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A childhood Memory

I was the eldest child in the family, and because my brother—only a year younger—was weak and easily tired, I was always the one my father brought along on his quarterly trips to Selangor. Those trips felt like secret adventures. Dad would rent an old jeep for the five-day assignment, and we would stay in whatever cheap hotel was closest to my grandfather’s tin mine and rubber plantation.

The journeys were long and punishing. The roads were rough, throwing my small body up and down on the seat, but I forced myself to stay steady. No vomiting, no complaints—I wanted Dad to be proud. Sometimes I would close my eyes, pretending to sleep, trying to ignore the ache in my back or the smell of dust rolling through the open windows.

Every day started long before dawn—sometimes as early as four in the morning. The back of the jeep was open, nothing but darkness behind us, and I used to imagine glowing tiger eyes watching from the trees. Dad said the rubber tappers had to finish their work before sunrise or the rubber milk would spoil, but I dreaded those plantation visits. The place felt lifeless to me—shadowy rows of trees, sticky air, and clouds of insects biting at my legs. There was nothing for a child to enjoy there.

The tin mine, though—that was different. I loved it. The head worker would grin and hand me a bag full of colorful stones. “Gifts,” he called them. Dad would laugh and say they were unpolished, worthless gems, but to me they were treasures. I could stand for hours watching the washing process, water swirling away clay and dirt, revealing flashes of color. The rest of the mining steps are blurry now, but the feeling of wonder remains.

Evenings were my favorite. After work, Dad would drive us to visit his uncle—the man who had hidden my father during the war. The house always smelled of the sea. Without fail, he would treat us to a feast: giant prawns, lobster, fresh fish, dishes spread across the table like a celebration of survival and family. I would watch Dad’s face soften, his shoulders relax. For a little while, he wasn’t a tired man carrying too much responsibility—he looked like someone safe, someone being cared for.

In the end, the work grew too heavy, the responsibilities too much, and my grandfather eventually sold the tin mine and plantation. But the memories stayed. I can still picture the shimmering “cat’s eye” stones rolling in my small hands, the early-morning darkness, the rumble of the jeep. Even now, I still keep the tin mine’s structural map and Dad’s carefully written operation notes—fragile pieces of a world that shaped my childhood.

The Impact of Artificial Intelligence on Employment

Artificial intelligence(AI) is shaking things up in the modern workplace, changing the game for job tasks, required skills, and even the systems we use. AI is like a super-efficient robot that automates routine and repetitive tasks, which means some jobs might become obsolete, but others will just get a makeover. To stay ahead of the curve, workers need to develop some new skills, like being digitally literate, thinking critically, and being creative. AI is also influencing how we schedule, make decisions, and get stuff done, making things more efficient, but also raising some concerns about privacy and fairness. So, AI isn't just replacing workers, it's transforming the way we work and what skills are most valuable.

China’s KTV

I still vividly recall my “adventure” in China many years ago—an experience centered not in tourist attractions or cultural landmarks, but in the country’s public toilets, which some jokingly refer to as “KTV.” These facilities were certainly a throwback to earlier days, albeit without any of the nostalgic charm. Forget the real karaoke lounges; the true performances took place inside the bathrooms, where the acoustics were questionable and the aroma could only be described as distinctly authentic. The floors glistened—not in a glamorous way—and the sinks appeared as rarely as mythical creatures.

The locals, however, navigated these situations with admirable nonchalance. Toilet paper seemed optional; tossing it onto the floor appeared to be an accepted practice, almost a national pastime. And the rural “KTVs”? Those were a unique blend of wilderness and improvisation—karaoke without the microphones, scenery, or basic amenities.

The particular facility I encountered was already quite a spectacle. In rural areas, conditions were often even more “minimalist”: no doors, no running water, and apparently, no reason for concern. One might even engage in a spontaneous duet with an unseen neighbor on the other side of the drain. It was, in essence, a real-life musical—just without the choreography, costumes, or stage lighting.

Someone once captured the spirit of this experience with a limerick:

“Holding secret documents in hand,

Stepping on both banks of the Yellow River,

Machine guns firing wildly in front,

Artillery shells bombarding from behind,

Thousands of troops below,

And eternal infamy above.”

One must admit—it is a remarkably vivid depiction.

After several such encounters, I avoided returning to China for quite some time. However, last year I joined my Clan Association for a visit to my late father’s hometown, only to discover that China had undergone astonishing transformation. The changes were so dramatic that I found myself standing in a modern public restroom in Guangdong decorated with gold.

With such remarkable improvements—and with so many unique landscapes yet to explore—I now plan to visit China far more frequently.

My First Life Lesson

My childhood was a kaleidoscope of small, vivid moments that now seem like a rich tapestry woven from laughter, fear, and early understanding. Our first home was tiny, but it was ours, and the massive tree outside became our playground and refuge. Its branches stretched out like a protective embrace, sheltering us from the world. While our parents worked hard to make ends meet, my siblings and I spent hours beneath that tree, inventing games and worlds from dust and sunlight.

One afternoon, our carefree play came to an abrupt halt when my younger brother slipped into a nearby ditch. Panic set in as I realized how quickly life could turn fragile. Neighbors rushed to help, lifting him from the water and carrying him to the hospital. He returned home with a small scar, but I returned with a lesson that would stay with me forever.

That evening, my dad gently reminded me that as the eldest, it was my responsibility to watch over my siblings. His words were calm but heavy with meaning. I didn't fully understand responsibility then, but beneath that tree, I felt a shift inside me. Childhood had taught me its first lesson: care for others, notice danger, and act. That lesson has guided me ever since, shaping the person I strive to become.