The reason I write

One would never undertake writing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. – George Orwell, 1903-1950, an English novelist.

One of my favourite aunts was extremely poor, like many people I knew in rural Padawan. I don’t know the exact extent of her wealth or income, but I could sense the constant presence of need in her life. Like numerous members of my family, she always seemed to be one paycheck or serious injury away from financial ruin.

She had been a constant presence in my life since I was born. She was as sweet as pie, as we say in the village, but unfortunately, her goodness made her an easy target for others, including her own family, who took advantage of her generosity.
I visited her once when my children were young. Her house was old and precarious, in urgent need of repair, and surrounded by an unkempt yard overgrown with chest-high weeds. Emaciated dogs roamed freely in the yard.

Describing this kind of poverty is difficult. The house was incredibly dark, with a wide central hallway running from front to back. In the dim light, I could make out that the walls were made of horizontal wood planks. Some remnants of old wallpaper clung to them in spots, but I couldn’t determine if they had ever been painted.

As my aunt led me inside and the light faded, I passed room after room that I didn’t dare look into. Some of them emitted unpleasant odours. It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

We reached the back of the house, which I would call the den. My aunt, her family, my wife, and I sat around an old wood-burning stove in the centre of the room, talking, laughing, and sharing stories. The heat from the stove battled against the wind that entered from every direction.

Some of the boards in the walls were missing or so separated that I could see outside as clearly as if I were looking out of a window.

Sitting there, I contemplated the stark divide between us — how far removed I was from that life, yet how profoundly connected I felt to it on a spiritual level.

I was torn. How much could and should I help? I have had extensive discussions with my mother about this. Apart from giving a little money in brown envelopes, there wasn’t much I could do for all the people in need that I knew.

The problem wasn’t about individual generosity but rather the result of terrible economic policies and indifference. The best course of action for me was to advocate for change that would benefit everyone.

When I visited my aunt, I had just been promoted to an elite analyst team at Goldman Sachs headquarters. I had experienced poverty, but I was no longer in that situation. Nevertheless, it was crucial for me then and remains important now to stay connected to that poverty so that I can write about it from an authentic place.

My aunt died in shock due to payday lenders. She had taken out loans to rescue the men in her life from trouble and keep them out of it, but she only sank deeper into debt and despair. Meanwhile, the lenders profited from her pain.

Multiple systems conspired against her — patriarchy, politics, and illiteracy. Now, as a writer, and by that, I don’t mean a good or bad writer, but simply someone who spends countless absorbed and passionate hours crafting words in Microsoft Word, I see it as my duty to ensure that her story, and the stories of all those who struggle, are seen and heard.
This brings me to the reason why controversial literary figure Faisal Tehrani writes.

“Writing is the only way for me to be disobedient and civilised at the same time.”

I remember receiving two pieces of advice when I first became a regular writer for the New Sarawak Tribune, although I can’t recall who gave them to me.

The first was to write in plain language about what you know. Write about your most personal experiences, the things that consume your thoughts no matter how hard you try to push them away.

The second advice was that writers should be like an orchestra, each playing a different instrument, but together creating beautiful music. I decided that in that orchestra, I would play the banjo.

Education was never a priority for me. In those days, it was common for many of us to miss school for months on end. Wealth and privilege were not part of my upbringing. I had struggled, and at times, my family barely scraped by. Instead of attending prestigious English schools like St Joseph and St Thomas, I went to under-resourced schools where I had to walk over seven kilometres each day. By the time I arrived, I was often tired and drowsy.

So, what I knew was that sense of otherness, of being left behind and excluded, of being the world’s disposable people due to a lack of money and influence.

What I also knew, or came to know, was that there was value, both as a writer and an economist, in having a different perspective from others in this orchestra, one born from an impoverished village. When I write, I often consider how I would explain something to the elderly people I grew up with, all of them struggling with poverty.

They may not have had extensive education, but their use of metaphors was exquisite, and their ability to distil complex ideas into concise phrases was unmatched.

Maya Angelou, the American poet, once said that whenever she embarked on a project, she carried with her spiritually all those who had shown her kindness, not physically but in their hearts. Similarly, whenever I sit down to write, everyone who has ever experienced the same struggles as me sits down with me, their presence guiding my words.

DISCLAIMER:

The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of New Sarawak Tribune.