Paying tribute to an amazing spirit who inspired, loved and lived. By Jacqueline Toyad  

It’s truly hard to avoid clichés when eulogising someone. After all, they carry sentiments that are age-old, but they just happen to be the most appropriate thing to say about the person concerned. In the case of Yasmin Ahmad, award-winning filmmaker and Leo Burnett/Arc executive creative director, who passed away on July 25, one comes to mind — “Only the good die young”.

At 51, she had an established career in advertising and a flourishing one in filmmaking. In fact, when it came to the latter, it seemed as if she’d only just begun, garnering acclaim not just at home but also at international film festivals in Berlin, San Francisco, Singapore and Cannes. She was in fact in pre-production on a Singaporean film entitled Go, Thaddeus, based on a novel by Belinda Wee about teenage triathlete Thaddeus Cheong, who collapsed and died after the selection race for the 2007 SEA Games.

Yasmin had been interviewed by Options a few years ago, just as her first feature film Rabun was coming out. In the following years, a few proposals were put forward to her to be featured on the cover, but somehow the timing was never right, what with her hectic schedule. So it pains us, here at Options, that it is only upon her death that we have her on our cover and we pray that this tribute to her befits her amazing spirit and the legacy of work she left behind, which seemed dedicated to reminding Malaysians who we are and what unity and being human truly means.

In her many interviews with the press, she often stressed how much of a kampung girl she is, and that many scenes in her movies are in fact lifted from her own vivid memories of growing up in Muar, Johor.

I was only one month into my first job as a writer for a local daily when I was assigned to interview Yasmin, together with my editor then. She was not yet the award-winning filmmaker of Gubra and Mukhsin but she was already an award-winning copywriter, garnering quite a bit of attention for the clever and poignant series of advertisements she had been writing for Petronas. Far from the cynical personality one usually equates with the world of advertising, Yasmin welcomed us warmly into her home and opened up her world to us, letting us discover the person behind the ads such as the one about the shoes made in Gombak, the little boy recalling the first Merdeka Day with his father and the May 13 one for Kongsi Raya in 2001. She’d explained, “People didn’t believe it was effective advertising. I told them it was about showing our human side and about being real.”

That afternoon, I met a woman with an offbeat personality, who had made a conscious choice to look at the world through rose-coloured lenses, to see the beauty of the world rather than its grey and bleak areas, who believed that being stupid was not the worst thing in the world but “not being able to love is”. She shared her love for Billy Wilder’s The Apartment and Neil Jordan’s Mona Lisa “because one is about love gone wrong and the other is about love gone right” and that Patch Adams was a film that could always cheer her up although it wasn’t her all-time favourite. She confessed to a large collection of perfumes she’d been enticed to buy on her travels because of their shapes and packaging, only to come home and discover that some smelt really awful.

In between, she offered us gems of wisdom, such as her thoughts on love: “You love because you love. No questions. Why ask the head to explain something that comes from the heart?” On writing: “When anyone asks me for advice, or what my formula is, I just tell them I don’t have one. I always just tell them to live. Good writers have got there because they lived, really lived.”

But it was the following statement that left the biggest impression on me — “If someone you love hurts you, humiliates you and belittles you, you are the luckiest person on earth. You receive firsthand knowledge of the humiliation and pain and because you know how it feels, you will know how much you can hurt a person and you will vow to never inflict the same pain on others. I think a person who goes through life being very careful in not hurting anyone is a truly wonderful person.” To be able to look at pain and humiliation that way is a true testament to one’s character.

In some ways, it is easy to see why so many had fallen in love with her TV ads and films. They tell of a truth that we are familiar with, scenes of Malaysian life that are seemingly mundane and important at the same time, filled with symbolism. When asked once what her driving force was, she replied, “People, more than anything. I love the fact that you can never know enough about any one person. I love to see hope in others.”

• • •

Closer still is Options writer Anandhi Gopinath’s experience with Yasmin. Before joining this publication, Anandhi had worked for two years at Leo Burnett as a public relations executive, which was how she met Yasmin. She was told that Yasmin would “jaga her staff to the end”. And as Anandhi discovered at the end of her stint there, Yasmin always lived up to that description. The following is her personal recollection.

“I was sitting alone in the office one day, taking a break from work and nursing an injured heart and a broken spirit. Unaccustomed to the wane smile that didn’t reach my eyes, Yasmin made me the Milo she always saw me chugging down and insisted I tell her the source of my distress. The exchange lasted no more than five minutes, but its effects have remained with me ever since. It was a sign of the kind of leader I wanted to be and the compassion I hoped to possess. I also understood that the Yasmin who had sat with me was not the famed storyteller who made the front pages of newspapers, but a kindhearted motherly figure who wanted to know why anyone had a reason to be sad. Those who worked at Leo Burnett had at some point shared that honour — of not knowing Yasmin the storyteller, but Yasmin the woman.

“Many of us were far removed from her world of touring and filmmaking. Instead, we were more at home with Yasmin’s odd quirks like washing her feet in the bathroom sink and singing loudly in the office corridors. The Yasmin I will always remember is a baju-kurung-clad figure leaning out of her office window and wolf whistling loudly. ‘Eh eh lawanya, ada hot date ke?’ would soon follow.

“Her irreverence, unlike the polished front she staged for the rest of the world, was charming and drew us closer to her. ‘Cantik la your figure. Jealous lah,’ was a famous tease of hers. “Eh keling kat kreatif tu suka you lah. How? I set up la...” was another. Affection was wrapped in terms of endearment like ‘eh Cina’ and ‘oi, rambut kerinting’ — and none of us would have had it any other way.

“Many of my former colleagues and I never really knew her as a celebrity because she protected us from it. Refusing to reveal the filmmaker in her was her biggest gift to us all — we knew her better as a friend, mentor and a tempat mengadu. As someone who would gently correct you for a mistake you made, but always celebrate the bravado it took to make the mistake in the first place. Her office door was always open, as was her heart.

“She embodied truly endearing qualities as a human being and as a friend. Unimaginably creative though she was, sometime and someday it can be replaced. It is Yasmin’s generous, giving spirit and genuine affection for the world that we will now have to live without.”

• • •

Yasmin was an arts graduate who majored in politics and psychology, which may explain her ability to adopt varied perspectives. Her start in the working world was a two-week stint as a trainee banker before working as a marketing representative for IBM. It was only after that that she joined Ogilvy & Mather as a copywriter before eventually moving on to Leo Burnett where she rose through the ranks to executive creative director, where she remained until she passed away.  

For those truly curious to learn more about this remarkable woman, you should take the time to read her blogs. There are two that are currently accessible to everyone and they are very much a window, albeit a very small one, into the person that she was. In fact, there is a charming description of herself on http://yasminthestoryteller.blogspot.com/: “I am optimistic and sentimental to the point of being annoying, especially to people who think that being cynical and cold is cool. Every day, I thank Allah for everyday things like the ability to breathe, the ability to love, the ability to laugh and the ability to eat and drink.”

There was one entry in which she described trying to put in words how one should approach screenplay writing. She wrote of watching a film by Yoji Yamada, the Japanese film director: “In one of the Tora-san films that I saw recently, the lead character Tora-san befriended a famous clay sculptor. One night, while they were getting drunk together, the sculptor spoke at some length about how he approached his craft. It was the best, most liberating piece of advice I had ever heard for screenplay writing. ‘While I knead clay, form is spontaneously born. Thinking about what form to adopt or what colour to use makes little sense. I wait until a form appears. But spontaneous forms don’t come easily. While wanting to make good ceramics, or waiting for the praise of others, our work is poor. The secret is in digging. Something beautiful is hiding in the clay. It’s asking us to dig it out... begging us.’

“There it was. The hair on my arms stood on end; I kept skipping the DVD back, again and again, to the little soliloquy made by that drunken old sculptor. Whatever we’re doing, be it medical research or aeronautics or sculpting clay or even writing a script for a film, there’s one thing we would do well to remember. And that is, our job is not to invent, but to search; to ‘dig’ until God’s truth and beauty reveal themselves.”

As she had explained in the Options interview in 2003, the reason why she chose to make films when she had already carved out a name for herself as a writer was that “I see myself first as a teller of stories”. And that she was.

Even without knowing her personally, it is easy to see that her favourite subject when it came to storytelling was love. From maudlin to brutally honest, she approached this theme unapologetically every time with the truth she knew, and we thank her for it. She was clear in her objective, in that she never really set out to make a great film, but rather to tell a great story, and her stories were always wonderfully Malaysian, even if some Malaysians never wanted to see it that way, labelling her films as pencemar budaya. But that’s over now — may she rest in peace. Perhaps now they’ll pay attention to what she’d been trying to tell us all along.  

But truly, there is no need to grieve. Instead, celebrate that fleeting moment — as Sir Elton John said, like a candle in the wind — that she shared with us so much and will forever remain a creative and dynamic force Malaysians can call our own.

The deep beauty of a woman named Yasmin
Way back in 1989, I found Cik Yasmin binti Ahmad weeping alone in the hidden store room attached to my tiny office cubicle. When I asked her why, she told me of individuals spreading a spiteful rumour about her which I learnt was factually untrue. After the tears, she put on her telekung and prayed for strength to forgive these people. Each time she got wind of this same malicious lie making its rounds, she would weep silently, after that pray for strength, and then forgive. Yet she never once spoke bitterly of those who spread the rumour. It was weep, and forgive, weep and forgive, for over 20 years. Even in 2009, again I found her weeping one evening, then forgiving. Among those who hurt her so badly was a close family friend who claimed to have an inside scoop into Yasmin’s past. Yet even this individual was always welcome for makan at her family home. Such is the love and forgiveness of Yasmin and her family. I, a mere witness to the silent screams of her heart as she wept, cannot forgive. But Yasmin could and did, all her life. Every night, she made it a practice to forgive each person who had hurt her, as  movingly illustrated in her movie Muallaf. Yasmin Ahmad was not just an award-winning film director or a Cannes winner. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever known, inside and out.

Here is a handwritten poem by Yasmin (yes, before the days of personal computers in Malaysia) penned just moments after she wept in the hidden store room.

Jovian Lee, a copywriter with Leo Burnett Malaysia, first met Yasmin in 1989 and is honoured to share her past, before she became famous. He knew of her deepest sorrows and had always admired her amazing capacity to forgive. Something he is still learning to do.

The Yasmin I knew
I first met Yasmin in 1992, when her hair was a mass of curls and she bounced into the conference room of the agency I was working in at the time. She said, “Hi” cheerfully, took one look at me, flashed a broad grin and said, “No way, lah!” (A friend she was visiting said I resembled her brother and that wasn’t the case, apparently.) And then, just like that, this unforgettable frisson of energy left.

Later, after she became my boss and friend, one of the things we used to joke about was that she was the only person we knew who could sell sand to the Arabs and ice to Eskimos. She would laugh out loud at the suggestion, pull a funny face or say something priceless in a foreign accent.

In reality, she was the only person who could truly communicate the idea of Malaysianess — of understanding, tolerance and kindness — to Malaysians. That was her greatest legacy. And she did it as she lived, with charm, song, candour, big-heartedness, wit, gentleness and love. I miss her.

Lee Szu Hong, deputy chairman and executive creative director of McCann Worldgroup Malaysia, worked with Yasmin from 1994 to 1999. She taught him many things, like learning how to be happy and to be himself.

Yasmin Ahmad: Playing in the corridors of heaven
Creative genius? Of course. Humanitarian? Absolutely. But what we miss most of all is Yasmin’s wicked sense of fun.

“What are you buying those underwear for?” I asked her one day at Thrifty Supermarket as Girls Just Want to Have Fun blared over cheap speakers. “You’ll see,” she says mischievously, throwing three-pack men’s briefs, water guns and camouflage pants into her shopping cart.

Back at the office, it was war. Water pistols were filled and sprayed on innocent, laughing and screaming victims. The underwear? Yasmin had tightey-whiteys worn over army pants. And mad fun was had by all.

I met Yasmin on March 1, 1984, her first day at work at Ogilvy & Mather. Even right then, we knew we had a creative, intelligent and witty being in our midst. But what really struck us — and sorely miss today — was her pure, almost child-like sense of fun.

If it’s anything to do with a party, Yasmin was game. Bursting out of a box, a breathless, sexy Yasmin surprised our executive creative director, Henry Clinton, on his birthday, a la Marilyn Monroe.

Once, along the long corridor of the Creative Department at O&M, Yasmin found a trolley lying around and decided to make it the toy of the day. One by one, we quickly hopped on the moving trolley, laughing and screaming as we rolled along. Using her famous power of persuasion, she managed to get her boss Brenda Boler, a proper and well-mannered lady, to join in on the act. Yasmin loosened, eased and tickled even the most disciplined among us.

In the same corridor, she managed to get Lillian Tan, a writer, to give free haircuts. Yasmin would pull up a chair, place newspapers on the floor and get everybody in line. With a hole cut in a sheet of newspaper and placed around our necks like bibs, we would all get our complimentary hairdos.

O&M provided Yasmin with a furnished room but she preferred to lie on the carpet. This was where all her award-winning copy was written. Lying down on the carpet, she played the guitar and sang to all of us. We loved hanging out in her room because she always provided us with entertainment.  

Perhaps Yasmin’s playful nature is in her genes. Her fun-loving parents, whose adorable antics are made legendary in her films Rabun, Sepet and Gubra, constantly cracked jokes, teased each other, sang, played the piano, cooked and ate together.

Everyone knew Yasmin had a beautiful singing voice. But nothing could prepare anyone for her stunning rendition of Carole King’s You’ve Got a Friend at my wedding. The church was brought to a standstill. Tears flowed.

Advertising was rough in the beginning for Yasmin. She joined O&M for a huge pay cut. She supported her sister Oked and brother Acar, who were both still studying in university. Yasmin even rode a motorcycle to work.

She was never afraid of dying, but her biggest fear was to lose her parents.  

At my father’s funeral, she choked in tears as she told me to be with her if anything should ever happen to her parents.   

I will forever cherish the beautiful memories we had together. I thank you, Lord, for the privilege of knowing Yasmin Ahmad.  Yasmin, you are truly God sent.

Somewhere far away, in the corridors of heaven, I know that Yasmin is laughing away, playing water pistols with the angels, wearing briefs over army pants.

May your soul rest in peace.  Amen.

Hazel Fernandez, producer

A different and very special person
Yasmin was 30 when I met her, my fellow copywriter at O&M. I took to her instantly. Who didn’t? She had a way of making you feel that you really mattered to her. Most people can’t wait for you to finish your sentence so they can put in 10 about themselves, but Yasmin just wanted to soak in everything about you, taking in every thing you had to say.

She was so many things all wrapped up in one bundle. I often told her what a contradiction she was. Outrageous and pious. Flirtatious and loyal. Fiercely independent and filial. Sophisticated and kampung. Tough and fragile.

Her fragility was what warmed me to her. We talked about the fleetingness of falling in love, the beauty of imperfections in people, putting mothers on a pedestal, the madness in everyone of us, the surety of death.

She once asked me “if you were on a plane, and it was about to crash, what would you do?” “I’d be terrified,” I said. Her answer: “The plane’s going down anyway, I’d raise a toast and celebrate.”

She was different, she was special. Maybe this world was not ready for someone as special as her.

Baldish Kaur, a copywriter with Lowe & Partners, first met Yasmin in 1988

I Lup Chew
For my first press ad as a junior copywriter at Ogilvy & Mather, I must have written over 50 headlines. I spent days and nights crafting them over and over again until I was sure she would scream out loud to everyone how brilliant I was. I skipped into her room and showed them to her. After nodding thoughtfully, she said, “Hmmm... very nice headlines.” There was a short pause. “NOW GO CRAFT THEM!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” My heart broke into a thousand pieces. “Oh, okay,” I mumbled. As I was leaving her room, she said, “But I still lup chew.”

When her body was being carried out of the mosque, I was absolutely certain that she would suddenly flip the cover over, point at us and laugh. But nothing happened. She just lay there, completely still. My heart broke into a thousand pieces.

Oh, how good it would be if she were here right now, looking over my shoulder and saying, “Hmm… nice headline. NOW GO CRAFT IT! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

Only, this time, I really don’t know how else to put it except Yasmin, I lup chew.

Kym SL Chong, a copywriter, first met Yasmin in 1989

Of Poets, Poetry &  Lessons

“Bhavani, I have just finished a poem, read it for me.” I would do my very best to give her beautiful poetry, the right intonation, rhythm and rhyme. And Yasmin had innumerable poems and I always loved the times she shared them with me. Sometimes she would speak of poets I hadn’t heard of, like Pablo Neruda, whom she loved, and we’d laugh at what a ‘Tan-na-ney’ I was. Here is a poem dedicated to you, my dear friend and boss, for all the laughs we shared together.

Laughter — Pablo Neruda

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

I would gingerly walk into Yasmin’s room (nicknamed The Reject Shop) with a sheet of copy for her to approve and she would turn around and say, “Is it a 7+?”. If it wasn’t, (which was more often than not), she’d immediately sense my silent request for her to add her magic. Yasmin would say, “Kundi, you’re big, fat, ugly and well-paid enough to figure it out yourself.” I’d be in a mighty panic but as I look back now, all I can say is, thank you, because you taught me the finer points of copywriting.

Bhavani Rajaratnam, who now calls herself a clueless writer, worked with Yasmin at Leo Burnett from 1992 to 2000. She first met her in 1990 when Yasmin initiated a copywriters club.