As a child, I had two big dreams. The first was to become an Assistant District Officer (ADO), inspired by my cousin who held the position with pride. The second? To be a teacher. My teachers, despite their strictness, fascinated me. Even when they scolded me—which happened often—I admired them. Deep down, I thought, If I ever become a teacher, I’ll be the kind who encourages rather than reprimands.
One memory still lingers—a night of tears over a *Bahasa Melayu* homework on *peribahasa* (proverbs). The assignment was due the next day, and I was paralyzed with fear—not of failing, but of facing my teacher’s disapproval. My mother, seeing my distress, woke my older brother (already asleep!) to help. Grumbling, he scribbled the answers and shoved the book back at me, annoyed at the disturbance. Clutching that battered exercise book, I stared at his messy handwriting, repeating the phrases until they stuck. I fell asleep with a strange sense of triumph—only for the teacher to never check the homework the next day.
Science, however, was my escape. I was captivated by how light traveled in straight lines, how a pinhole could project an upside-down image on a screen. Determined to impress, I built a model using a dark cylinder and—in a stroke of childish genius—used oiled paper as the screen. The next morning, I rushed to my teacher, eager for praise. He glanced at it, smudged his fingers, and set it aside without a word. My heart sank.
Yet, despite the lack of validation, I loved school. Even after classes ended, I’d linger on the grounds, wandering alone while others attended extracurriculars. There was something comforting about those empty corridors.
Boarding school was a different beast—brutal, isolating, and formative. Teachers became my unsung heroes. I was never the top student; in fact, I hovered near the bottom of the class. But they guided me, knowingly or not, through those turbulent years. I kept my head down, followed the rules, and survived—thanks to them.
Decades later, when I met some of them again, they still remembered me. That connection, unbroken by time, amazed me.
As a teacher myself, I remember my good old days. When I stepped into my first classroom at Sedaya College (now a university in Cheras), I was young and inexperienced. My students—the first batch of a business computing twinning program with the University of Winnipeg—taught me as much as I taught them. They showed me how to navigate city life, bridge cultural gaps, and connect beyond age and race. Seeing them graduate filled me with a joy only a teacher could understand.
Later, at UiTM, I taught Computer Science—from diploma to PhD. Teaching wasn’t just a job; it became my life. It didn’t make me rich, but it gave me something greater: purpose.
The best moments? Reunions with former students, laughing over shared memories. In the classroom, it had been just us—no distractions, just learning (and sometimes, my terrible jokes to lighten the mood). Not all memories were perfect—some students cheated, ignored lectures, or tested my patience. But even those challenges taught me resilience.
After 30 years at UiTM, I retired. Teaching gave me more than I ever dreamed—a beautiful life, unforgettable faces, and the privilege of shaping futures.
To all my students: Thank you for the journey.
And to every teacher out there: *Happy Teacher’s Day .
May your passion continue to light the way for others.
