My late parents were meticulous document keepers. They never threw important papers away. Birth certificates, vaccination cards, letters, forms -- everything carefully folded into old envelopes and tucked safely into files.
Today, those files feel less like paperwork and more like a time capsule.
Inside are both of their original birth certificates from 1940, my father’s vaccination certificate from the same era, and my mother’s conversion certificate -- fragile, yellowed, edges soft with age. Whenever I share them online, people are always surprised that documents this old still exist. But to me, they’re more than records. They’re proof of lives lived long before I came along.
And then there’s this one -- my father’s School Leaving Certificate from 1955.
Typed out on a typewriter. Slightly crooked lines. Faded ink. The paper creased from being folded and refolded for decades. His name, Abdul Jalil b. Suleiman, neatly stamped into history. Attendance: 190 out of 193 days. Games: Football and Basketball. Conduct: Good. And a remark from the headmaster that stopped me in my tracks: “Reliable, honest boy, will do well in life.”
Reading that, I don’t just see my father. I see a skinny 15-year-old schoolboy in shorts and canvas shoes, probably running across the padang with his friends, not knowing what the future would hold. Not knowing he would one day become my dad.
He left Temenggong Abdul Rahman School in 1955. Twenty-three years later, I walked through the very same gates as a Darjah 1 student. Same school. Same grounds. Two generations, connected by one old piece of paper.
Funny how something so simple can carry so much love.
