Independent Malaysian

I’d never thought I’d come back to Malaysia. My parents had migrated to London when I was 3, and we moved back to our homeland, Malaysia, when I was 13. It was an unexpected move, but my dad had been offered the chance to return, and he jumped at it. He was a patriot. He always got excited whenever he saw a Proton car cruising down the M-1 highway. He never really liked living on foreign soil. “No matter where you go, Malaysia will always be home.” He’d always say.  At that time, I begged to differ. I had never known my motherland like my parents did, having been brought up in London amongst what my maternal grandmother liked to call the ang-moh’s. At 13, I didn’t really feel like I had missed out on much. After all, I grew up appreciating West End musicals, fish and chips, and Jude Law. So sad to say, I wasn’t as enthusiastic about coming back as my parents were.

 

  Upon arrival, we took different routes. My dad was heading for Kuala Lumpur to set up our new home and iron out any details that needed ironing out, my mother and I were going to spend a few weeks in her home town of Sitiawan (located in the state of Perak). Suffering from severe jet lag, I slept throughout the 3-hour ride to Sitiawan. If there were any sights along the way, I missed them. I woke up to find the car parked in front of a house that was erected on a vast plot of land. I saw a vegetable garden on the left side of the house that seemed to stretch all the way to the back. Turning my attention to the house, I noted that there was a verandah, and steps leading up to it. The house was made out of cement, stone and brick, but was standing on stilts. It had a kampung vibe to it, with a slightly modern touch. “Ah Mah!!” I heard my mother yell up to the house as she dragged her Louis Vuitton suitcase on the dirt road. An old lady appeared on the verandah, and that was the first time I had laid eyes on my maternal grandmother in ten years. Her wrinkly face lit up with a smile as she rushed down to hug and greet my mother. They exchanged a few words, all in Cantonese. Unable to understand a word, I busied myself with getting my luggage out and then stood there and watched. Gradually my grandmother turned to me and hugged me, speaking delightedly in Cantonese. “err, I don’t understand..” my sentence trailed off as the old lady kept going on. I flashed a pleading look of help to my mother. I assumed that what my mother said in Cantonese after that was explaining that I couldn’t speak Cantonese, because after that my grandmother switched to whatever little English she could speak. “You so big already!! Last time I see you, you small baby!!” she exclaimed. “But you very skinny, skinny no good. Skinny no prosperous” She commented, examining me critically. “Well, being pudgy isn’t an option either now is it?” I drawled in my British accent. She gasped in horror. “Ah Chu Ah!!” she called frantically to my mother, “Why she speak like that? Why she no speak like Malaysian girl? She speak like ang moh!!” My mother heaved a sigh and beckoned for us to go up to the house. My grandmother hurried after her, demanding an explanation for my lack of Malaysian character, and I followed behind, silent.

  The few weeks spent in Sitiawan was like nothing I had ever experienced before. My grandmother cooked up a feast every night, with different kinds of dishes. What surprised me the most was that she did not only cook Chinese dishes, but curries and rendang as well! One day as we chopped up fruit for dessert, my curiosity got the better of me. “Por Por (she had insisted I call her this as per the Chinese tradition, and would not take any of my ‘Granny’ nonsense) , why is it you can cook dishes that are not of your culture as well?” The old lady smiled. “Ah Girl, you no understand. Things here different than in England. Here all race mix together. Ever since young, I got two very good friends. One Indian, one Malay. Our parents know each other, and our mothers always together. We all learn to cook together, eat together.” She heaved a nostalgic sigh. “That was before our country free from British you know!!” she added, and continued slicing the watermelon. “Por Por, you were alive in the 1950’s!?” I exclaimed, never knowing she was that old. “Haiya, that time your Por Por was sweet young thing. 16 years old only!” she said with a look of pride on her face. “So did you go, on the day that independence was declared?” I asked. “Haiyo, of course lah!! I remember that day, I went with Aminah and Priya, their parents and my parents, the stadium arr, filled with people you know!! Everybody want to see, but everybody so happy! Then Tunku Abdul Rahman went up to the podium, and he yelled ‘MERDEKA!!’…wah!! all of us so happy!! We all echo him, seven times!!” she exclaimed, finishing with a smile of her face, the watermelon forgotten. I smiled, in awe of it all. “Wow, that must’ve been an amazing moment.” I said. She nodded. “It was..” and then sighed again, this time one of resignation. “But now times different. Young girls nowadays no care about culture, or heritage. Only care about Tong Kuu (Tom Cruise) and Black Pitch (Brad Pitt) lah! They don’t want to learn to cook, everyday only pressing the little phone thing. Haih, now things different already. Look at you..” she touched my cheek softly, and looked into my eyes. First I saw her hopes, what she wanted me to become, a good Malaysian girl, and then beyond them, I saw…that even though I was how I was, she still loved me, although she was a bit disappointed I didn’t turn out to be what she wanted me to be. She removed her hand away, but the impact she made on me was strong enough.

 

  Five years later, I sit at a local KL mamak, thinking of where my journey of becoming a Malaysian began. I look back at my grandmother’s house that I went back to during my school holidays to learn to cook, and to speak Cantonese. I think of the people I’ve met here, my grandmother’s friends, Mak Cik Minah & Mak Cik Priya, and my own two friends Nadia & Sharnya (whom I spent most of my holidays with). Slowly I have shed my British persona and become what I truly am - Malaysian. The mini skirts and tank tops have been replaced with baju kurung’s, Punjabi suits and the cheongsam for special occasions. In KL itself, I have made friends of different races and cultures, and adopted the habit of attending my friends’ ‘open house’. Being a girl of two races, I’m privileged enough to be able to have learnt of both my cultures. Por Por was the bane of my Chinese culture, and my Papa and Mak Cik Minah helped replant my Malay roots. Together with my parents, I have hosted Hari Raya open houses and gone home to Sitiawan for Chinese New Year. My watch flashes 11pm and I quickly yell “Boss! Kira!” and pack up to leave. Most people are at the usual countdown spots, but I have my own countdown in store. As I enter the house, I check my watch. 5 minutes. “Ah Girl, you made it back. You’re just in time.” I smile and join the group of people assembled in my living room. I look at each of their smiling faces and mine grows wider. Por Por, Mak Cik Minah, Mak Cik Priya all seated together on the sofa, while my ma and pa sit on the chairs they moved from the dining room. Seated on the floor are my two friends, Nadia & Sharnya, who beckon me to join them. I take my seat, and together, we countdown together with the images on the television set. “10..9..8..7..6..5..4..3..2..1, MERDEKA!!” We all scream together. The three old ladies are hugging each other, and I look up at Por Por to see her smiling at me. I beam back, tears in my eyes. “Ah Girl, Merdeka!” she screams in my direction. “Merdeka Por Por, Merdeka!!” I reply jubilantly. At that moment, I make a silent vow. When I leave for the UK to further my studies, I will not return wrapped in British skin as I once did. I will not forget where I truly come from, what I am, and what I will always be. Silently, I promised myself, and my Por Por this -  When I return, I will return an Independent Malaysian.

 

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