My parents were married in 1953. My father was 23 years old, while my mother was just 20. Their first child was a daughter who was stillborn. She was named Salmah before she was buried, a quiet sorrow that remained part of our family’s history. Their children arrived in quick succession. My eldest sister, Aisah, was born on 22 December 1955, followed by Zaiton on 28 December 1956 and Norjan on 26 December 1957. My parents had long hoped for a son, and I finally arrived on 1 March 1959. My mother often told me that she had carried me for twelve months before giving birth. Whether that was literally true or simply how she remembered the difficult pregnancy, it became one of those family stories that I grew up hearing.

My younger sister, Rahmah,was born on 3 May 1960, and my youngest sibling, my brother, was born on 22 June 1961. He was officially named Sulaiman after our late grandfather, but for as long as I can remember everyone called him Hassan. Even today, most of our relatives know him only by that name. I never discovered why the family adopted a different name, although I sometimes wonder whether my parents felt that sharing our grandfather’s name caused too much confusion. Looking back, I realise how little I knew about my parents as husband and wife. Life moved too quickly, and while they were alive I never thought to ask how they met, what they first saw in each other, or how they coped with raising six young children under difficult circumstances. Both of them passed away relatively young, taking many of those stories with them.

By the time we were teenagers, I no longer saw them as a romantic couple. Instead, I saw two people carrying the enormous responsibility of raising a family with limited means. Their relationship seemed to be built more on duty, commitment and perseverance than on outward displays of affection. As I have grown older, I have come to appreciate the quiet strength that such a partnership requires.

Education, unfortunately, became one of the casualties of our family’s circumstances. It was not that my parents did not want their children to have a better future. They certainly wished for us to do well in school, but like many parents of their generation, they believed that once children were enrolled in school, the teachers would take care of their education. There was also a prevailing belief that academic success was largely a matter of ability and fate—that children who were capable would naturally excel on their own. At home, we were largely left to manage our own studies, with little supervision or guidance from our parents.

As a result, most of my siblings did not continue their education beyond primary school. My eldest sister, Aisah, left school after completing Primary 6, followed by Zaiton, who also completed Primary 6 and left the following year. My third sister, Norjan, stopped much earlier, leaving school after Primary 2. Rahmah, my youngest sister, attended Primary 1 but left soon after the school semester ended. I was the only one among us who continued into secondary education.

Despite their limited formal education, my sisters became accustomed to taking responsibility for themselves and helping the family from an early age. Each eventually found her own way in life, raising families and doing what she could within the circumstances of our upbringing. Looking back, I realise that their limited schooling was not a reflection of their potential, but largely a consequence of the circumstances in which we grew up.

Like many children from low-income families in those days, my sisters began working while still in their early teens to help supplement the family income. They worked as kitchen assistants, domestic helpers and, later, in factories when they were old enough. Although they accepted responsibilities beyond their years, they did not entirely miss out on childhood. They still found time to laugh, play with friends and enjoy the simple pleasures of kampong life. Looking back, I admire how naturally they balanced family duties with the carefree spirit of growing up.

Despite their limited formal education, my sisters became resourceful and independent at an early age. They began working while still young to help contribute to the family’s finances, while each of them found their own way to build a life and raise a family. Looking back, I realise that their lack of schooling was not a reflection of their ability or potential, but largely a consequence of the circumstances in which we grew up.

Despite the hardships, we were a close-knit family. We loved our parents dearly because we knew they were doing the very best they could with what they had. We never doubted their love for us, even if life often left little room for comfort or opportunity.

One of my earliest memories comes from our days in Lorong Abu Kasih, a kampong in the Geylang area. My mother supplemented the family income by cooking nasi lemak and goreng pisang to sell. We children each played our part. I would carry a basket filled with freshly fried banana fritters and walk through the kampong calling out, “Goreng pisang! Goreng pisang!” to attract customers. One of my sisters would do the same with baskets of nasi lemak. At that age, it felt more like an adventure than work. Only years later did I realise that, in our own small way, we were helping our parents earn enough to support the family.

Aisah Binte Sukardi

As the eldest child in our family, Aisah grew up with the responsibilities that naturally came with being the firstborn. She inherited the fairer complexion from our mixed parentage. She left school after completing Primary 6, as continuing her education was not a priority in our family’s circumstances at the time.

Aisah was a gentle and somewhat soft-hearted girl, with a distinctly feminine nature. She was not particularly outspoken or adventurous, and was more comfortable in the traditional role expected of a woman of her generation. As she grew older, she became a devoted wife and a loving mother who placed her family at the centre of her life.

While still in her early teens she helped supplement the family income by taking on part-time work. As a young girl, Aisah was fascinated by Bollywood movies. I can still picture her standing in front of a mirror, happily imitating the dance movements of her favourite actresses. Those moments brought laughter into our home and revealed a cheerful side of her personality that remained throughout her life.

Like our mother, Aisah became an excellent cook. Preparing food for others was one of the ways she expressed her love and hospitality. She had a wonderful sense of humour and a knack for recounting everyday events in a way that made everyone laugh. She made friends easily and enjoyed being in the company of others. Visitors were always warmly welcomed. Even when someone dropped by unexpectedly, she would head straight to the kitchen to prepare a meal, believing that no guest should leave her home hungry.

In 1979, at the age of 25, she married Shahol Hamid bin Peer Mohamed, who was ten years her senior. Together they raised three children—two sons, Shafurdeen and Mohamed Noor, and a daughter, Zulaiha. In her later years, it was heartening to see how devoted her children were in caring for her, returning the love and sacrifices she had given them throughout their lives.

One encouraging change was that Aisah was able to give her children opportunities that she herself never had. All three of them completed their secondary education, marking a significant step forward from the previous generation of our family. Although they did not pursue higher academic qualifications, each of them found stable employment, became independent and built respectable lives of their own. Her eldest son, Shafurdeen, is married and has a son. Her second son, Mohamed Noor, is married with three children. Her youngest child and only daughter, Zulaiha, remains unmarried in her thirties. She is working and continues to live independently in the family home that was left by her parents.

Looking at her children today, I feel that Aisah would have been proud to see how they have grown into responsible adults. In many ways, they represent the beginning of a new chapter for our family, where the next generation enjoyed opportunities that were beyond the reach of their parents. Sadly, Aisah passed away at the age of 57 from complications related to diabetes, about six years after her husband had passed away from heart disease.

Although her life was not a long one, she left behind warm memories of kindness, laughter and generosity. Whenever I think of her, I still remember the cheerful young girl dancing to Bollywood songs and the loving sister who could always make a house feel like a home.

Zaiton Binte Sukardi

My second sister, Zaiton, was a quiet child with a gentle and compassionate nature. Among all my siblings, she had the darkest complexion, a feature that made her easily recognisable within the family. Soft-spoken and kind-hearted, she seldom sought attention but quietly went about caring for those around her.

After leaving school, Zaiton worked in several jobs before spending many years as a factory operator at Seagate, where she remained until her retirement. In December 1980, she married Abdul Halim bin Othman, who was originally from the Malaysian state of Perak but had become a Singapore citizen in his younger days. Together they raised three children—Mohd Zaireen, Norashikin and Nurhayati—all of whom completed their secondary education, another sign of how each generation gradually enjoyed greater educational opportunities than the one before them.

Today,Zaireen has five children from two marriages, Norashikin has two children, and Nurhayati has three. Seeing their families grow has been a source of happiness and continuity for our extended family.

What I remember most about Zaiton was her selflessness. She always placed the needs of others before her own and was willing to shoulder burdens so that someone else could have an easier life. I remember one occasion when a cousin urgently needed financial help. Without hesitation, she took out a loan in her own name and repaid it herself. If she had money to spare, she would readily lend it to relatives or friends without expecting it to be returned. This was not an isolated act of generosity but something she did repeatedly throughout her life. Helping others came naturally to her. Although she was quiet by nature, she had a delightful sense of humour. She was quick to make light-hearted remarks that perfectly suited the moment, often bringing laughter to our family gatherings. She was especially close to our sister Norjan, and the bond they shared remained strong throughout their lives.

In late 2011, Zaiton was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer and underwent a colostomy in early 2012. The diagnosis was understandably devastating at first, but with remarkable courage and deep faith, she gradually accepted her condition and faced it with dignity. Once she had recovered sufficiently from the operation, we were able to fulfil one of her wishes—to perform Umrah. She travelled to Makkah accompanied by our sister Norjan, her son Hafiz and my son, Rahman Shah. It became a deeply meaningful journey for her and for all of us who witnessed her unwavering faith.

During her final moments in the hospital, Zaiton was surrounded by those who loved her most. By her bedside were her eldest daughter, Norashikin; our sister, Norjan; Norjan’s daughter, Samira; and our cousins, Norita and Kamariah, both of whom had always shared a close relationship with her. It was there, in the presence of her loved ones, that she took her last breath on 28 November 2013 at the age of 56. Her passing was especially difficult for Norjan. The two sisters had always shared a deep and special bond. Witnessing Zaiton’s final moments left a profound impact on her, and for weeks afterwards she would often break down in tears whenever she thought of her beloved sister. It took time before she gradually found the strength to accept the loss and move forward.

Whenever I remember Zaiton, I think of her gentle nature, her quiet humour and her willingness to help anyone in need without expecting anything in return. She lived a life of kindness and compassion, and she left this world in the company of those who loved her most—a peaceful farewell for someone who had spent her life caring for others.

Norjan Binte Sukardi

Of all my siblings, Norjan has always struck me as the most resourceful. Although her formal education ended in the lower primary years, she possesses a practical intelligence that cannot be measured by academic qualifications. She is quick to adapt to changing circumstances, thinks positively and rarely allows setbacks to discourage her. Throughout her life, she has faced challenges with resilience and determination.

In 1980, she married Kasim bin Abdullah, a Muslim revert of Indian descent. Together they raised three children: Nafisah Bee, Mohd Hafiz and Siti Samira. All three completed their secondary education, continuing the steady progress of the next generation. Her youngest daughter, Samira, went on to earn a Master’s degree in Nursing and is now a Senior Nurse Manager at Mount Elizabeth Hospital. Today, Norjan is blessed with five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.

Like my elder sisters, Norjan began working in her early teens to help support our family’s finances. She worked as a domestic helper before later joining a factory. After her marriage, she chose to leave the workforce to raise her young children. Always resourceful, she later ventured into a small food business, operating a hawker stall to supplement the family’s income when her husband’s earnings were modest. She managed the household finances carefully and always made the best of whatever they had.

What sets Norjan apart most is her caring nature. Looking after those who were ill seemed to come naturally to her. When our mother was hospitalized, Norjan willingly took her turn caring for her, despite being heavily pregnant at the time. She also devoted herself to caring for our father during the final stages of his kidney failure. Later, she lovingly cared for our sisters Aisah and Zaiton during their illnesses and remained by Zaiton’s bedside until her final breath.

Her kindness extended beyond our immediate family to relatives such as Noraini, Zahara and Zubaidah during their own times of illness. Even today, she regularly visits our aunt, Ramlah, who is battling cancer. She has a remarkable gift for caring for others, offering not only practical help but also comfort and reassurance. I have often thought that, had she been given the opportunity for higher education, she would have made an outstanding nurse. Perhaps it is no coincidence that her daughter, Samira, chose nursing as her profession and has risen to become a senior nurse manager.

As I grew older, especially after reaching my forties, my relationship with my sisters became much closer. After the tragic loss of my first wife, when I was 47, Norjan was the sibling I turned to most. She listened patiently whenever I needed someone to talk to and helped care for my younger children before I remarried. I have never forgotten the support she gave me during one of the most difficult periods of my life.

Today, Norjan enjoys a comfortable and well-deserved retirement. She and her husband live with their youngest daughter, while receiving rental income from their own home. Her children often include her in their travels, allowing her to visit places she had never imagined she would one day see. It gives me great joy to see her enjoying experiences that were beyond her dreams during our childhood. As she approaches her seventieth birthday, Norjan becomes the first among my siblings to outlive both of our parents. She remains in good health and now joins my wife and me for our morning walks three times a week on alternate days. Watching her enjoy this stage of life is a blessing. I pray that Allah continues to grant her good health, happiness and peace, and blesses her with many more meaningful years surrounded by the family she has devoted her life to caring for.

Rahmah Binte Sukardi

Rahmah was our youngest sister. She attended Primary 1 but left soon after the school semester ended, and therefore had very little formal education. As the youngest in the family, she enjoyed a relatively normal childhood, often tagging along with our elder sisters, who cared for and protected her.

Although she missed out on formal education, Rahmah was eager to learn. When she was a teenager, I taught her to read and write and she picked it up remarkably quickly. It remains one of the small contributions in my life that gives me quiet satisfaction. Once she was old enough, she worked briefly in an electronics factory before beginning the next chapter of her life.

In November 1981, shortly after her twenty-first birthday, she married Abdul Rahman bin Jaafar, who had been our neighbour in the Toa Payoh housing estate. Together they raised three daughters—Siti Nur’ain, Siti Nasuha and Siti Nazura. All three completed their secondary education, married and have children of their own. It was another encouraging step forward for the next generation of our family.

Rahmah was a devoted wife and mother whose family always came first. Sadly, she was diagnosed with kidney failure while still in her thirties. For many years she endured the demands of regular dialysis with remarkable courage and resilience. Despite the physical and emotional challenges, she maintained a positive outlook and continued to care for her husband, children and household as normally as she could.

Even while coping with her own illness, Rahmah never hesitated to help others. After I lost my first wife in June 2006, she briefly helped care for my children during one of the most difficult periods of my life. It was a gesture of love and support that I have never forgotten. Rahmah passed away in July 2007 at the age of 47. During her final moments in the hospital, Norjan and I were by her bedside as she took her last breath. It was a sad farewell to a sister whose quiet strength, devotion to her family and willingness to help others had touched all of us.
Today, Rahmah lives on through her husband, her three daughters and her grandchildren. Whenever I remember her, I think of her gentle nature, her courage in facing illness and the unwavering love she gave to her family despite the many hardships she endured.

Sulaiman (Hassan) Bin Sukardi

My youngest sibling was officially named Sulaiman after our late grandfather, but from childhood we all called him Hassan. Among family and relatives, he has always been known by that name, while his official name was used mainly at work and in formal matters.

From the time he entered primary school, Hassan struggled with reading and writing. Learning did not come easily to him, yet in those days children were often advanced from one level to the next with little understanding of their individual learning needs. He repeated Primary 6 twice before eventually leaving school altogether. Looking back, I often wonder whether he had severe dyslexia or another learning difficulty that went unrecognised.

Hassan was sometimes bullied at school because of his learning difficulties, and whenever I could, I stood up for him. We were very close during our younger years. At that time, there was little awareness of such conditions, and families like ours had neither the financial means nor the educational support to help children who struggled academically.

One memory has stayed with me all these years. We were travelling home by bus from school, from Geylang to Newton Road, when Hassan quietly asked me whether it would be alright if, when he grew up, he simply took on odd jobs because studying was too difficult for him. He was only about ten years old. I encouraged him not to give up, but I was just a young boy myself and had no idea how to help him. Looking back now, I still feel a sense of helplessness whenever I remember that conversation.

As we entered our teenage years, our lives gradually took different paths. I continued into secondary school and developed my own circle of friends, while Hassan left school and began spending more time with a different group of friends. Sadly, some of those friendships led him in the wrong direction, and he became involved in drug abuse. It was a painful chapter for our family, especially for our mother, who had worked so hard to raise her children with good values. Seeing Hassan fall into such difficulties caused her immense heartache. Despite everything that had happened, Hassan was never abandoned by his family. My sisters, especially Zaiton and Norjan, stood firmly by his side. They gave him not only financial assistance whenever he needed it but, more importantly, constant encouragement and emotional support. They believed in him even during the difficult times and never turned their backs on him. Looking back, I have no doubt that their unwavering love and support helped him through some of the darkest periods of his life.

Hassan married at the young age of nineteen to Surinah, and they had a son, Faizal. Sadly, the marriage lasted only two years before ending in divorce. After the separation, Faizal remained with his mother, and Hassan had very little opportunity to see him while he was growing up. As a result, father and son never had the chance to develop the close relationship that both might otherwise have enjoyed.

He later married Laila, and together they had two daughters, Liyana and Nurul. Despite the difficulties he experienced in life, all three of his children completed their education, earned diplomas and established good careers. Hassan loved his children dearly and did his best to be a caring father. Although his second marriage eventually ended in divorce, Hassan remained close to his daughters.

Both Liyana and Nurul are now married with children of their own. They have established comfortable lives with their families and live in their own apartments. Seeing them grow into responsible adults and devoted mothers was a source of pride and comfort to Hassan in his later years. As severe osteoarthritis gradually affected his mobility, he relied on a personal mobility device to get around. He eventually moved in with his eldest daughter, who cared for him with love and devotion until his untimely passing.

Sadly, Hassan’s life ended in a tragic accident at the age of 65. While riding his personal mobility device near an LRT station, he accidentally fell onto the tracks. The police later reviewed the station’s CCTV footage and concluded that it was a tragic accident. The footage showed that he had been trying to manoeuvre his PMD through a very tight space and had come too close to the edge of the platform before losing his balance. His sudden passing came as a great shock to all of us.

When I look back on Hassan’s life, I cannot help but wonder what might have been if he had received the educational support that children with learning difficulties receive today. Perhaps his life would have taken a different path. Yet I choose to remember not only his struggles but also his love for his children and the love they returned to him in his later years. There is comfort in knowing that, despite the many challenges he faced, he was deeply loved by his family, who cared for him until the very end.

Wahidah Binte Sukardi

Wahidah became part of our family in 1975 when my parents adopted her as a newborn baby. Her biological mother was facing a difficult situation and, with a heavy heart, entrusted her to my parents to raise as their own. Wahidah was born on 31 December 1975 in our home at Block 36 Lorong 5 Toa Payoh. I was sixteen years old then and had just completed my Cambridge GCE O-Level examinations. I was involved in helping my parents with the legal adoption process. It took several years before all the formalities were completed and she was officially registered with our family surname. From the day she arrived, however, she was simply our youngest sister. She brought new joy into our home, and I still remember carrying her in my arms as a baby. At no time did she ever feel like anything other than a member of our family.

Wahidah was a quiet, timid and obedient child by nature. She attended an English-medium primary school but did not do well in her studies. My parents did not place a strong emphasis on our education, particularly for their daughters. They certainly wished for us to do well in school, but like many parents of their generation, they believed that once children were enrolled in school, the teachers would take care of their education. There was also a prevailing belief that a child’s academic success was largely a matter of ability and fate—those who were naturally capable would excel on their own. At home, we were largely left to manage our own studies, for those who attended school, with little supervision or guidance from our parents

I tried to help Wahidah with her schoolwork during her primary school years, but despite my efforts she continued to struggle academically. After completing primary school, Wahidah was expected to continue her education at a vocational school. However, our family became concerned about the environment she might be exposed to and the company she might keep. After much discussion, my father decided that she should leave school instead.

When our mother passed away in 1987, Wahidah was only eleven years old. Much of her care then fell to my sisters, especially Zaiton, with whom she lived while Zaiton was also looking after our father. The love and guidance she received from my sisters helped provide the stability she needed during those difficult years.

In November 1993, at the age of eighteen, Wahidah married Mohd Ariff. Together they raised four children—Syahiran, Shukran, Sharifah and Shazanah. Although she had little formal education herself, she was determined that her children would have opportunities she never had. She devoted herself to raising them in a loving and disciplined home, encouraging them to study and build a better future.

Sadly, her marriage was far more difficult than any of us realised. For many years, Wahidah quietly endured an unhappy relationship, suffering repeated verbal abuse while choosing to remain in the marriage for the sake of her children. She never shared her struggles with the rest of the family. At family gatherings she always came with her children, explaining that her husband was busy at work. Only much later did we learn the emotional burden she had carried for so many years. Once all four of her children had grown up and established themselves, Wahidah finally found the courage to make a difficult decision. In early 2026, after many years of endurance, her marriage ended in divorce. Although it marked the end of a painful chapter, it also became the beginning of a new and happier stage in her life.

Today, Wahidah has the satisfaction of seeing her sacrifices for her children bear fruit. Her eldest son, Syahiran, is married and has a child. Her second son, Syukran, pursued his education further and obtained a degree qualification. Her daughter, Sharifah, completed a diploma in Early Childhood Education and is now working as a childcare teacher. Her youngest daughter, Sabrina, is currently in her final year at a polytechnic, pursuing her studies in Childhood Education.

Determined to improve herself, Wahidah also returned to study. She secured employment at a childcare centre and was eventually promoted to become a childcare teacher. Watching her rebuild her life with renewed confidence has been a source of great happiness for our family.

One of the most emotional moments in our family’s history came just before her marriage. Under Islamic law, a woman’s marriage must be solemnised by her biological father or guardian. We therefore knew that we could no longer keep her adoption a secret. My sisters and I brought Wahidah to Sembawang Park, where we gently told her the truth about her birth. She was completely overwhelmed. At first she refused to believe us and broke down in tears. We reassured her that nothing had changed—that she would always be our sister and a cherished member of our family. Gradually she accepted the truth. Thankfully, our relationship remained exactly as it had always been. She continued to regard us as her brothers and sisters, and we have never regarded her as anything else.

Looking back today, I still remember the little baby I used to carry in my arms. She brought joy into our family from the day she arrived and never once felt like a burden. Quiet, gentle and resilient, she has faced life’s challenges with remarkable patience and dignity. Seeing her finally find peace, independence and happiness after so many difficult years gives me great comfort. I pray that Allah continues to bless her with good health, happiness and many more fulfilling years with her children and grandchildren.

Reflections on My Siblings

As I look back on the lives of my brother and sisters, I realise that each of us travelled a different path. Some were blessed with longer lives, while others were taken from us far too soon. Some faced illness with courage, others endured hardship quietly, and one struggled through circumstances that were beyond his control. Yet despite our different journeys, we remained bound together by the values our parents had instilled in us—love for family, compassion for others, resilience in adversity and a willingness to help one another whenever the need arose.

We did not grow up with wealth or privilege. Education was limited for many of us, and life demanded sacrifices from an early age. Looking back, however, I do not measure my siblings by their academic achievements or material success. I remember them for the lives they lived and the values they embodied: Aisah’s warmth and hospitality, Zaiton’s generosity and selflessness, Norjan’s devotion to caring for those who were ill, Rahmah’s quiet endurance through years of illness, Hassan’s struggles and the family support that carried him through difficult times, and Wahidah’s courage and sacrifice in enduring an unhappy marriage for the sake of her children, giving them the stability and opportunity to grow before finally finding the strength to choose a new life for herself.

Time has changed many things. Several of my beloved siblings have returned to Allah, while those of us who remain have grown old and watched a new generation take our place. It gives me great comfort to see our children and grandchildren enjoying opportunities that were beyond our reach. Their achievements are built upon the sacrifices made by those who came before them. I count myself fortunate to have shared my life with each of my siblings. They have shaped the person I have become in ways I only fully appreciate now, in my later years. Their stories are not merely part of my family’s history—they are part of who I am.

As I write these memories, I pray that Allah showers His mercy upon those who have passed on, grants good health and happiness to those who are still with us, and strengthens the bonds of love that continue to unite our family. I also hope that future generations who read this memoir will come to know not only our names, but also the values that guided our lives. If they can carry those values forward, then the legacy of our parents and our family will continue long after we are gone.