Desire to uplift family drives Orang Asli student to STPM excellence
Roziana, a student of Sekolah Menengah Kebangsaan Tanjung Gemok, Kuala Rompin, Pahang, said it was sheer hard work and discipline that led to her being named the 2024 STPM Best Student in the Orang Asli category by the Malaysian Examinations Council (MEC).
'My inspiration is to improve my family's social standing, and then elevate my social status... so that I can stand tall as a great Orang Asli,' she said.
She said this after the 2024 STPM, Malaysian University English Test and Malay Language Proficiency Certificate for Foreign Nationals Outstanding Student Award Ceremony here today.
The awards were presented by Education Minister Fadhlina Sidek.
Roziana, who obtained 4As with a perfect cumulative grade point average (CGPA) of 4.0, said her life, which is full of hardship - such as the lack of electricity and internet in her village and a daily school commute of nearly one hour - only strengthened her resolve to the point of being willing to stay in the school hostel for a year and a half to focus on the STPM preparation.
Asked about her plans, Roziana said she had put Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia (UKM) as her top pick to further her education in economics, which is her field of interest.
'I am keen on economics, so I plan to study in that field... UKM is my preferred choice because it is one of the best varsities in Malaysia,' she said.
Meanwhile, for Nik Muhamad Ahnaf Rujhiee Raja Anuar, the 2024 STPM Best Student in the Special Needs (blind) category, revision and practice were the keys to his success, in addition to often asking teachers if there were things he did not understand.
'I always asked my teachers if I didn't understand anything. Over time, I managed to have a better grasp of the subjects and, alhamdulillah, it paid off today,' said Nik Muhamad Ahnaf, who obtained 4As with a CGPA of 4.0.
Another top STPM student, Ahmad Hanif Roslan attributed his keen interest in history for propelling him to excel in the subject and be named the Best Student in the 2024 STPM History Subject.
'For me, history is an interesting subject. I never get bored reading about history, although others may feel otherwise. But I know that we can learn a lot from history,' he said.
Earlier, MEC chairman Prof Datuk Dr Md Amin Md Taff announced the 2024 STPM results, which recorded a national CGPA of 2.85, the highest ever recorded since the examination's inception.
He added that a total of 1,266 candidates, or 3.06 per cent, achieved a CGPA of 4.00, an increase of 150 candidates compared to 2023.
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Let me take you back to the late 1980s, when the world still hummed to the sound of cassette tapes, when Bangi was better known for its lush foliage than Wi-Fi, and Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia (UKM) stood like an intellectual oasis in the middle of a green nowhere. It was a time when friendships were forged over soggy cafeteria nasi lemak and midnight motorbike rides; when academic rigour danced with youthful mischief. We weren't just studying – we were discovering ourselves, each other, and occasionally, how many people you could fit into a rickety Volkswagen Beetle without violating the laws of physics or campus security. Those years were more than coursework and caffeine. They were full of texture and trial, of laughter that echoed down the Kamsis (hostel) corridors and serendipities that bloomed like hibiscus after rain. Bangi then wasn't the neatly paved township it is today. It was still raw, still tangled in its own wildness – half university town, half jungle hideout. 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If you studied at UKM in the 1980s, chances are you knew it – not from a brochure, but from a hurried, half-panicked, all-too-familiar ride through the jungle corridor that connected sleepy Bangi to that bustling little town where satay reigned and emergencies got patched. The road to Kajang was no ordinary thoroughfare. It twisted and turned like a soap opera plotline – narrow, dimly lit, and flanked by dense vegetation. It felt less like a road and more like a secret passage through time. A journey from the academic seclusion of Bangi into the unpredictable theatre of real life. And every so often, breaking the eerie silence, a red Kajang bus would thunder past – rattling, coughing, and somehow still moving – its presence a reminder that civilisation hadn't entirely forgotten us. Kajang Hospital was the final destination when things went pear-shaped – when twisted ankles turned into torn ligaments, when midnight fevers soared into dawn deliriums, when fate decided it was time for a little plot development. It wasn't glamorous. It didn't have gleaming hallways or five-star air-conditioning. But it had doctors who knew their trade, nurses with nerves of steel, and just enough antiseptic smell to remind you that you were still alive and in need of help. And that's where a few of my most memorable student escapades took shape. In those pre-GPS, pre-mobile-phone, pre-common-sense days, everything was possible – and often, hilariously unavoidable. But more than the dramas themselves, what I remember most is the spirit that bound us. That unspoken pact between friends, where 'Are you okay?' was always followed by 'Let's go,' and no one got left behind. In that time and place, camaraderie was currency. Whether we were rushing a friend in need to the hospital, we did it together. Sometimes with a prayer. Often with a laugh. Always with heart. Looking back now, the challenges seem small. But in those moments, they were epic – the stuff of campus lore, whispered between hostel blocks and retold with increasing exaggeration (and joy) over teh tarik sessions for years to come. It was a simpler time – before smartphones, Google Maps or Grab rides. A time when you learned to improvise, to hustle, to trust your guts. And yet, amid all the chaos and confusion, there was a strange and beautiful order: friendships deepened, spirits toughened and memories took root. They were initiation rites into adulthood. Bangi-Kajang Escapade No. 1: Murphy's Law and the Midnight Appendix That age-old rule: 'Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong' decided to throw not just a spanner into the works, but the whole toolbox. It wasn't a slow unravelling. 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We huddled like generals around a war map, plotting Operation: Save the Sabahan. UKM's clinic was closed, the hostel warden was missing in action, and Mr T was in no state to straddle a motorbike. Andrew Scully's 'drama-queen' red VW Beetle, circa the late 1980s, famously ferried Mr. T to safety in an unforgettable motorcade rescue. Andrew, a former Malaysian athlete with legs we likened to a racehorse's, proved that heroes sometimes ride (or drive) in quirky style! Enter Andrew Scully, our resident Irish-Malaysian hybrid and the proud owner of a red Volkswagen Beetle – charming, temperamental, and about as reliable as a coin toss in a thunderstorm. We hoisted Mr T into the Beetle like he was royalty on a stretcher. The plan? Dash to Kajang Hospital. Murphy's Law perked up. As soon as we hit the ignition – bam. Total blackout. The Beetle decided it was going full blackout ops: no headlights, no taillights, no warning. Was it an electrical protest? 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He was practically yowling, a crescendo of pain echoing down sterile hallways. Finally, the doctor arrived with the calm of a woman who'd just finished dessert. One firm press on Mr T's lower right abdomen, and she announced with divine finality: 'Appendicitis-lah itu!' No scans. No fuss. Just good old Malaysian clinical instinct and Mr T's resulting scream, which could've shattered a glass panel. Strike Three: No Knife, Just Night Shift By now, we had imagined Mr T whisked into surgery and Murphy finally taking a break. But no. Kajang Hospital, in all its functional glory, dropped the final twist: 'We don't do appendicitis surgery here. Must transfer to KL General.' Plot twist of the year. Our jaws hit the linoleum. A gleaming white ambulance appeared like an ironic punchline, and Mr T was wheeled away once more. Most of our exhausted squad returned to campus – lectures loomed like clouds. But two of us rode shotgun in the ambulance, determined to finish what we started. KL General Hospital was everything Kajang was not – bright, busy, buzzing with city urgency. Mr T was rushed into surgery. 'Another hour and it would've burst,' said the doctor, nodding gravely. We shivered, more from relief than the air-conditioning. We eventually returned to Kajang, then made the final journey home. The time? Around 3 a.m. The UKM guards eyed us with suspicion. We told them the whole story – maybe not every dramatic embellishment, but enough. Their faces softened. One even gave a slow nod, the universal signal of 'I've been there too, brother.' We crashed into bed like fallen warriors. Epilogue: The Appendix and the Aftermath Mr T survived. The appendix did not. Today, he lives in Papar, Sabah – married, thriving and still built like a tank. The barait may have retired, but his spirit? Indestructible. As for us? The VC group still exists, if only in WhatsApp messages and occasional get-together. But whenever we recall that wild night – the broken Beetle, the jungle convoy, the dinner-delayed diagnosis – we smile. Because in that ridiculous, rollicking, unforgettable adventure, we learned that friendship is less about convenience and more about showing up – headlights or not. Bangi-Kajang Escapade No. 2: Of Porous Guts and Prison Bonds If my first trip to Kajang Hospital was a heroic midnight odyssey – flashing motorcycles, dying Volkswagen, and emergency appendectomies – then my second visit was… well, considerably less glamorous. This time, I was the patient. And the enemy wasn't appendicitis or Murphy's Law. It was campus food – that unpredictable roulette wheel of sustenance that swung between delightful surprise and digestive doom. Let's be honest: eating in campus cafeterias back then was a daily act of faith. Every plate of 'nasi campur' came with a side of suspense. Was that sambal? Or was it something that had once aspired to be sambal but evolved into something darker? Sometimes, even your fried egg looked like it had seen things. Well, one fine day, my luck ran out. And not quietly. I was brought in by my VC-buddies to the hospital. I found myself doubled over, clenching my stomach. Waves of pain crashed through my body, and dehydration followed like an overzealous debt collector. Within hours, I was horizontal, helpless, and on my way to Kajang Hospital – not in the backseat this time, but on the stretcher, starring in my own queasy soap opera. Funny thing is, to this day, my family has no idea this ever happened. I suppose I thought: why worry Mum over a glorified toilet tale? But while the food poisoning itself was a regrettable blur of cramps, the real story – the one etched into my memory – lay in the person I shared that hospital room with. You might imagine a sympathetic bed-side mate. A fellow student, perhaps. Maybe a wise old uncle who offered soothing words and prayers. No. My bedside mate was a prisoner. An actual, bona fide, handcuffed inmate – wrist shackled to the steel bed rail, guarded round-the-clock by a stone-faced policeman who looked like he'd lost his sense of humour many years ago. Yes, while I groaned in gastrointestinal agony, my unlikely roommate lay silently nearby, watching. Observing. Breathing. Plotting? Reflecting? I couldn't tell. As the ceiling fan creaked overhead and the scent of Dettol mingled with my shame, I began to wonder: Who had it worse? Me, in convulsive pain, whimpering like a broken kettle? Or him – a prisoner, trying to sleep next to a moaning stranger who sounded like he was rehearsing for a ghost film? Between spasms, my imagination went into overdrive. What was he in for? Robbery? Misunderstood heroism? Smuggling cigarettes? Was he innocent? A victim of circumstance? And what did he make of me? Did he think I was faking it? Or perhaps he thought I was the punishment — that I'd been planted beside him as some new form of psychological warfare. The irony was thick. I was the 'free' man. No cuffs. No guard. But I felt just as trapped – bound by my failing stomach, by sterile walls, by the shared discomfort of two lives momentarily aligned. There we were: one prisoner of the state, the other prisoner of his bowels. Neither going anywhere. Both longing for relief, perhaps even understanding. We never spoke. Not a word. Not even a nod. But I like to believe there was a moment – maybe in the dead of night, between my groans and his weary sighs – when our eyes met in mutual, silent solidarity. The kind of understanding that needs no language, forged not in conversation but in shared suffering. A friendship not of words, but of grimace and grit. Looking back, the whole episode now feels almost comical. And though I never learned his name, his story, or even what crime placed him in that bed beside me, that shared moment of midnight misery has stayed with me far longer than the pain ever did. Lesson learned? Sometimes, the best medicine isn't antibiotics or electrolytes. It's perspective. It's humour. It's recognising that even in your lowest, most undignified moment, there's a story forming – a story you'll one day laugh at, shake your head over, and maybe even write down. Here it is. A glimpse into the enduring camaraderie of the VC group from Kamsis F, forged in the late 1980s. Though the years have quietly slipped by, the bond we shared has never faded. Today, with heavy hearts, we honour the memory and say a final, tender farewell to three cherished friends – whose absence leaves a silence that time can never fill. Heartwarming Takeaways In the end, these Kajang Hospital tales weren't just about fevers, scalpels, or suspicious sambal. They were about something far more enduring – friendship in its rawest form, and the quiet ingenuity that blooms when things go gloriously sideways. When Mr T doubled over in pain, it wasn't just his appendix that cried for help – it was a rallying call. No ambulance? No headlights? No problem. We became a makeshift convoy – one red Beetle, three bikes, and a Sabahan groaning in the back – navigating jungle roads with flashlights and reckless loyalty. It was absurd, chaotic, and oddly cinematic. Then came my own less-heroic episode – food poisoning and a hospital bed shared with a handcuffed stranger. Me, groaning in pain; he, resting in silence. We were from different worlds, yet equally stuck. One with cuffs, the other with a rebellious gut. These moments weren't polished or profound – but they were real. And that's where friendship lives: in broken-down Beetles, makeshift motorcades and quiet solidarity across a hospital ward. When plans fall apart, humour and heart stitch things back together. Murphy may strike, but we rise – with flashlights, wit, and whatever dignity we haven't yet vomited away. Years later, the jungle road is paved, but the memories remain – raw, ridiculous and unforgettable. VC forever? Without a doubt. Because once you've saved a friend in a car with no headlights – or shared a ward with a prisoner – you've earned a bond no scroll or ceremony can replace.
