The blue shirt I never wore — Ng Kwan Hoong

September 21 — The memory of a blue school uniform shirt from my secondary school days lingers, though I never had the chance to wear it. The librarians, who donned that shirt, symbolized something special to me. Back then, not donning the blue shirt felt like a minor disappointment. However, reflecting on those years now, I understand that the true value lay elsewhere.

The librarians taught me an enduring lesson: to keep looking. Surrounded by books, whether storybooks, science fiction, comics, travel writing, history, or geography, I found my greatest happiness. The reference section, especially the Encyclopaedia Britannica, was my favorite spot. For hours, I would immerse myself in the endless connections within the book's entries.

In my pursuit of higher education at Universiti Malaya, my habit of library exploration continued almost unnoticed. The Main Library, spanning three floors, seemed vast, and I frequently arrived with specific targets, yet left with newfound treasures. It became clear that the library taught me that learning seldom follows a linear path.

Sometimes, the most significant discoveries arise from questions we didn't intend to ask. As a lecturer and researcher, the medical library became a second workplace for me. Research methods have evolved over time. We once relied on card catalogues, physical journals, and inter-library loan requests, patiently waiting for weeks to receive materials.

At that time, the process might seem slow, yet it felt purposeful. The librarians were a constant presence, guiding us through the ever-expanding world of knowledge. They offered more than just information; they encouraged us not to cease searching simply because answers were not immediately accessible. The library continually evolved, introducing book talks, exhibitions celebrating academic and creative achievements, and the Human Library where people shared personal stories.

Listening to Sister Mathina Bee Gulam, a retired nurse who had experienced humanitarian missions and refugee settings, was particularly memorable. Her firsthand accounts revealed that learning extends beyond the covers of books. It can be found in the experiences and wisdom of others. Looking back, I realize these programs were not merely about expanding library services; they demonstrated a deeper understanding of a library's purpose.

A library is more than a repository for knowledge. It is a space where curiosity flourishes. Today, with the click of a button, journal articles, textbooks, and scientific papers are readily available. Information accessibility has surged, and researchers have greatly benefited. Yet, mere access to information does not ensure lifelong learning.

Curiosity drives us to ask new questions. This is the quiet lesson libraries have imparted all along. As technology evolves, libraries will adapt to these changes, but the essence remains unchanged. The true measure of a library is not the number of books it houses, but whether it continues to nurture open, inquisitive minds eager to learn.

I often recall that blue shirt I never wore. Though I wasn't one of the librarians, my entire life, I have come to appreciate what they represented. They were not merely caretakers of books; they were guardians of something far more valuable—a space where generations of students, researchers, and readers could perpetually ask questions, long after formal education had ended.

Perhaps that is why libraries remain deeply significant, regardless of how technology evolves. They remind us that learning is not about reaching the final answer. It is about preserving the desire to keep looking.