RIGHT, gather round, sit properly, don’t slouch – yes, makcik is talking to you. Last Saturday was Teachers’ Day, May 16, and if you haven’t already sent a voice note to your old cikgu or at least scrolled past a touching Instagram reel with your hand on your chest making the haih sound, then kindly give yourself a light lempang and get on with it.
Because we are celebrating the people who shaped us, fed us knowledge like we were baby birds too stubborn to open our mouths, and somehow – somehow – still showed up the next day with a smile.
Now there is a rather beautiful thing circulating about children bringing gifts to their teachers. And before any of you raise your eyebrows, let makcik be absolutely clear: The gift that moves her the most is not the fancy one.
It is the kuih. The humble, lovingly wrapped, slightly squashed kuih that a child carried all the way from home – perhaps from Mak’s kitchen, perhaps from the pasar pagi stall – sweaty little hands clutching it like it was the most precious thing in the world. That kuih, mind you, is pure, unfiltered love.
That child did not know about gold prices or investment portfolios. That child only knew: cikgu saya suka kuih, saya bagi kuih. Full stop. No hidden agenda. No PR strategy. Just heart.
Which brings us, without even blinking, to the gold bracelets. Yes, dear readers, you read correctly. There are children in this boleh land of ours – bless their affluent little souls – who have gifted their teachers actual, physical, 916 gold jewellery.
In 2024, a seven-year-old boy inspired by his mother’s habit of investing in gold monthly, marched himself to a jewellery store and bought bracelets for 10 of his favourite teachers.
And then – hold on, wait for it – he considered buying three more for the canteen makcik.
The canteen makcik, people. The boy included the canteen makcik. If that child is not a future prime minister, makcik does not know what is.
Meanwhile, most of us adults can barely remember to thank the cashier. Absolutely shameful, really.
But let us talk about the people receiving these gifts. Because here is where makcik needs to set her kopi down and speak from somewhere very close to her heart.
Teaching in this country is not an easy road. Everyone knows it, including the teachers themselves.
The marking never ends, the meetings multiply like kutu rambut, the admin works pile up faster than laundry during monsoon season, and the emotional labour – oh, the emotional labour – of managing 30 little human beings with 30 different home situations, 30 different heartbreaks, 30 different dreams.
It is, on the best of days, magnificently exhausting.
And yet. Every single morning, teachers come back. They stand in front of that whiteboard, marker in hand, and they try again.
Not because the rewards are glamorous. Not because the world is throwing parades in their honour.
They come back because somewhere inside them lives a calling so stubborn, so quietly fierce that no amount of administrative nonsense or difficult parents or fraying classroom ceiling fans can extinguish it.
These teachers have decided – made a conscious, daily, renewable decision – that their children in that classroom will not be the ones who suffer for it.
And that, makcik submits to you, is nothing short of extraordinary.
Think about the teacher who notices, quietly, that one child has been wearing the same shirt three days running and says nothing to embarrass him but somehow ensures that child eats properly at recess.
Think about the cikgu who stays back after school – not because anyone asked, not because it appears on any KPI spreadsheet – but because Siti still does not understand fractions and that fact bothers her personally, like a pebble in her shoe she cannot ignore.
Think about the teacher who WhatsApps a parent at 9pm not to complain, not to escalate, but simply to say: “Encik, saya perasan Ahmad nampak sedih hari ni. Nak tanya macam mana keadaan di rumah?”
That message. That one message sent after a long day when anyone would be forgiven for just going to sleep – that message changes things. Sometimes, it changes everything.
These are not extraordinary moments in some grand cinematic sense. There is no dramatic music, no slow clap from colleagues.
It is just a tired teacher, in a modest house, caring enough to type those words and press send.
And somewhere on the other end, a parent exhales. A child feels, without knowing why, a little less alone.
We have the tokoh guru to celebrate our finest educators nationally, and rightly so – it is a beautiful, deserved recognition.
But makcik wants to light a candle today for the ones who will never win a trophy. The unsung ones in the rural schools and the overcrowded urban classrooms. The ones who dig into their own pockets for craft supplies without mentioning it.
The ones who remember, years later, a child’s name – and that child, now an adult, cries when they find out.
Because great teaching leaves marks that last longer than any examination result.
It plants something in a child – confidence, curiosity, the radical belief that they matter – and that something grows quietly for the rest of that child’s life.
So to every teacher who chose to show up fully, who refused to let anything shrink the size of their heart for this work – makcik sees you.
Not just last Saturday, not just when the kuih arrives and the gold glitters.
Every day. Makcik sees you.
And to the children – from the one with the kuih to the one with the gold bracelet, and every child in between who drew a card with a lopsided heart and wrote “Best Teacher” in wobbly letters – thank you for reminding us that appreciation does not require a budget. It requires only a willing heart.
Now, all of you, go call your cikgu. Tell them what makcik said. Go on, lah. Jangan malu-malu kucing.
Azura Abas is the executive editor of theSun. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
