By Gowmathy Naidu
I was utterly mortified to read that the Ministry of Education (MoE) was of the opinion that my alma mater, Convent Bukit Nanas (CBN), should be relocated. Their argument was that it was no longer safe for students, teachers and parents to move around in a high-density area, exposed as they were to the probability of road accidents, a report in The Malaysian Reserve said recently.
This is probably the most pathetic excuse to clear out current occupants in the hopes to develop yet another piece of prime land in the golden triangle of Kuala Lumpur. Maybe the powers that be are emboldened by the many other schools in prime locations that have made way, however grudgingly, so developments could take root.
Take Bukit Bintang Girls School (BBGS) for instance – the oldest school in Kuala Lumpur, that upped and left to Taman Shamelin Perkasa in Cheras so an upmarket shopping mall could ring in the tourist dollar with its designer boutiques.
On a brighter note though, I was pleased to read in that same Malaysian Reserve article that the CBN community was willing to stand their ground and battle the daily traffic congestion and pollution hanging over the city as long as the school was not relocated. Like me I guess, CBN is more than just a pile of concrete where students converge to obtain an education.
For me, CBN will always occupy a special place in my heart as this was where my initial school life began and the prospect that it could likely vanish from the face of the earth someday, is gut-wrenching, to say the least.
Being a product of CBN, albeit for a few years only due to the nomadic lifestyle of my parents, I have memories both bitter and sweet of my first two years in formal school.
Donning my first new, crisp uniform of navy blue, paired with spotless white canvas Bata shoes (well not spotless all the time) and a rattan basket that held my new pink pencil case and a water bottle, I gasped at the sight of this huge English gothic structure of blue and white as I alighted from my late parent’s car on my first day of school.
Walking towards the ‘hallowed’ grounds, I remember resisting the urge to run back into the safe refuge of the car and wondered why we had to attend school five days a week and rest only for two and not vice versa. I did have a sense of humour back then too.
I can still hear my mother’s gentle voice, encouraging me to walk on, saying there was no need to fret or fear as she would always be with me. Well, she kept to her word as she was a biology teacher in the secondary school.
Though hazy now, I remember my mother showing me the way up the stairs on the right to the secondary staffroom, reminding me to go there during recess-time as she was all too familiar with my discerning palate. True, I was a fussy eater.
The smell of textbooks and chalk still tickle my nose as I remember walking through the maze of corridors and halls, spotting nuns in beige habits and leather sandals, hurrying on their way before the school bell sounded the start of the first class.
Mine began with memorising the words to ‘Jack and Jill’ and ‘Old King Cole’, unforgotten nursery rhymes that I taught my own son years later.
As much as Standard One in CBN seemed daunting at times to a nervous six-year-old like me, this was nevertheless the place where I learnt things that carried me through my school days and through life itself.
It was here that I learnt to draw continuous zigzags, circles and loops, even though I wondered why at the time, unaware of how these would eventually take its own shape and form to become my beautiful cursive writing, if I may dare say so myself.
I learnt for the first time how to form friendships with other little girls my age, who were not relatives or my parents’ friends’ children. They were just my friends.
I learnt how to use chopsticks the proper way (without crossing) in the school canteen, once I was weaned off the secondary staffroom food, because now I had made friends of my own, whom I loved to spend time with.
I learnt how to sing the Negaraku and the school song, and to recite the Rukun Negara and Our Lord’s Prayer. Initially it was more of a fake lip-syncing (you know what we do when we don’t know the words) but soon after it was committed to memory and I could sing it with gusto.
It does sound like any other school a child would go to and remember fondly many years later.
However, to me, being the youngest in the family and probably somewhat pampered, CBN was a place I learnt how to let go of my late mother’s apron strings, nay, umbilical cord. I learnt how to be independent, make mistakes, pick myself up and try again. Well, isn’t that part of growing up?
Now this 117-year-old school steeped in history, well, at least my history, may cease to exist on the very green and silver hills where you can still spot a macaque or two sitting on a tree branch surveying the world below, squirrels hurrying on their way after some luscious fruit or cicadas belting out their favourite tune, right smack in the centre of Kuala Lumpur.
No more will I be able to proudly point out in years to come as I drive along Jalan Raja Chulan or Jalan Ampang, and exclaim with all the excitement of a Standard One school girl: “Hey, that’s my school!”