ABOUT ME
MY BLOG.MY MESSAGE.MY STORY
Every day, hundreds of Malaysians take to the streets, all of them with different purposes and concerns. But, unbeknownst to us, we share a common sentiment. Malaysia isn't a country, a people, or a religion. It's a practice and a shared idea that we all understand. In this day and age, however, these values are constantly disappearing. Whatever happens politically or economically, we must understand that history never follows a linear progression. There will be ups and downs in our journey, but we will fall together. Always.
Share these stories and pictures as you would with your own ideas because they are not meant for me but for us.
"Though a tree grow ever so high, the falling leaves return to the root"
My father looked around the decaying wood and sat on the old steps of the longhouse. He gestured for me to sit by him. The steps were rough, but my father’s hands secured me in place. The steps greeted me with delight as if they had waited for me in their isolation--as if I belonged there like in my father's photo from the 60s.
My father held onto me, handing his world into my hands. A sudden longing encroached from the bottom of my soul and reached out to grasp it, but I couldn't possibly hold the weight of his world; I couldn't secure the stories of our 15 years together. I wasn't ready to pursue a life like my father's abroad. Just like a fleeting memory, he murmured his wise words into the night blue sky.
When you leave home tomorrow, don’t forget what you have seen today. Don’t forget the people, the pain, or the sacrifice. Most of all don’t forget who you are and your place in this world and the next. You will find that Malaysian streets never follow one path.
Just like that, my father's appearance seemed to disappear from the steps, and his voice echoed through the silent streets. He was still with me, but this is my journey.
My people. My sacrifice. My place. My wold. My streets. My Path
Since she was a young girl, it was her duty to cook for the family and take care of her parents who often were sick. She did well in her school and achieved high scores; whenever she was free (which was not a lot of time), she tended her gardens and watched as free girls biked around town. She was given many scholarships but became hesitant to take a few of them--more specifically one of them.
A company agreed to send her to a university in the United States where she could major in whatever she wanted. In return, the company expected her to return to Malaysia and work for them. Until today, her final motivations remain unclear, but her experience was completely indelible--the good and the bad. Imagine an eighteen-year-old girl visiting an airport for the first time. She's scared of planes but looks to her parents for comfort who hide behind tinted glass, barely a speck. Her parents only wanted the best for her; they were willing to sacrifice their girl so that she could witness the West and its unending opportunities, so that she can shape her world, so that she can truly become free.
This was the end of everything she had ever understood since she was born. Her freedom waited across the neverending seas. Wanderers watched and waited as the young girl turned her back on her shores. But freedom was here all along.
He talked about how Southernization in Asia was first sparked by early Malay sailors who took the luxuries from the Islamic caliphates around the world. We were the first! These Malay sailors were hardworking and were the first nation to dare challenge the seas. I looked around the class. Yes, we were the descendants of those Malay sailors. Stirring in our blood was the bravery and the audacity of those sailors. Every heartbeat was a heartbeat shared with those sailors. We were destined for greatness.
I questioned the validity of my teacher's history lesson. After all, history is merely written by people; it is a narrative that has been passed on for generations and generations to us. It's our duty to protect or challenge that narrative, and that's the beauty of history. As much as it is set in stone, we can still change it. The Malay sailors' existence solely depends on the choices we plan to make in the future. This is the story of us. This is the story of the Malay sailors.
The summer haze dragged through the final classes of May, and the Malay girls were eager to free themselves from their seats. The teacher recognized their sense of urgency and, as if to alleviate their suffering, ended the class with a well-known Malay proverb: "Though a tree grow ever so high, the falling leaves return to the root". His tone didn't strike me at first. But as the leaves around the school turn into a vibrant green, I finally heard an ever so bright whisper in the wind: "My Free Malaya".
CONTAct me
CONTAct me
If any of you wish to send in short stories of your own please fill out the message box below. If you have comments on my stories please add them to the blog posts (but if you really want to send them to me that's fine too). I hope you enjoyed the stories and the gallery!
I await your message.
A refreshing meal in Malacca.
A famous painting tainted by graffiti.
Cendol durian