50 Posts To Independence- # 6

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Sashi, being the sweetheart he is, conned me into this extremely rushed piece with praise and flattery. I was hooked, as you can see. It’s not the best thing I’ve ever written, and bear in mind this was done very quickly, so excuse me if I don’t meet certain QC standards. Here goes:

 

Color Blind.

I’ve been blogging since 1999. For me, that’s a long time. Since I started, until present, when I do post about issues concerning Malaysia, I’ve always managed to whine, complain and sometimes rant about the worrying state the country seems to always be in.

This has garnered a considerable amount of comments from Malaysians and foreigners, both online and in ‘real life.’ The Malaysians usually, either tell me I’m crazy to still be living here, or like some of the kindred spirits I’ve met through blogging, tell me how we should keep trying to make a difference and push some sort of change, however small, forward.

The one question that has always stuck in my mind however, was when one Malaysian commenter, asked me (after the Sepet/Gubra- Pencemar Budaya debacle):

“Why do you love Malaysia, and why do you bother staying?”

To be quite honest, until today, until now, this very second typing up this post, I don’t know. I have thought about it, when I am happy, I have thought about it when I am sad. I have seen friends and family beaten by the system, I have seen innocents persecuted (Nathaniel Tan’s recent detention, the demolition of Kampung Berembang etc.), and I have seen the powers that be divide and conquer us ala penjajah, many, many times. In fact, some sins that I have forgiven, often come to haunt me when I think of the answers to this question.

Growing up in a largely Malay part of suburbia in Ampang, I went to public school just like everyone else. I received a mediocre education, like much of the students of the world. Education is a business, just like anything else. And sometimes when the demand is too high, the quality gets affected. Nevertheless, I learned what I had to. School was a painful time for me. Suffering from depression at age 14 to 17, life was bleak and the people and insults I faced were tough. We all know, kids are cruel. In Buffalo, New York or in Pandan Indah, Ampang.

Everyday, while I was in Form Two, there was this one boy, I remember his name. But, just in case he reads this, I won’t state it here. He was in my class, and tormented me every single day, about my color, my race, my hair, my clothes, my weight, my height. And yes, he was Malay. Coming from a pretty liberal family, I was never thought about race or religion, except my own and the guidelines to follow, so this was very much a harsh awakening for me. I used to write angry, vicious journals entries about how I would kick his ass if I could, and once after particularly cruel comment, I think I wrote about spitting on him. Of all the personal insults he threw at me, the one that hurt the most were the ones where he called me ‘keling.’

I can safely and proudly say, I never retaliated with a derogatory racial term, although, I really wanted to- in my heart of hearts. I wanted to believe in the things I heard said around me- the stereotypes of lazy, ungrateful Malays, stingy and cheating Chinese and naturally, educated, eloquent, albeit alcoholic Indians who beat the shit out of their wives.

My mother a product of the government employment system, suffered for promotions, worked hard and had her efforts shunned many times, by people who knew what they were doing. But, when you work in a collective, where the approval of the majority matters, you tend to get sidelined. The idea that, she, a single mother would have to break her back working because my family, Indian and middle class didn’t qualify for government help, killed me.

It didn’t help that as I grew up, my rage and my frustrations vanished against most of these racists, but the people around me continued to call me a silly idealist, someone who was in a different reality, one where color didn’t matter. To me, that was and still is, how I view the world. But my friends and family have often called me stupid for being color blind. Perhaps, in a country like ours, it is sometimes stupid.

I don’t know anymore.

I do know that, I love this country- tanah tumpah darahku. I love its people, I love its food, I love its diversity and I love the common thread of Malaysian-ness that unites us all. Yes, the one we sometimes forget in our haste to move forward. I see our flaws as well, and as much as I hate the political drama and injustices, Malaysia is a friend, a relative that I can never disown. She keeps putting me down sometimes, and I often hate some of the decisions and statements made on her behalf, but I love her with my very soul. It’s like how they said it in Sepet, it’s a relationship where you love and keeping on loving someone, but sometimes it seems- they never love you back.

It doesn’t matter to me anymore to have my feelings reciprocated. I’ve come to understand that the heart will love what it wants to love, despite all the frustrations and annoyances I’ve faced with Malaysia. This year, and in the years to come, I’m going to keep on loving her. I’m to keep on trying to help. I’m going to keep on hoping. I’m going to keep on keeping on.

I’m here to stay whether she likes it or not.

Happy 50th Birthday Malaysia.

The rest of the series, amazing entries:

50, 49, 48, 47, 46, 45, 44, 43, 42, 41, 40, 39, 38, 37, 36, 35, 34, 33, 32,31, 30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7 , and me at number 6.

So I’m tagging, Nuraina A Samad.

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Filed under Friends, General, Malaysia, Me Myself I, Socio-Political