I REMEMBER being humiliated in front of an entire class for not knowing a mathematical problem when I was just 12. I hated maths ever since. It took years for the sting to be scrubbed off from my memory. I had a phobia about maths that lasted through my secondary years.
It took another patient teacher who went the extra mile and pushed past my walls to get me to love maths all over again.
She did her best to make the math relevant, often by giving real-world problems. With a terrific sense of humour and an obvious love for teaching, she made me look at numbers and equations in a different way. And through it all, instilled a love for math that has never waned.
At the end of that season, Mrs Ng's efforts paid off. From failing maths throughout my early secondary years, I scored an A in my final SPM exams. I eventually went on to a career that was underscored by my renewed interest in maths. I became a banker for the first 17 years of my early adulthood.
Through her, I saw up close that teaching is one of those jobs you do with the whole of you — trying to break through to a young mind can break your heart. Mrs Ng cared about her students like they were her own children.
She wasn't just teaching school lessons but life lessons. For her, it was about more than facts and figures. It was about the love of learning and the love of self. It was the great entangle, education in the grandest frame, what sticks with you when all else falls away. As Albert Einstein once said: "Education is what remains after one has forgotten what one has learned in school."
She showed me what great teachers looked like: proud, exhausted and overjoyed. For great teachers, the job is less a career than a calling. You don't become a teacher to make a world of money. You become a teacher to make a world of difference.
"Teachers can make a world of difference," agrees Samuel Isaiah. The finalist for the Global Teacher Award, an annual US$1 million award by the Varkey Foundation to a teacher who has made an outstanding contribution to the profession, adds: "Possibly the most critical element to success within school is a student developing a close and nurturing relationship with at least one caring adult. Students need to feel that there's someone within school whom they know, to whom they can turn, and who'll act as an advocate for them."
He knows what he's talking about. He has, after all, made a difference to the lives of Orang Asli students of SK Runchang in Pahang. For about eight years, Samuel travelled 200km daily to teach at an Orang Asli School.
Known affectionately to his students as "Teacher Sam" or "Sir", the Pahang native began shifting the previously negative perception of Orang Asli children and their educational capabilities from the get go.
"When you've been told what you can't do, you tend to believe it. The narratives that we're exposed to shape our interpretation of reality and our beliefs," he continues, adding: "Imagine what goes through the minds of our Orang Asli communities where poverty and low education outcomes are, in many people's minds, synonymous with being indigenous."
In schools, most teachers try to ensure that Orang Asli children are able to "fit" into the education system rather than exploring how the present education system can accommodate their needs.
"It's near impossible to try and force square pegs into round holes. When you fail at doing that, you just give up," he adds, shrugging his shoulders.
He saw that the main obstacle in teaching these children was the perception on the part of many teachers that the indigenous children weren't worth their efforts. It was thought that whatever was taught would make no difference because of the children's ethnicity — so nobody bothered to try.
The children themselves ended up believing these stigmas, often doubting what they can achieve. Teaching often consisted of lacklustre rote learning, and little effort was put into creating a congenial learning environment. Consequently, the school was one of the worst-performing in the district.
He pauses, rubbing his face. "It's like being told that education is wasted on you. When I first arrived at SK Runchang, I was told by another teacher, 'Samuel, you don't have to do much, they're just Orang Asli'".
The new teacher soon found that his indigenous students didn't have equal opportunities as compared to urban schools due to the lack of facilities. They also weren't keen on learning within the confines of a classroom.
Rather than teaching in a classroom with a handful of children, he insisted on bringing the classroom to the children to address the appalling attendance rate of students who gave up studying and stayed outdoors to play.
"My experience and education dictated that I was qualified to teach them what they needed to know to succeed. However, when it came to how they received the information, I was totally at their mercy," he explains, adding: "Because, regardless of how good or important the subject matter is, if no one's listening, then no one is learning."
It was at that point that he decided to "go to where they were" in order to bring them to where he was.
Introducing Sekolah Pokok (loosely translated as school under a tree), he went to their villages and set up a makeshift school outdoors to teach on certain days of the week. As he began to teach, the curious children found themselves drawn to the strange-looking dark-skinned man.
Samuel soon bonded with his indigenous students and embraced their culture, leading him to see their potential.
"I believe having culture at the heart of a service gives children a feeling of belonging, hope, connection, fulfilment and purpose in their lives," he explains, adding simply: "They in turn responded with open arms."
The young teacher also set out to set up a crowd-funding project to create a fully equipped 21st-century English classroom with tablets and computers so they could embrace technology and experience English language learning on a par with urban schools.
Consequently, the students improved in national standardised examinations, from a pass rate of 30 per cent in English (2008-2012) to an average of 80 per cent (2013-2017). These efforts have resulted in a paradigm shift of what indigenous children are considered capable of, academically.
There was a huge need there, and somebody had to fill it, he reiterates simply. "Once I started doing it, the joy of seeing the light bulb go off in their mind — that they can actually accomplish new things, they can speak English, they can go to college, they can succeed in sports, or whatever it is they decide they want to do — is really an incredible thing."
The 33-year-old is endearingly positive. "I loved it," he says, smiling boyishly. "Before I started working in Runchang, I'd been guilty of writing it off. In time, I felt the warmth and a sense of community, and I really enjoyed feeling I was part of that smaller, tighter-knit community."
Adding with pride, he says: "The kids, they're brilliant. They're very, very sweet and very eager to learn."
FATHER'S LEGACY
The sense of pride is palpable. Even if we are just conversing through a Zoom call. He's clearly proud of his "kids".
"There are many times I became the student. They've taught me so much," he insists, smiling. He's found his true calling as a teacher, I note. "By chance!" he interjects, grinning.
"I never intended to be one," he admits, insisting that he, in some fashion, had absorbed his father's spirit of public service and desire to make the world a better place.
"A lot of what I do right now comes from him," he shares of his father, a former postman and pastor.
Elaborates Samuel: "I don't like to be compared to him because we're very different individuals. But I can't help but notice that there are a lot of similarities as well."
His father, Joel Christie Isaiah, always had a heart for people. As they were growing up, Samuel recalls seeing his father go out of his way to help the underprivileged and those who showed up at their home seeking for help.
"He was always feeding them, helping them, visiting the sick, praying for them. Though we lived frugally on my father's postman salary which was very little, he sacrificed his time and money to help those in need," he recounts, smiling. "I think that passion he had to help people… I somehow got it lah!"
He must be very proud of you, I say. He chuckles, telling me that his 66-year-old father had just bought a stack of newspapers to circulate among relatives and friends. "Oh, he's very proud of me," he confirms, grinning.
The third among five siblings, he reveals that no one in his family has ever been involved in the teaching profession.
"I'm the only one!" he tells me blithely. "I'd say becoming a teacher was either a mere coincidence or by divine appointment."
He pauses, brows furrowing, before adding quietly: "I personally think it's the latter."
Recounts Samuel: "I was the bright spark in the family. I scored straight As for my UPSR and PMR." But when he turned 16, he went through a season where he questioned everything.
"I somehow didn't agree with the status quo that dictated that I should be doing science, medicine or engineering. I was just not interested," he recalls.
What Samuel wanted to do was to play music.
"I loved singing, playing the guitar and languages. I didn't want to take the academic route. I definitely didn't want to be stifled by the weight of expectations put on me simply because I was a smart student," he explains, adding ruefully: "I felt, honestly, like a square peg being pushed into a hole that didn't and couldn't fit me."
The expectation to get a scholarship to do medicine was dashed when he didn't get the desired results for his SPM.
"Unfortunately, that (the scholarship) didn't happen…" he says, adding tongue-in-cheek: "Or maybe on hindsight… fortunately it didn't happen!"
As he filled out the admission forms for further learning, the option of getting a TESL qualification was one of his last options.
TESL, an acronym for Teaching of English as a Second Language, is the teaching of English in countries which uses English as their common everyday language — but not as their native language.
This degree enables you to teach English as a second language in schools — both private and government schools.
"Teaching wasn't even what I wanted to do, but somehow I got called in for an interview!" he says, shaking his head in disbelief.
His subsequent interview revealed a surprising outcome. "I didn't look like a typical teacher with the way I looked or dressed," he confides, chuckling.
To his surprise, he was accepted to train as a teacher. "They must've seen something in me that I didn't even realise," he remarks, shrugging his shoulders.
He confesses to not having found his calling or footing in teaching, even when in college. "Things just somehow happened the way they did, and I simply went with the flow," he tells me dryly.
FINDING HIS CALLING
His teenage habit of calling to question the "norm" got him into trouble at his Teachers Training College in Penang.
"I simply found that much of the training was too removed from classroom realities. I couldn't see the relevant connection between theory and practice," admits Samuel.
In college, he questioned almost everything he was taught and became critical in the aspect of pedagogy, and how the common notion of teaching doesn't necessary equate to learning.
"I just felt that the system was too focused on studying textbooks and academic models but not really seeing what happens in real life."
He kept on asking questions ("I just couldn't shut up!") until he realised that questioning the system wasn't getting him anywhere.
"Then I shut up!" he says bluntly. "I drew up a life plan, and told myself that I'll study, get myself posted to a good school and hopefully embark on a career that would see me getting a PhD by the time I was 30. I decided that I'll retire as a professor!"
He got posted to Runchang and his carefully-crafted plans went sideways. "Where IS this school?" he wondered. It wasn't even located on Google maps back in 2011.
Trying to keep a positive mindset, the newly-minted teacher stepped into school and soon started seeing and experiencing the inequalities and the toxicity that existed in the school back then.
"It was continuously implied to me then that we didn't have to do so much for these kids because they're Orang Asli."
For a few months, he actually believed what he was being told.
"My first three months there and I already wanted to quit," he admits candidly. "I felt really down. I was questioning my life's choices and wondered if this career was really what I wanted. Why was I here?"
Things started to change when he started to get to know the children.
"I wasn't just their teacher," he explains, eyes glistening. "I became their friend. I listened. I enjoyed their company."
As he slowly got familiar with the lives of the Orang Asli, they in turn, changed everything for him.
"They changed my whole perception of what education really is about," he asserts. "It wasn't just about completing the syllabus, or just about sitting for exams. It dawned on me that I was there for a purpose. And I was going to do the best I could."
As his relationship developed, his main motivation was to continually challenge the perceptions society had.
"Whatever people told me that my kids couldn't do, I'd say they can. I'd get angry. These are MY children. Don't you ever dare tell me that they can't do anything. I'll teach them and I'll show you that they can!"
And so he did. Today, Samuel is proud as any father figure can possibly be. From learning English by playing the ukulele, to enthusiastically participating in the e-pal programme where they communicated in English with volunteers from all over the world, these bright students under his care have blossomed.
His unorthodox methods have shone a light on children who would have otherwise been shuttered from the rest of the world. Education, with a lot of heart thrown in, can make a difference. He calls it his pedagogy of love.
Samuel's relationship with the students of Runchang extended beyond the boundaries of the school.
"They became my family," he shares, relating to me how his students showed up in full force at his wedding to medical doctor Dr Shanti Mugunen in 2017.
"Through the hustle and bustle, the blaring music, and the loud laughter, there was pin-drop silence when an unfamiliar tribal music started playing. Everyone turned their heads towards a group of spirited and fierce-looking Orang Asli children, hitting their bamboo sticks together as they marched rhythmically whilst making their entrance! Their performance was powerful, moving and allowed my guests to have a glimpse of how amazing they really are," he writes movingly in his Facebook post.
As he takes a break from teaching to pursue his Masters in Educational Policy and Leadership on a Fullbright scholarship, Samuel hopes he'll eventually return to Runchang to continue where he left off.
"I still go back regularly to see how they're doing," he says with a wistful smile.
There's still much to do, he adds, and not enough teachers out there who wants to do more than regurgitate textbook information to students who need to learn.
In another posting, he advises new teachers to: "…love the children, as love transcends the boundaries of race, religion and location. I promise you that your days will be full of joy, and you'll be continually blessed even if you need to travel hundreds of kilometres, ride on 4WDs, or risk it on a boat."
When I look back at the education I received as a young insecure student, I'm forever indebted to a teacher who went against the norm to teach me to love a subject I was initially taught to hate.
Teachers like Samuel have given me hope that there are still these rebels among us that will buck the system and work for kids first.
Ultimately, you CAN be a rebel and make the world a better place. Samuel Isaiah, a rebel with a cause, has proven just that.