Kembara Insan / Engineer's Blog: 2025

Sunday, 10 August 2025

From Boiler Room to Boardroom – The Story of Aisha Rahman

When Aisha Rahman first stepped into the palm oil mill as a cadet engineer, the air was thick with steam, the machinery roared like restless giants, and she was the only woman on the shift team. Fresh out of university, she carried a safety helmet that was slightly too big, steel-toe boots that were slightly too heavy — and dreams that were far too big for most people to believe.

Lesson 1 – The Power of Positive Affirmations

Every morning, before entering the noisy plant, Aisha would whisper to herself,

"I am capable. I am strong. I belong here."

She didn’t realise it at first, but these words slowly rewired her thoughts. The men who doubted her began noticing her calm confidence, even under pressure.

Lesson 2 – Faith as a Catalyst for Change

The first year was brutal — sleepless nights during breakdowns, missed family gatherings, endless shifts. Many whispered she wouldn’t last. But Aisha held on to one unshakable belief: “I will rise in this industry.” Even when she failed, she saw it as a test of her commitment, not a verdict on her potential.

Lesson 3 – The Law of Attraction in Action

Her unwavering focus on learning attracted mentors who saw her determination. She was soon placed under the wing of Mr. Harun, a senior engineer known for his precision. He noticed how her ideas often brought efficiency gains, and he began involving her in higher-level discussions.

Lesson 4 – Mindful Language and Thoughts

In meetings, Aisha trained herself to speak with solutions, not complaints. Instead of saying “We can’t do this”, she’d say “Here’s how we can make it possible.” Slowly, she became known as the engineer who made things happen.

Lesson 5 – Overcoming Fear and Doubt

The first time she was asked to lead a plant shutdown, her hands shook. It was a massive responsibility — one wrong decision could cost millions. Fear crept in, but she replaced it with preparation. She studied every procedure, asked every question, and executed the shutdown flawlessly. That day, the old boiler operators began calling her “Engineer Boss”.

Lesson 6 – Understanding Divine Timing

Her promotions didn’t come overnight. Some opportunities slipped away, but she learned to trust the timing. “When it’s my time, I’ll be ready.” This patience allowed her to build skills quietly while others rushed ahead.

Lesson 7 – The Impact of Forgiveness

When a senior manager once rejected her proposal harshly, she could have held a grudge. Instead, she chose to forgive, reworked the plan, and presented it again months later — this time it was approved. That same manager later became her strongest supporter.

Lesson 8 – Living in Alignment with Universal Laws

She treated every worker — from the cleaner to the board member — with the same respect. She refused to cut corners on safety or ethics, even when pressured. Her integrity became her trademark.

Lesson 9 – Taking Inspired Action

When she saw a chance to automate part of the refining process, she didn’t wait for instructions. She gathered data, built a prototype plan, and presented it to the board. The project was implemented, saving millions annually.

Lesson 10 – The Role of Gratitude

At every milestone — from becoming Plant Manager to Chief Operating Officer — she thanked her team publicly. “No one rises alone,” she’d say. By the time she became CEO of one of Malaysia’s leading palm oil corporations, her humility was as famous as her results.

Her Legacy

Today, Aisha runs mentoring programs for young women engineers, reminding them:

“Your mind is your greatest tool.”

“Faith beats fear every time.”

“Gratitude multiplies your blessings.”

Her journey from the boiler room to the boardroom became a symbol of what’s possible when determination meets the right mindset.

She didn’t just break the glass ceiling — she turned it into a glass bridge for others to cross.

Rooted in herself

Aisyah stood at the catwalk of the oleochemical plant, the evening sun casting long shadows across the maze of pipes and tanks. The hum of pumps and the hiss of steam were her daily soundtrack. She had been here for just over a year—fresh from university, armed with a mechanical engineering degree, and ready to prove herself.

But reality wasn’t like the textbooks.

In her first six months, she had tried to do everything—fix every technical issue, calm every upset operator, win every manager’s approval, and prevent every possible complaint from production. She carried the weight of everyone’s expectations like a backpack full of steel plates.

She worked late, skipped lunch, and even answered calls at 2 a.m. because she thought that was what a “good engineer” should do. But no matter how much she gave, there was always another problem, another criticism, another raised voice.

One Friday, after a tense meeting about a minor shutdown, she sat alone in the control room, staring at the mimic panel. Her mentor, Encik Farid, walked in quietly and placed a mug of coffee in front of her.

“You can’t control how others think, feel, or behave,” he said gently, as if reading her thoughts. “You can only control how you show up… and how you respond.”

Those words hit her harder than any lecture.

She began to notice her patterns. She realised she had been exhausting herself trying to change minds that didn’t want to change, fix moods she didn’t cause, and earn approval from people who gave it sparingly.

So, she made a shift.

She focused on her work—clear reports, well-planned maintenance, and safety checks done with precision. She stopped taking every sharp word personally. When operators vented, she listened without absorbing the negativity. When management made last-minute demands, she responded with solutions, not stress.

The plant didn’t suddenly become easy. But she became steady.

Her anxiety lessened. She slept better. The arguments faded. And slowly, people started to respect her—not because she tried to please them, but because she stood firm in her role, grounded and professional.

Months later, during an audit, the lead inspector praised her department for its maintenance records. Her manager gave her a rare smile.

Walking back through the plant, with the scent of chemicals in the air and the low rumble of machinery around her, Aisyah felt lighter than she had in months.

She finally understood: she was not responsible for fixing everything. She was responsible for staying rooted in herself. And that was enough.

Saturday, 9 August 2025

Di Antara Jarak, Ada Cinta : Bahagian 6 :Di hujung Jalan Jeroco

Angin malam di Jeroco sering membawa suara hutan — desiran daun palma, rintihan unggas, dan kadang-kadang pekikan burung hantu. Di rumah kayu kecil hujung kuarters kilang sawit itu, Amir dan Arni duduk berdua di ruang tamu yang cuma diterangi lampu malap.

Tiga jam perjalanan berbatu dan berdebu memisahkan mereka dari bandar Lahad Datu. Jauh dari hiruk-pikuk manusia, jauh dari kedai runcit, jauh dari kawan dan keluarga. Di sinilah mereka memulakan kehidupan suami isteri — dengan perabot terpakai, dapur kecil, dan sebuah motosikal yang selalu meragam.

Arni sering memandang ke luar jendela, melihat jalan tanah merah yang sepi. Dia rindu rumah ibunya, rindu bunyi azan dari surau kampung. Namun setiap kali matanya bertemu mata Amir, dia tersenyum — senyum yang menahan lelah, kerana dia tahu suaminya sedang membina sesuatu yang besar untuk masa depan mereka.

Amir pula, setiap pagi melangkah ke kilang dengan tekad. Debu dan bunyi bising mesin menjadi teman hariannya. Dia tidak hanya bekerja, tetapi belajar — belajar daripada setiap juruteknik, daripada setiap eksekutif, daripada setiap masalah yang timbul. Setiap kali mesin rosak, dia akan berada di barisan hadapan mencari punca. Setiap kali General Manager atau CEO datang, dialah orang paling sibuk, memastikan kilang berjalan sempurna, pengurusnya tampak cemerlang, dan tetamu berpuas hati.

Dia sedar, peluang tidak datang dua kali. Setiap lawatan pihak luar negara, setiap pemeriksaan JKKP, setiap audit alam sekitar — itu semua adalah pentasnya untuk membuktikan kemampuan.

Malam-malamnya dihabiskan di meja kecil di ruang tamu. Buku-buku tebal tentang loji wap, nota-nota kursus, dan kertas latihan berselerakan. Arni sering membawakan secawan kopi, duduk di sisinya, mendengar bunyi pensil menari di atas kertas.

Tahun kedua, setelah berbulan-bulan mengorbankan tidur dan masa bersama isteri, Amir menduduki peperiksaan Jurutera Stim Gred Dua. Keputusan itu tiba dalam sampul putih yang getas — dan di dalamnya, satu perkataan yang membuatnya terpejam sebentar, menahan sebak: Lulus. Arni memeluknya erat, air mata mereka bercampur di bahu.

Tetapi kehidupan jarang memberi ruang untuk berehat. Akhir 2006, pengurus kilang kedua meletakkan jawatan secara mengejut. Panggilan telefon dari pejabat pengarah datang pada petang yang tenang.

“Amir,” suara di hujung talian tegas, “kami perlukan kamu jaga kilang itu. Mulai minggu depan.”

Dia duduk termangu, menatap Arni. Isterinya tidak berkata apa-apa, hanya menggenggam tangannya. Genggaman itu adalah restu, adalah kekuatan.

Dan begitu, Amir melangkah ke satu lagi fasa hidup — dari seorang jurutera muda di kuarters terpencil, menjadi pengemudi sebuah kilang sawit jauh di pedalaman.

Di jalan Jeroco yang panjang, berdebu, dan sunyi itu, Amir tahu setiap kilometer yang dilaluinya adalah saksi sebuah janji — janji kepada dirinya, dan janji kepada Arni — bahawa suatu hari, kesunyian ini akan terbayar dengan sebuah kehidupan yang lebih indah.

Suresh and his story on palm oil mill

"I was rejected for an engineering job five times… and ended up transforming palm oil mill operations in my region."

My name is Suresh Kumar. I was born and raised in a small estate town in Perak, Malaysia. From a young age, I loved machines—not just the noise and motion, but the way they could transform raw materials into something valuable.

After graduating with a degree in mechanical engineering, I had one goal:

To work in a palm oil mill and make it safer, more efficient, and more sustainable.

But reality hit hard. My job applications were rejected five times.

They told me:

“You don’t have enough experience.”

“We’re looking for someone older.”

“Maybe try another industry.”

Many would have taken the hint. I didn’t.

While waiting for the next opportunity, I worked as a part-time technician at a workshop, learning how to repair pumps, service boilers, and troubleshoot conveyor systems. Every night, I studied mill process diagrams and read technical manuals until the pages turned yellow.

On my sixth application, I finally got my chance—as a cadet engineer at a remote palm oil mill deep in Sabah. The work was tough: 12-hour shifts, unpredictable breakdowns, and equipment that looked like it hadn’t been serviced in years.

I noticed something troubling:

Every time the boiler tripped or the sterilizer cycle failed, production stopped, and losses mounted. But the solutions were always temporary—patchwork repairs to get things moving again.

I had an idea: What if we modernized the process control system, tracked downtime in real-time, and trained operators to spot issues before they caused breakdowns?

At first, nobody believed it would work.

“Too expensive.”

“Too complicated.”

“It’s always been done this way.”

I didn’t argue. I built a small pilot system using whatever sensors and software I could find. I trained one shift team. Slowly, the data proved itself: downtime dropped, maintenance became proactive, and fuel efficiency improved.

Within two years, the mill’s output increased by 18%, and operating costs dropped significantly. The company rolled out my system across all its mills.

Today, engineers from other plantations visit to learn from our setup. And I still remind the young cadets:

A rejection letter is not the end—it’s an invitation to sharpen your skills, rethink your approach, and come back stronger.

The moral?

A “no” doesn’t mean you’re unworthy. In the palm oil mill—or anywhere else—it simply means the world is asking, “How badly do you want this?”

— Suresh Kumar

The engineer's first step

Raimi was only twenty-four when he received his first appointment letter. Fresh out of university, newly married, and full of dreams, he moved with his wife, Aisyah, to a small rural town in Sumatra, Indonesia. His new job? Junior engineer at a palm oil mill.

The mill was nothing like the modern laboratories he had trained in. The air was thick with the smell of fresh fruit bunches, steam hissed from the sterilizers, and the hum of heavy machinery was constant. But to Raimi, this was the place where his career would begin—and where his responsibilities as a husband would truly be tested.

His salary wasn’t large, but in the first few months, he managed to balance household expenses, send a little money back to his parents, and still save a small amount each month. He and Aisyah kept their lifestyle simple: no expensive gadgets, no unnecessary luxuries.

One evening, as they sat together on their small porch, Aisyah brought up a thought.
“Raimi, we should think about our future. What happens after we retire? We won’t have this energy forever.”

At first, Raimi brushed it off—retirement seemed so far away. But later that night, as he reviewed his first three months’ payslips, he realized she was right. If they started planning now, they could secure not only their own future but also give their future children a stable foundation.

Raimi began reading about investments, EPF contributions, and side income opportunities. Instead of spending his weekends idly, he learned maintenance skills at the mill that could make him indispensable to the company. He took small online courses about financial planning and slowly increased his monthly savings target.

Years later, when most of his peers were still figuring out how to balance family and finances, Raimi had already built a safety net. His early discipline meant he could help his parents, send his children to good schools, and still see his savings grow.

He understood something many only realized too late—time is a powerful ally if you start early. In the hot, noisy palm oil mill, amidst clanking machinery and the scent of boiling palm fruit, a young engineer’s journey to financial freedom had quietly begun.

The show they will never forget

When Farid was promoted to Manager of Sri Palma Palm Oil Refinery, not everyone clapped.

Some whispered.

Some smirked.

And a few—those he knew too well—predicted he wouldn’t last six months.

“He’s too young for that role.”

“He only got it because the previous manager left suddenly.”

“He won’t survive the pressure.”

Farid heard it all. Not because they said it to his face, but because refinery walls had a way of carrying sound further than you think.

He didn’t fight back with words.

He fought back with action.

Every morning, before the boilers roared to life, Farid was already on site—helmet strapped, safety glasses in place, and a worn leather notebook in his hand. He knew the plant inside out: the hum of the centrifuges, the hiss of live steam, the precise rhythm of loading tankers at the dispatch bay.

When a sudden breakdown hit the deodoriser unit, the doubters watched for panic.

Instead, they saw Farid roll up his sleeves, crawl into the maintenance pit, and coordinate repairs with the precision of a conductor leading an orchestra. Within 18 hours, the unit was back online—well ahead of schedule.

When market demand spiked and the refining team groaned under pressure, Farid didn’t hide in his office. He stayed with the night shift, checking product quality in the lab, adjusting parameters, making sure every drum that left bore the refinery’s standard of excellence.

Month by month, the numbers told a story no rumour could erase:

Downtime reduced by 40%

Throughput increased by 15%

Zero major safety incidents

The same voices that once whispered now fell silent.

And the silence was the sweetest applause.

Farid didn’t do it for them. He did it for the pride of building something undeniable. For proving to himself that he could lead a team, protect his plant, and turn pressure into performance.

Now, whenever he walked past the control room, he caught the same doubters watching—only this time, they weren’t waiting for him to fail. They were taking notes.

The best revenge wasn’t anger.

It was achievement.

And Farid had given them a front-row seat to the show they would never forget.

Fazrin Latif and the boiler that would't sleep

Fazrin Latif wasn’t just a boiler engineer — he was a boiler man.
Where other people saw steam drums, furnace walls, and stacks of refractory bricks, Fazrin saw a living, breathing machine.

In the heart of the palm oil biomass plant, Boiler 5 stood like a trusted warhorse. It had carried the factory through breakdowns, production surges, and even one disastrous fuel shortage during monsoon season. Fazrin had been there for every start-up, every soot-blow, and every nerve-wracking pressure test.

But now, management had a new idea.

Two boilers. One running. One “standing by.”
“Peace of mind,” they called it.
“A safety net,” they said in meetings.

On paper, Fazrin understood the theory. If Boiler 5 failed, Boiler 6 would step in. The factory would keep running without a hiccup. No one would lose sleep.

But Fazrin knew the truth — standby in a biomass world was a fairy tale.

A real standby had to be warmed every day, kept close to pressure, and treated like it could take over at any moment. That meant burning fuel, assigning operators, logging parameters… every single day. And here in the real world, with tight fuel rations and overloaded crews, that wasn’t going to happen.

He had seen it before:
A cold standby left for days.
Moisture beading on tubes.
SOx and NOx residues mixing with the dampness.
Acid quietly eating steel from the inside.

By the time anyone noticed, wall thickness readings told a grim story — steel thinned, corrosion patterns like cancer spreading across the tubes. And then the budget meetings began:
“We need a retube.”
“It’s normal, every 10 years.”

Normal? Fazrin’s jaw clenched every time he heard that word.

To him, calling premature retubing “normal” was like buying a brand-new truck and replacing the chassis every year — then patting yourself on the back for “good maintenance.”

The real tragedy? A single, well-maintained boiler like his beloved Boiler 5 could easily outlive a two-boiler setup where one sat rotting in a corner. But convincing management was like shouting into the wind.

So Fazrin made a vow — if Boiler 6 was going to be there, it wasn’t going to die in silence. He scheduled periodic warm-ups, monitored tube metal temperatures, and fought to keep flue gas above the acid dew point. He logged everything, even when no one asked.

Some nights, walking past the boiler house, Fazrin would rest a hand on Boiler 5’s warm shell.
“You’re not alone, old friend,” he’d whisper. “I’ll keep them from turning you into a museum piece before your time.”

Because to him, a boiler wasn’t just a piece of equipment.
It was the beating heart of the plant.
And a heart only works if you keep it alive — not just on paper, but in practice.

From Tebing Tinggi to the boilers of Borneo

I wasn’t the brightest in class.

I wasn’t born into wealth.

But I was the one who refused to let go of my dream — even when the road ahead was nothing but sweat, heat, and steel.

My name is Hasri Hasfa.

I was born in Kg. Tebing Tinggi, Pengkalan Chepa, Kelantan, where the days smelled of sea breeze and the nights echoed with the sound of fishermen returning home. Life was simple, but dreams were expensive.

I studied harder than my friends, not because I was naturally gifted, but because I knew education was the only ticket out. That journey led me to MRSM Kuala Terengganu — a world away from my village. There, discipline and self-belief were forged. I learned what it meant to compete with the best, and more importantly, what it meant to compete with myself.

From there, I earned a place at Universiti Sains Malaysia, Penang. While others dreamed of corporate suits and city skylines, I dreamt of turbines, boilers, and the rhythmic hiss of steam. Mechanical engineering wasn’t glamorous, but it felt like destiny.

After graduation, I stepped into the palm oil industry. The air was thick with the scent of crude palm oil, the boilers roared like beasts, and the heat could bend even the strongest will. Many quit within months. I stayed.

I learned every valve, every gauge, every hiss of escaping steam. I climbed the ranks — from junior engineer to Certified Steam Engineer. But I didn’t stop at mastering machines. I made it my mission to mentor the next generation — young technicians, fresh graduates, and cadet engineers who reminded me of myself years ago.

I worked in mills from Johor to Sabah, from estates hidden deep in the jungle to refineries at the edge of the sea. I slept in staff quarters where the nights were silent except for the distant hum of machinery. I shared meals with workers in the boiler shed and listened to their stories.

There were days of breakdowns, nights of emergency repairs, and months where the targets seemed impossible. But every time, I tightened my grip on the wheel and refused to let go.

Years later, when people see me now — a seasoned steam engineer, a mentor, and a leader in the industry — they only see the results. They don’t see the scars:

The burns on my hands from steam leaks.

The sleepless nights during shutdowns.

The times I doubted myself but kept going anyway.

I’ve learned this:

Success is not built in comfort.

It’s forged in heat, in noise, in the stubborn refusal to quit when everyone else walks away.

Hasri Hasfa wasn’t born in a boardroom.

He was built in the heat of a boiler room —

kept alive by hands that refused to stop turning the wheels.

And if there’s one thing I’d tell the next young engineer:

When the road gets impossible, don’t let go.

That’s when you’re closest to making it.

Root before wings

Aisyah sat on the worn wooden bench at Universiti Sains Malaysia’s Engineering Campus, watching the afternoon rain slide down the window panes. She was in her second year of Mechanical Engineering, and lately, the weight of endless assignments, group projects, and lab work had started to feel suffocating.

Her friends seemed to be moving ahead—internships with big companies, research projects, even overseas exchange programs. Meanwhile, she felt like she was running on a treadmill, always moving but going nowhere.

It was during one of her evening study breaks that she stumbled across the story of the Chinese bamboo. For five years, nothing grows above the soil. But beneath the surface, strong roots are forming. Then, in just weeks, the bamboo shoots up to 90 feet.

“Maybe that’s me,” she thought. Maybe I’m still in the rooting phase.

So, she kept going. Day after day, lecture after lecture, she laid her own “roots” — mastering thermodynamics, learning the rhythm of machining, and developing a quiet resilience that only sleepless nights and failed experiments could teach.

Four years later, with her degree in hand, Aisyah faced her next challenge: she joined as a cadet engineer in a palm oil mill deep in Sabah.

The first months were brutal. The air was thick with the smell of fresh fruit bunches, the boilers roared like restless beasts, and the machinery demanded constant attention. Some days, the pressure made her doubt herself again.

But then, something shifted.

She began solving problems faster, giving confident instructions to operators, and anticipating breakdowns before they happened. Her supervisors noticed.

One evening, standing at the edge of the mill, watching the sunset paint the sky over the palm plantations, she realised — this was her bamboo moment.

The years of invisible effort, the quiet struggles in university, the endless nights of study… they had all been roots. And now, she was growing tall, fast, and strong.

She smiled. The rooting phase was over. It was time to rise.

Aiman learns to let go

(A Story About Freedom That Starts Within)

Aiman was only 19, a first-year student at Universiti Sains Malaysia.
He came with big dreams — to excel in his studies, to be liked by everyone, to make his family proud.

But within a few months, something strange began to happen — a tiredness that never seemed to go away.

Tired from constantly trying to change other people’s minds,
tired from fixing other people’s moods,
tired from chasing everyone’s approval,
and tired from preventing anyone from reacting badly.

No matter how hard he tried, someone was always unhappy.

The Dorm Room Test

Aiman lived in a dorm with three roommates — Farid, the critic; Haikal, the hot-headed one; and Zarul, the quiet observer with a sharp tongue.

Whenever there was conflict, Aiman played the “peacekeeper”:

If Farid sulked because he wasn’t invited for dinner, Aiman comforted him.
If Haikal got angry about a delayed group project, Aiman apologised, even when it wasn’t his fault.
If Zarul made sarcastic remarks about exam results, Aiman smiled, even though it stung.

He believed that if he was kind enough, careful enough, and accommodating enough, everyone would like him.
But reality was — the more he tried, the more he lost himself.

A Conversation That Changed Everything

One day after class, his Social Psychology lecturer, Dr. Sofiah, called him over.

“Aiman, I’ve noticed you’re always the first to help others, but sometimes you look drained. Is something bothering you?”

Aiman gave a faint smile. “I just… want everyone to feel comfortable around me, doctor. I don’t like seeing people upset or angry.”

She nodded. “It’s good that you have empathy. But Aiman, you can’t control everyone. You can only control how you show up, what you focus on, what you tolerate, and how you respond. That’s not weakness, that’s emotional maturity.”

Her words felt like a key turning in a locked door inside his mind.

The Turning Point

The following week, during a group discussion, Haikal burst out angrily when a file went missing.
In the past, Aiman would have apologised immediately and taken the blame.
But this time, he took a deep breath and said:
“Haikal, I understand you’re upset. But I’ve kept the file safe. Maybe we should work together to find a solution.”

Haikal went quiet.
For the first time, Aiman didn’t let someone else’s emotions dictate his own.

The Freedom of Letting Go

Day by day, Aiman began releasing burdens that weren’t his to carry:

He stopped trying to change the minds of those who didn’t want to listen.
He no longer forced himself to fix the moods of those who chose to stay upset.
He quit chasing everyone’s approval.
He stopped fearing people’s reactions when he spoke the truth respectfully.

He realised — he wasn’t responsible for fixing everything.
He was responsible for staying rooted in his own values.

The Ending

A year later, Aiman was calmer. He still helped people, but not at the cost of burning himself out.
He was more focused, more self-trusting, and more at peace.

He finally understood — true freedom begins when you stop trying to control the world and start taking full ownership of yourself.

And on the day of his graduation, Aiman knew…
the smile on his face wasn’t because everyone liked him —
it was because he truly liked himself.

Aiman belajar melepaskan

(Kisah Tentang Kebebasan yang Bermula dari Dalam)

Aiman baru berumur 19 tahun, pelajar tahun pertama di Universiti Sains Malaysia. Dia datang dengan impian besar — mahu berjaya dalam pelajaran, mahu disenangi kawan-kawan, mahu jadi anak yang membanggakan keluarga.

Namun, dalam beberapa bulan pertama, Aiman mula merasakan sesuatu yang pelik — letih yang tak pernah hilang.

Letih kerana setiap hari dia cuba mengubah fikiran orang lain,
letih kerana berusaha memperbaiki mood orang yang marah atau muram,
letih kerana mahu mencari pengiktirafan semua orang,
dan letih kerana cuba mengelakkan reaksi buruk orang lain terhadapnya.

Dia mula perasan, walau sebaik mana dia cuba, tetap ada orang yang tak puas hati.

Bilik Asrama yang Menguji Kesabaran

Aiman tinggal di asrama bersama tiga rakan sebilik — Farid, seorang yang suka mengkritik; Haikal, yang cepat marah; dan Zarul, yang sering diam tapi menyindir.

Setiap kali ada masalah, Aiman cuba menjadi “penyelamat”:

Bila Farid merajuk kerana tidak diajak keluar makan, Aiman pujuk.
Bila Haikal marah sebab tugasan berkumpulan lambat siap, Aiman yang minta maaf walaupun bukan salahnya.
Bila Zarul menyindir tentang keputusan peperiksaan, Aiman senyum walau hatinya pedih.

Dia fikir, kalau dia cukup berlembut dan menjaga hati semua orang, semua akan suka padanya.
Tapi realitinya — semakin dia cuba, semakin dia hilang dirinya sendiri.

Pertemuan dengan Pensyarah

Suatu hari, selepas kelas, pensyarah Psikologi Sosial, Dr. Sofiah, memanggil Aiman.

“Aiman, saya perasan awak selalu jadi orang pertama tolong orang lain, tapi kadang awak nampak penat. Ada apa-apa yang membebankan?”

Aiman tersenyum hambar. “Saya cuma… nak semua orang selesa dengan saya, doktor. Saya tak suka tengok orang marah atau sedih.”

Dr. Sofiah mengangguk. “Bagus awak ada empati. Tapi Aiman, awak tak boleh kawal semua orang. Awak hanya boleh kawal bagaimana awak hadir, apa yang awak fokuskan, apa yang awak toleransi, dan bagaimana awak respon. Itu bukan kelemahan, itu kematangan emosi.”

Aiman terdiam. Kata-kata itu seperti mengetuk pintu yang selama ini tertutup dalam fikirannya.

Ujian yang Mengubah Cara Pandang

Minggu berikutnya, dalam perbincangan tugasan, Haikal marah-marah kerana fail hilang. Dahulu, Aiman akan terus minta maaf dan cuba memujuk.
Tapi kali ini, dia bernafas dalam-dalam dan berkata:
“Haikal, saya faham awak marah. Tapi fail itu saya simpan baik-baik, dan mungkin kita kena sama-sama cari penyelesaiannya.”

Haikal diam. Nada Aiman tenang tapi tegas.
Untuk pertama kali, Aiman tidak membiarkan orang lain mengawal emosinya.

Pembebasan Diri

Hari demi hari, Aiman mula melepaskan beban yang bukan miliknya:

Dia tak lagi cuba mengubah fikiran orang yang tak mahu mendengar.
Dia tak lagi memaksa dirinya memperbaiki mood orang yang memilih untuk muram.
Dia berhenti mengejar pengiktirafan semua orang.
Dia tidak lagi takut pada reaksi orang jika dia jujur dengan cara hormat.

Aiman sedar — dia tidak bertanggungjawab untuk memperbaiki segalanya.
Dia hanya bertanggungjawab untuk tetap berpijak pada prinsipnya sendiri.

Kesudahan

Setahun kemudian, Aiman menjadi pelajar yang lebih tenang. Dia masih membantu orang, tapi bukan sampai membakar dirinya sendiri.
Dia lebih fokus, lebih percaya pada diri, dan lebih damai.

Aiman akhirnya mengerti — kebebasan sebenar bermula apabila kita berhenti cuba mengawal dunia, dan mula mengambil pemilikan penuh atas diri sendiri.

Dan pada hari konvokesyen kelak, dia tahu… senyum yang terukir di wajahnya bukan kerana semua orang menyukainya. Tapi kerana dia suka siapa dirinya sekarang.

The boys who believe in wings

In a small kampung by the edge of a lush forest, there lived an 8-year-old boy named Amir. Amir loved to watch birds. Every morning, before the sun peeked over the hills, he would sit by his window and see sparrows, kingfishers, and hornbills soaring above the treetops.

One day, while walking home from school, Amir found a tiny injured bird by the roadside. Its wing was bent, and it chirped softly in pain. Amir carried it home and named it Putih.

The village elders shook their heads.
"That bird will never fly again," said Pak Mat.
But Amir whispered to Putih, “You will fly. I believe it.”

From that day, Amir talked to Putih every morning.
“You’re getting stronger.”
“You can do it.”
“One day, you’ll soar higher than all the others.”

He read about how birds fly, learned how wings work, and even built small ramps for Putih to practice hopping. Day by day, something magical happened—not just to Putih, but to Amir himself.

Each time Amir believed, his heart felt lighter. He started to believe in other things too—like learning to swim even though he was afraid of the river, or speaking in front of his classmates though his voice used to tremble.

Weeks passed. Then, one bright morning, Amir placed Putih on the window ledge. The little bird tilted its head, looked at the open sky, and with a burst of courage—spread its wings.

It flapped once. Twice.
And then… soared into the air.

Amir’s eyes filled with tears, but they weren’t just for Putih. He realised something powerful: when you truly believe, your heart and mind work together to make it real.

From that day on, whenever someone in the village said, “It can’t be done,” Amir would smile and reply,
“Maybe… but let’s believe first, and see what happens.”

End.

What You Don’t Say Can Speak the Loudest

When Aina first stepped through the gates of Seri Murni Palm Oil Refinery, the smell of warm crude palm oil hung in the air, mixed with the faint metallic scent of machinery.

Freshly graduated from University Science Malaysia, Penang, she was brimming with theories, equations, and the belief that a strong voice and confident presence were enough to lead.

She thought great engineers were those who gave instructions quickly, explained problems in detail, and filled every silence with technical answers. In her mind, “dead air” meant lost respect.

One night, during a shutdown, the boiler pressure started to fluctuate. The control room was tense.

Her instinct was to speak fast — to issue rapid instructions to the operators, to explain every number on the screen. But then she remembered something she had learned at a Toastmasters session she attended back in Penang — from watching a speech by Ramona J. Smith.

Ramona’s pauses were deliberate, her movements calculated. And Aina thought: Could silence work… even here? In a refinery?

She decided to try.

She stepped forward, eyes on the operators, and simply… paused.
The room went quiet.

Then, with a calm tone, she said,
“Check steam traps at station three.”
One short instruction. Then she stopped again, letting the weight of the words settle before giving the next step.

The operators moved with purpose — not because she shouted, but because her timing gave clarity.

Over the next months, Aina began to notice something else — not just the value of silence, but the power of intentional movement.

She studied how her senior engineer, Encik Harun, walked the plant floor.
He didn’t rush.
He moved to where he needed to be — and stayed still when he wanted people to really listen.

She began to copy that. When discussing a safety concern at the clarifier tank, she didn’t pace aimlessly. She planted her feet, looked her technicians in the eye, and let her stillness underscore the seriousness of her words.

At first, this new style felt strange. Aina had to fight the urge to fill every gap with more explanations. But she trained herself — even taking two deep breaths before speaking.

And something changed.

Her operators started leaning in when she spoke.
They nodded more.
In meetings, they didn’t interrupt — they waited, because they wanted to hear what came next.

After a toolbox talk one morning, the maintenance foreman came up to her and said,
“Engineer, the way you stop and look at us before giving instructions — it makes us really focus. It’s different… and it works.”

That’s when Aina realized: in a refinery, just like on a stage, silence isn’t a gap between words.

It’s a tool.
A way to make instructions clearer.
A way to give your message weight.

Now, whenever a young engineer joins her team, Aina shares the same advice:

“Don’t rush. Breathe. Move with purpose. Let your pauses carry the message.
Because sometimes… what you don’t say is what truly speaks.”

End.

The Five Pillars of Hazmi: An Engineer’s Journey

When Hazmi first stepped into the oleochemical plant as a junior engineer, he wore ambition like a badge and pressure like a shadow. The humming machinery, the towering distillation columns, and the endless maze of valves and pipelines both thrilled and overwhelmed him.

But Hazmi had something most didn't—gratitude.

Even when he had to stay up until 2 AM for a shutdown or got scolded for a miscalculation on a P&ID drawing, he whispered a silent "thank you" to the universe. He was grateful for the opportunity to work with machines that most only studied in textbooks, and for the salary that helped his parents in the kampung pay off their debt. Each small win—an approval from his manager, a successful line flushing, or just a smooth morning start—was something to cherish.

Still, like every engineer worth their salt, Hazmi faced his challenges.

He struggled with his communication. The operators thought he was too ‘book-smart’. The technicians didn’t trust his decisions. His heat exchanger design? Over budget. His chemical cleaning procedure? Delayed production.

Instead of hiding from these problems, Hazmi wrote them down in a notebook he called “Lessons from the Boiler Room.” Every mistake was an entry. Every lesson, a new line of code in his personal firmware.

Eventually, Hazmi realized something else—the third lesson of life: acceptance.

He couldn’t control the weather during a tank cleaning job. He couldn’t control when a supplier delayed shipment. He couldn’t even control his own manager’s mood swings.

But he could control how he responded.

Rather than blame others, he prepared contingencies. Rather than explode in frustration, he took a slow walk to the control room, letting the hum of the DCS screens soothe him.

With time, acceptance turned to clarity—and clarity helped him find his goals.

He didn’t just want to survive his shifts. He wanted to lead shutdown turnarounds. He wanted to reduce energy usage by 15%. He wanted to build a safer, smarter plant. So he set goals—realistic but ambitious. Monthly improvement targets. Weekly team briefings. Personal KPIs. They weren’t always met, but they kept his compass pointing true.

But Hazmi knew he wasn’t alone in this.

He embraced feedback like an engineer embraces data.

He asked operators after every job, “What do you think we could do better?”
He asked his manager during reviews, “What’s the one skill you think I need to improve?”
He listened, nodded, and applied.

One day, a technician said, “You’ve changed, Hazmi. You actually listen now.”

That comment meant more than any certificate.

Ten years later, Hazmi stood at the front of the plant’s training hall, now a Senior Facilities Manager. A new batch of engineers sat in front of him, eager and nervous.

He looked at them and said:

“Engineering is not just about solving problems. It’s about growing as a human being.
Be grateful. Face your challenges. Accept what you can’t control. Set bold goals.
And always, always seek feedback. That’s how you turn bolts and beams into breakthroughs.”

And with that, he handed them a small booklet.

On the cover: “Lessons from the Boiler Room – By Hazmi.”

End.

Friday, 8 August 2025

Tips for becoming a more active listener:

Respect the speaker’s point of view.
Relax and remain engaged.
Avoid passing judgment.
Be aware of nonverbal cues; body language and gestures influence how you interpret the information you receive.
Avoid interrupting.
Ask clarifying questions to ensure understanding.
Give nonverbal cues to demonstrate your interest.
Conclude with a summary statement to demonstrate you understood what the speaker said.

"Di Antara Jarak, Ada Cinta" Bahagian 5: Lahirnya Umairah, Lahirnya Sebuah Gelaran

Malam di Tuaran lebih tenang daripada malam-malam mereka di Morisem. Rumah ibu Arni yang terletak tidak jauh dari pesisir pantai menghembuskan bayu lembut yang membawa kenangan masa kecil Arni.

Kehadiran Amir di rumah itu bukan sahaja mengubat rindu Arni pada suaminya, tetapi juga merapatkan semula hubungan dengan ibu, adik-beradik dan anak buah yang sudah lama tidak ditemui.

“Bagus juga balik kampung ni,” kata Amir sambil duduk di pangkin belakang rumah, memandang laut.
“Rasa damai… tenang.”

Beberapa hari kemudian, mereka menuju ke Hospital Likas, dengan harapan agar dapat menempah wad bersalin di sana. Tetapi harapan itu pudar apabila diberitahu bahawa hospital tersebut hanya menerima tempahan bagi isteri penjawat awam.

Amir terdiam. Rasa terkilan mengisi dada.

“Maaflah, encik. Kalau bukan kakitangan kerajaan, tak dapat buat tempahan awal,” kata pegawai kaunter sambil tersenyum simpati.

Namun seperti biasa, Arni tidak panik. Dengan tenang dia memegang tangan Amir.
“Kita cari pilihan lain, insyaAllah ada rezeki di tempat lain.”

Mereka kemudian menuju ke Hospital KPJ Kota Kinabalu, sebuah hospital swasta yang bersih dan lengkap. Segala urusan dibuat, tarikh temujanji ditetapkan, dan akhirnya mereka pulang ke Tuaran dengan sedikit kelegaan.

Cuti Amir sudah tamat.
Dengan hati yang berat, dia meninggalkan Arni di rumah mertua.

Sebelum berangkat, Arni menghulurkan kertas kecil padanya.
Dalamnya tertulis catatan tarikh-tarikh penting — termasuk jangkaan tarikh bersalin.

“Kalau abang tak sempat balik… saya akan maafkan, tapi saya akan sedih,” kata Arni sambil senyum menahan sebak.
Amir angguk. Dalam hati, dia berjanji akan pulang tepat pada masanya.

Sebulan kemudian, Amir kembali ke Tuaran — dengan cuti selama seminggu. Hatinya berdebar-debar.

Hari pertama tiada apa-apa. Hari kedua masih normal. Tapi pada hari ketiga, Arni mula menunjukkan tanda-tanda bersalin.
Tanpa berlengah, mereka bergegas ke Hospital KPJ.

Malam itu penuh doa. Amir tidak tidur. Dia genggam tangan isterinya, baca surah-surah pendek, dan bisik kata-kata semangat ke telinga Arni.

3 April 2006, pagi yang tidak akan dilupakan.
Seorang bayi perempuan selamat dilahirkan.
Kecil. Bersih. Menangis dengan suara halus yang menggetarkan jiwa.

“Umairah,” kata Amir perlahan. Nama yang dipilih lama dulu. Nama wanita bijaksana, tenang, dan kuat seperti ibunya.

Amir mendakap anaknya dengan penuh rasa syukur. Di telinga Umairah, dia azankan dan iqamatkan. Suaranya bergetar — antara sebak, gembira dan tidak percaya.

Dia kini seorang ayah.

Dan Arni, kini bergelar ibu.

Penutup Bahagian Ini:
Bayi itu bukan sekadar zuriat.
Ia adalah bukti bahawa cinta yang diasaskan di kampus,
dibaja di ladang sunyi, diuji di jalan gravel,
akhirnya berbunga dalam dakapan sebuah keluarga.

Kerana kadang cinta itu bukan hanya tentang dua insan,
tapi tentang keberanian membina generasi baharu —
walau harus meredah ribuan kilometer
demi menyambut satu nyawa ke dunia.

"Di Antara Jarak, Ada Cinta" Bahagian 4: Perjuangan Sebuah Kelahiran

Masa berlalu pantas di Morisem. Tanpa sedar, kandungan Arni kini menjangkau lapan bulan. Sebelum itu, setiap detik mengandung adalah sebuah pengalaman baru yang membentuk Arni menjadi wanita lebih tabah.

Walau jauh dari keluarga dan segala kemudahan, Arni tidak mengeluh. Dia catat setiap pergerakan bayi, setiap simptom alahan, setiap soalan yang ingin ditanya kepada doktor.

“Nanti abang jangan lupa, temujanji kita hari Selasa depan jam 10 pagi ya,” pesan Arni lembut sambil menunjukkan kalendar kecil yang dipenuhi nota dan pelekat warna-warni.

Arni bukan hanya belajar dari internet. Dia rajin bertanya kepada ibu dan kakaknya di Sabah. Bila ke klinik ladang, dia berbual panjang dengan jururawat, belajar mengenal tanda-tanda kecemasan, dan bagaimana cara menjaga pemakanan.

Di perumahan kilang yang sunyi, dia tidak membuang masa.
Dia menulis — bukan saja diari kehamilan, tapi juga surat-surat kecil yang tidak pernah dihantar, ditujukan kepada anak dalam kandungannya.

“Ibu tak sabar nak peluk kamu...”

Bagi Amir, ini juga adalah pengalaman pertama menjadi suami kepada ibu mengandung. Setiap malam dia pulang ke rumah dengan langkah perlahan, tidak mahu membuat Arni terkejut atau terganggu.

Tapi satu persoalan sentiasa menghantui fikirannya:
“Bagaimana kalau berlaku kecemasan di tengah malam?”

Bas mini hanya ada satu perkhidmatan sehari.
Telefon mudah alih ketika itu tiada capaian di dalam kem.
Dan bandar Lahad Datu sejauh 90 kilometer — dengan jalan gravel yang seolah-olah menguji kesabaran setiap tayar kenderaan.

Akhirnya, setelah perbincangan panjang dan istikharah dalam diam, mereka memutuskan:
Arni akan bersalin di kampung ibunya, di Tuaran.
Di sana lebih selamat, lebih dekat dengan hospital dan keluarga.

Amir mohon cuti. Semua keperluan dikemaskan. Dan pagi itu, mereka menaiki bas mini ladang menuju ke bandar.

Namun perjalanan itu tidak semudah yang dibayangkan.

Pancit kali pertama.
Di tengah jalan Jeroco, bas mini terhenti. Penumpang turun, tayar ditukar. Jalan berbatu, tanah merah, dan habuk membaluti baju semua.

Pancit kali kedua.
Tidak jauh selepas itu. Amir memandang Arni yang sedang mengusap perutnya. Hatinya sayu. Tapi Arni hanya senyum.
"Tak apa bang, saya okey."

Pancit kali ketiga.
Kali ini, semua penumpang ketawa kecil — bukan kerana lucu, tapi kerana tidak tahu mahu marah atau redha.

Amir diam. Tapi dalam hatinya muncul tekad baru:

“Aku mesti bekerja lebih keras. Mesti berjaya.
Arni tak boleh hidup begini selamanya.
Anak-anak kami perlukan kehidupan yang lebih baik.
Ini bukan kesusahan. Ini titik mula.”

Akhirnya, bantuan tiba. Seorang pemandu bas mini lain datang membantu. Mereka dibawa ke Bandar Lahad Datu sebelum menyambung perjalanan dengan bas ekspres malam menuju Kota Kinabalu.

Perjalanan itu panjang, dan badan Arni sudah lesu. Tapi mereka berjaya sampai.

Jam 4 pagi, mereka turun di Petronas Berungis, dan berjalan kaki perlahan menuju rumah ibu Arni di Tuaran.
Pelukan hangat dari ibu menghapus segala penat.

Penutup Bahagian Ini:

Cinta sejati diuji bukan dengan kata-kata indah,
tetapi dengan kesanggupan untuk terus bertahan...
walau di atas jalan gravel yang berlubang,
walau dengan tayar pancit tiga kali,
walau dalam gelap malam menuju subuh yang belum pasti.

Kerana setiap langkah menuju kelahiran anak pertama itu,
bukan hanya tentang membawa nyawa baru ke dunia,
tetapi juga kelahiran jiwa seorang ibu dan seorang ayah.

Di Antara Jarak, Ada Cinta – Bahagian 3: Anugerah di Tengah Sunyi

Langit Morisem waktu itu berwarna keemasan. Angin petang meniup perlahan, mengayun daun sawit yang rimbun. Di ruang tamu rumah syarikat yang sunyi, Arni duduk bersimpuh sambil memegang sekeping kertas kecil — hasil ujian kehamilan.

Tangannya sedikit menggeletar. Matanya berkaca.
Dua garis.
Dua garis yang mengubah segalanya.

Amir baru sahaja pulang dari kilang, dengan baju yang masih berbau peluh dan minyak. Arni memandangnya dari muka pintu dengan senyuman yang tidak dapat disembunyikan.

“Abang...”
“Ya, kenapa?”

Dia menghulur kertas itu.
Amir mengambil dan membaca. Kemudian terpaku sejenak. Nafasnya tertahan.

“Betul ni?”
“Ya...”
“Alhamdulillah...”
Dia terus memeluk Arni. Erat. Lama.

Malam itu, Arni segera menelefon kakaknya menggunakan telefon pejabat. Suara di hujung talian berbunyi ceria dan bergetar.

“Kak... saya mengandung.”

Dan jawapan yang diterima adalah satu kenangan yang tak pernah padam dalam ingatan mereka.

"Tahniah. Baguslah. Kan itu tujuan perkahwinan?"

Mereka ketawa bersama. Ketawa yang bukan hanya kerana gembira, tapi kerana hidup ini seakan baru membuka satu bab yang jauh lebih besar dari sebelumnya.

Hari-hari selepas itu berubah nada. Arni mula alah. Bau minyak sawit dari pakaian Amir membuatnya loya. Tapi dia tetap tabah. Masakan menjadi lebih ringkas, langkah lebih perlahan, dan malam-malam lebih sunyi — kerana Arni cepat tidur keletihan.

Amir pula belajar menjadi lebih peka.
Setiap kali ke bandar, dia pastikan membeli buah, susu khas, dan vitamin.

Mereka mula berbual tentang nama anak. Tentang wajah siapa yang akan diwarisi.
“Kalau lelaki, Amir junior.”
“Kalau perempuan, Arni junior?”
Ketawa lagi. Begitulah mereka.

Di tengah ladang sunyi, jauh dari pusat membeli-belah dan kafe moden, pasangan ini menunggu kelahiran dengan penuh rasa cinta.
Bukan sekadar suami isteri, tapi bakal ayah dan ibu.

Dan bila bayi itu hadir ke dunia...
ia menjadi bukti cinta yang tumbuh di tengah sunyi, dibaja dengan sabar dan dipayungi harapan.

Penutup Bahagian Ini:
Perkahwinan bukan sekadar bersatu,
Tetapi membina dan mencipta kehidupan baru.
Dan setiap tangisan pertama anak adalah lagu paling indah
bagi mereka yang menanti dengan hati paling bersih.

Empathy in Action: Azman’s Journey at the Palm Oil Mill

Azman was a bright, young process engineer at Serimas Palm Oil Mill. Fresh from university, he came armed with technical knowledge and endless energy. At first, Azman believed that success in engineering meant optimizing extraction rates, reducing downtime, and hitting KPIs. People skills? That felt like HR’s job.

But as the weeks passed, Azman started facing an unexpected problem—his team didn’t trust him.

Despite his clear instructions and detailed SOPs, the operators often hesitated, made small mistakes, or avoided communicating with him unless necessary. Productivity lagged, and the atmosphere in the mill grew tense.

One day, a minor incident caused the kernel separator to halt during peak processing. Azman, already frustrated, reprimanded a senior operator, Pak Salleh, in front of others. The room fell silent. Pak Salleh said nothing, but the disappointment in his eyes stayed with Azman.

That night, unable to sleep, Azman remembered a talk he had attended during a Toastmasters club meeting. The topic was empathy in leadership. One line stood out: "Understanding others begins with understanding yourself."

Azman decided to change.

The next morning, instead of heading straight to the control room, Azman sat down with Pak Salleh during the morning break.

“Pak Salleh, can I ask you something?” Azman began. “When the separator stopped yesterday, I reacted without listening. I’m sorry for how I spoke. Can you help me understand what happened from your side?”

Pak Salleh, surprised, nodded slowly. “Azman, the sensor had been giving faulty readings since last week. I reported it, but maybe the message didn’t get to you.”

Azman listened—really listened. He noticed how Salleh rubbed his hands when talking about pressure from overlapping shifts. He saw the tiredness in his body language. That conversation opened a floodgate. Over the next weeks, Azman made it a point to speak to every team member, from technicians to operators, not just about work—but about their challenges, their ideas, and their stressors.

He started to identify subtle signs: when Rosli the boilerman kept tapping his pen during meetings, it meant he was anxious. When Faizah from the lab stopped chatting at lunch, it meant she was overwhelmed.

Azman began using empathy in his daily decisions. Instead of sending out blanket memos, he invited feedback in toolbox meetings. He acknowledged team concerns and even shared some of his own struggles, building mutual respect.

When one operator, Adi, lost his father and returned to work visibly drained, Azman didn’t assign him the toughest shift. Instead, he quietly offered lighter duties and checked in regularly.

The changes were subtle but powerful. Team morale improved. Errors decreased. Productivity rose not because the machines ran better—but because the people running them felt seen, valued, and supported.

Two years later, Azman became a mentor to new engineers.

“Technical skills will get you through problems,” he told his mentees, “but empathy will build the team that solves them with you.”

He would then smile and add, “You don’t need to agree with everyone—but you must try to understand them. That’s how real leadership begins.”

Azman’s journey—from a sharp but rigid engineer to an empathetic leader—became an example often shared across the mill. Because in the heart of the palm oil refinery, where machines hum and oil flows, it was empathy that kept everything running smoothly.

Lolen: The Bridge Builder of Block C

Fresh out of university, Lolen stepped into the palm oil mill with wide eyes and a heart full of ambition. The heat, the noise, the smell of oil and machinery—it was a far cry from the quiet classrooms he was used to. Assigned to Block C, the most temperamental section of the mill, Lolen quickly realized that technical knowledge alone wouldn't get him far.

The machines weren’t the only ones with issues.

The team in Block C had talent, no doubt. But they were plagued by internal friction. Senior technician Pak Hamid preferred to work alone. Suria, the lab analyst, avoided group meetings altogether. Even the supervisor, Encik Fauzi, was often too busy handling disputes to focus on improving output.

At first, Lolen felt overwhelmed. He tried to keep his head down, focusing on preventive maintenance schedules, vibration readings, and SOPs. But one day, during a shutdown drill, things came to a head. A minor miscommunication between the operations and maintenance teams led to a dangerous pressure buildup.

No one was hurt, but the incident shook everyone.

That night, Lolen stayed late at the mill. Not because he was instructed to, but because something clicked in his mind: It’s not just about the machines—it’s about the people.

He started observing more closely—not just equipment performance, but how team members interacted. He noticed that Pak Hamid worked best when his suggestions were acknowledged first. Suria became more open when given room to speak without being interrupted. Fauzi often felt unsupported by upper management and needed someone to back him up.

Armed with this awareness, Lolen took small steps.

He initiated informal lunch meetings—not to talk about work, but to hear stories. He asked questions about family, about why they chose this job, about their hopes. Slowly, trust formed. When a disagreement arose, he gently helped each person understand the other's point of view. He learned to listen more than he spoke.

He also made an effort to talk to the other departments—shipping, admin, even the canteen staff—building bridges across the entire mill. His efforts didn’t go unnoticed.

Months later, during the peak crushing season, Block C broke its own production record with zero safety incidents. More importantly, the team operated like a well-oiled machine. Team members who once avoided each other were now solving problems together and even cracking jokes in the break room.

Encik Fauzi pulled Lolen aside one evening and said, “You know, I’ve been here 20 years. Never seen Block C run this smooth. What did you do?”

Lolen smiled. “I stopped looking only at the machines and started seeing the people.”

Moral of the Story

Lolen’s journey is a reminder that social skills and emotional intelligence are not soft skills—they are core skills, especially for those who aspire to lead. By learning how to read people, manage conflict, and foster collaboration, Lolen didn’t just improve productivity; he built a team that trusted and respected each other.

The Empathetic Engineer: Salahudin's Journey to Leadership

When Salahudin first joined the palm oil refinery as a junior engineer, he was eager, technical, and driven. Fresh from university, he believed that success came from logic, efficiency, and flawless execution. He spent long hours analyzing systems, solving problems, and optimizing plant performance. But despite his dedication, Salahudin noticed something was missing: team morale was low, turnover was high, and people often worked in silos.

He began to realize that engineering wasn't just about machines and flow rates — it was about people.

A Lesson in Empathy

One day, during a routine shift, Salahudin attempted to lighten the mood with what he thought was harmless humor — he startled a colleague, Hilmi, as a joke. But Hilmi didn’t laugh. In fact, he froze, then walked away quietly. Later, Hilmi approached Salahudin and, visibly unsettled, asked not to be startled again.

In the past, Salahudin might have brushed it off or even teased further. But something about Hilmi's tone struck him. He listened, really listened, and for the first time, he realized that his actions — even if unintentional — could affect others deeply. He apologized sincerely and never repeated the behavior.

That moment stayed with him. It wasn’t just about jokes. It was about recognizing how others felt, and honoring their boundaries.

From Engineer to Leader

As the years passed, Salahudin rose through the ranks. With each promotion, he carried that lesson forward. He began to notice when team members were overwhelmed or disengaged, and instead of offering technical advice first, he asked questions:

“How are you handling your workload?”
“What do you need from me to make this easier?”
“Is there anything you'd like to learn more about?”

He understood that some needs were practical — a better shift schedule, clearer SOPs, or more training. But others were emotional: a desire to be valued, the need for teamwork, or the hope of growing in their roles.

His team started to respond differently. They trusted him. They came to him not just with problems, but with ideas. They supported him during plant shutdowns, peak harvest times, and audits — not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Mentor in the Making

Salahudin also took on young engineers under his wing. He didn’t just teach them process control or troubleshooting; he helped them learn how to read people, how to listen without judgment, and how to lead with compassion.

He often told them, "Empathy isn’t weakness. It’s the strength that builds loyalty, trust, and excellence."

One of his protégés, a brilliant but quiet engineer named Farah, once said, "You’re the first person who asked me what I actually wanted to do in this role. That made all the difference."

Legacy of Empathy

By the time Salahudin became Engineering Manager, the culture of the department had transformed. People were more collaborative, turnover had decreased, and most importantly, the team felt seen. Salahudin’s ability to anticipate not just technical issues but human needs made him an exceptional leader.

His success wasn’t built on charisma or authority — it was built on empathy: listening, understanding, and responding with care.

Reflection

If you were to ask Salahudin what made him a good leader, he wouldn’t list his technical skills, his certifications, or his experience. He would simply say:

“I learned to care. And when you care, people will follow you not out of fear or duty — but out of trust.”

From Fresh Graduate to Guiding Light

When Amir first stepped into the towering gates of the Sri Murni Palm Oil Refinery, the air smelled of ambition and uncertainty. Fresh out of university, equipped with theories and formulas, he was ready to conquer the world—or so he thought.

The truth hit fast. The hum of massive boilers, the precision required in the control room, and the unspoken rules of refinery life overwhelmed him. Processes moved fast, expectations moved faster. The supervisors wanted results, and his colleagues didn’t have time to explain every detail.

Luckily, someone noticed.

Encik Harun, a senior engineer with 20 years under his belt and a quiet smile that carried more weight than a lecture, took Amir under his wing. Without calling it “mentoring,” Harun showed Amir how things worked—not just the machines, but the people. He didn’t always give answers but asked questions that made Amir think harder.

“Why do you think the steam pressure spiked?”
“What would you change in this process?”
“If you were in charge, what would you do differently?”

Their conversations weren’t just about engineering. They talked about leadership, work ethic, communication, and personal growth. Harun also encouraged Amir to join Toastmasters to sharpen his public speaking and interpersonal skills. That experience transformed Amir’s ability to communicate ideas clearly and confidently.

Years passed.

Amir grew from a nervous junior engineer into one of the refinery’s key process leads. His technical skills improved, but it was his ability to listen, guide, and connect with others that made him stand out. He remembered how hard it had been in the beginning. So when new graduates arrived, uncertain and overwhelmed—just like he once was—Amir stepped up.

He became a mentor.

One of his first protégés, Farah, was a bright chemical engineering grad with a passion for sustainable refining. Like Amir once did, she struggled with the transition from textbook knowledge to the practical world of high-pressure systems and operational demands. Amir saw her potential and offered to support her—not with answers, but with space to grow.

They met weekly. Sometimes it was on-site, other times virtually. Amir practiced the same approach Harun used—guiding with questions, not commands.

“What’s your biggest challenge this week?”
“What do you think is the root cause?”
“What’s one small change you can test?”

He didn’t just teach her about pump efficiency or temperature controls. He helped her reflect on how she responded to pressure, how she handled feedback, and how to lead even without a title.

Through mentoring Farah, Amir realized he was still learning. Each protégé brought new ideas, different ways of thinking, and fresh perspectives on challenges he thought he’d already mastered. In helping others, he was growing himself.

The refinery, once just a place of production and deadlines, had become a learning ecosystem. And Amir—a once-lost graduate—had become a node of growth, a quiet leader leaving a legacy of knowledge, support, and empowerment.

As Amir often said:
"A mentor doesn't give you the path—they walk beside you while you find your own."

The eye of Raimi

In the heart of a bustling oleochemical plant nestled among palm plantations, the smell of chemicals lingered in the humid air. Machines hummed, compressors throbbed like industrial hearts, and boilers breathed heavy steam into the sky.

Among the engineers, technicians, and managers of the plant, there was one man who stood out—not because he spoke loudly, or held the highest title, but because of the way he looked at things.

His name was Raimi.

And everyone knew his principle:

“Percaya mata dahulu, baru telinga.”

(“Trust your eyes first, then your ears.”)

👨‍🔧 The Young Engineer

When Raimi first reported to the plant as a junior engineer, he was fresh from university — full of theory, idealism, and questions. On his very first week, he spotted a pipe support that had shifted due to vibration.

“Don’t worry about that,” an older technician said. “It’s been like that for years.”

But Raimi wasn’t satisfied.

He returned that evening, flashlight in hand, and documented the vibration trend. A week later, the support gave way — just as he feared — and a minor leak was reported.

It was his first small victory.

And it cemented his belief: don’t rely solely on what people say — go and see it yourself.

🔥 The First Fire Alarm

A year into his service, the plant’s intercom blared:

“Fire alarm at fatty acid storage! All personnel evacuate!”

Panic rippled through the plant.

Control room data showed a sharp rise in temperature in Tank 403. The safety officer was about to trigger full plant shutdown.

But Raimi, breathing heavily in his fire-retardant suit, ran straight toward the storage tanks.

There, he saw no smoke — only sun rays reflecting off a pressure gauge panel. A closer check revealed a damaged RTD sensor causing false high readings.

“Don’t shut it down. It’s a sensor issue!” Raimi radioed back.

His voice, calm but firm, saved the company hours of unnecessary downtime.

From that day on, even the most senior managers knew: If Raimi says “I’ve seen it” — you can trust it.

📋 More Than an Engineer

Raimi wasn’t flashy. His desk was always tidy, his notes handwritten in a brown leather notebook, and his helmet marked with small stickers — each one a reminder of a project completed, or a problem solved.

Every day, he made his plant rounds — no shortcuts.

He would check sight glasses instead of trusting tank levels from the SCADA screen.

He would climb the distillation tower to listen to the reflux flow, not just rely on flowmeters.

He would smell, touch, listen, and observe — always.

Some laughed.

“Eh, Raimi ni macam tak percaya orang…”

(“Does he not trust anyone?”)

But those who understood him realized:

It wasn’t about trust in people. It was about responsibility in process.

🏭 Efficiency Through Discipline

Over time, Raimi’s obsession with confirmation created ripples across the plant:

Preventive maintenance became more accurate.

Safety observations became real actions, not just paperwork.

Operators started doing double-checks — not because they were told, but because they saw Raimi doing it every day.

A safety audit team once said:

“This is the first plant we visited where engineering feels… alive.”

Because in Raimi’s presence, nothing was assumed. Everything was verified.

🚧 The Night That Changed Everything

One rainy night, a faint alarm rang in the central control room. The water pump motor at the wastewater plant had tripped. A technician on duty assumed it was due to rain and planned to reset it after supper.

But Raimi, who was still on-site finalizing next month’s shutdown plan, overheard the conversation.

He put on his raincoat and walked into the storm.

What he found shocked him:

A flooded pit, a blocked screen, and a buildup of hydrogen sulfide gas.

If he hadn’t gone, the pit might have overflowed into the retention pond, causing environmental damage — and worst, a reportable incident with heavy penalties.

That night, no one joked about his habit ever again.

🧠 A Mentor is Born

As Raimi rose to become a Senior Engineer, young engineers began to shadow him. He didn’t lecture. He didn’t carry PowerPoint slides.

He taught by example.

He would say,

“Don’t just believe it because someone said it. Confirm. Validate. Understand.”

And they learned.

They learned to see the plant, not just work in it.

👓 Legacy of the Eye

Today, Raimi is still there — walking his rounds as always.

He still crouches beside pumps, still checks the condensate tanks, still listens to the faint hissing of a steam trap with his own ears.

Because he knows:

In engineering, in safety, and in leadership…

The truth doesn't always shout.

Sometimes, it whispers — and only those who look closely will see it.

✍️ Final Words

When a new engineer asked him,

“Sir, what’s the most important skill for this job?”

Raimi smiled.

And answered,

“Your eyes.

They’ll save more than just time — sometimes they’ll save lives.”