The alianation from his peers feels heavy. Denji's expression is distressed while trying to put them by his side but the boys are just there. Quiet and expressionless, not reacting to his emotions, proving him wrong with their silence. Also, they are dressed in a "normal" way and their hats even makes them look a little bit formal, like they had a uniforms (a military one for example. The hats just have that vibe). They also look similar, like a copy, giving a sense of uniformity. Meanwhile, Denji has just a sleeveless shirt and some shorts which someone on twitter pointed out is just the clothes kid denji was wearing some chapters ago. This could mean that Denji is still in a trauma state rooted on his childhood, in contrast to the other boys (forgot their names woops) who got to grown up normally.
Also, I think this is the first time Denji talks to other men to ask for some form of solidarity or support, appart from Aki. This is clear not only by the dialogue, but also with how Fumi is removed from the picture. This is between them, in a little old "this is between men" (cringe) way and "girls wouldn't understand". He tries to use language usually used in men's conversations and yet, Denji still fails to connect with them. His first called for help to other men is unanswered, as well as his attempt to say that he is just like them. The boys' uniformity evident their shared clothes makes it look like Denji is in fact different to the society and its members as a whole, even if he tries to use its gender concepts and language. At rhe end, Denji is no like the "normal men" of his age. And, if we connect this with the clothes he is wearing, we could say that he can't be like the others because of his upbringing.
The fact that denji's panel goes all the way down to the end of the page while the other panel doesn't is interesting. I am not sure what that could mean but maybe is something about how profound is Denji's trauma which makes him understand his sexuality differently. Or it could be another way enhance more the difference between Denji and his peers. Or to point out that Denji, the individual, is different to the men produced by the society, who are in an horizontal panel that makes them one.
“Having just graduated with a degree, I was recently thrown into the notorious job market which now has a current population of almost 13,000 jobseekers. Contrary to my imagination, it was far from being easy, and I would stay unemployed for longer than I had expected.”
by Raudhah Nadhirah
There’s a lot of appeal in government job opportunities, and I get it. For the past few years, companies have turned up and gone out of business, or left the Brunei market altogether. Small start-ups vanish just as they pop up, and some of the big firms that everybody thought would be around forever have either shut down or down-sized, as opposed to providing much needed stable employment.
People are scrambling for certainty and to many, the government provides that job security. A public servant position over different ministries will offer often more generous pay than its private sector equivalent. When you also consider the exhaustive work hours and little to no days off given to those in the private sector, it’s easy to see why working for the government has been the ideal for so long.
So when a vacancy is posted to the public, it’s not a surprise that the number of applicants rise up to the thousands. A recent job I applied for called in at least a thousand eligible applicants to sit for their written test. The available slot for the position? One. That means over a thousand individuals will remain jobless or with jobs they are less than content with.
Having just graduated with a degree, I was recently thrown into the notorious job market which now has a current population of almost 13,000 jobseekers. Contrary to my imagination, it was far from being easy, and I would stay unemployed for longer than I had expected.
My job-seeking days were spent going to the photo studio and the photocopy shop to set up a professional-looking job profile. Every week or so, I’d have a job interview or a written test to sit for. But I faced rejection after rejection for a period of three months, possibly attributed to lack of experience, rambling too much, or reading a whole company website by memory.
When I was finally hired by a private company, it was huge news. It was especially big for me whose self-esteem, battered as it had already been, kept sinking with every rejection and expressed doubt from my family. I was finally going to make significant contributions to my household as opposed to being a very educated but liability-inducing couch-warmer.
When asked about my employment, someone would say for me that I work in an office. I would feel glee that would be short lived as they would then point out that it isn’t a real job, but rather something I would have to make do with until I find better opportunities. They would repeat this answer to the next ten people who asked, and every one would say in agreement, “Jadi tah, lai ah.”
I work from nine to five, in an office. My bosses provide me with my own desk, phone, and computer to work on. I write letters, make charts, file documents, run all over town to deliver or send items. I get weekends off and the pay is significantly more than if not equal to most degree holders I know.
So imagine my confusion when my job is somehow deemed less serious than its government counterparts. It’s not just by other people, really. I often find myself guilty of unconsciously making the same judgment towards my own job and others in the private sector.
When the job I have been struggling to get for months is suggested to be less than a “real job”, I can see how it might come from a place of encouragement. Being a degree graduate, I could be aiming higher. But if I had gotten the same salary and worked for the government many would say I’ve done it – I’ve made it in life.
But today’s government workers would argue the grass isn’t much greener on their side either. There was a time when government employees received full allowances and overtime pay but that was when times were good. Nowadays there are private companies that are able to provide more benefits to their employees.
So to say that other jobs apart from being a public servant aren’t “real jobs” undermines the efforts and struggles of current jobseekers and employees like me who have had to settle with being employed in the private sector. We private sector workers do as much as government workers to get and keep our jobs. In fact, some harder when you consider there are those who work in retail with work shifts of up to twelve hours. It baffles me how anyone can decide on the authenticity of others’ jobs based solely on its sector or amount of salary, none of which give any idea of what the employees really go through.
Yes, maybe it would be ideal to work for the government, but to many others, their jobs are the fruit of their many months of struggles. Their efforts for every application, getting up everyday to work, leaving whatever they would rather do, are real. They are real accomplishments, regardless of how much they get paid or how secure their position in the long run.
My job may not be the best – not the most secure, not the most well paying – but if I get up everyday knowing that I make life a little easier for my bosses or my clients, earn and learn along the way, it should be enough to be called a job.
by Raudhah Nadhirah
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“Being a Bruneian is important to me. You may think I am an invader, trying to take away jobs from Bruneians. But I grew up here, as did my parents. My grandparents came to Brunei for work, and stayed for the love of the country.”
An anonymous contribution
I’ve lived in Brunei for more than twenty years—I feel like a Bruneian, and have lived and breathe like a Bruneian. Even the lyrics “Negaraku. Tanah tumpahnya darahku” from the Malaysian national anthem—a country where my documentations are from—doesn’t sit well on my tongue. Because most of my blood has been spilled in Brunei, having gone through hardships and difficulties that many Bruneians have also gone through.
Despite all my feeling towards my country, it still isn’t enough for me to acquire a Brunei citizenship. In school, I was taught through Melayu Islam Beraja classes that I would be eligible to apply to be Bruneian at 18 years old, and eventually nationalized into acquiring a Yellow Identity Card—golden in my eyes. My mother holds a Malaysian passport and is Red Identity Card Holder (Permanent Resident in Brunei). Meanwhile, my father is a Malaysian and a Green Identity Card Holder which makes him (and, automatically, me) a foreigner. For some reason, his application to become a Permanent Resident has been rejected many times in the past. As had my grandparents before him.
This makes my future complicated not just for me, but for them too.
Because despite having lived in Brunei for so long, and fueling the everyday life to make Brunei what it is for us and those around us, we might have to move to Miri in the future. The idea of moving to a country I barely know—despite being its national citizen—does not make me happy.
At a young age, I did what I had to do to acquire a citizenship—or perhaps, just a red identity card—which in turn made me feel Bruneian. I studied hard, did activities, and carried out responsibilities expected of a Bruneian. I went down the streets every time there is a national event as a child, a Brunei flag on my hand waving with the winds as the parade passes by. Doing this may not be enough when it comes to actually being a Bruneian, but as a child, it was a big deal.
It instilled the value of being loyal to a country I felt was and still is my home.
As soon as I finished school in Brunei, I went to college in Kuching, Sarawak. It was a decision I had to make because I did not get the same privilege as my Brunei friends when it comes to scholarships, even local ones. Eventually I was also forced to get a job in Sarawak due to higher pre-requisites instilled on non-Bruneians who want to work in Brunei. I wasn’t happy about leaving my home, but during holidays, and if the time is right—mid-July, yearly—I would come down to Brunei from Kuching, a letter in hand pleading for the process of my application to be sped up, transferred from my palm to that of a man who overlooks the nation.
I was not the only one. My cousins would come with me, application form and letter in hand, transferring a piece of paper filled with hope. Strangers stood next to me, waiting in rain or shine. We are young and we are old. Some others have even advanced to handing out a flash drive to The Person Who Can Make It Happen.
To become a national there, I really don’t think I had to do much as no one is keeping records of what good deed I have done for the country. All I had to do is apply, apply, and apply for the citizenship and hope that one day I will be considered. At this point, it just seems like luck.
Being a Bruneian is important to me. You may think I am an invader, trying to take away jobs from Bruneians. But I grew up here, as did my parents. My grandparents came to Brunei for work, and stayed for the love of the country. While they had to adapt, I was socialised into being a Bruneian—in my language, my work ethics, my drive, my consumption of food. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be good enough to get a citizenship despite the sweat and drive I have given for my country. I have generations of history in Brunei, it would be sad to leave it behind in the future.
An anonymous contribution
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“Mental health issue is still a taboo among Bruneians, resulting in cluelessness and ignorance. It is alarming because sufferers need to heal, but the public still need time to be educated about it. People treat mental health like it’s a joke, scathing words like “wad gila” being thrown around without a little bit of tact.”
A contribution by Nahj
I am obsessed with being omniscient even though I know that it is unattainable. At some points of my life, I feel like I need to achieve that illusion state of always knowing. This is because I am afraid to face the reality, the uncertainty, the unpredictability and the unexpected trials the world may bring to me. I am scared I might lose self-control, and in that moment of losing myself, others will get to witness it.
So I have two issues I need to deal with: 1) to have courage to handle the inconvenience in life, and 2) to open up to people about me having self-issues which is also an inconvenience in life.
We recently found out that my mother has a severe illness. I remembered rushing to the hospital with her at 11pm, not having a clue on what to do. I had no knowledge where to go, how to register or who should I talk to. I was not prepared and was not in control as I always was. That was just one incident of many more of me losing self-control and becoming a new different person.
I became helpless and hopeless to me and to others.
Whenever I feel like I am losing my self-control, all I want is just a bit of attention from people—to be assured. I just want them to listen about how terrible I am feeling.
However, in multiple occasions, my emotions are dismissed over something else like a funny video on Instagram. This would hold me back. The next thing that will happen is that the conversation will divert to how bad their day was.
It was all about them now, mine was just left hanging.
I am left with no clarity and the weight of the world still on my shoulders.
I then developed a new sense of self, pattern of behaviour and sets of routine. I get disappointed easily and became sceptical of almost everything and everyone. I cannot talk without being offended and I have a hard time accepting criticism. My emotions grow like a snowball effect. Temper is a companion and my words hurt like a knife. I preferred to do things on my own so I will always stay in control. I developed trust issues that lead to a distance between me and the rest. I was far from being happy, and it was painful. At one point, I was trying really hard to conceal my anxiety that I ended up breaking down in front of others. My vulnerability was shown and I didn't know what to do. That was like the dead end for me and I felt both alone and lonely.
My only cure was few hours crying in the shower.
But that was then. I am still learning how to cope with my mental illness now. Because that’s what it is when you want to control everything—a mental illness.
My father once thought I was having a difficulty in my studies but gradually he could sense that something else was up. He approached me in his own way and talked to me slowly and softly. He took his time. He did not attack me with questions and concentrated on being present and supportive. That made me calm and thankful because now I can see that he is slowly adapting to learn about my issues. My father is just one of few more people who are willing to get to know my world.
I then feel reassured and finally can approach my own issue. I am determined to grow my self-control back. Self-control is not just about avoiding temptations. It is more complex than that. It is about taking actions not only in your favoured moments but also during the unexpected moments. I learned that self-control is like self-training thus maintaining it is hard. It requires a lot of effort, willingness to learn, motivation, discipline and commitment. I also need to let myself informed that upcoming bad incident is beyond my control. Prepared or unprepared, I should take the lead and face it. I need to overcome it rationally although it is difficult for me to comprehend.
Mental health issue is still a taboo among Bruneians, resulting in cluelessness and ignorance. It is alarming because sufferers need to heal, but the public still need time to be educated about it. People treat mental health like it’s a joke, scathing words like “wad gila” being thrown around without a little bit of tact.
Although mental health awareness is slowly reaching out the public sphere, the interpretation and acceptance are still worrying. It is because there are different types of mental illness that may occur due to different circumstances that may require different treatments. People view mental health as one thing as opposed to multiple issues. People can understand cancer in its simplest form and differences, but have difficulty in capturing the essence of mental health.
Not only those, people also need to be aware of the sensitivity scale on the topic of mental illness. I was once asked, “Okay sudah mental mu?” that made me both ashamed and speechless. How do you even answer that? Is that even a proper way to ask?
The early stage of having to deal with mental illness are both confusing and challenging. I was so fragile that I have tried so many times to push it away by being in denial about it but the more I do it the more torturing it is to me. Now that I am slowly accepting it, it has become part of me. After letting people know about my issue they might be able to understand me more but I am pretty sure that I will have a label on me as a sufferer. They will have “that” kind of mindset about me that will affect my future actions and decisions later in my life. But frankly speaking I have no time to stress about the label. It is what it is. As much as I want people to understand more about mental illness, I am more interested in self-healing. I cannot force them to live in my shoes but what I can do is to manage and prepare myself for future breakdowns, mood swings and anxiety. As a sufferer, I long for a stability that is to live my life to the fullest and also most importantly to acknowledge existence of my mental illness.
A contribution by Nahj
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“There are those who are fortunate enough to be born into families that will love and accept them no matter what, and that makes me happy because they won't ever have to know how it feels to be on the other side of this.”
By Nilza Nimila
Ever since the moment I realized my sexuality, I began to lead two different lives.
The first one is where I completely embrace my sexuality, where there exists others who embrace it too. The second is both out of necessity with the feeling of knowing my place in the closet. This is because my sexual orientation is invisible in my society, and is also rejected by those whom I have outed myself to.
The invisibility of queerness and the lack of its acceptance in our society is a culture with negative effects as it forces queer people to hide this part of ourselves into the shadows. It results in a kind of dysphoric state where we are unable to live completely authentic lives. Because how can we ever really know a person and how we feel about them when we don't know all of who they are?
I remember a few years ago while I was experiencing my first heartbreak. I was in London and doing my best to not have any kind of meltdown in my commutes. On a particularly bad day, I thought of calling my mother as soon as I got home. When I heard her voice, I started to cry. And it wasn't the quiet whimpering kind of crying but the full-on, wailing, chest-hurting kind of sobbing.
When I could eventually hear her ask me what was wrong, it hit me then that I couldn't tell her that a girl had broken my heart for the first time ever because I hadn’t come out to my mother at all yet. I couldn’t ask her if it’ll ever get better, or if I’ll ever meet somebody who would really love me the way I deserved. I couldn’t ask her anything of romantic love because it would have meant coming out to her and I wasn't ready for that then.
Instead, I told her I was homesick. That was the first time I realized how much of myself I had to hide, more from people that I called friends and family rather than strangers. It was safer and therefore the smarter move.
There are those who are fortunate enough to be born into families that will love and accept them no matter what, and that makes me happy because they won't ever have to know how it feels to be on the other side of this. My queerness is what is called an open secret within my family. I’ve come out to my parents more times than I should ever have to come out to anybody. But the unofficial instated policy in the family is very much “don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t pursue”. To have my own flesh and blood continuously deny and reject my sexuality has been demoralizing and heartbreaking.
It came to a point where my second life became one where my family only knew things about myself that I allowed them to know. Separating myself from them became a norm because I didn't share much or any part of my life with them. And yes, I realize that it was petty of me to do so. Somehow I felt justified in thinking that if my family didn’t want to know who I really am, then they didn't deserve any part of me.
But the self-imposed isolation only served to hurt me in the long run because just as there was distance between me and my family, there was one between them and me.
And realizing how much it upsets me took me by surprise.
Maybe it's because I was born into a family-oriented culture that the alienation from my own family hurts me so much. Maybe it's because I see the close relationships my friends have with their families and I want that for myself too. Maybe it's because a part of me that wants to hope that there can be a day when I can easily talk about my partner with my parents and my siblings. Sometimes I feel selfish for wanting them to accept me so completely because I know they do still love me and I know that despite their rejection of my sexuality, they still accept everything else about me.
But is it really so much to ask to be accepted completely by my own family? Didn't my parents tell me while I was growing up that they would love me no matter what? How is my sexuality not included into that? How does my queerness so completely change the game in how my family loves me?
It's been so many years and I’m nowhere close to getting answers for these questions. If I do find the answers, I’m not sure if they will really make me feel better or will help eradicate the estrangement between me and my family. Only reaching out can do either of that but I’m too afraid to take that first step.
By Nilza Nimila
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