Through Her Eyes
A story of coming out into her own, under the shadow of Tun Mahathir’s eminence. If you haven’t read it yet, here’s an excerpt from Marina’s memoir, The Apple and the Tree: Life as Dr Mahathir’s Daughter
Whenever I have reason to tell off my younger daughter Shasha, for being too mouthy, or sloppy, she always comes back to me with the words, ‘apple’ and ‘tree’. It is a code for that adage “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Everything she is, comes from me. Everything, in short, is my fault.
I may be the apple to my father’s tree, but I like to think of our life journeys as two trains running on railroad tracks so close to each other that passing carriages scrape against each other. Of course, Dad’s track is thirty-two years longer than mine. He picked up his chief engineer and steward, Mum, in 1956 and then four more passengers with her in the next eight years. Later, another three were added. As we grew up, we got on our trains, all going independently of each other, only meeting at the rail yard when something happens.
Undoubtedly, the trajectory of his journey has been far higher and more distinguished than mine. But we have run alongside each other, his Orient Express to my Keretapi Tanah Melayu, sometimes reaching a junction and stopping to allow the other, usually his more magnificent one, to pass. Our trains ultimately are from the same company and are heading towards the same destination, even though sometimes our paths diverge in big and small ways. There are many mountain-crossing bridges and tunnels along the way, the scenery can be breathtaking and sometimes dark and foreboding. But we chug along in tandem, tooting to different songs, until we come to the station at the end although neither of us knows when we will get there.
Much like the angsana tree in the Alor Setar garden of my childhood, my father looms large in my life. So much of what I am today, from my laser beam focus on causes I support, to the discipline that even surprises me, to my impatience at those who are too slow to understand what I’m saying, even my occasional sarcastic snipe, I know they all came from him. Despite all that, I was, and perhaps still am, the little sapling trying to grow out of his umbrella-like shadow, watching, observing and sometimes pushing back so that I may breathe and branch out on my own.
This is the story of the journey that I have taken in my life as my father’s daughter. Although much of it will feature him, it’s not his story. While he was crafting his, and that of millions of Malaysians, I was trying to write my own with ink-stained fingers on whatever paper was handed over to me. I would be the first to say that being the apple of Dad’s giant tree is a life of privilege, at least when viewed from the outside. But branching out from under those leafy branches has its costs.
This is my story, viewed from behind, alongside and sometimes opposite that of Dad’s. I am striving to tell it without blowing anybody’s horn but with sincerity and honesty, with my truths and nobody else’s.
Enjoy the ride.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House SEA
“As much as I might bristle at some of his comments, it’s all balanced out by the smile and the occasional guffaw at some joke I made, sometimes at his expense” —MARINA MAHATHIR
I became a journalist and a columnist, careers not that far off from Dad’s days as the columnist C.H.E Det.
A lot has been made of the seemingly divergent views that Dad and I have about many things, especially about human rights. But people have not considered the very different circumstances and education that we had. My parents grew up during the war and had experienced colonialism. Today many young people are waking up to the exploitation of the colonised and the evils it has wrought. I grew up in the post-war era and went to school overseas, where I was exposed to many different ideas, not all of which were “western” ideas. After all, my education on human rights and the equality of all peoples was instilled much later, when I was already at home, thanks to my time working against HIV/AIDS.
The point everyone misses is that I had to make my own way, to find out who I really am, especially since I lived in the shadow of a giant tree—two if you also count Mum. This is not easy when you’re always in the public eye; there are as many measurements of success as there are humans watching you.
It’s the journey that is as important as the result, which may be what was expected, or not at all.
As I get older, I see more similarities between me and my parents. Our opinions about many issues may still be different, and, although we read different books, I like to think I owe my love of reading and learning to Dad—i do pass him books I think he should read; he’s not yet sent me his book! I know Dad and I have the same knack for sarcasm. Neither of us is great at parties—although I have the slight advantage of also having Mum’s sociable genes; and we’re both habitual conflict-avoiders, which is not always a good thing.
Still, as the first man in my life, Dad must always hold a special place in my heart. As much as I might bristle at some of his comments, it’s all balanced out by the smile and the occasional guffaw at some joke I made, sometimes at his expense. I look at the way he looks at his grandchildren and know that there’s a softie that’s really showing up now. That, and the sheer adoration he has for Mum.
We can’t choose our fathers, but I have to say I have been luckier than most.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!