

I couldn’t help but feel like I was slipping through the cracks. I had let go of the very thing that had brought me so far—my education. I skipped classes, avoided responsibilities, and the pull of physical labour, like planting rubber tree saplings for RISDA, felt more rewarding in the short term. The farm was a world away from the pressure of school, and I found comfort in the simplicity of it. But as I rode my bike 10 km to the plantation with Tahir (my cousin brother), I couldn’t help but feel a gnawing emptiness. I was choosing the easy way out, but it was never truly satisfying.

The conflict within me became a quiet storm. I began to realize that my neglect of my studies was not just a phase but a pattern I was creating. I knew I needed to snap out of it, but the longer I avoided the truth, the harder it became. The guilt kept creeping in.

It wasn't until Form 5 that I started to feel a semblance of motivation again, though it wasn't easy. I had to face the consequences of my actions. My MCE results reflected the carelessness I had shown in the previous year—just a “Grade 2” when I knew I was capable of much more. That result stung. It wasn’t just a low grade; it felt like a reflection of my lack of focus, a mark of how far I had drifted from my true potential.

But in that moment, as I began my journey at SM Buyung Adil in Tapah for Form 6, I understood something deeper. It wasn’t just about grades or the distractions that had pulled me away. It was about finding my way back to myself. The person who had once been determined and focused was still there, buried beneath all the mistakes, but now I had to rebuild, piece by piece.

It wasn’t just academic success that mattered anymore—it was about overcoming my own internal battles, finding the strength to rise again, and becoming the person I was always meant to be.

SMBA Hostellites, 1978

I continued my studies in Form 6, taking the Science stream at SM Buyung Adil in Tapah, where I stayed in the school dormitory. There were only five subjects to choose from: Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Mathematics, and General Paper. During my time in Form 6, I threw myself into my studies with determination, trying to make up for the years I had lost in terms of focus and effort. I spent long hours pouring over textbooks, attending every class, and seeking help whenever I felt lost. However, despite my best efforts, the outcome of my Higher School Certificate (HSC) examination was a disappointment. I only managed to secure three subsidiaries. It was a result that stung, leaving me wondering if my hard work had truly paid off. Even though I had tried my best, it still felt like I hadn't achieved what I had hoped for.

My teenage years in the village were filled with sports and recreational activities. Ayah Uda, a well-known Kompang (traditional drum) master in Slim River, trained many players from Kg Balun as well as from outside the village. Playing kompang in the evenings was a regular activity I participated in. We were often invited to perform at weddings or to officiate various events, both within the village and beyond. Some of the places we visited included Teluk Intan, Sabak Bernam, Batu Gajah, Dengkil, and many more.

At Slim River Police Station
(L-R): Ujang, Jalil, me, Ayah Uda, Razak, Tahir

Football was another passion of mine, but it was Sepak Takraw that truly captured my heart. We played nearly every afternoon next to the Kg Balun Police Station (Kedai Olid Putih, in front of Olid Itam’s house). This was where I first played with the older, more experienced players such as Ilut, Ujang, Kocah, Ayub, Fian, Yusuf (a soldier), and many others. During my time in Form 4, I even represented the village in this sport. We frequently participated in Sepak Takraw leagues in Slim River, though we never managed to claim the championship title. Ha ha ha!

In addition to my involvement in Sepak Takraw, which was my true passion, I also became intrigued by Silat, the traditional martial art of my village. The allure of Silat came from its deep connection to our heritage, the graceful yet powerful movements, and the sense of discipline it offered. For six months, I dedicated myself to learning the art, drawn by the desire to master its techniques and gain the respect that came with it. There was something deeply fulfilling about training with the others in the village, feeling a sense of unity and strength as we practiced together. 

However, despite the thrill and the bond I felt with my fellow practitioners, there was a growing tension within me. My academic journey, which was becoming increasingly important with the pressure of the MCE exams looming, demanded my attention. I could no longer ignore the fact that my studies needed to be my priority. The more I immersed myself in Silat, the more I felt the pull of my books, the relentless call of my future. I had to make a choice. It wasn’t easy to let go of something that felt so empowering, but in the end, my desire to succeed in my studies won over. 

Silat trainees, 1976

The decision to stop practicing Silat was one of the hardest I had to make, as it felt like leaving behind a piece of my identity. Yet, I knew that my future depended on the choices I made in that moment of conflict between passion and responsibility. It was a bittersweet surrender, one that I often thought about as I sat down to study, wishing I could still be out there, practicing with the others.

Living in remote village was full of mysterious and paranormal episodes. One night, while Pili and I were studying in the living hall of our house, we heard the loud sound of something crashing, like a glass falling from a cupboard in Anyah's house next door. At that time, Anyah wasn’t at home. To our surprise, it wasn’t just us who heard it—Mak and Opah also heard the noise. We thought that a thief had broken into Anyah’s house, so we called Ayah Uteh and other cousins to help. We surrounded the front of the house, and Ayah Uteh entered the house, but nothing was missing. There was indeed a glass that had fallen from the cupboard, but it hadn't shattered. After searching the entire house, we moved to the back and found strange footprints—ones that looked like tiger paw prints, as if something had jumped from the roof of Anyah’s house. This was one of the most mysterious events I encountered during my time in the village.

UPM (1979 – 1982)

In June 1979, I embarked on my journey at Universiti Pertanian Malaysia (UPM), enrolling in the Diploma in Science with Education (DSP) program. There were over 270 of us in that intake, a sea of new faces, each of us filled with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The first two years were filled with compulsory subjects: Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, and Biology. For many of us, these weren’t just subjects; they were mountains to climb. Some of my peers, especially those who didn’t have a strong foundation in certain subjects, struggled to keep up. It was a time when the weight of academic pressure was starting to settle on our shoulders, and the initial thrill of university life quickly gave way to the harsh realities of academic competition and expectation.

The stories we heard from the senior students didn’t help. They spoke in hushed tones, their faces serious, warning us that DSP was a ‘killer’ program, one that had a reputation for weeding out students every semester. Many had failed or been dismissed due to the demanding workload and tough exams. These tales of failure, of students being cast aside, became the backdrop of our first few months. Fear started to creep into my heart. Could I really keep up? Could I survive this intense program? The pressure mounted, and the weight of the fear of failure became almost tangible in the air.

1st College, UPM

But beneath that fear, there was something else: a determination. I had come this far, and I wasn’t going to let the stories of failure define my journey. Though the daunting reputation of DSP loomed large, I knew I had to give it my all. Every lecture, every textbook, every problem set became a battle for survival. I couldn’t afford to let myself be one of those who would be sent packing by the system. The fear of failing wasn’t just about academic failure—it was about the deep-seated fear of letting down the people who believed in me, and more importantly, letting myself down.

The first year was the hardest. I found myself staying up late, pouring over textbooks, trying to make sense of equations and scientific theories that seemed to be designed to challenge every ounce of my mental stamina. There were moments when I felt overwhelmed, when I thought about quitting, but I didn’t. I pushed through, relying on my resolve and the support of friends who were walking the same difficult path. We shared notes, studied together, and helped each other get through the grueling days. We became each other's lifeline, offering encouragement even when the weight of our struggles threatened to break us.

By the end of the first year, I had survived, but the fear was still there, lurking in the background. The pressure to perform in such a demanding environment was something I could never quite shake off, but it also became the driving force that kept me going, forcing me to push myself further than I ever had before.

The rumors were absolutely true. After the first and second semesters, only around 170 of us remained from the initial 270 students. The rest had either failed out during the first or second semester, unable to meet the demands of the program. The pressure was relentless, and the academic toll was evident. It was clear that this wasn’t an easy path, and for many, the weight of expectations and the difficulty of the coursework proved insurmountable.

Yet, amid this daunting reality, there were also success stories. A handful of students, those who excelled and stood out, were offered the opportunity to advance to a degree program, a promotion that seemed like the reward for their hard work and perseverance. It was an enticing prospect, one that many of my peers considered, and for a moment, I too thought about the possibility. But as the offers were extended, a surprising decision emerged from within me—I chose not to take that path. Instead, I decided to remain in the DSP program.

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the opportunity or that I lacked the desire to further my studies. On the contrary, the thought of continuing my education was tempting. But something inside me told me that the journey I was on in DSP had its own value. It was a program that demanded resilience, discipline, and determination. For me, this was the right path, the one that would test me in ways that an easier route might not. Staying in DSP was a conscious decision—one that required me to dig deeper, to continue facing the challenges head-on, and to push myself even further.

Though the decision wasn’t easy, and there were moments of doubt, I knew in my heart that this was where I needed to be. I wasn’t just pursuing a degree—I was pursuing growth, discipline, and the perseverance that would shape me into someone who could face adversity with strength. And so, I stayed in DSP, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing that every struggle was preparing me for something greater.

In my third year, I made a decision that would define the rest of my academic journey—I chose to major in Physics, a subject I had been passionate about ever since school. Out of all the students in my cohort, only 18 of us selected Physics as our major, with Mathematics being the most popular choice, followed by Biology and Chemistry. I knew this was a path less traveled, but it felt like the right one for me.

In Physic Lab, 1981

The path wasn’t easy. From the 18 of us who started in the Physics major, only 12 of us graduated. The rest either had to retake courses or were unfortunately dropped from the program. The pressure was immense, and the workload was unforgiving. Many of my classmates struggled to keep up with the rigorous demands, and the fear of failure loomed over us. But despite the challenges, I remained committed to my choice.

Choosing Physics wasn’t just about an interest in the subject; it was about a deep-seated desire to push myself, to explore the boundaries of knowledge, and to understand the universe at a fundamental level. It was never going to be the easiest route, but for me, it was the most fulfilling. The obstacles and the setbacks only fueled my determination to continue. And when I graduated, I didn’t just see it as a personal triumph—it was a testament to my resilience, the culmination of years of dedication and the relentless pursuit of something I truly loved.

Throughout my time at university, I remained actively involved in sports, particularly sepak takraw. Representing my college in the sport every year, I eventually earned the honor of representing the university during my final year. It was during this period that two of my teammates went on to represent Malaysia at the Asian Games in India, while another represented Selangor. The camaraderie, the fierce competition, and the pride in representing something larger than myself were experiences that not only shaped my university years but also fueled my passion for perseverance and teamwork.

In 1980, UPM, in collaboration with MARDI, conducted a nationwide study on agriculture, focusing on crop cultivation and livestock management. I was selected to be a data collector for two districts: Batang Padang in Perak and Cameron Highlands in Pahang. This large-scale project took place during the semester break, and I worked alongside three others, led by a MARDI officer. Together, we spent almost three weeks carrying out this fieldwork.

Crossing the river, deep within the heart of the Titiwangsa Range jungle, felt like stepping into a world untouched by time—a serene and untamed wilderness that whispered stories of nature's enduring beauty.

The assignment in Cameron Highlands left a lasting impact on me, both in terms of the experience gained and the lessons learned. The work itself was unlike anything I had encountered before. We only began our tasks after 6:00 p.m., as that was the time when the vegetable farmers were home from the fields. During the day, they tended to their crops, and we had to adjust our schedule to meet them. The long hours and the physical demands of the task were grueling, but the opportunity to observe the lives of the farmers, their dedication, and the intricacies of agriculture on such a scale was an eye-opening and invaluable experience.

To collect data from the Orang Asli communities, our team had to embark on an arduous journey that took us four days and three nights, trekking through dense jungle and across rugged terrain. We began our walk from the Boh Plantation, making our way toward Kuala Woh, where we spent the night. The following day, we continued our journey to Fort Telanok, another remote area where we camped overnight. On the third day, we pushed forward to Kuala Rening, where we rested once again before completing our trek on the fourth day, reaching Kg Raja, where a Land Rover from the JHEOA was waiting to take us back.

Traversing the Titiwangsa mountain range was a truly grueling experience, one that tested both our physical endurance and mental strength. The path was anything but easy. We navigated through narrow trails, often slipping and sliding through the muddy terrain, and at times, we had to cross rivers and ravines by balancing on fallen tree trunks. The challenges of the journey were constant, yet the sense of achievement after overcoming each obstacle brought a deep sense of satisfaction. It was a journey that not only brought us closer to the Orang Asli communities, but also taught me valuable lessons about resilience, determination, and the beauty of nature in its raw, untamed form.

SM MAHMUD, RAUB (1982-1986)

On August 18, 1982, I officially reported for duty at SM Mahmud, Raub, marking the beginning of my journey as a teacher. With nothing more than a backpack, I boarded the Mogah bus from Slim River to Tanjung Malim. From there, I switched to a Len bus heading to Kuala Kubu Baru and continued my journey to Raub via the winding Fraser’s Hill route. It was my first time in Pahang, let alone Raub—a small, unfamiliar town that I had only learned about from my placement letter. The journey from Kuala Kubu to Raub was exhausting and nauseating, with its endless steep hills and sharp, twisting turns. Despite my weariness, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of nervousness and excitement about the adventure ahead.

At SM Mahmud, I was entrusted with teaching Physics to four Form 4 classes. To fulfill my 27-period weekly quota, I also taught Civics and Physical Education. The following year, my timetable became even more demanding, as I taught Physics to three Form 4 classes and two Form 5 classes. This routine remained constant over the years, and by 1986, I was teaching 25 periods of Physics weekly—a challenging yet immensely fulfilling task—before taking study leave to pursue my degree.

As a young and newly appointed teacher, I was full of enthusiasm and passion for teaching, particularly Physics, a subject I had loved since my own school days. Yet, stepping into a classroom as an educator was a different experience altogether. Balancing the expectations of the school, engaging with students who had varying levels of interest and aptitude in the subject, and finding ways to make complex concepts accessible and enjoyable was no small feat.

The initial challenges were abundant—adjusting to a new environment, connecting with colleagues, and understanding the community—but they were invaluable lessons in adaptability and perseverance. I poured my energy into preparing lesson plans, experimenting with teaching methods, and finding joy in seeing the "aha" moments on my students’ faces. Despite the long hours and the occasional fatigue, the satisfaction of helping students grasp difficult topics and inspiring their curiosity in science made every effort worthwhile. These formative years not only solidified my love for teaching but also shaped my philosophy as an educator: that passion and dedication could light up even the most challenging classrooms.

During the first three months of my tenure (August to November 1982), I rented a modest house in Kampung Sempalit for RM100 a month. It was a humble beginning, and the simplicity of the arrangement reflected the transitional phase of my life. To make the daily commute to SM Mahmud, located about 3 kilometers away, I bought a bicycle. It became my lifeline—a reliable companion that carried me through quiet village roads, often in the soft light of dawn and the cool shadows of dusk.

Every day, I would leave the house right after the Fajr prayer, the crisp morning air filling my lungs as I cycled to school. My return, typically just before Maghrib, marked the end of a fulfilling yet exhausting day. My routine was a disciplined one. After classes ended, I would remain in school, diligently grading exercise books, preparing lesson plans, or devising strategies to make Physics more accessible and engaging for my students. The quiet hours in the staff room, long after the bustle of school life had subsided, became a sacred space for reflection and preparation.

By late afternoon, my focus would shift to sports. At 5:00 PM sharp, I would join my colleagues for an invigorating session of sepak takraw or tennis. These moments on the court or in the takraw court were more than just physical activity—they were a welcome escape from the mental intensity of teaching and a chance to build camaraderie with others. The rhythmic sound of the takraw ball being kicked back and forth or the crisp thwack of a tennis ball on the racket offered a kind of meditation, a way to recharge for the challenges that awaited the next day.

Looking back, those early days in Kampung Sempalit were marked by simplicity, routine, and an unshakable sense of purpose. They taught me the value of perseverance, self-discipline, and the quiet joys found in a life devoted to both work and well-earned recreation. It was a chapter defined by hard work, but also one rich in lessons that would stay with me throughout my career.

Many of the teachers at SM Mahmud were highly active in sports, and a significant number of them were chosen to represent the Raub district in the Persatuan Sukan dan Kebudayaan Perkhidmatan Pelajaran (PSKPP) games at the state level in Pahang. The culture of athleticism and teamwork among the staff was infectious, and I was fortunate to be selected to represent Raub in both tennis and sepak takraw, two sports that I had long been passionate about.

The camaraderie among us as district representatives was remarkable. Whether it was on the tennis court or the takraw court, the shared determination to perform well and represent our district with pride bonded us as a team. In tennis, I had the privilege of playing alongside skilled and dedicated colleagues such as Rahman, Yahya, Liew Kim Choon, and Ho Ah Hean, whose precision and techniques often left our opponents scrambling. In sepak takraw, the intense training sessions with Wan Mustama, Bakar, and Idris were both challenging and rewarding. Meanwhile, the football team, led by stalwarts like Zaini, Misman, Johari, and Idris, displayed an unmatched spirit that was inspiring to witness.

Raub Tennis Open Championship, 1985

These competitions weren’t just about winning; they were opportunities to grow, connect, and represent not only our school but also our district. Every game brought its own thrill and lessons, whether it was the sharp crack of a tennis serve, the acrobatics of a sepak takraw spike, or the relentless energy on the football field. Together, we shared the highs of victory, the camaraderie of teamwork, and the resilience to accept defeats with grace.

For me, these moments weren’t just about sports—they were a testament to the power of collaboration and the importance of balancing professional life with personal passions. It was in these arenas, surrounded by my colleagues-turned-teammates, that I truly understood the value of discipline, mutual respect, and the simple joy of giving your all for a cause greater than yourself.

In January 1983, I moved to Raub town and began sharing a house with Rahman and Joe, splitting the RM400 monthly rent. It was a modest yet lively setup, and for the first year, it felt like the start of a new chapter in my life. Over the subsequent years, the house became a revolving door of camaraderie, with up to six of us living together at any given time. The dynamic group of housemates included memorable names like Hashim, Zaini, Misman, Md Nor, Harun, Johan, Mukhtar, Azlan Ong, and even Tengku, who worked at Bank Bumiputera.

Some of SM Mahmud Teachers
Sitting (L-R) : Harun, Ismail, Zaini, Wan Mustama, Johari, Ali, me
Standing (L-R) : Misman, Idris, Bakar, Borhanuddin, Nasir

Living in such a shared space was both chaotic and rewarding. It wasn’t just a roof over our heads; it was a hub of camaraderie and shared experiences. Each of us brought something unique to the household—Rahman’s infectious energy, Zaini’s sharp wit, Misman’s quiet wisdom, and Harun’s uncanny knack for keeping everyone laughing, to name a few.

There were nights of heated discussions about work, sports, and life, interspersed with lighter moments like preparing meals together or watching our favorite programs on a small television.. The laughter, the occasional disagreements, and the bond we formed were all part of the experience.

Despite our busy schedules, we managed to strike a balance between work and leisure. On weekends, the house buzzed with activity as we planned outings, played sports, or even hosted colleagues and friends for casual gatherings. Over time, the house became not just a place to stay but a home filled with memories—where lifelong friendships were forged and a sense of community thrived.

Looking back, those years in Raub town were some of the most formative of my early career, not just because of the teaching and responsibilities at school, but because of the people I shared my life with during that time. Together, we navigated the challenges of adulthood, celebrated our small victories, and supported each other through the ups and downs. It was a period of growth, laughter, and the kind of companionship that leaves a lasting mark on the heart.

In 1984, Rahman and I were selected to attend the Officer Cadet Course at the Officer Cadet School in Port Dickson, a month-long training program aimed at preparing us to become Teacher Advisors for the Malaysia Combined Cadet Corps (PKBM). The course was rigorous and transformative, blending military discipline with lessons in physical endurance and mental resilience. Each day began with grueling physical drills and intensive theoretical sessions, pushing us beyond the limits we thought we had.

Despite the challenges, the experience was deeply rewarding. The camaraderie we built with fellow trainees and the sense of accomplishment after each task fostered a new appreciation for discipline and teamwork. These lessons transcended the confines of the course, becoming values that shaped my daily routines and responsibilities as a teacher and leader.

Upon returning from the course, I felt inspired to invigorate the PKBM program at SM Mahmud. A bold idea took root: to organize a challenging expedition to climb Gunung Tahan, the tallest mountain in Peninsular Malaysia. The planning was meticulous, as such an endeavor required both financial resources and physical preparation. Due to the high costs, we could only bring a small group, but the determination among the selected cadets and staff was palpable.

In 1985, after months of preparation, our team—comprising several teachers and a group of cadets—embarked on the expedition. The climb was a test of grit and perseverance, with each step demanding strength and focus. Traversing dense forests, crossing rivers, and enduring unpredictable weather pushed us to our limits. However, our rigorous training paid off. We achieved what many thought impossible: completing the climb and descent in just seven days, a feat that typically took nine. This accomplishment made us the first team from SM Mahmud to conquer Gunung Tahan, a milestone etched in the school's history and our own personal journeys.

The success of this expedition ignited a new sense of ambition within the PKBM. Plans were soon set in motion for an even grander challenge: climbing Gunung Kinabalu, the tallest peak in Southeast Asia. Throughout 1986, we worked tirelessly on the logistics and preparation for this monumental endeavor. Sadly, by the time the expedition was set to take place in December, I was unable to join the team as I had already begun pursuing further studies at UPM.

Although I couldn’t be part of the Gunung Kinabalu expedition, the seeds of adventure and resilience we had sown continued to grow in the cadets. The legacy of those expeditions went beyond physical achievements—it instilled in everyone involved a belief in their potential to overcome challenges and set new standards of excellence. To this day, the memories of those treks up Gunung Tahan remain some of the most profound, shaping not just my career but my outlook on life itself.

UPM (1986–1988)

After four enriching years at SM Mahmud, Raub, I decided it was time to further my studies and pursue a Bachelor’s Degree. The decision wasn’t without its complexities, as I had previously secured a place at Western Michigan University (WMU), USA, under the Perak State Education Loan Program. The offer was enticing—a program in Computer Science, a highly sought-after field at the time. I had been granted numerous course exemptions through credit transfers, which meant I could have completed the program in just two years.

However, Allah the Almighty had other plans. Despite the allure of studying abroad and the opportunities it promised, circumstances led me back to Universiti Putra Malaysia (UPM). Perhaps it was a matter of destiny, or maybe it was my deep connection with the institution where I had laid the foundation of my academic journey. Returning to UPM felt like coming full circle, as it was here that I had first discovered my passion for Physics during my diploma years.

At UPM, I enrolled in the Bachelor of Science program, specializing in Physics with a minor in Mathematics. The program, though rigorous, offered me the advantage of a substantial number of credit transfers based on my previous diploma achievements. This not only shortened the duration of my degree to just two years but also gave me a strong sense of familiarity with the academic structure and expectations.

The transition back to UPM was seamless yet emotionally profound. While I sometimes wondered what life might have been like if I had ventured to WMU, I found reassurance in my chosen path. Studying Physics again rekindled the intellectual curiosity I had nurtured since my school days. The challenges of understanding complex concepts and solving intricate problems reminded me of why I had always been drawn to this field.

Those two years were a whirlwind of growth and determination. The decision to stay in Malaysia and continue my studies at UPM was not merely a practical one—it was a reaffirmation of my belief in making the best of the opportunities available to me. Looking back, I realize that this chapter was not just about earning a degree; it was about embracing my journey, cherishing my roots, and laying the groundwork for the path ahead.

I remained actively involved in sports during my time at UPM, with tennis becoming my primary passion. I was honored to be selected to represent my residential college in various competitions, which reignited the camaraderie and joy that sports had always brought into my life.

Amid this, an unexpected opportunity arose when an old sepaktakraw teammate reached out, urging me to return to the game and represent the university. The invitation stirred a mix of nostalgia and hesitation within me. Sepaktakraw had been such an integral part of my earlier years, a sport that shaped my discipline and gave me countless memories. However, I had officially “hung up my shoes” back in 1984, a decision I made to focus on my professional and academic pursuits.

Declining the offer wasn’t easy—it felt like turning down a chance to relive a cherished chapter of my past. Yet, deep down, I knew my priorities had shifted. While sepaktakraw would always hold a special place in my heart, this stage of my life required a different kind of commitment.

My mother’s heart swelled with joy and pride as she celebrated my achievement of earning a degree. It was a moment that illuminated her sacrifices and unwavering support, a testament to the dreams she had nurtured for me all along.

Even as I moved forward, moments like these reminded me of the enduring bonds sports create and the personal growth they inspire. Though I stepped away from the sepaktakraw court, its lessons of teamwork, resilience, and perseverance continued to guide me in every endeavor.

SM Slim, Slim River (1988–1990)

SM Khir Johari, Tanjung Malim (1990–1993)

Returning to my hometown in 1988 after completing my Bachelor of Science with Honors was a deeply fulfilling yet bittersweet experience. The joy of being back among familiar faces and the serene rhythm of village life brought me immense happiness. However, the absence of my father, grandparents, and other family members who had passed on cast a lingering shadow. Now, it was just Mak, my younger sibling, and I at home, while my older brother had already embarked on his career in Selangor.

I began my teaching career at SM Slim, where I was assigned to teach Mathematics. The classroom felt like a new chapter in my life, yet it was also an opportunity to give back to the community that had shaped me. With every lesson plan, every interaction with students, I felt a growing sense of purpose and connection, as if I was walking a path my father would have been proud of.

In 1989, my professional journey took an exciting turn when I was selected by the Perak State Education Department (JPN) to attend a prestigious three-month course on "Testing and Measurement" at the Institut Aminuddin Baki (IAB), Genting Highlands. Alongside two other teachers representing Perak and 50 participants from across the country, I delved into the principles of cognitive, affective, and psychomotor assessments. This course offered more than just academic enrichment—it was an eye-opening experience, with lectures conducted by distinguished academics from Universiti Malaya, UPM, UKM, and IAB itself. I returned to SM Slim with not only enhanced knowledge but also a deeper understanding of how to measure and nurture the diverse potentials of students.

Beyond the classroom, I found solace and camaraderie on the tennis court, a sport that had become my passion. Almost every evening, I cycled to the Slim River Tennis Club, located behind the District Office. The club brought together a diverse group of members, from teachers and police officers to doctors, magistrates, and entrepreneurs. Tennis was more than just a game; it was a way to unwind, to challenge myself, and to forge meaningful connections. The lively matches and friendly banter strengthened my bond with the community, making the transition from university life to working life more seamless and enjoyable.

During my time at SM Slim and later at SM Khir Johari, my passion for sports and recreational activities flourished, shaping some of the most memorable moments of my life. As the Vice President of the Slim River Tennis Club, I had the privilege of representing the club in the Tanjung Malim Open Tennis Tournament. I competed in two categories: singles and doubles, partnering with my cousin, Jalil.

The tournament was grueling, with minimal rest for players advancing to subsequent rounds. Each victory came with a renewed sense of determination, but fatigue tested every participant's limits. By the end, Jalil and I emerged as champions in the doubles category, a moment of shared triumph that we cherished. In the singles event, I fought hard but fell in the semifinals, learning lessons in perseverance and resilience. Beyond this, my skills on the court earned me a spot on the Batang Padang District Tennis Team for the PSKPP Perak Annual Games, an honor that brought immense pride and a sense of accomplishment.

My involvement in sports wasn’t confined to tennis alone. As the Chairman of the Slim River/Tanjung Malim Recreation Club, I spearheaded various adventurous activities that brought the community together. Among these were challenging expeditions, including:

• Climbing Gunung Batu Putih, the third-highest peak in Peninsular Malaysia, which tested our endurance and teamwork.

• Exploring Gua Tempurung, delving into its mesmerizing caves with their hidden wonders.

• Cycling expeditions across Perak and Langkawi, journeys that strengthened bonds among participants and deepened our appreciation of nature.

• Kayaking down Sungai Slim and navigating the waters around Pulau Pangkor, experiences that combined thrill with tranquility.

In addition to local endeavors, I took part in national-level cycling expeditions that left a lasting impression. Representing MAKSAK Perak, I participated in:

1. The Aceh-to-Medan Cycling Expedition, Indonesia, an international adventure that fostered camaraderie among riders from diverse backgrounds.

2. The “My Heart is for You” Cycling Expedition from Ipoh to Angkasapuri, organized by the Ministry of Information to raise funds for the National Heart Fund.

The latter expedition was particularly meaningful. Our journey was accompanied by police escorts, an ambulance, and live coverage by RTM. The presence of an ambulance wasn’t merely precautionary—it carried a poignant story. Among our team was a former heart patient who had undergone surgery funded by public donations. He joined the expedition as a way of expressing his gratitude to the people who had saved his life. His courage and determination inspired us all as we cycled through towns and villages, raising over RM30,000 for the cause. Every mile pedaled brought hope, every donation a testament to the kindness of strangers.

Through these experiences, I discovered the profound impact of sports and recreation not just on personal growth but on building bridges within the community. These years weren’t just about competing or conquering challenges—they were about creating connections, giving back, and celebrating the human spirit.

In 1990, I was transferred to SMK Khir Johari, Tanjung Malim, following the school's urgent need for a Physics teacher for its newly established Form 6 program. The responsibility was immense, as I had to teach Physics across Form 4, Form 5, Lower 6, and Upper 6. With a staggering 24 periods per week, far exceeding the standard 16 periods allocated for Form 6 teachers, the workload was overwhelming. Each grade required its own lesson plans, customized content, and tailored teaching approaches. It was an exhausting period, yet the challenge honed my skills and deepened my commitment to education.

Despite the demanding schedule, I found joy in guiding students through the complexities of Physics, a subject I held close to my heart. Watching them grasp difficult concepts and develop an appreciation for the subject was a reward that outweighed the fatigue.

In 1992, the Perak State Education Department nominated me once again for a three-month course at IAB Genting Highlands. This time, the focus was on a revolutionary topic: "Computers in Education." Computers were rapidly becoming a buzzword in the academic world, and the course aimed to equip educators with foundational knowledge and practical skills to integrate technology into teaching.

The curriculum covered essential tools and programming languages, including:

• Word processing for document creation.

• Spreadsheets for data organization and analysis.

• Database management for storing and retrieving information.

• GW-Basic programming, offering a glimpse into coding logic and structure.

This course was a turning point in my professional life, as it broadened my horizons and introduced me to the transformative potential of technology in education.

It was during this course, however, that an unexpected and delightful chapter unfolded in my personal life. By sheer coincidence, the seating arrangement placed a charming individual beside me throughout the sessions. Conversations that began as casual exchanges about programming syntax and spreadsheet formulas soon grew into something deeper. Over the weeks, amidst shared struggles with assignments and moments of laughter during coffee breaks, I realized I had met someone truly special.

As fate would have it, she would later become my life partner, marking this course as not only a professional milestone but also a profoundly personal one.

JPN Perak, Ipoh (1993–1994; 1996)

On February 1, 1993, I made a significant transition in my career by moving to the Perak State Education Department (JPN Perak), where I was appointed as a Special Officer in the Curriculum Unit. The process was competitive, with five candidates, but I was fortunate to be selected. My new role was to oversee and manage the implementation of Mathematics under the Kurikulum Baru Sekolah Rendah (KBSR) and Kurikulum Baru Sekolah Menengah (KBSM) across the entire state of Perak. This responsibility came with its own set of challenges, but I embraced it with enthusiasm, driven by the desire to shape the educational landscape for the better. The experience was enriching, as I collaborated with teachers, administrators, and policymakers to ensure the smooth execution of the updated curriculum.

But beyond the professional transformation, February 12, 1993, marked another life-changing event. On this day, I was officially married to Roslinda Mukhtar, a moment I will cherish forever. Our story began during the Computer in Education course at IAB Genting Highlands in 1992. At the time, we were both participants, representing Terengganu and Perak, respectively.

Embarking on a new chapter of my life, I bid farewell to my bachelor days.
It was a moment filled with anticipation, joy, and the promise of shared dreams, marking the beginning of a lifelong journey with my beloved.

While we initially bonded over shared lectures, technical challenges, it was clear that there was something special about our connection. Over those three months, we grew from colleagues to friends, and then, as fate would have it, to something much more profound.

The day of our wedding was a joyful culmination of that serendipitous encounter. Looking back, it feels like a perfect blend of destiny and timing. As I embarked on a new chapter professionally, I was also stepping into a new and exciting chapter personally, filled with the promise of a life shared with someone I had come to deeply admire.

During my time at JPN Perak, I gained invaluable knowledge in management, not only through formal training but also through hands-on experience and daily interactions with more senior officers. I was frequently sent to attend training sessions and meetings at the Ministry of Education (KPM), particularly those related to the implementation of the Kurikulum Baru Sekolah Rendah (KBSR) and Kurikulum Baru Sekolah Menengah (KBSM). These sessions provided me with the opportunity to network with young officers from KPM’s School Division and Curriculum Development Centre (PPK), as well as Assistant Directors from JPN across the country. Many of these individuals later held high-ranking positions in KPM, such as Amin Senin (Director General of KPM), Halim (Director of Private Education Division), Zainuddin (Director of Sports Division), Baiduriah (Director of Matriculation Division), Ng Soo Boon (Deputy Director of PPK), and Khalid (Director of IPGKPP).

At JPN Perak, I was also actively involved in organizing courses and training for Mathematics and Science teachers to enhance their skills in implementing the KBSR and KBSM. These experiences allowed me to deepen my understanding of the intricacies of program planning, management, and coordination. The process required meticulous attention to detail, as it involved collaboration across various sectors to ensure the smooth execution of the programs. It was through these efforts that I further honed my skills in organizing, managing, and leading educational initiatives.

In addition to my duties at JPN Perak, I frequently visited schools throughout the state to observe the implementation of the Mathematics KBSM curriculum and to gather the necessary data for the Ministry of Education (KPM). While many teachers demonstrated excellent teaching skills, I also encountered cases where some teachers were teaching incorrect mathematical concepts, especially at the primary school level. This underscored the importance of continuous monitoring and professional development to ensure quality education.

In 1995, I embarked on a Master of Science in Management (M.Sc. Mgt.) program at Universiti Utara Malaysia (UUM) in Sintok, sponsored by the Ministry of Education. This decision was not without its challenges, as I had to commute between Ipoh and Sintok every week while my wife taught at ACS Ipoh. Fortunately, the lectures were scheduled only three days a week—Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. This meant that I would leave Ipoh at 3:00 AM on Sunday, arriving in Sintok for my classes, and then return to Ipoh by 6:00 PM on Tuesday after the last lecture. It was a physically demanding schedule, but I managed it with determination and a sense of purpose. During school holidays, I would bring my wife and child along to the campus, as post-graduate students were provided with fully-equipped married student accommodations, complete with a bathroom and kitchen, making it a more comfortable arrangement for the family.

Receiving the Master of Management Science scroll from the esteemed UUM Chancellor, His Majesty the Sultan of Kedah, was a moment of profound honor and pride—a culmination of dedication and perseverance

IAB Northern Branch, Jitra (1996-1999; 2003-2014)

I began my career as a Senior Lecturer at Institut Aminuddin Baki (IAB) on May 2, 1996, marking a pivotal moment in my professional journey. I was assigned to the IAB Northern Branch located in Jitra, Kedah, a region that was both culturally enriching and professionally stimulating. The transition from teaching in schools to higher education was a challenge, but it was a step that allowed me to contribute meaningfully to the development of leadership in education. Upon arriving in Jitra, I was surprised to meet Hj. Wahab, a fellow lecturer from my kampung, though the age gap meant he did not recognize me initially. Despite this, the encounter was a reminder of how small the world can be, and it fostered a sense of familiarity and connection, especially in such a significant professional setting.

IAB offered a unique environment for personal and professional growth, and it quickly became clear that this was the place where I could make a lasting impact on the field of educational leadership. As a lecturer, I was not just teaching; I was mentoring future leaders in education. The responsibilities were diverse, and my role required a deep understanding of leadership theory and practice. I quickly realized that my contribution to IAB would go beyond classroom teaching.

In 1996, IAB sent me to attend a Human Resource Development course at the Asian Institute of Technology in Bangkok for two weeks. The course brought together 20 participants from across Asia and Africa, providing a rich, diverse environment that broadened my perspective on human resource development in the educational sector.

During my time at IABU, I took on leadership roles and spearheaded two major projects: the Regional Conference on Leadership and Management (RCELAM) and the IAB Internationalization Program. The internationalization initiative allowed several lecturers, including myself, to travel to various countries, expanding our academic and cultural horizons. The destinations included Jakarta, Bandung, Jogjakarta, Bali (Indonesia), Sarajevo, Istanbul (Turkey), Bukhara, Samarkand, Tashkent (Uzbekistan), Madrid, Toledo, Cordoba, Granada (Spain), Sydney (Australia), Moscow (Russia), Frankfurt, Berlin (Germany), and Nagoya, Tokyo (Japan). These travels not only enriched our academic knowledge but also forged valuable international collaborations, contributing to the global recognition of IAB's role in leadership education.

In addition to my main duties as a lecturer, I also had the opportunity to conceptualize a program called 'Kumpulan Bina Upaya' (KuBU). This program was designed to enhance the competence and capabilities of all new lecturers joining IABU. The goal of the program was to create a platform where new lecturers could receive continuous support and learning, helping them adapt more effectively to the challenging academic environment. The concept was well-received because it not only enriched the professional experience of the new lecturers but also fostered stronger connections between them and the management of IABU.

One day, after Friday prayers in 1999, I received a summons to the office of Dr. Ibrahim Bajunid, the Director of IAB. He informed me that I had been nominated for an overseas PhD program, funded by the World Bank. This was a special, one-time opportunity, where Head of Division of MOE were asked to nominate candidates for immediate funding allocation. As soon as the news was announced, it quickly spread throughout the Ministry of Education Malaysia (KPM), prompting KPM to open up the application process to all eligible staff across the Ministry. Despite the initial nomination, and for various personal reasons, I initially did not submit the application.

However, Dr. Ibrahim, with great conviction, insisted that I must apply, encouraging me to seize the opportunity. Although I had already received an offer for a internal PhD scholarship earlier in the year, he believed that I should still pursue this international program. I followed his advice and filled out the application form. Unfortunately, I was later informed that I was not shortlisted for the interview. The reason provided by KPM was that, since I had already secured an internal PhD scholarship, they felt it unnecessary for me to be considered for the World Bank-sponsored program abroad.

On 13th December 1999, I officially enrolled as a full-time PhD student at USM, funded by KPM. Even though I had received the scholarship offer earlier in the year, I chose to delay my registration for personal reasons. I decided to pursue my PhD through a full research mode, as I believed I could successfully complete it without the need for lectures. This allowed me to spend most of my time at home, with weekly visits to USM to meet with my supervisor. The rest of the time, I focused on self-directed learning, conducting research, and writing my thesis.

During my PhD studies, I assumed the role of a full-time homemaker since my wife taught in the mornings. As a result, I was responsible for managing all aspects of raising our young children. I balanced childcare with my academic work, and Alhamdulillah, everything proceeded smoothly and according to plan.

PhD Convocation, 2005.
A bittersweet joy amidst sorrow—a moment that should have been graced by my mother's presence, yet fate had its own course. She had returned to the eternal a few months before this occasion, leaving behind a void that no celebration could ever fill. Her absence was deeply felt, even as her blessings lingered in every step I took forward.

I completed my thesis in 2003, but it remained with the IPS, USM for nearly a year before I was invited for the viva voce. I received a "minor" corrections from all three examiners. Within a month, I made the required revisions and submitted the final version to USM in 2004. My mother had already learned that I had passed my PhD, and she was immensely proud of my accomplishment.

January 2005 marked a momentous chapter in my life as the call to perform the Hajj reached me. Together with my beloved wife, my mother, and my mother-in-law, we embarked on the sacred pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The 40 days spent in Mecca and Medina were deeply spiritual, filled with humility and gratitude. However, our joyous return home took an unexpected turn when my mother fell gravely ill during the flight back. My wife and her mother continued the journey to Malaysia, while I accompanied my mother to Muscat, Oman, where she was admitted to the Royal Hospital. For 10 days, I stayed by her side, praying and hoping for her recovery. Yet, Allah had other plans, and my dearest mother breathed her last breath there.

The grief was overwhelming, made heavier by the thought that my mother, who had always been my greatest supporter, wouldn’t be there to witness my PhD convocation that year—a milestone she had so eagerly anticipated. Losing her in a foreign land, so far from home, was a profound test of faith, yet I found solace in knowing she had completed the Hajj and passed away in a state of purity.

Despite the sorrow, 2005 also brought moments of pride and new beginnings. In recognition of my PhD achievement, IAB sponsored my participation in an international conference in Pescara, Italy, where I presented a paper based on my doctoral research. It was a surreal experience—my first time delivering my work to an international audience, in a city so steeped in history and culture. Later that year, I was finally able to take my family on a well-deserved vacation to Kuching, Sarawak, creating precious memories with my children.

Loreto Aprutino, Pescara, Italy (2005)
This marked my very first experience presenting a research paper at an international conference—a profound moment filled with a unique blend of nervous anticipation and deep pride. It was a milestone that tested my confidence while affirming my dedication to academic pursuits.

The year 2005 remains etched in my heart as one of life’s most profound journeys—a mixture of immense blessings and heart-wrenching loss. It was a year that deepened my faith, tested my resilience, and reminded me of life’s fleeting nature and the beauty of its interconnected moments.

IAB Main Campus, Bandar Enstek (2014-2015)

For years, I had been approached to take on leadership roles at IAB Main Campus, including offers in 2005 and 2009 to serve as Head of Department and later Head of Centre. Each time, I declined—not out of a lack of ambition, but because my children were still in school, and their well-being took precedence over my career aspirations. I was acutely aware of how a relocation could disrupt their emotional and psychological stability, and as a parent, I couldn’t bear the thought of putting my family second to professional pursuits.

Yet, as fate would have it, my resolve was tested again in 2014, when I was once more offered the position of Head of Centre at the newly established IAB Main Campus in Bandar Enstek, Negeri Sembilan. This time, the offer came not as a choice but as an official directive—an appointment letter had already been issued. Despite my hesitations and concerns, I realized it was time to answer the call.

Leaving IAB Northern Branch, where I had spent years forging bonds and contributing to its growth, was no easy task. Moving to Bandar Enstek, I took on the role of Head of the Centre for Research and Evaluation, a position that brought new challenges and responsibilities. Though it was a bittersweet transition, I approached this chapter with the same commitment that had guided me throughout my career—balancing professional excellence with unwavering dedication to my family.

For the sake of maintaining family harmony, I made the decision to relocate alone to Bandar Enstek while leaving my family in Jitra. It was not an easy choice, but I was determined to minimize disruption to my children’s education and my wife’s career. With resolve in my heart, I committed to a weekly commute—a gruelling routine that tested both my physical endurance and emotional resilience.

Every Sunday night at 11:00 PM, I would begin my long drive south which is about 500 km away. The road stretched endlessly ahead, the hum of the engine and the silence of the night my only companions. By the time I reached KLIA, the first light of dawn would usually begin to break. There, I would pause to freshen up and perform the dawn prayers at Masjid KLIA, a quiet moment of reflection and renewal before continuing the short drive to IAB Main Campus. The week would then pass in a flurry of meetings, responsibilities, and the challenges of leading the Centre for Research and Evaluation.

Come Friday, my heart would yearn for home. At 4:30 PM sharp, I would leave the office, eager to beat the setting sun. The drive back north was always filled with anticipation, knowing that by late evening, I would once again be with my loved ones. The moment I pulled into the driveway of our home in Jitra and saw smiling wife, all the exhaustion of the week melted away.

This routine, though physically and emotionally demanding, became a way of life for an entire year. It was a sacrifice I willingly made, as family remained the compass that guided my every decision.

However, as the months wore on, I began to feel the weight of this constant separation. Just as I had settled into this rhythm, another chapter awaited me. In 2015, I received the call for a new role, one that brought me closer to home yet presented its own challenges: I was appointed as the Director of Institut Pendidikan Guru Kampus Tuanku Bainun (IPGKTB) in Bukit Mertajam, Penang.

Parting with the IAB is an emotional and deeply sentimental moment for me. This institution has been more than just a workplace; it has been my second home, a place where I grew, learned, and transformed. Over the past 18 years, IAB has shaped me into the leader I am today, instilling in me the values, skills, and vision needed to make a meaningful impact.

Though my time at IAB Main Campus was brief, the memories of those solitary drives and the lessons learned during that year remain etched in my heart—a testament to the lengths we go to balance duty and devotion.

IPG Tuanku Bainun Campus, Penang (2015-2018)

Leading IPGKTB: A Test of Resolve and Ingenuity

In June 2015, I officially assumed the role of Director of Institut Pendidikan Guru Kampus Tuanku Bainun (IPGKTB), Bukit Mertajamm, Penang. Although the position demanded my presence in Bukit Mertajam, I decided to commute daily from Jitra, approximately 120 kilometers away. The house in Jitra, now quieter with my children away at university, remained my sanctuary, and I couldn’t bear to leave my wife alone. Each morning, as I hit the road before sunrise, I reminded myself that this sacrifice was my way of cherishing and preserving the bond we shared, even as my professional responsibilities grew heavier.

In my first year, a challenge unlike any other awaited me. During a meeting at IPGM Cyberjaya, an officer casually informed me that IPGKTB had been selected as the host for the 3rd International Conference organized by IPGM. At first, I felt a sense of pride—hosting an international conference was an honour. However, the officer quickly added a caveat: IPGM had no budget for the event. The first and second conferences had been fully funded, but this time, the responsibility fell squarely on the host institution.

It was a daunting prospect. Organizing a conference of such scale without a financial cushion seemed almost impossible. The officer’s tone was understanding as he presented me with the option to decline, acknowledging the immense burden this task would entail. Yet, deep within, I felt a stirring resolve. Challenges like these, I knew, were where true leadership emerged.

I returned to IPGKTB, gathered my team, and laid out the situation. The room was quiet at first as the reality sank in. But soon, ideas began to flow, and we brainstormed innovative ways to make the conference a success without relying on external funding. From sourcing local sponsors to leveraging partnerships with educational institutions and the private sector, we crafted a strategy that, while ambitious, was grounded in collective determination.

As the months passed, the campus buzzed with preparations. Faculty and students alike rallied behind the initiative, embodying the spirit of collaboration and perseverance. By the time the conference unfolded, it was nothing short of a triumph—an event that not only elevated IPGKTB’s reputation but also showcased the strength of unity in the face of adversity.

Those years at IPGKTB were a whirlwind of challenges, accomplishments, and personal growth. Even the daily commute became a time of reflection, where I drew strength from my journey and the people who supported me along the way. It was a chapter filled with lessons, both professional and personal, that continue to guide me to this day.

The 2018 international conference marked a high point in my career. It was a testament to the collective dedication and expertise of everyone at IPGKTB. The conference was held at one of prestigious hotel in Penang that attracted delegates from 26 countries gathered to share knowledge, exchange ideas, and forge collaborations. It was humbling to witness our small institution take centre stage on a global platform.

One particularly unforgettable moment was seeing the diverse participants engaged in robust discussions during the plenary sessions and workshops. The atmosphere buzzed with excitement as renowned academics from countries like the United States, the United Kingdom, and Australia delivered their insights. Watching younger lecturers network with these global experts brought immense pride—this was not just an academic event but a bridge to new opportunities and horizons.

Prof. Alma Harris, one of the keynote speaker

Financially, the conference was a triumph. By securing partnerships, maximizing resources, and strategizing with the organizing team, we generated a significant profit of RM60,000 in 2016. Encouraged by this success, we repeated the feat in 2018, scaling up the event and attracting over 400 participants, including 125 international delegates. These delegates came from 26 nations, including Australia, the United States, China, New Zealand, and even smaller countries, demonstrating our global reach. It was an overwhelming achievement for a teacher education institution.

The funds raised were channelled into improving professional development opportunities for lecturers and publications. More importantly, these conferences solidified IPGKTB’s reputation as an institution capable of excellence on a global scale.

With Minister of Education Malaysia, Dato' Seri Mahdzir Khalid, in one of the campus events. On his left is Director-General of Education

What stood out most for me, however, was the spirit of teamwork and resilience displayed by everyone involved. Organizing international conferences without substantial external funding required immense resourcefulness, and the staff rose to the challenge brilliantly. It reinforced my belief that when a group of motivated individuals comes together with a shared vision, extraordinary things can happen.

Another book proudly published by IPGKTB – a milestone that reflects not just our commitment to excellence in teaching but also our dedication to advancing knowledge through research and publication. This achievement is especially close to my heart, as it embodies a vision I have long championed: for educators to not only impart knowledge but also contribute to its creation and dissemination.

Even amidst these professional milestones, I continued my weekly commute from Jitra, a testament to my commitment to both my family and my role as director. Every Sunday night, I would leave the comfort of home, drive the 120 kilometers to Bukit Mertajam, and start the workweek anew. By Friday evening, I would be back in Jitra, ready to spend time with my wife, who had become my unwavering pillar of strength during those years.

A moment with the Secretary-General of MOE

As I reflected on my time at IPGKTB, I realized it was a chapter filled with growth, challenges, and profound accomplishments. From navigating logistical hurdles to witnessing the joy and pride of my colleagues and students during these conferences, it was an experience I would always cherish. These moments reaffirmed my dedication to education and the belief that meaningful progress stems from perseverance and unity.

Today marks the culmination of a remarkable journey – a journey spanning more than 36 incredible years of service, dedication, and memories that will forever hold a special place in my heart. As I bid farewell to my career with IPGKTB and the government, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude, reflection, and emotion.

Retirement years (2018 – present)

(15 Nov. 2018)

Retirement arrived as a gateway, not as an endpoint, but as a pause to reflect and embrace new beginnings. For me, it marked the start of a more flexible and meaningful chapter in life, filled with gratitude and nostalgia for the journey thus far.

A week after my retirement, Lin (my wife) and I embarked on a long-dreamed vacation to London, which doubled as an opportunity to attend a seminar at the prestigious University of Cambridge. It was a trip filled with moments of discovery and quiet reflection—a fitting celebration of a life dedicated to education.

In London, we revelled in the charm of its bustling streets, navigating the city by bus and train. On the third day, I rented a car and drove to Cambridge, about 100 kilometers away. The journey felt symbolic—a bridge between my past and a new chapter yet to be written. We stayed on a peaceful farm on the outskirts of Cambridge, surrounded by vast greenery and the serene beauty of rural England. The simplicity of farm life contrasted with the scholarly aura of Cambridge, offering a perfect balance.

After the seminar, we visited Dr. Prema’s daughter’s home, where we were warmly welcomed. That evening, we shared a delightful dinner at a Turkish restaurant, the warmth of companionship making the cold English night feel a little less brisk.

The next morning, Lin and I drove through Cambridge City, braving a gentle drizzle. It felt poetic, through cobblestone streets, enveloped by history and the soothing rhythm of the rain. Later, we journeyed to Salisbury to marvel at the ancient mystery of Stonehenge, 240 kilometers away. The towering stones stood timeless and resolute, a poignant reminder of life's enduring legacies.

Even in retirement, I couldn’t part ways with academia. I joined OUM as an adjunct lecturer, entrusted with teaching M.Ed. and PhD programs, supervising theses, and serving as an external examiner for doctoral students. One of my most fulfilling tasks was collaborating with Dr. Teoh (IAB) to develop a PhD module on Educational Administration. After nine months of dedicated effort, we completed a resource I hoped would guide future scholars.

In the span of two years, I evaluated over six PhD theses from Pakistan, a responsibility that kept me intellectually sharp. I was also honoured to deliver keynote speeches at international conferences, including one organized by IPGKTB and another by University Bekasi in Indonesia. Perhaps most humbling was being invited by Uzbekistan’s Ministry of Education as a consultant to help shape the leadership competencies of their school leaders.

Then, on December 1, 2020, I embarked on a new chapter with SEGi University, Kota Damansara, as a senior lecturer. In this role, I was entrusted with supervising 13 PhD students and two Master’s candidates, most of them from China. I also lectured undergraduate students in the course of Management and Leadership in Education. Working with students from diverse backgrounds reignited my passion for education and reminded me of the universal impact of great leadership.

As I reflect on this phase of my life, it is clear that retirement was not an end but a transformation. The travels, the teaching, the collaborations—they all stemmed from a deep-seated purpose to contribute, to nurture, and to guide. Every step, from the rain-soaked streets of Cambridge to the classrooms of SEGi University, has been a continuation of the legacy I built over decades—a testament to the power of passion, perseverance, and the enduring value of education.

And through it all, Lin remained by my side—my steadfast companion in this journey of purpose and fulfilment. Together, we have shared dreams, weathered challenges, and celebrated triumphs. Looking ahead, I remain eager for whatever life may bring, content in the knowledge that the path I have walked has been meaningful, and the seeds I have sown will continue to bear fruit long after I am gone.

The passing of beloved wife (21 Sept. 2021)

Once again, Lin suffered a heart attack, even though she seemed perfectly normal just moments earlier. This time, the doctors had to perform CPR for nearly 15 minutes to revive her breathing. I could see that Lin was becoming weaker. The doctors tirelessly provided the best care to stabilize her condition. This is the 4th day Lin was hospitalised at KPJ Penang. 

Around 6:00 p.m., I stepped out of the hospital to meet with my family members who were gathered outside. They were anxious to hear about Lin’s condition directly from me. I asked them all to pray fervently, as Lin’s state was undeniably critical. While I was talking to them, my phone rang—it was a call from the ICU asking me to come back upstairs. I hurriedly rushed back, leaving my family behind.

The doctors informed me once again about Lin’s grave condition. They were doing everything they could to stabilize her, trying various treatments. All I could do was listen, pray, and let the tears flow. I wasn’t ready to hear the worst.

At around 7:40 p.m., I was asked to enter the ICU to see Lin. The doctors tried to comfort me as they explained that she was in her final moments. I immediately began reciting the Talqin into Lin’s ear repeatedly, whispering “La ilaha illallah” over and over. As I did so, I saw her lips move faintly. Without stopping, I continued to recite until the doctor gently informed me that Lin was gone.

My heart shattered at that moment. A wave of uncontrollable grief swept over me. Atiqah, who was waiting outside the ICU, came in to see her mother. The devastating news was then shared with my children, who took turns coming in to bid their final goodbyes.

Once the nurses had removed all the medical equipment from Lin’s body, we were invited to see her again. To my astonishment, Lin’s face bore a serene smile, unlike anything I had expected. It was as if she wasn’t gone, as if she was at peace, leaving me with a bittersweet memory of her final moment—a smile that seemed to say everything would be alright.