it's best you are seen and not heard today

"Look, look...If I'm going to die, I prefer to die in my own home. I'm staying put." - Wladyslaw Szpilman, "The Pianist"


I first landed at KLIA, and was not subjected to an assault (and I mean that in the best way possible) of voices belonging to the Spaniards, Italians, Arabians, Czechs, and not forgetting the English in the accustomed British accent. For the first time in eight months, I was greeted with Manglish, stood in line patiently for Malaysian passport holders only, was exceptionally pleased to hear a Malay spoke in the typically familiar Malay accent.

Polka dots of chewed gum on the side walk of LRT stations. Cheap pirated DVDs. Rejected and forgotten street people of Chow Kit road. Screams of pollution from its dirty gray eyes. Picked up carelessly from the other side of the globe. Euphemisms: you name it, we've got it. Smoke. Fog. Haze. Crowds moving at their hurried pace in the KL City. Hush and mute; documented on the cement.

The angry gray sky of dense, velvet clouds, that hover eerily above them, pour rain. Or, the sunshine. If not, a drizzle. All predicted at first sight with the lack of BBC weather forecast, with the knowledge that humidity is guaranteed all day long. Flip flops hang off the feet. Piquant aromas of durian and petai hung thick in the atmosphere. Outrageous food trips while trying to decode the strange signs of broken Malay and direction labels; carelessly yet confidently written by, perhaps, non-native speakers on a self-made cardboard -- "Nasi lemak kukus berlawuk."

A plate of char koay teow under a tree. The cigarette smoke and Bangsar. A plastic cup fiiled with Teh O Ais Limau, another with Teh Ais Kurang Manis; all in the name of my low tolerance for a spicy hint of Nirwana's banana leaf rice. Yes, I still take roti pisang with dal. Spicy and sweet, sue me! Kopi O gao served piping hot in its signature porcelain cup. Caught in the coffee chaos of the Ipoh's Old Town; filled with retirees, so-called working/non-working adults, one sits patiently, waiting to order the toast with a spoonful of margarine and kaya.

Jumble sale by AWAM. Close-knitted or family oriented: day-to-day contentment, unexpired idealism and belief, all of which have been strengthened altogether. (Trust me, the absence of those for the past eight months almost killed a soul!)

The beach; warm tropical coastline of the Pangkor Island. A soft turquoise with the orangey sunset reflecting off the water. Fucking tasty, under-priced seafood in Tanjung Tualang. Inside jokes told repeatedly, stories of high school shared time and again, laughter still churns the stomach. Some are working. Some have just graduated/are dying to graduate. Some have gone/are going abroad to kick off a new phase of life. Some still question, "What's next?" Contagious issues like racism, feminism, the government, the love and hatred for the country have been voiced out.

Hello. I am E-3478. My crime is speech.
Hi. I am E-1436. My crime is defiance.
My name is E-8829. My crime is disobedience.
They call me E-7136. My crime is independence.

Ermn...essentially, that is Malaysia. My home.

I love Malaysia for many reasons as mentioned. Yet, the unspoken dislike for her comes with a sense of needlessness to reason or justify it at all; for many of us would probably come to one similar conclusion: the feigning thought of innocence, ignorant bliss having overstayed, the safety in no conscience, and above all, they cause all that is made to fade. But, as reminded by a friend recently, "Malaysia and the government are two separate entities."

She's right. Perhaps, I forgot. They certainly have forgotten. All of us suffer from national amnesia. We speak of no discrimination, but, it is still happening. We speak of several optimistic prospects, but, they never come to life. Quite simply, we have fallen prey to our own misdeeds.

Very disheartening, I must say, I have witnessed all of those not only during the recent demos, among the several government policies, but, also during the months I have worked on Malaysian Night in Reading months ago. The paradox comes in how this applies figuratively and literally.

Hectic by day; night-time lifeless. Janitors mopped away ghosts of the act. Paint over walls decorated with life, performance dates, stomachs constricted and contracted. Curtain calls brought hearts to fly like kites in the sky. I listened to the gossip from down below. The "secrets" being passed along like a dish of gravy on Christmas around an oversized table of Malaysians. Inefficiency was dictated by many. Last-minute purge of venom. To silently mouth, "Smile. I don't hate you. I only despise your work ethics." Of course, I also faintly heard the laughter of seven people brought together like a family. Friendships were built along the way. I had people to lean on when things got out of hands.

What a perfect representation of Malaysia alone, I thought then.

And yes, you're right. A live theatre experience, an amateur directorial debut (wtf, I know!), an authentic script laboured through nights with Foo, a I-TRY-SO-HARD-TO-BE-FUNNY experiement...are single-handedly one of the most amazing and thrilling phase I will ever experience. The singular messaged we wished to deliver to all Malaysians. "Tolerance is not acceptance" was written with eloquent nobility to curb subtle racism; amplified a hundred times over throughout Negaraku.

Contrary to the theme, however, the lives the actors lived through, the effort the directors put in -- sent an inevitable flop. And that was when I felt all alone in a cluster of those who have chosen to follow the same conformist path as I did. The path of the racist. Narrow-minded, racist, rebel -- labels used on us. Tolerance is not acceptance. They were possibly right. I did not overlook the bits of Malay-bashing. In fact, I failed to notice; be it in the script or on stage.

So, how different am I from everyone else? I blame the government for its strategically played race card, and more than that, I still play the card blamelessly -- I make racist remarks; I attritube lifestyles, intelligence, driving habits according to races. Fuck, even philosophical questions of nature v. nurture has been attributed to the skin colour as a standard of measurement.

And now, my only question is, "Where do we start? Us or the government?" Certainly, I should and will not settle for anything less. Because this is home. I'm staying put.

On a final note, for a simple question asked by our dear ol' Prime Minister, Yeo Yang Poh has all the answers.