When in Rome, Take 2

September promoted Rome to Revisited status, as opposed to merely another capital I'd scratched off the global list*. This time round the occasion arrived with predetermined purpose, courtesy of my photographer self. Ten-years-ago me would be proper chuffed that I've returned with my name on the wall of Medina Art Gallery, hanging out with the Ambasciatore della Malesia, and finding myself within the ranks of other international artists in the city. It doesn't escape me that I wrote this with a sense of blasé nonchalance as opposed to jubilant pride (I'm not sure whether this is good or bad, though it probably is a curious thing, but I digress). The point is: Ciao! I am back in this cultured capital as an exhibiting artist! Si, it is great, grazie. 

The showcase aside, I passed my second rodeo in Rome in a semi fugue state, stumbling into echoes of my past in its familiar landmarks. This would have been a great time to deep dive into how much I'd grown and changed in the last 9 years since, noting my notches excitedly - but the fact is, I don't think I navigated it that deeply. There's a moment where I realise it's my second time at the Vatican, looking up at the Sistine Chapel; it's my second time wandering through the Colosseum's ancient, serpentine halls, with an odd feeling of being in a pasar malam. It wasn't an exercise in comparison between the two trips per se. But I do know that I'm glad I did the novel, starry-eyed voyaging in my youth. Having travelled as much as I have since, the yardsticks it takes to impress are much bigger. Coming back there in my 30s, I was mostly ruffled by the summer heat and crowds**.

I spent the last three days back in London in bed, surrounded by my cats and comfort, and am finally able to get some notes out on record. Rome ignited a deeper sense of awareness at the growing perimeters of my confidence. Additionally, these past few weeks have floated up a melee of underlying themes: that nothing compares to home, of letting events and experiences pass and flow through me, of enjoying the present without being too burdened by the past, and of taking life by its horns and creating my own opportunities. The thesis of these notes I will inevitably churn out at my therapy sessions or liminal rumination. As this particular entry is for the residual thoughts, I will end it with the acknowledgement that I'm doing my best to take it all in stride.  

C’est ma Famille

(Reality in this present moment feels like a convulated car cable, with sparks of electric fire bursting at intervals.)

Putting that aside, I need to log in the fact that I’ve recently achieved my lifelong dream of bringing my family to London! (Marquee, caps, billboards, fireworks!!)

Pulling off the first overseas family vacation (on the other side of the world) in 20 years is no mean feat, but I can safely breathe now that it was managed brilliantly (if I may say so myself). The list of places we visited could get its own nomination in the Overachievers Hall of Fame, but I am so so glad that my family got to see the wonders of not one, but multiple cities in UK and Europe. The only detterring factor to the whole vacation was that it passed by too quickly - though not without a fair share of drama, quibbles, and typical quirks. Every day brought on a completely new landscape, all breathtaking in their own way, but it meant that we didn’t have much room to digest the whole experience. Multiple car rides, games, vistas after vistas, and a quick but important excursion down memory lane in Cheetham Hill only melded our bonds stronger. Before we all knew it, it was time for everyone to go back (did I mention my parents got to travel business class?!).

I write all this in a slightly blasé way but I know for a fact that it meant the world to everyone. There are small crevices in my heart that were softened seeing my parents sitting front row at the top of the double decker bus, giggling; my brother wandering the wonders of this city alone, exploring East London’s music scene; my sister and her husband taking photos in front of a sparkling Eiffel Tower and running off to Camden food hunts. Mostly it was my Dad cuddling with Mamad, or Mamad sleeping with my Mum, that long car journey back from Brighton with my parents, and just having all of the family sat together around a dining table and eating. I know enough about the world to grasp what an absolute blessing it all was, and I am so grateful to have been able to experience us together, and to show them around my life here, so tangibly. It was, in its own small part, an tiny ode that say Here’s my life in London, everyone, I’m glad you’re a part of it now. 

——

 

Two outtakes

i. I’ve an immense appreciation towards the fact that my parents treat me as an adult, in the sense that I am a person with agency and character. That they see me for who I am, for my capabilities, and the personality that I flavour the family. My worth is weighed in both weaknesses and strengths, but given that it’s not marred by pre-conceived notions of the version of me as a child or teenager, I am more than satisfied. They move around me as a 33 year old woman, who is their daughter, who is also their friend, confidant, and someone they can rely on. This thought alone has fulfilled me in the most loved way possible. 

ii. Living abroad has carried me so far away from my role as (eldest) daughter and sister. While it comes with its own challenges and frustrations, I find purposeful existence within my familial framework. I am the one who says ‘I’ll Sort it Out’, the one who tells off my younger siblings, the one who drives the car, the one who plans the journey and contribute to a hefty part of the decision making. I am Kak Long. I am Shasha. I am ‘Nanti Shasha marah’. These are aspects of myself that do not get to see the light of day in London, where I am my own sovereign entity, away from my blood-related unconditional-loving kin, who have bore witness to all versions in my lifetime, and require me to step up into my place with them. To play that part again in this side of the world is a thing I’ll miss. 

Yassou (Γεια σου)

 

Ultimately it was the sensation of my worries dissolving into the water, the sky, the sun. 

Summer in the mediterranean coast always reveals, if not a clean slate, but a wash over sand anew. There is a rolling sense of relief whenever I rest my sights on its shimmering vastness.  I find reassurance in its repetitive waves, a fluid harbour where I could cast away a net of my worries, confident in the knowledge that it has enough depth for my acceptance. Undeniably this is the element that resonates with me most, its devastating beauty, its ability to reflect the surrounding light, and ultimately, its constant, predictable unpredictability. 

This trip varied from the epiphanies I had in Malta in summer 2023. Unlike my fractal state at the time, Cyprus met a dizzyingly present version of myself. Each frame of this trip showed up in HD, accompanied by a note of plans (Places to Eat, Budget, Schedule), an undeterred holiday aesthetic vision inspired by Pinterest (the photographer in me is alive and breathing, if a little predictable), a healthy sense of carefreeness where budget was concerned, and a hyper awareness of my every action (as unlocked by my therapist).  

My state of minds aside (what is a journal for if not this, then?), I emerged post vacation haze immensely satisfied at finally indulging in a long overdue beach excursion (2024's summer had its own grand plans). A 3-day (island)fanfare of exploring ancient tombs, visiting mythical rocks, boating around a gorgeous island, lounging in the sand, parasailing, paddling, being impressed by lilac sunsets, and finding my favourite summer cafe in the world thus far (Cliff Bar, Grecian Park Hotel, Protaras), I land in London tanned and fulfilled, ready to further be spoiled.

Summer 2025, here we go, and may the odds be higher and better. 

Zakopane

 

My small European city ennui forgotten under a periwinkle sky and the glittering snow. Landing in Krakow, a 2 hr ride to Zakopane, then an hour’s ride to the high ranges, suddenly finding myself in between two countries looking out from a powdery peak. At certain small(ish) ski resorts, time seems to have been frozen and you’re treated to views out of a vintage postcard. I genuinely didn’t think I was up for a rural Slavic getaway, but Zakopane was a welcoming hug, a festive carol. Some favourites from my phone. Thanks, M, for constantly being there to hold my hand as we explore the world. 

Gellert Baths

In these echoing, cavernous bath chambers, so far removed from the rhythms of my daily reality, I found an immense sense of presence and calm. It felt as if a fluid weight had been sunk into me, coaxing my body to be buoyant of all its senseless worries. Perhaps it's due to zodiacal coincidences that water has always been my most healing medium. Similar sensations have washed over me - from the glittering sea in Comino, and now to the heavy, steaming liquids of a Budapest bath. The watery haven enveloped me, almost cloying, entreating me to stay still and let its warmth find a path to heal me. 

It had been a while since I felt such a vivid response to a new experience. Over the past year, the curtain of misfortune had cast a veil over my travels, causing me to approach them tentatively, as if through a haze. But something about those hot pools, the decorated saunas, and the icy baths commanded my full attention. In those moments, I was not just present; I became truly aware. I have carried this sensation with me ever since, clutching on to rthem in a sense of marvelling wonder.

In those baths, I came back to life. 

Something about the Summer Sun

A quick recap between that spring to summer transition. 

A proper recap

Thank you 2022

Here's to finally moving to the city of my dreams, to fulfilling my umrah during my 30th, to volunteering in Syrl4 and Tanzania, to enjoying so many beautiful sunsets, snows and sights. To the local hammams in Istanbul and feet massages in Bangkok. To muffin man scones in Kensington, Korean bbq in Piccadilly, nasi lemak Wanjo in Kampung Baru, and eating wheatflour in Tanga. To getting recognised as a global talent, noted by Tatler, and to multiple exhibitions and workshops. To being healthy, and being able to live life with my loved ones. 

Final and most precious shoutout to my two amazing flatmates, without whom I wouldn't have survived the year without my mental health and sense of self intact. Thank you Mad & Mido, I love you both. 

In Transit, as always

 

Suvarnabhumi Airport, 1:29PM +7:00 GMT, 14/06/2022

Maybe it's my state of mind, maybe it's the fiction fog I've just fixated through, but commuting lately feels like being beamed through diverging dimensions. I'm acutely aware that the backend of my mind is a running RAM, processing and plotting the next few weeks, months, years. I'm also navigating through various themes regarding my life goals and checkpoints. In real time, my body is occupied coordinating project, work, and social commitments. I'm not going to say that the juggling is going flawlessly - in fact, I'm pretty sure I've dropped some loose balls - but for the most part, it's all in motion in the air. I just have to stick the landing.

The Big 3-0

 

Happy 30th, me! 

The past decade (a defining decade!) has been an absolute rollercoaster. A lot to reflect upon but for today (a full week after my actual birthday) I'm going to rest up since I'm down with Covid (at last!)

Nabawi

This is when it hits me. In the dry afternoon Madinah heat, right after zohor prayers. I was late, having spent time handwashing some of my garments back at the hotel, and had quickly jumped into a place in the praying area just outside the Nabawi building, under those famous umbrella shades. As I was reciting my duas I looked around and realised that I was in a place where my prayers could actually be answered, the holy land, and the tears just cracked across my face. I let it flow. 

A Saturday Evening in Istanbul

In a bejewelled hookah shop near the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul, where walls are cracked and adorned with framed Quranic verses, and wooden ottoman seats are scattered under an ancient ceiling filled with lanterns, men rests their head on each other’s shoulders, drinking teas the colour of emeralds and canaries, gazing at stray cats as they embroider the dusty floors with their paws. Here we swap stories and worries and exhale our lives in a mix of perfumed vapour and hushed voices. 

Love you always too mum

"It was incomplete. I ran out of paper."

8 hours time difference 

Won’t matter

We hove have internet and 

Video call

In August, Insya Allah 

We shall see “Lavender fields”

Together. 

Love you always. 

Mummy. 

Cliffs of Dover

Ar rahman ar raheem

بِسْمِ اللَّهِ الرَّحْمَنِ الرَّحِيم

May this be eased

Aarah

Once, somewhere in a pocket of earth's paradise, I sat and watched the sun rise over the Indian Ocean. The wondrous, golden gleam was enough to satiate my hunger, even though meters behind me sat a breakfast spread that was fit for a king. I had already soaked in the waves, the sea breeze, the smell of salt, the sand beneath my toes, already shed the ghost of a tear or two - because despite how generic my words are sketching this scene, the reality was truly a heaven, a paradise to melt even the most indifferent hearts. At this point of that glorious morning I was already seated on the rattan chair, a half emptied glass of freshly squeezed juice in front of me, staring into the shining horizon. My phone was disconnected from the island's wifi, for better or worse. Better, that I may relish in the luxury of this view. Worse, because I had a duty to work that morning. Some time after this you found me, and we spent almost an hour sharing a conversation that traipsed across a carnival of subjects. Philosophy, love, religion, culture, to name a poor few. The specific contents of which I can barely recall now. But it was the simple act of connection, even though we were two completely different people from two drastically disparate backgrounds, that anchored my soul to this moment. 

A Heart for Hong Kong

A Heart for Hong Kong

Some years ago I indulged in a documentary on the City of Kowloon. Its labyrinthian apartments sparked numerous wonders on the absolute bedlam and secrets nestled in the packed walls. When I finally got to Hong Kong it felt like all the stories from within this famed city had escaped, belly upturned, and scattered all over the metropolis. Behind every window and inside every door was a story being lived out. There were years to the eyes of almost every soul I passed, each living their own mechanical life within the intricate framework of this bustling place. 

--

Hello, Hong Kong

Hong Kong felt like the love child of a haphazard affair between Tokyo’s kitschism and Delhi’s chaos. A character raised from a diverse trading diaspora as a child, then developing the aesthetics and attitude of neon cyber punk as teenager. The adult Hong Kong feels sure of itself, buzzing to fit its 1.3 million population in its relatively minute 1,132km2 area. When I visited, it was fresh in the ebb of its protests for freedom from China. It was December 2019, and against the throes of rationality I’d decided to spend New Year here. 

There was not much agenda to my visit. It was a simple choice between ringing in the new decade in the familiarity of Shah Alam, or to pursue a mini adventure in Hong Kong. I ended up buying my ticket on Friday night for a flight the next morning. Less than 24 hours later I'd found myself in HKIA, then onto a high speed train destined for the city center. From my seat, I caught a view of the glittering skyscrapers, nestled in between looming mountains. Even from far away Hong Kong's density was shouting out to be noticed. 

I was staying with an old friend, Hazlan. The only obligation to my visit was to help him move apartments from North Point to Jordan, and this was settled on the first day. In that welcoming 24 hours I finally understood the meaning of compact living. His old apartment was one room divided into two areas by a curtain, one side hosting a bed and the other, a sofa. Across the corridor, a kitchenette was situated right next to the toilet seat. I prayed that no cooking was ever done in the kitchen-toilet room. This is pretty good, I remember Hazlan telling me, some people actually have it a lot worse. His new apartment was slightly bigger, a modern studio with a balcony and proper kitchen. It was located off a junction on the busy Nathan Road. 

After we had finally unpacked everything, I sat down to rest. From the open balcony, the city was still humming, its twinkling lights the last thing I saw before I drifted off to slumber. 

-- 

Familiarity in the Foreign

I get why you've lived here for so long, I told Hazlan later that week. 

My trip had been blooming at a leisurely pace - late mornings, takeaways, laundry runs, and self initiated explorations. Half days spent watching movies due to the rainy weather, reading away the rest of the night. I hadn't allowed myself a relaxing trip in the past 2 years, preferring to coincide my travels with bits of work or fully fledged agendas. The lack of concern for deliverables, content, assignments, meetings and even a general must-do list had already put this trip as an anomaly. I was free to chill, free to just be and experience the place and its pulse, photographing whatever it was I wanted without thought on technicalities. 

The morning of this particular conversation, we were buying groceries around the area. Our route had taken us through some of the local markets. From here, I had begun to swim in the city's sensory pools. There were so many things to inspect - a cart full of powdery sweets next to ginseng roots; elderly gentlemen having tea in a pawn shop. From street to alleyway, there were all sorts of fashionable get ups. The area was alive with the smell of fried food and smoke and perfume, ringing with the cacophony of traffic. At ground level it was one of the most diverse cities I’ve ever visited, an interestingly similar feeling I got from the likes of London and New York.  

Why? Hazlan asked. He had lived here for the better part of 4 years, working as a full stack developer. 

Because it feels so familiar, I explained. 

Hazlan grinned. 

---

Happy New Year

On the morning of the 31st, we hopped onto the MTR and made our way to the popular Tsim Sha Tsui (TST) district. From here, we it was only a short walk to the Avenue of Stars, and it's iconic view of the city skyline. Even from across the waters you could smell and hear the hunger of thousands working and partying, set against the sparkling metropolis of Central Hong Kong. Above, a unifying layer of thin smog and clouds cascaded over the shiny towers and pale apartments. The omnipresent grey sky was a hallmark of the colder months in the city. 

At the time, traces of the Hong Kong protests were still evident on the otherwise clean harbour esplanade. There were hints of graffiti scarring sidewalks and walls, a tinge of both weariness and wariness staining the air. By sunset, armed forces were already out in their protective gear, ready to pull the plug on any overzealous activist. The famed New Year fireworks had been cancelled due to fear of gatherings, and if I wasn't so intrigued by the reason, I would've been disappointed. As it was, we spent the last night of the year navigating through pockets of relatively peaceful protestors, partygoers, and policemen. We caught several small displays of fireworks from private buildings and decided to journey home. 

Right as we exited the Jordan train station to get back to the apartment, a parade of protestors were filing past. They were screaming in unison, waves and waves of echoing sentiments and uproar, ready to march through the night. Most were masked, clad in their solidarity of black. The protestors disrupted traffic as they filed past, scattering debris on the roads, though they didn't bother pedestrians. On social media, reports of violent pockets were prickling throughout the city. Against the buildings around me I could see police lights flickering and reflected, its humming piercing the air. There, in the heart of the masses, with the din of a hundred voices calling for freedom, I looked up to the sky and welcomed the new decade. 

Atollement

Here is a feeling I wish to epitomize, before it fades into the thesis of time..

On the moments before my departure to the incredible principality of atolls, an inherent emotion of golden ardour began blooming inside me. It felt like the essence of Felix Felicis, liquid luck, generally just a really good feeling in my gut. I couldn’t quite pinpoint it exactly, but it was strong enough that I took note, that I remembered thinking, in the most simplest way, ‘this is going to be good, something great is going to happen.’

And then, when I departed said destination, less than 72 hours later.. I was overwhelmed with this profound sense of sadness. It was as if some inert part of my soul had been broken, to the point where I had to sit on the sidewalk near Munnaaru, in Malé, and let it pass. It was a staggering melancholy, a longing for a loss I couldn’t understand. The occurrences that had taken place within those last few days resulted within me this bewildering dysphoria. 

Til today I wondered if the butterfly’s wings that stirred the air in Aarah will create a hurricane in a future day. I only pray that it’ll be a good and fair one. 

March On

On the balcony of the Vienna Staatsoper, March 2017. 

I spent my 25th birthday lounging on a snowy mountain in the Austrian Alps, and viewing a performance of Tristan & Isolde at the famed Vienna Opera House. It was a much needed break from the constant discipline that had become my university life, and to immerse myself in the very quintessential European affair seemed fitting, considering it's the continent of my life the past 3 years. So there it culminates, the first half of my 20s, and what an adventure it's been. Alhamdulillah. 

To more grace, more refinement, more kindness, and more control. 

On Memories

Sri Lanka, February 2010.

"And you get this strange feeling when you leave a place, it's like you'll not only miss the people you love but you'll miss the person you are at this time & place because you'll never be this way ever again." 

This is possibly one of my most favourite phenomenons in the whole universe - and the sole reason why I am intent on capturing , recording and treasuring moments. It's the closest thing to time travelling, it's the easiest way to wander the world, it's the fastest way to hear stories. I can't imagine the numerous hours I have spent documenting various pieces of my life - through journals, scrapbooks and photos; and the extensive hours in return where I've spent looking back through them. It's as if I'm looking at the reality tv series of my own, finding proof of my existence and the many occasions and emotions I have felt in my past years.

You'll find the people who featured so much in only one or two weeks, or closest friends who are rarely photographed, random party invitations from people you no longer talk to, concert tickets from your teenage music idols, and evidence of the diverse activities you've led 3, or 5, or 10 years ago. More significantly - you'll get the chance to be reintroduced to the 15 year old you, or the 21 year old you, and see the things you did back then (worried about exams, revisions, hung out a lot with these circle of friends, attended these events and exercises). It's such a spectacular way to anchor yourself, to remember where you're from, how you've grown up, and the multiple ways in which you've matured as a person.

As much as I propagate about accepting change - at times it's the hardest thing for me to do. To adjust, let go, or welcome chapters. And that's when these memorials aid - they act as keys to these partial histories that I can never go back to. They become assurances whenever I find myself somewhere new and strange - where I can just reflect back, and associate it with a past memory and feel comforted. Even in music, even in scents, even in small physical features of a foreign city. It becomes my personal marker on something new, then a physical manifestation of something past, and in that way, I am reconnected to my whole life, and I am tied to my existence in this world.

For my own personal journey at least, this is the biggest reason why I love taking photos.

Sabah bah!

Sights; around Sabah, August 2015. 

Preservation of culture begins with acknowledging its value, and aiding its growth.