The Family That Shaped Me
Every family has a story. Mine began with ordinary people who lived extraordinary lives of resilience, sacrifice, and quiet determination. Neither of my parents came from wealth or privilege. They were born into humble households and had little formal education, yet they possessed qualities that no amount of money could buy—hard work, perseverance, compassion, and an unwavering commitment to their family.
As I grew older, I came to realise that much of who I am was shaped not only by my parents but also by my grandparents. Although I never had the opportunity to know some of them, their decisions, sacrifices, and values were passed down through the generations and became part of my own life’s journey. This chapter is my tribute to them. It is a record of where I came from, the people who laid the foundation for our family, and the values they unknowingly passed on to me. By preserving their stories, I hope my children and grandchildren will better understand not only their family history but also the strength, resilience, and faith that have carried our family through generations.
My Mother’s Family
My mother, Fatimah Binte Pakir Mydin, was born in 1933 into a family of mixed heritage. Her mother, Asiah Binte Abdullah, was of Chinese origin, while her father, Pakir Mydin Bin Pakir Mohamed, came from India. Unfortunately, I do not know which parts of China or India they originally came from, as such details were seldom recorded or spoken about in those days.
My maternal grandmother’s story was both heartbreaking and remarkable. According to family accounts, she was only about ten years old when she was brought to Singapore by her own uncle and sold into servitude. Sadly, many young Chinese girls suffered similar fates during that period of history. She eventually arrived at the home of a wealthy Indian Muslim family, where she worked in the kitchen. Although she and the other girls were referred to as “adopted children,” they were treated more as domestic helpers than as members of the family. In her late teens, her life took another significant turn.
According to family accounts, her marriage to my grandfather was not a matter of personal choice but one arranged by the family with whom she was living. The patriarch of that household was a friend of my grandfather, whose first wife had passed away. My grandfather, then a widower in his forties with four children, was seeking a wife to help rebuild his family. My grandmother accepted the marriage, and together they were blessed with another eight children, creating a large blended family.
My grandfather already had four children from his previous marriage. The two eldest, were already in their teenage years when my grandparents married, while the younger two were still children. My grandmother therefore became a stepmother to four children from my grandfather’s earlier marriage. Their marriage was subsequently blessed with eight children of their own. Their firstborn was Muhammad and was followed by my mother, Fatimah, the second child and first daughter. The third child was Chona, whose real name was Taynabur. She was followed by Yaacob, the fourth child. The family then welcomed twins, Abu Bakar and Omar. They were non identical twins. Their youngest daughter was Khatijah, followed by Ayob, the youngest of the eight.
Altogether, my grandfather had twelve children—four from his first marriage and eight with my grandmother. It was a large family, and my grandmother had the enormous responsibility of raising and caring for them all. Looking back, knowing what I now know about the circumstances of her own childhood and marriage, I have a deeper appreciation for the life she lived and the family she helped build.
My eldest maternal uncle, Muhammad, worked as a sailor. When his ship docked in San Francisco, he decided to leave the ship and remain in the United States. His intention was not simply to seek a new life for himself, but to improve his family’s economic circumstances and earn enough to support his mother back home. He initially lived quietly and took on odd jobs, including working as a dishwasher, while keeping a low profile to avoid being caught and deported. What began as a difficult attempt to earn a better living eventually became a permanent move. Many years later, he benefited from an amnesty programme, regularised his status, and eventually became a US citizen.
But there was a price for the life he built in America. For many years, he was separated from his family and deprived of the closeness and connections that come with being part of a family. By the time he was able to reconnect with many of us, several members of the family had already passed away, including my mother. He had achieved the opportunity he had once hoped for, but he had also missed many years of family life that could never be recovered.
Looking back, his story is a poignant reminder that the pursuit of a better life can sometimes come with sacrifices that are not measured in money. His decision was driven by his desire to improve the family’s circumstances, but it also meant giving up precious years with the very people he had hoped to help.
My grandfather was a respected professional chef specialising in briyani and North Indian cuisine. In those days, wealthy families frequently engaged experienced chefs to prepare elaborate feasts for weddings, celebrations, and important social gatherings. I was told that he was well known for his culinary skills and was even entrusted with preparing meals for official functions during the Japanese Occupation. Sadly, I never had the opportunity to know my grandfather. He passed away while my mother was still young, long before she married.
However, I was fortunate to develop a close relationship with my grandmother, whose influence on my childhood was profound. When I was seven years old, my grandmother insisted that I should attend an English-medium school. My father had intended to enrol me in a Malay school, but after much discussion, he respected her wishes. As a result, I moved into my grandmother’s home at Norfolk Road and lived with her for the next four years while attending primary school nearby. Every Friday evening my father would collect me to spend the weekend with my parents, and every Sunday evening he would take me back to my grandmother’s house in time for school the following morning. My younger brother joined me two years later when he entered Primary One at the same school. Those four years remain among the most memorable of my childhood.
Growing Up Under My Grandmother’s Care
My grandmother’s home at 61A Blk 14 Norfolk Estate Singapore postal code 8 became my second home during my primary school years. From the age of seven until I was ten, I lived there while attending school nearby. It was a modest two-bedroom flat in one of the old Singapore Improvement Trust (SIT) housing blocks, built between 1948 and 1952 as part of one of Singapore’s earliest public housing estates.
Long before the Housing & Development Board (HDB) was established, the SIT had begun providing affordable homes for working families, and this neighbourhood was among those pioneering developments. Our two-bedroom flat on the third floor was modest and often crowded, but it was filled with warmth, family, and the simple joys of everyday life.
Looking back, those years remain among the happiest and most formative of my childhood. Sharing the house with me were my five cousins, the children of my aunt, Chona. Two years later, my younger brother joined us when he entered Primary One at the same school. Although the house was crowded, I never felt deprived. It was simply the way families lived in those days—everyone shared what little they had, and no one expected more.
Life in the old SIT estate was especially vibrant during festive seasons. Chinese New Year was unlike anything I had experienced elsewhere. In those days, firecrackers were an essential part of the celebrations. Many Chinese families living in the flats would suspend long strings of firecrackers from bamboo poles extending out of their second or third-floor windows, allowing them to hang all the way down towards the ground before lighting them. As a young boy, I found the spectacle both fascinating and frightening. The deafening explosions would begin early in the morning, filling the neighbourhood with smoke, the sharp smell of gunpowder, and countless pieces of red paper scattered across the streets. I was often too frightened to walk outside, worried that a firecracker might suddenly explode as I passed.
In revisiting the past, it is a vivid memory of a Singapore that has long since disappeared. The neighbourhood also came alive whenever a Chinese opera, or wayang, was staged in the open space in front of our block. These performances were held from time to time, usually during festive or religious occasions, and transformed the otherwise quiet estate into a lively gathering place. As children, my cousins and I would eagerly join the crowd to watch the colourful costumes, dramatic music, and stylised performances, even though we did not fully understand the stories being told. One of my cousins, Salim, was especially captivated by the operas. After each performance, he would enthusiastically imitate the actors at home, copying their exaggerated gestures, dramatic expressions, and distinctive singing style. His impromptu performances never failed to amuse the rest of us and often filled the house with laughter.
Looking back, these are the simple childhood moments that remain etched in my memory and remind me of the close-knit community we enjoyed in those days. On the occasional weekends when I remained at my grandmother’s house—usually because my father was unable to fetch me home—there would sometimes be a lively gathering of my aunties and their friends. They would spend the afternoon playing mahjong or poker, chatting, laughing, and enjoying one another’s company. As a young boy, I was merely an observer, quietly watching the games unfold without fully understanding them. What I noticed most was the warmth of the gathering and the happiness it brought to those who took part.
Upon reflection, I realise that those were different times. Religious observance among many Muslim families, including our extended family, was generally less rigorous than it is today. Small-stakes gambling during social gatherings was, in some circles, regarded as harmless entertainment and was often tolerated without much thought. As I grew older and deepened my understanding of Islam, I came to appreciate the wisdom behind its teachings. Nevertheless, these gatherings remain part of my childhood memories and offer a glimpse into the social customs of that era.
Schools in Singapore during the 1960s operated on a double-session system. Some pupils attended classes in the morning, from 7.30 a.m. until 12.30 p.m., while others went in the afternoon, from 1.00 p.m. until 6.00 p.m. Our daily routine revolved around these school schedules, and my grandmother managed the household with remarkable discipline and precision. She believed that children flourished with structure and good habits. Every part of the day had its proper place. If I attended the morning session, the afternoon was reserved for lunch, rest, and quiet time. Those returning from the afternoon session would join the rest of the family for dinner in the evening. Dinner was a simple but meaningful family affair. All the grandchildren sat cross-legged on the floor, each with a plate prepared and served by my grandmother.
In hindsight, those meals were not just about food; they were moments that brought the family together at the end of each day. After dinner came study time. Homework had to be completed, followed by revision for the next day’s lessons. More often than not, we worked quietly on our own without much guidance. It was simply expected that we would finish our schoolwork independently. Occasionally, however, an adult would keep an eye on us to make sure we stayed focused. More often than not, these were relatives or family friends who happened to be visiting that evening rather than someone specifically assigned to supervise us. Among them, my Uncle Ayoob stood out. He was the only English-educated adult in the family, and whenever he was around, he would sometimes help us with our schoolwork or answer questions that puzzled us. His encouragement, though given only from time to time, was reassuring and much appreciated.
Before settling down to our books, we were rewarded with a brief opportunity to watch cartoons on television. Television was still a novelty then, and those few precious minutes felt like a great privilege. Occasionally, usually on Thursday evenings, my grandmother allowed us to stay up to watch a movie on television. It was something we eagerly looked forward to each week. By 8.30 every night, without exception, everyone was expected to be in bed. All of us slept together in a single bedroom, a scene that would probably surprise many children today. Yet to us, it was perfectly normal and, in many ways, comforting. We laughed, whispered, and occasionally teased one another before finally drifting off to sleep.
Despite her strictness, my grandmother was never harsh. She was a petite, soft-spoken lady who was almost always dressed in a traditional nyonya kebaya. She seldom raised her voice, yet everyone respected her. Her quiet authority was enough to keep six energetic grandchildren in order. As a child, I sometimes thought she was overly strict. Only much later did I realise that every rule she imposed came from love and a sincere desire to prepare us for life. Through her disciplined, almost regimental approach, she taught us responsibility, respect, punctuality, and self-discipline—qualities that have remained with me throughout my life.
As I grew older, my appreciation for her deepened. I came to understand the sacrifices she had made and the love she had quietly shown through her actions rather than her words. She passed away at the age of sixty-two when I was twenty-four years old, but the lessons she instilled in me have remained long after her passing.
Looking back, I consider myself fortunate to have spent those formative years under her care. They helped shape the person I would eventually become.
My Mother – A Woman of Quiet Strength
My mother, Fatimah Binte Pakir Mydin, was the second child and the eldest daughter in a family of eight children—five boys and three girls. In addition, she had two step-brothers and two step-sisters from my grandfather’s first marriage. Like many girls of her generation, she was never given the opportunity to attend school. While some of her brothers received a basic education, only two progressed to secondary school in the English stream. Two others attended a madrasah at primary level, while another brother received no formal education at all.
Although my mother had no formal schooling, she possessed an intelligence that could not be measured by certificates. She was resourceful, practical, and remarkably capable. She managed the household finances carefully and always found ways to stretch our limited income. Looking back, I realise that she was the financial manager of our family, ensuring that every dollar was spent wisely.
She also inherited her parents’ gift for cooking. Like my grandfather before her, she became well known among relatives and friends for her culinary skills. She accepted catering assignments for weddings, family celebrations, and private functions, preparing traditional dishes that were greatly appreciated by those who tasted them. The additional income she earned helped support our family during times when my father’s earnings alone were insufficient.
But it was not her cooking that defined her. It was her character. My mother was a woman of quiet strength. She was kind-hearted, patient, humble, and always ready to help anyone in need. She never sought recognition for her good deeds and rarely complained, no matter how difficult life became. She believed that kindness was something to be practised, not spoken about. She was deeply loved by everyone who knew her—her children, siblings, relatives, neighbours, and friends. Her gentle nature drew people to her. I seldom saw her argue with anyone. Even when she was hurt or treated unfairly, she would often choose silence over confrontation. At the time, I did not fully understand her restraint. As I grew older, however, I came to admire the quiet dignity with which she carried herself. She taught me that true strength is often found not in raising one’s voice, but in exercising patience and self-control.
Although she was a loving mother, she was also firm when it came to raising her children. She watched over us carefully and was determined that we should not fall into bad company. Her discipline was never harsh; it came from her deep desire to see us grow into responsible adults with good values. Even today, when I reflect on my childhood, it is her quiet presence that I remember most. She did not lead with authority or command attention. Instead, she nurtured her family through love, sacrifice, and unwavering devotion. She was the steady heart of our home.
In 1985, our lives changed dramatically when my mother was diagnosed with cancer of the throat. She underwent a laryngectomy, and the operation was considered successful. Our family was hopeful that she would recover and return home. Sadly, complications arose several days later. She developed severe hypoglycaemia related to her diabetes. From what I observed at the time, she had been prescribed the diabetes medication Tolbutamide but was not given sufficient food after the operation. As a young man watching my mother fight for her life, I struggled to understand what had happened. To this day, I cannot help but wonder whether her death might have been prevented. Based on what I witnessed, I have long believed that there may have been shortcomings in her medical care. Whether that was truly the case, I will never know.
For six long months, our family lived between hope and despair. My wife, my sisters, and I organised ourselves into a roster so that someone would always be at her bedside in the isolation ward. We took turns caring for her, praying for her recovery, and hoping that she would regain consciousness. I often stayed overnight at the hospital because I wanted to be there if she opened her eyes. I did not want her to wake up and find herself alone. Sadly, that moment never came.
My mother passed away at the age of fifty-three. Her death left a void in our family that could never truly be filled. Losing a mother at such a young age was one of the most painful experiences of my life. Yet, even in the depths of grief, my faith sustained me. As Muslims, we believe that every soul belongs to Allah and that every life has an appointed time. While my heart struggled to accept her passing, my faith reminded me that what comes from Allah ultimately returns to Him. With time, the sharpness of grief softened, but my love and admiration for my mother have never diminished. Even today, I continue to draw inspiration from her patience, humility, generosity, and quiet resilience. Those qualities remain among the greatest gifts she left behind—not only for me, but for everyone whose lives she touched.
My Father’s Family
My father, Sukardi Bin Sulaiman, was born in 1930 into a Malay family of Javanese descent. His father, Sulaiman Bin Munasil, had immigrated from Indonesia, although I do not know which part of Java he came from. His mother, Jamilah Binte Haji Noor, was a Singapore-born Javanese. My grandparents had ten children together. My father, Sukardi, was their third child. Their firstborn was my uncle Shahari, followed by their first daughter, Rabiah, and then my father. Their family grew further with the arrival of twin daughters, Wakiah and her twin sister, whose name I unfortunately do not know. The twins were given up for adoption and were raised by a village friend of my grandmother,Hamzah. Sadly, Wakiah’s twin sister passed away while she was still a young girl. Wakiah survived and was raised by Hamzah’s family. Their eighth child was a son, Busra, followed by their ninth child, a daughter, Ramlah. Both were given up for adoption and raised by my grandmother’s niece, Saerah. Sadly, Busra passed away while he was still a young boy.
By the time my grandmother was pregnant with her tenth and youngest child, Yatimah, tragedy struck again. My grandfather, Sulaiman, passed away before Yatimah was born, leaving my grandmother widowed with a large family to care for. There was, however, an understanding between my grandfather and his close friend, Sariman Bin Tamiti, who had also come from Indonesia. Before his death, my grandfather had asked Sariman to marry his wife and look after his children. After my grandfather’s passing, Sariman honoured that request. He married my grandmother and became a father figure to her children, taking on the responsibility of helping to raise the family. Although he was not the biological father of the children, he accepted the responsibility of caring for them and became an important figure in the family.
Looking back, the circumstances surrounding my grandparents’ family were far from simple. Children were sometimes separated from their parents and raised by relatives or family friends, often because families were struggling to cope with difficult circumstances. Yet within all these hardships, there were also acts of sacrifice and responsibility. My grandfather’s request to Sariman, and Sariman’s willingness to honour it, ensured that my grandmother and her children were not left entirely on their own.
This is part of the family history that I did not fully understand as a child. I came to appreciate its significance only much later in life.
My step-grandfather worked as a general labourer with the Public Works Department and lived with the family in government quarters at Woodleigh Estate. Their house stood on a corner plot, and beside it he built a chicken coop on the open ground. It was a simple home, but to me it was a place filled with happy memories. As a young boy, I loved spending weekends with my grandparents. One of my favourite activities was helping to feed the chickens and watching them roam around the yard. Looking back now, those simple pleasures brought me immense happiness. Children of my generation did not need expensive toys or elaborate entertainment. Our joy was often found in the ordinary experiences of everyday life.
If my maternal grandmother taught me discipline, my paternal grandmother taught me tenderness. She was a cheerful, kind-hearted, and affectionate lady who always made me feel welcome. Whenever I stayed with my grandparents during the school holidays or over a weekend, I would sometimes wait for my grandmother at the top of the hilly road leading to her house when I knew she was returning from the market. I would take her shopping basket from her and carry it home. It was a small gesture, but it gave me a few extra moments to walk beside her and enjoy her company.
The memory that remains most vivid, however, is from bedtime. As I lay beside her, she would gently stroke and massage my head until I drifted off to sleep. There was something incredibly comforting about those quiet moments. Even today, many decades later, I can still remember the feeling of her gentle touch and the sense of security it gave me. She passed away when I was fourteen years old, at the age of sixty. Although I was still young, her kindness and affection left an imprint on my heart that has never faded.
My step-grandfather, on the other hand, lived a remarkably long life. He passed away at the age of ninety-five after being lovingly cared for during his final years by my sister, Norjan. I have always admired the devotion she showed in looking after him. It was a fitting expression of gratitude to the man who had accepted the responsibility of caring for our family long before she was even born. Looking back, I realise that family is not defined solely by blood. My step-grandfather chose to embrace ten children who were not biologically his own and devoted his life to helping raise them. His willingness to shoulder that responsibility taught me that fatherhood is measured not only by birth, but by love, sacrifice, and commitment.
My Father – A Man of Quiet Contentment
My father, Sukardi Bin Sulaiman, received only a modest education. He completed Standard Six—equivalent to today’s Primary Six—at Kota Raja Malay School. Like many children from working-class families during that era, financial circumstances meant that further education was beyond his reach. None of his brothers or sisters completed secondary school either.
Although his education was limited, my father was a hard working man. He began his working life as a postman before later becoming a personal chauffeur, a job he held for many years. Whenever he found himself out of work, he never stayed idle at home. Instead, he would rise early in the morning and go out in search of new job opportunities, and before long, he would secure another position.
Unfortunately, poor health forced him to stop working while he was still in his mid-fifties. To me, however, he was never defined by the jobs he held. He was defined by the warmth of his character.
Looking back, some of my happiest childhood memories revolve around the little things he did for me. On some school mornings, he would help me get ready before I left for class. He took pride in making sure I looked neat and presentable. After combing my hair, he would apply his favourite Yardley hair gel, carefully smoothing it into place until he was satisfied that I looked smart in my school uniform. As a young boy, I simply enjoyed the attention.
One of my fondest memories of my father was when I was fourteen years old. One day, he bought me a bright red Raleigh bicycle. I have no idea how much it cost or how difficult it was for him to afford it, but to me, it was the greatest gift I could have received. I was overjoyed. At that time, we were living at Newton Circus with my grandmother and my Aunt Chona. Whenever the family wanted to buy food from our favourite halal Chinese restaurant near Rex Theatre, I would be the first to volunteer. It wasn’t simply because I wanted to help. Deep down, I was looking for every opportunity to ride my new bicycle. The trip to the restaurant became an adventure in itself. I would happily cycle there, collect the food, and return home feeling proud that I had been entrusted with an important family errand. Looking back now, I realise that what seemed like a simple bicycle to a fourteen-year-old boy became a treasured memory that stayed with me for the rest of my life. Even today, whenever I ride my bicycle, I sometimes think of that bright red Raleigh and the happiness my father gave me with that one thoughtful gift.
Because he worked as a chauffeur, he occasionally drove his employer’s car home after work. Those evenings were a special treat for our family. Whenever circumstances allowed, he would take us for a drive around the neighbourhood or on weekend outings. We did not own a car ourselves, so those journeys felt like little adventures and became treasured childhood memories.
My father had a wonderful sense of humour. He loved telling jokes and entertaining us with amusing stories. One of his favourite pastimes was mimicking the different dialects and accents of Singapore’s various communities. He did so not to ridicule anyone but simply to make us laugh. His natural wit filled our home with happiness, and his laughter was often contagious.
What impressed me most, however, was his temperament. I rarely saw him lose his composure. Whenever difficulties arose, he faced them calmly and without panic. He accepted life’s ups and downs with remarkable patience and seemed to believe that worrying excessively never solved a problem. That quiet steadiness gave our family a reassuring sense of security.
He was also a gracious host. Guests were always welcomed warmly into our home and made to feel comfortable. He took pride in dressing neatly and carried himself with quiet confidence, yet there was never any trace of arrogance. His easy-going nature and genuine friendliness made him someone people naturally enjoyed being around. In many ways, my father taught me an important lesson without ever saying it aloud: a man’s character is revealed not by his wealth or status, but by the way he treats other people.
Like my mother, my father eventually developed diabetes, an illness that would remain with him for many years. As his health gradually declined, I never heard him complain or express self-pity. Instead, he accepted his illness with quiet resignation and continued living his life as best he could, one day at a time. One memory remains etched in my heart more vividly than any other. In his final moments, I cradled my father’s head on my lap as he took his last breath. There are moments in life that remain with us forever, and that was one of them. It was a deeply painful experience, yet I also felt grateful that I was able to be with him at the end of his earthly journey.
He passed away from kidney failure at the age of sixty, seven years after my mother’s death. Losing both my parents while they were still relatively young changed my life profoundly. There are certain losses from which we never completely recover. We simply learn to live with them. As time passed, grief slowly gave way to gratitude. I became increasingly thankful for the years I had shared with my parents and for the values they had instilled in me. Neither of them left behind wealth or material possessions. Instead, they left me something far more enduring: faith in Allah, resilience in the face of hardship, compassion towards others, and the importance of living honestly and humbly. Those values have guided me throughout my life. They have influenced the way I raised my own children, approached my career, and faced life’s challenges. Looking back now, I realise that the greatest inheritance my parents gave me was not something that could be measured in dollars and cents. It was their example.
As I write these memories many decades later, I do so with deep love, gratitude, and respect. My hope is that future generations of our family will come to know the people whose sacrifices made our lives possible. Though they are no longer with us, their legacy lives on—in their children, their grandchildren, and in the values they passed from one generation to the next.