Why Me?

It was raining heavily the other night. I was pleased because that meant a cool night at home, curled up under cosy comforters with a good book and music running from my computer till my eyelids decided it was time to call it a day. Concrete walls filtered the roar of the thunder and rain, making it sound like a distant calamity from which I was sheltered so well, cocooned in the haven called home.

Why me?

The nasi lemak seller at the street corner outside had to be content with his makeshift stall, and at times the wind threatened to blow the flimsy plastic roof off. He had not anticipated the rain and storm and was therefore clad only in a thin T-shirt and pants. It must have been pretty cold out there for him.

And what about the homeless mentally-challenged woman I used to see wandering around the suburb where I live? Where would she be seeking shelter?

Down in the heart of Georgetown, the elderly trisha riders would be sleeping in their vehicles as for many of them, that was what they called their homes. They probably had to find some spot where the wind would not feel so harsh. What about those suffering from rheumatism, surely the chill and moisture in the air would aggravate their pain?

Why them, and not me?

I was having dinner the other day with my cousin. My aunt had prepared a sumptuous meal for us, and the portions were so big I found myself thinking of whom I should invite over. There were huge assam prawns, a baked eggplant to be savoured with authentic kampong-style sambal belacan, cuttlefish and hard-boiled eggs in hot and spicy sauce, stir-fried vegetables with a generous sprinkling of fresh tiny prawns, and a fried fresh water fish so huge, it had to be cut in two.

We did not manage to invite anyone over, and had such leftovers I decided to bring a lunchbox to work the next day. My generous uncle had also sent a 5 kg packet of rice over from his rice mill.

Why me?

One woman from the drought-stricken Hebei province in China wrote that the weather decided where from or how their next meal was going to come. More often than not, they reaped less than what they had sown.

Closer to home, under-privileged families from the squatter areas downtown make do with simple meals of mostly vegetables as meat would be too expensive. Their rice has to be rationed carefully to make it last as long as possible. One teenage girl shared that she only has two meals a day – there is no breakfast for her as she is not attending school, her siblings eat at school under the food subsidy program for the poor.

Why them, and not me?

Once, I was driving along the highway and the monotony caused my mind to drift. A stray dog appeared out of nowhere, running so fast across the highway that the shock instantly jolted me back to the present and sent me swerving violently to the right, all without checking to see if there was any other vehicle coming in my direction. Thankfully, there was not.

Why me?

P, a bright, attractive girl I met at the age of sixteen at a journalism workshop, was walking home one day when a reckless driver ran into her. She survived the accident, but lost her mobility and speech. That was when we were only twenty. The last I heard of her, she was still striving to recover and regain normalcy.

J, a girl from university was killed instantly when her car collided with an oncoming truck. She had simply gone off to run an errand during a break between classes. She was due to run for election for the student council, and still had a concert where she was due to perform.

Why them, and not me?

Two years ago, I went impulsive and decided to have my long hair cut off, telling the hairstylist I wanted it as short as Halle Berry’s. Shortly after, I bumped into Pastor’s wife and their 3-year-old daughter. The little girl pointed at me and said, “Jie jie”.

I joked that I was at least still recognizable as a female. The man I was seeing joked that people would think we were a gay couple, and I laughed – there was never a question as to my sexuality.

Why me?

S, a girl from primary and high school, had a crush on one of the cutest guys in school when we were in Standard Six. That was a pretty common thing at the onset of puberty – girls liking boys, boys liking girls.

But as she grew up, S physically developed to be rather boyish looking. Other girls had curves, but she was stocky. She was dark-skinned, and with her short hair people commonly mistook her for the opposite sex.

By the time we were about to finish high school, there were already rumours that she was engaged in a homosexual relationship. The last I heard of her, she became one of the few female candidates nationwide to be accepted into military training, but got expelled due to her alleged involvement in homosexuality.

G, one of my favourite lecturers back in college, looked like any heterosexual guy, but confessed to be a gay. But he would rather not share his past experiences with us, because recalling all the hurts and struggles he went through by being ‘abnormal’ was so painful, he would be driven to tears if he did so.

“Go play football and get over it,” his brother had told him when he tried to open up.

Why them, and not me?

Dad likes to remind us of where he came from.

“When I was dating your mom, my family was still living in an attap house with a leaking roof and muddy floors.”

My dad chopped firewood to help supplement the family income, and his other siblings sold the kuih my grandma made. My grandpa suffered from schizophrenia and was unable to work.

They grew up in poverty, with the additional stigma attached to having a father who was ‘crazy’ in the eyes of society. (He is one of the most loving grandfathers I have ever known, by the way.)

But they rose beyond their tough beginnings, and today I benefit from the fruits of my parents’ toil and labour.

Why me?

SN, an ex-colleague of mine, too, has a father who came from a disadvantaged background. But he never quite rose above his original circumstances, and my friend and her mother were the ones who had to toil to provide for the family.

He simply came home to demand for money and was abusive. They are now estranged, and at my friend’s wedding, her father was nowhere to be seen.

I do not know the extent of what she had gone through. One passing comment, though, gave me an insight.

We were talking about donating our organs if we died. She jokingly mentioned that she would donate anything except for her heart. Why, I asked.

“I do not want the recipient to feel the pain of what I had gone through.”


Why them, and not me?


Why was I born into privilege and others into poverty? Why do I have more than enough food on the table, when so many others are starving? Why do I get to choose the colour of the wall of my room, when there are people who have no choice but to bear with a roof that leaks when it rains?

In a world full of extremes, why do I keep finding myself on the better side when we are all basically the same?

I shake my head and feel pangs of emotions at the suffering of others.

But the person at the other end of the spectrum of life could have well been me.

Just as they have not done anything to deserve their lack, neither have I done anything to deserve what I have. But why do I keep having and there are still people who keep lacking?

I do not know why God has chosen to shower such grace, mercy and favour on me. One day I will get to thank Him face to face, and I will probably ask Him why.

In the meantime, I hope that the next time that limping beggar with the gaping wound on his leg approaches my table at my favourite eatery, I will remember the simple fact.

That the person at the other end of the spectrum of life – could have well been me.