Abdul Salam Bin Mohd Kunhi (2E4 Fatimah's dad)

      My father, Abdul Salam Bin Mohamed Kunhi, was born on 28 December 1952 to Fatimah Binte Hassan and Mohamed Kunhi. He was the eight child of ten siblings, six boys and four girls (including my father), the oldest being Abdul Kadir followed by the rest, Rokiah, Halimah, Abdul Salim, Hashim, Abdul Salam (passed away shortly after birth), Rahyah, my father, Fawzia and the youngest Ashraf. My grandfather is from Kerala. Kerala is a state on the tropical Malabar Coast of southwestern India while my grandmother, whom I was named after, was born in Singapore but her father originated from Southern India too. Kerala is a Muslim-populated state, that is why my father (including me) are Indian Muslims. 

      My father was raised in a kampung. His mother was the one who wore the pants in the house as his father was always often at work. When he was seven, my father lost his father to a failure of the heart. Life was tough back then. It was no easy feat to make ends meet. Especially, since his father had died, their household income stopped. My grandfather was the sole breadwinner. My grandmother had no working experience. Since all the children were of schooling age, she had to resort to starting her own little business, making home-cooked Malay delicacies to be sold. Then the boys had to go around the village selling the delicacies. It was my father’s first job! The girls did not have to help in the selling as they had already helped their mother in the kitchen, and at that time girls were not allowed to go out unless chaperoned. 

In the kampung my father passed his time swimming, flying kites, listening to the radio, and playing games such as marbles, hide-and-seek, saga seeds, five stones, sepak takraw, soccer and board games such as Ludo and snakes-and-ladders. "Last time things were different," he was saying to me once when I had asked him for a mobile phone, "there were no televisions, computers or playstations." Since they were not very well-to-do then, my father and his siblings would use everyday items to make their own games. For instance, they made their own sepak takraw ball by weaving a few strips of "rattan" together and they also made their own kites. During my sister's eleventh birthday, my father made a kite for her using some rice paper and sticks. He attached a ball of string to it and voila! What do you know? It was a kite!

      My father has quite the green thumb. It was all due to the amount of practise he had helping his mother plant. They used to have a couple of different types of plants such as tapioca, potatoes, onions and lime. Now those exact plants are being planted in the little garden at our new house. 

                                                                                                  

     Being a boy in a male-dominated household, my father had a mischievious streak in him, gotten probably from hanging around his equally naughty brothers. As it was a kampung, many of his neighbours had plantations and my father and his brothers, who were quite infamous among the villagers, decided to “borrow”, as he subtly put it, some fruits. At that time he was the youngest as Ashraf was too young.

  
Being the youngest among the four, my father was the weakest link so his brothers had told him if he was not able to keep up with them they would leave him behind. So they began their escapade, they climbed the gate that separated them from the plantations, went over the other side and since there were four of them, they formed a pair, one to climb and the other to catch the fruit thrown down.   Kadir was paired with Salim and Hashim with my father. My father had the job of climbing as he was the better climber. So they were tossing the fruits down when they heard the neighbour coming. Hashim and Salim took off leaving Kadir and my father behind who were so scared that they were rooted to the spot, unable to find their way down. Unfortunately, the neighbour saw them and forced then to come down and yanking them by their ears he brought them to the person they fear the most, their mother. My father never forgot the caning he received that day. Yet, he had refused to cry, in front of his siblings, that is. Buckets of water were probably shed in his room.

    My father was not born until after the war ended, but he knows quite a great deal about it as his mother would often tell them tales about the war. He shared some of these tales with me. His mother had lived in fear those days, being a young woman. Half of her time she spent hiding. Sometimes the Japanese would go around knocking (or banging) on their doors, wanting to steal some food. Whenever my grandmother heard these knocks she, together with her sisters, would quickly hide under beds or inside closets. Then they would be waiting there, praying that the Japanese wouldn’t look into any of these places. It was quite a traumatic time for her.

      My father studied up to Secondary four, after which he dropped out as he was not interested in education and did not want to waste his parents’ money. When asked about his schooling days, my father only remembered two teachers, Miss Kang and Mr. Sivarajan. Miss Kang was his primary one teacher. She was a very nice and friendly teacher who rarely, if ever, shouted at them. Since most of the students did not have kindergarten education, they did not know their alphabet nor numerics. Nonetheless, she was patient, guiding them through the basic necessities of education. Miss Kang left a lasting impression on my father. Mr. Sivarajan too left an impression, but in a different sense.

       Mr. Sivarajan was my father’s Math teacher, an impatient man. Unfortunately, Mathematics was my father’s least favourite subject (evidently that is hereditary!). Mr. Sivarajan had a habit of sneaking up on his students and pinching them. This was before it was an offence in the name of law. He did this especially to his weaker students. Indeed, he was an unforgettable man.

         My father had once witnessed a racial riot. It was the year 1962. My father’s cousin, my uncle, was getting married on that day. Since it was a Chinese-Malay clash, Indians were not really affected. But on the way to the bride’s house, their bus was attacked by the Chinese. Although we are Indian, we are Muslims and our wedding celebrations are the same to that of a Malay family so apparently the Chinese were mistaken. Luckily, the bus driver was of a courageous character. He blared his horn loudly and stepped on the gas, giving one the impression that he was going to move anyhow. The Chinese, fearing for their lives, scattered. They proceeded on with the celebrations, trying to forget about the close call they had encountered earlier. My father had a wonderful day. The next day, however, was a bearer of ill tidings. My uncle had lost not more than ten friends, both Malay and Chinese alike, in the racial war.

     My father started working at the age of 17, starting as a construction worker followed by a Laboratory assistant working with Ministry of Environment and  subsequently working for a few manufacturing companies. When he finally joined an American company, Printed Circuits International (PCI), as Production Operator, he liked the job. Having upgraded himself through several courses, he was subsequently promoted to Lineleader. On his sixth year with PCI, my father was promoted to Production Supervisor. After twelve years, the company was bought over by a local business tycoon, and was named “Chuan Huap Marines” thereafter. My father did not get along with his superiors, as he felt that he was overworked and undervalued. Shortly after, my father resigned and joined a newly set-up company in Indonesia, PCB, as a Manufacturing Technical Adviser. After three years, my Father returned to Singapore and joined M-Flex Technology as a mere production supervisor. Now, 16 years later, at the age of 54, my father is the Manufacturing Production manager of the same factory, now known as MFS technology.

   

       So what was his secret to success? “Sacrifice,” he said simply, “sacrifice. If you want to succeed, you have to strive, give your best and be dedicated to your work.” So my father’s life story has evolved. He is no longer the mischievous imp he used to be. He is now a sensible middle-aged man, with a wonderful wife and four equally wonderful children, three girls and a boy. And maybe one day, my children will write the story of my life as I have written that of my father’s.

        

                                                          (1,469 words)                  

                                                                                           

    Fatimah Abdul Salam

    2E4