With the beginning of the school holidays, I enjoyed the tranquillity of home, a haven where the daily routines of early Subuh prayer and floor sweeping no longer held sway over my life. It felt liberating to be free from the stern authority figures who governed every aspect of my existence.
During this time, I sometimes reflected on my experiences in the Asrama. It often left me feeling a sense of isolation and sadness. Although still a child, the boundaries of my life had already been set with unforgiving strictness.
I had doubts that any other boarding school could rival the level of rigidity I experienced in the Asrama. The warden, who ruled with strict control, subjected us to a relentless routine that fuelled my unease. If I had not chosen to enter the Asrama at the beginning of the year, I pondered whether my life would have taken a different course.
I realized that I rarely delved into memories of my primary school years during this period of reflection. Those years seemed to have faded from my memory, buried deep within me. Even now, remembering the significant events from those years is a challenging task. Meeting former classmates from that time is like a role reversal, as they often recall events that I struggle to remember.
What happened during those years? It seemed that the pressures of life in Form 1 and Form 2 had overshadowed other aspects of my life. My focus was solely on surviving, as it presented many challenges that weighed heavily on my young mind.
I'm not sure how my fellow residents of the Asrama felt, but for me, the experience was daunting and unsettling. If given the choice, I might have wanted to free myself from its strict embrace. But I had developed resilience, and so I persevered.
The pressures imposed by the warden don't warrant revisiting. Some may argue that his actions were solely for our nurturing, but I believe that truth of getting nurtured requires a humane approach. It should avoid negative emotions like excessive anger and disdain, which often characterized our interactions with him.
One incident from my Form 1 days stands out in my memory. We, the students of the afternoon session, shared a close bond as residents of the Asrama. As carefree adolescents, we indulged in childlike games with our friends, one of which involved a spirited contest to set up mosquito nets. The winner, who managed to assemble their net before Maghrib prayers, enjoyed recognition from peers as their reward.
To some, this might have seemed like a frivolous endeavour, but I refrained from participating, trying to maintain a sense of maturity. One day, a bold friend suggested a new strategy: setting up the mosquito net right before going to the school to secure an unbeatable lead. Several students, including myself, hesitated, aware of the warden's strict rules and fearing the consequences of breaking them.
To our surprise, when we returned from school that late afternoon, the warden was furious. We felt a sense of dread and uncertainty as we gathered in the dining hall after Maghrib prayers. His face contorted with anger, and he unleashed a torrent of indignation and fury upon us, a group of thirteen-year-old children who had engaged in a harmless and very childish competition. It was a harrowing experience that highlighted the warden's absolute authority over our lives.
I often wondered if the warden ever considered treating us with the same courtesy he demanded. We were just children, adolescents in the early stages of self-discovery, while he, a grown man, was an experienced authority figure. Why did he not choose to maintain civility instead of unleashing his anger over a minor incident like hanging mosquito nets early? I found it perplexing that he treated us with such disdain when we were not criminals in need of intimidation.
During this period, I underwent a noticeable physical transformation. My childhood appearance gave way to a lanky, pubescent form that set me apart from my peers. I remember a poignant moment when my neighbour, upon seeing me, failed to recognize the changed face before her and had to ask who I was. It was a melancholic moment, a reminder that I had not chosen this transformation; circumstances had dictated it.
As Ramadan approached, a week before the new school term, I enjoyed the festivities and warmth of family gatherings. These were moments of pure joy, spent with loved ones. However, the looming return to the Asrama cast a shadow over these cherished moments. I was filled with apprehension, knowing the pressures and anxieties that awaited me. I couldn't help but question the need for such intense stress in the Asrama. Was it too much to ask for a life without these troubles, marked by peace and balance? These questions plagued my mind, leaving me feeling despondent
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