Two schools left to run without headmasters
SJK(T) Ladang Kalumpang's headmistress retired and was sent off with a small celebration in March.
However, the parents did not expect to be still waiting for a replacement nearly four months later, the daily reported.
Meanwhile, SJK(T) Ladang Kerling's headmaster was transferred three weeks ago but the position still remains empty.
Both schools' assistant headmasters were left in charge but they are not authorised to make any decisions and have to rely on the district education office.
> Twenty-two trained Carnatic students gathered for a record setting seven-hour concert on the steps of the Batu Caves Temple, Malaysia Nanban reported.
The event was organised by Ipoh-based Swaralaya Sangeetha Kalalayam.
They sang 272 verses from the 14th century Tamil hymns known as Thiruppugazh, one for each of the 272 steps of the iconic temple.
The above article is compiled from the vernacular newspapers (Bahasa Malaysia, Chinese and Tamil dailies). As such, stories are grouped according to the respective language/medium. Where a paragraph begins with this ' >'sign, it denotes a separate news item.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Malay Mail
a day ago
- Malay Mail
On your next trip to Ipoh, head to the 56-year-old Cheong Kee Wan Tan Mee in Buntong for ‘wantan mee' and outstanding ‘wantan' made fresh from scratch
IPOH, July 27 — Think Ipoh, think food, think kai si hor fun, think chee cheong fun, think tau foo fah. On most weekends, it's common to see folks from the Klang Valley flocking to the city for a taste of its rich food scene. On long weekends, the crowd often swells into something closer to a horde. After all, even if plenty of restaurants in the Klang Valley (some opened by the original Ipoh businesses themselves!) claim to serve Ipoh fare, nothing quite beats the real thing. Preparing orders for a regular. — Picture by Ethan Lau But venture a little further out of downtown, beyond the biscuit shops and bean sprout chicken, and things start to look a little different. Buntong, a residential suburb known for Kampung Kacang Puteh, is just a ten-minute drive from the city centre and barely two minutes from the KTM station. More than half of Buntong's population is Indian, but it is also home to Cheong Kee Wan Tan Mee, a time-honoured wantan mee spot that has been around for over 50 years. Now I know what you're thinking. Wantan mee? Isn't that what Menglembu is famous for, not Buntong? And you'd be right. Cheong Kee's 'wantan' is the clear highlight. They're made in the old-school fashion, thin, smooth and translucent. — Picture by Ethan Lau The neighbouring township is only a five-minute drive away, so why come here? The answer lies in Cheong Kee's small, delicate wantans. Cheong Kee has been run by the same family for three generations. They still make everything fresh from scratch, daily, just as they did back in the day. It is not at all uncommon to find wantan mee stalls that make their own noodles, but it is harder to find one that still makes its own wantan. These put the old in old-school: small, barely the size of a coin, filled only with pork and wrapped in a supremely thin, nearly translucent skin. They slip into the mouth with barely any resistance. The broth, made from anchovies and pork bones, is dark, clear, and deeply savoury. Though one already gets five pieces with each order of wantan mee, an extra portion of 10 pieces at RM7.50 is well worth the price of admission. This is the taste of wantans as they used to be: smooth, elegant, and dainty. Cheong Kee also makes their own noodles, which are chewy and springy without being too snappy. — Picture by Ethan Lau And what of the noodles? Unlike the slightly curly, alkaline-heavy variety common elsewhere, Cheong Kee's run a little stiff and thick, resembling Hakka mee. Instead of the conventionally bouncy 'QQ' texture, these offer a springy chew without much snappiness. They're tossed in a moderately dark sauce that leans more savoury than sweet, and topped with fat, crunchy bean sprouts. A single portion is RM6.80, and for an additional 80 sen, you can add 'meat strands', shreds of pork cooked down in a glossy mixture of oyster sauce, light soy and dark soy. It's a rustic, hearty plate that looks plain at first glance, but decades of know-how separate it from the rest. It's the sort of know-how and technique that's developed from experience, not gleaned from a book, and a reminder that some things are better left the way they've always been. In places like Buntong, it's a quiet snapshot of another time, not just preserved but still very much alive. There is no big sign; just look for the house on the quiet street with the stall in front. — Picture by Ethan Lau Cheong Kee Wan Tan Mee 542, Jalan Sekolah, Buntong, Ipoh. Open Monday to Saturday, 4.30pm-10.30pm Tel: 012-595 3938 This is an independent review where the writer paid for the meal. *Follow us on Instagram @eatdrinkmm for more food gems. *Follow Ethan Lau on Instagram @eatenlau for more musings on food and self-deprecating attempts at humour.
Borneo Post
a day ago
- Borneo Post
Katjang: Tiny, but tough
Possibly pure Katjang goats, which are almost extinct, seen at Kamal's farm. — Bernama photo IN a wooden paddock sitting at the edge of a sun-beaten field in Rembau, Negeri Sembilan, livestock farmer Kamaruzaman Budin walks slowly toward five goats huddled nervously in the corner of their new pen. With black, brown or mixed coats, of which three are short-eared and lean, their diminutive size is striking compared to the goats in the neighbouring pens, some of which are taller than the railings. Kamaruzaman, 67, better known as 'Kamal', points to a brown goat with a black line along its spine. Then he points to another, then another. 'Ha, this is 'Kacang',' he tells Bernama. 'One, two, three 'Kacang'.' Kamal has just acquired these five goats from another farmer. The seller claims all five are pure-bred 'Katjang', or 'Kacang' as it is known colloquially ('kacang' means peanut in Bahasa Malaysia). The Katjang (Capri aegagrus hircus) is the only goat breed native to Malaysia. However, Kamal has already noticed that two of the five have non-Katjang traits with their long droopy ears. The rest look like they may be pure-breds, but he is not sure until the Malaysian Agricultural Research and Development Institute (Mardi) scientists, who have been seeking and buying Katjang goats all over Malaysia, can verify their lineage via DNA testing. Nevertheless, Kamal considers himself lucky to have gotten them as Katjang goats are becoming rare. 'The Katjang isn't big. And when it's not big, people aren't interested in raising it. 'They prefer imported breeds because they are big and their meat ratio is good,' he observes. 'But the good thing about the Katjang is that it is resilient and resistant to diseases.' Kamal considers himself lucky to have gotten Katjang goats, as they are becoming rare. — Bernama photo That resilience, long taken for granted, has become a matter of national concern. After decades of uncontrolled cross-breeding with imported breeds, the Katjang is facing extinction via genetic dilution. As Malaysia struggles with food insecurity, climate change and increasing food import costs, the resilience of the Katjang may hold the key to the solution. Scientists are racing to conserve the Katjang by employing traditional and new methods using DNA technology. 'Hardy species' Long before Malaysia imported refrigerated meats and had industrial farms, the Katjang goat was a familiar sight in villages. Farmers would let them forage along roadsides and in the fields and forests. Hardy and not fussy about what it eats or where it sleeps, the animal has undergone many generations to evolve and develop a tolerance for Malaysia's heat and humidity, and against the parasites and diseases that are endemic in the country. 'The Katjang is, you know, it's here for a reason. It's indigenous for a reason. It's the best here,' says Dr Ainu Husna MS Suhaimi, principal research officer of advanced and reproductive technologies at Mardi. 'Now in Malaysia, we are realising that our local animals are still the most sustainable.' The Katjang's physical traits are distinct. Other than their small size, they have sleek black and/or dark brown coats, short and tapered upright ears, and straight and tapered upright horns. Adult males typically weigh under 30kg, far less than the imported Boer or Jamnapari goats, which can reach twice that size. Although the Katjang breed is very fertile, with twin births, its milk production is only enough for the kids. It is slower to grow to full size, and is not very meaty. Because of these perceived disadvantages, the Katjang was gradually sidelined. Kamal remembers when he first established his farm in 1985, he only raised Katjang goats. Then slowly the focus shifted to goats with higher meat yield and from 2004 onwards, Boer goats with their impressive build and meat production were imported from South Africa and Australia. However, this stock had an oft-fatal flaw – it could not deal with Malaysia's climate, resulting in a 20 per cent mortality rate, according to Mardi. 'If you talk to farmers (now), what they want is survivability. 'So local (breed) is the most survivable and adaptable so we know there is a demand for (local breeds), but the local breeds are still small,' says Dr Ainu Husna. To offset this, the government at the time encouraged farmers to cross-breed with the resilient Katjang. At first, cross-breeding seemed like a win. Hybrids grew faster and bigger, and fetched higher prices. But the lack of a proper breeding programme caused the Katjang gene pool to become diluted over time. Any pure Katjang goats that remained were used again and again, causing inbreeding and resulting in smaller and unhealthy goats. Following a survey conducted by the Department of Veterinary Services (DVS) from 2001 to 2002, the Katjang was classified as being at risk of extinction, and the United Nations (UN)'s Food and Agriculture Organisation (FAO) listed its status as 'unknown'. Other local breeds of livestock are also facing extinction, including the 'KK' (Kedah-Kelantan) cow, while one breed may be extinct. Mardi believes that the indigenous 'Malin' sheep (Ovis aries) is extinct as a breed. Over two decades later, the Katjang's current numbers are unknown. Mardi has a herd of about 100 Katjang goats at its farm in Kluang, Johor, and its researchers are always on the search for more. 'Small goat, big role' At first glance, saving the Katjang might seem odd as it is a livestock breed, reared to be eaten. After all, if one breed of goat is extinct, can't Malaysia just get other goats from elsewhere? Livestock experts say it is not that simple. Although the goat industry is small in Malaysia, there is a consistent market for it, especially among Muslims and Hindus. Muslims sacrifice goats and distribute the meat, called mutton in Malaysia, during religious events like 'qurban' during Hari Raya Aidiladha (haj season) and 'aqiqah', which is to celebrate births; while Hindus, who refrain from eating beef, consume mutton as their red meat. In 2023, the consumption of mutton, which includes goat and sheep meat, had increased to 1.4kg per capita from 1kg in 2022, while Malaysia's self-sufficiency rate of the meat was 8.7 per cent, a drop from 10.7 per cent recorded in the previous year. Malaysia spent RM8.5 million importing live goats and RM18.62 million on live sheep in 2023, and RM772.4 million on fresh, frozen and processed mutton. Market analysts predict goat meat will become more popular in the next decade as more people will seek it for its leanness and other nutritional benefits. Depending on imports to meet food demand leaves Malaysia vulnerable to any shocks to the supply chain, as the Covid-19 pandemic, the war in Ukraine and recently, the India-Pakistan tensions showed. Meanwhile, local goat production is hampered by expensive feed, veterinary costs and a high mortality rate. Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia (UKM) ecological geneticist Dr Shairah Abdul Razak tells Bernama that the Malaysian livestock industry has been too focused on profits and higher meat yield, without considering issues like the impact of climate change on livestock. 'If we bring, like, sheep that have lots of meat from temperate countries, can they withstand (the heat)? 'Do you want to provide, you know, coolant for them the whole time you put them in the barn, for example?' she says. 'In terms of nutrients, one of the important things about local breeds is that they are not very (choosy).' Dr Shairah highlights some points during the Bernama interview. — Bernama photo Researchers fear the Katjang will go the way of the Malin sheep, characterised by its light brown coarse wool, which they believe has been cross-bred to extinction. However, Dr Shairah thinks there may be a few pure-bred Malin sheep somewhere in Perak and Pahang. '(Saving local breeds of livestock) is a form of – I like to use the word insurance; you know, you might not see it (benefits) right now, but you have to think for the long term. 'We want the resilience and the sustainability for the long term.' DVS researcher and geneticist Dr Ernie Muneerah Mohd Adnan agrees. 'The Katjang goat may not match imported breeds in terms of size or meat production, but in the context of climate change, its adaptability to these changes could become critical for the future of Malaysia's livestock industry,' she writes in an email to Bernama. The FAO reported that as at March 2018, 594 local agricultural breeds out of the 7,745 local breeds listed were extinct, while 26 per cent were considered 'at risk of extinction' and 67 per cent as having 'unknown' status. Should they disappear, so will the genetic traits needed to adapt to new environmental and economic realities. 'Malaysianised goat' The core of the Katjang rescue mission lies in a growing effort to locate and collect the DNA of pure Katjang goats. The project combines old-fashioned legwork and husbandry with modern reproductive methods and genetic science. Dr Ainu Husna's team has been fanning out across rural areas in Peninsular Malaysia, visiting livestock farms and Orang Asli villages. When they spot an animal that looks promising, which is rare, they usually purchase the animals for their farm in Johor, collect samples and sequence their genome for desirable genetic markers. Those with the desired traits will be used for selective breeding with other breeds, in the hopes of producing bigger and meatier, but also heat-tolerant and disease-resistant Katjang hybrids. Under the Katjang rescue mission, Dr Ainu Husna's team has been fanning out across the rural areas in Peninsular Malaysia, visiting livestock farms and Orang Asli villages Dr Ainu Husna. — Bernama photo 'We decided we need to have something in the middle,' she says. 'Now, we are developing our pure Katjang-Boer mix or Malaysianised Boer. (For that) we need pure Katjang.' The selective cross-breeding programme utilises natural and artificial fertilisation methods, using semen or eggs stored in liquid nitrogen. In general, Dr Ainu Husna says Mardi prefers to use natural breeding as it tends to be more successful, with an 80 per cent success rate. But if that is not possible, then researchers will use artificial insemination or in-vitro fertilisation. The DVS also has a biobank of Katjang sperm samples. Having a ready supply of pure Katjang is necessary to refresh the genetic makeup of the Malaysianised Boer after several generations. It is an expensive and time-consuming process, but one that could safeguard the breed and the country's long-term food security. 'We might not see the challenge now, but as time goes by, the future might bring something that we are not prepared for if we don't have this,' says Dr Shairah, who is a senior lecturer at UKM. 'Lack of awareness' Despite the urgency, the Katjang conservation project faces daunting barriers. Researchers tell Bernama they have trouble getting funding or cooperation for conservation efforts because people, including farmers, do not understand the importance of saving local livestock breeds too, not just wildlife. Without financial incentives or market demand for pure Katjang, most smallholders will not choose a smaller, slower-growing goat over a meatier import. 'Farmers often find it more profitable to raise imported or cross-bred goats rather than pure-bred Katjang goats,' says Dr Ernie Muneerah. A few have floated the idea of subsidising farmers to not cross-breed their Katjang and keeping a registry of farmers with pure Katjang, which they can exchange for breeding. All parties want to fix the disconnect between scientists and farmers, and encourage farmers to use available resources such as Mardi and DVS to breed their livestock. Meanwhile, under the glare of the late afternoon sun in Rembau, Kamal pours a bucket of feed into a blue trough. The goats shuffle over, nudging each other gently. He watches them for a moment, thoughtful. They may be tiny, but these goats are tough, he says. 'When it comes to changes, whether climate or something else, I think the Katjang goat will definitely survive.' — Bernama
The Star
3 days ago
- The Star
Heart And Soul: More than just a cat
To the writer, her cat was more than just a pet, he was family. — Photo: Freepik Do you have any real-life, heart-warming stories to share with readers? We'd love to hear from you. Please keep your story within 900 words. Photos are optional and should be in JPEG format (file size about 1MB, with caption and photo credit). There is no payment for stories, and we reserve the right to edit all submissions. Email your story to: heartandsoul@ with the subject "Heart and Soul". I Knew he was mine the moment I looked into his eyes. Five years ago, in the northern Malaysian state of Perlis, I found a tiny, scrawny creature in a hospital drain. I brought him home, fearing the next downpour would sweep him away. He was only meant to stay one night. One night became a week. Though I told myself it was temporary, I named him. I even sent black cat name ideas to my best friends – but I'd already made my choice. He was Bagheera. My little black panther. No bigger than my palm, he nestled in my hands as I sang his name in a lullaby made up on the spot. At first, I told myself he'd stay until he could fend for himself. Then, I told myself I'd leave him behind once I was transferred back to my home state in southern Malaysia. But when the time came, I realised I'd been lying all along. I couldn't leave him – no more than I could carve out my own heart and leave it behind. Bagheera never left my side. As I moved around the country for work, training to be a psychiatrist, from one hospital to another – he followed. My shadow. My little spitfire in black fur. He slept on my legs – unless he was sulking in the laundry basket after being told off. He knew I'd always come to apologise. He arrived at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, when I was 800 kilometres from home, working relentless shifts. The isolation was crushing. He saved my sanity. Later, he saved my life – during a time when bullying at work pushed me to the brink. I stayed alive for him. He was my warmth, my anchor – my reason. When I was offered a job in London, it wasn't easy to leave him behind – him and his sibling, Aarav. I couldn't find a rental that allowed pets. It took time to find a vet I trusted enough to leave my children with. Eventually, I did – kind, careful, thorough. Bagheera spent the final year of his life living at the vet's practice while I made plans for our reunion. That year, he was diagnosed with feline bronchial asthma. The vet assured me it was manageable. Still, as a doctor and a mother, I worried – reading journals, calculating risks. But mortality rates were low. I took comfort in that. Until Friday, June 27. At 3.40am British time, a text came through: 'Are you awake?' My phone had been on Do Not Disturb. I shouldn't have woken. But I did. I replied: yes. An hour later, the phone rang. The vet didn't say hello. He said, 'Bad news.' By the time my mind restarted, he had already finished – in Tamil: 'Bagheera is dead.' I hung up. By 9am, I was buying plane tickets – obscenely expensive – planning my journey home. I flew 22,000 kilometres in 24 hours, just to say goodbye. To cradle him one last time. Some asked, 'For a cat?' I said, 'A family member died.' And that was the truth. This isn't just a story about a cat. It's about the kind of love that saves us – and the kind of grief we're asked to hide.
