In the year 1997, the realm of information technology, far from its current sophistication, was a mystery to my young and rural sensibilities. I had never encountered computers or ventured into the world of information technology, making me a complete novice in this digital age. Computers were like enigmatic devices, their inner workings hidden from my understanding during my primary school years.
So, the prospect of computer classes at the Asrama filled me with apprehension. My ignorance of this new technological landscape, coupled with the fear of falling behind my peers who already had computer experience, made me anxious.
The initial computer classes were introduced with the arrival of a male teacher, whose qualifications seemed questionable. As far as I knew, he was a student from UTM who commuted to the hostel on a motorcycle, an unusual choice of transport for someone tasked with teaching computer skills. Nonetheless, I assumed he was adequately compensated for his role.
Our first lessons in the world of computing focused on the mysterious DOS software. Unfortunately, the class proved to be uninspiring and bewildering. I struggled to understand the teacher's instructions, and the computer screen, with its monochromatic interface of white text on a black background, only added to my confusion. The teacher used technical jargon that further mystified me.
As a result, I often found myself unable to participate in these classes. The teacher's lessons remained incomprehensible to me, and I had to rely on my peers who had prior computer experience whenever I encountered difficulties.
Many of my classmates were also perplexed by the DOS software, and we all struggled to comprehend its intricacies. The Asrama's rules mandated that we become familiar with it, but I felt like I was deciphering gibberish.
Our computer classes were divided into three groups, and I was assigned to the third group with lessons from 10 am to 11 am. This arrangement seemed unfair because it followed the morning prep class. While I endured two consecutive hours of prep class, my peers in the 8-9 am and 9-10 am groups enjoyed a break during the 10-11 am slot. Protesting was futile, as the Asrama's routine allowed no room for complaints, and the fear of punishment, whether by a palm or back caning, deterred any objections.
One particular incident during a computer class stands out, although the details escape me. I remember the atmosphere on that fateful morning, charged with an unusual cruelty. The day began like any other, with our obligatory prep class. The hour dragged on slowly as I flipped through reference materials, struggling to absorb their contents.
Suddenly, our routine was disrupted by a furious outburst from Encik Hussin. He ordered us to assemble in the badminton court for an unplanned gathering, and a sense of dread filled me. What transgression had led to this summons? Had we failed in maintaining the cleanliness of our dormitory again? To my dismay, the issue was the hygiene of the restroom facilities.
A wave of anxiety washed over me. I knew Encik Hussin had high standards of cleanliness, and his inspection had revealed an unflushed toilet in the upstairs restroom. He demanded that the culprit step forward and confess, but as expected, no one admitted to it. The punishment was swift and severe—we were tasked with cleaning the restroom after our prep time. Fortunately, I had a computer class during this period, which provided me with an excuse to avoid this unpleasant task.
However, Encik Hussin had a unique form of punishment, befitting his high standards. He instructed us not to flush the toilet even after cleaning it. I was baffled by this peculiar decree. As we took turns exposing ourselves to the unpleasantness of an unflushed toilet, my disappointment and confusion deepened. It felt profoundly unfair to be subjected to such an unorthodox penalty for a misdeed I had not committed. I couldn't help but wonder who the true culprit was. Could it have been you?
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