I am Malaysia by Renito Unto

When my favorite anthem is on, they act proud, stood up, and sang along. When they sing, their smiles were a plenty pretty, could light up an entire city. Nay, a country. Nay, a continent. Nay, the entire world.

This was that kind of country.

This is the country full of Muhammads and Ahmeds, Lees and Tans, Dineshs and Aruns. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful people.

They had golden brown skin and even sweet dark chocolate tan, something they sometimes forget to appreciate. Something other people would sit under the sun for twelve hours to get (Laughs).

These are the names that were promised a life of peace and harmony, a life full with opportunities of the future, a life of freedom, and a life of love.

When they decided to call me Malaysia, I accepted proudly with my backboned straightened, and they even had an oath to uphold just for me and it goes like this:

Achieving a greater unity of all the people;

Maintaining a democratic way of life;

Creating a just society in which the wealth of the nation shall be equitably shared;

Ensuring a liberal approach to her rich and diverse cultural tradition;

and building a progressive society which shall be oriented to modern science and technology.

To me, it was probably the most elegant, delightful, superb, iridescent compositions of words combined together. It was a promise they made not just to me, but to themselves.

One day, I took a stroll in a park they had made beautifully, and I saw a family. A beautiful family to match the beautiful park. A mother, a father, and a son. And the son, a very young small boy, who was delighted at how colourful the world was, he pointed at the animals, trees, and anything that within his sight, “Mom, dad, a bird, a cat, an apple, a leaf, a car, a bike, a dog, a bench,” he pointed and announced, pointed and announced, pointed and announced. “Yes, yes, yes, yes” his parents said.

And then he turned to see a tall dark lanky man selling ice cream, “Mom, dad,” the boy said and pointing at the man, he uttered the K word, a word so vile, I cannot even say it in its fullest form. A word so offensive and discriminatory, I could not believe it exist.

His parents, looked at their boy, and said to him. “Don’t say that. It’s rude.”

Looking innocently at his parents, the boy replied, “But you guys say it all the time.”

ALL. THE. TIME.

All the time, and this is the truth. Behind closed doors, behind people’s backs, other people would use this word to describe a race. As if it did not mean anything, as if it did not hurt, as if it did not affect the future.

There was a kid in school, one day, he lost his wallet along with the content: his money. He was very hungry during recess for he was unable to buy himself lunch, and then a boy came to this kid, noticed how hungry he was. The boy then without a second thought gave money to this kid. They talked and got to know one another. The kid believed in a religion, where there was only one God, and the boy who helped say kid believed in a religion that had a plenty of Gods.

One day, the kid listened to a sermon from his local religious leader.

The man preached and the kid listened to it attentively, “Those who do not believe will not be invited to heaven,” and then he thought of the boy who had helped him during recess, who did not believe in the same God he believed in. Will he be rejected of heaven when he die, just because he does believe the same thing as I am, he thought and thought. And so he went to the boy who had helped him, and he warned him, fearing for the boy’s soul, with good intention, but very naively, he said “What you believe is wrong. What you believe in is not right.”

And he did not know how offensive that was. They were not friends soon after.

Now, I don’t know who goes to heaven and who doesn’t. Nobody has the power to decide that. But maybe perhaps, probably, heaven is a place on earth where the people are nice amongst one another, not necessarily understanding one another, but just have the capability to acknowledge and accept that people are different.

I always thought, me, Malaysia, was a piece of heaven for the people who live here.

There was a girl who was in love with boy. When the girl’s parents found out of this affair, they only said, “No! No! Break if off, he is not right!”

And the girl did not even need to ask why the boy was not right, it was obvious why, because he was different, because of the fact how he did not have a name like Abu Bakar, Zulhilmi, Abdul, Aziz, or Alee. Instead his name was a Chun. And to that point in his life, Chun had no problem with his name. He knew who he was and what he like about himself, changing for somebody else wasn’t a big deal for him.

But instead of taking account how much the boy loved the girl, how much the boy was willing to do so many things to make the girl happy, the parents denied any relationship among these two just because he was not right.

And what is right? What is wrong? I would like to take this moment to say that these ideas of what is wrong and right, are just debris. Differences doesn’t not take away the fact two people can love each other, love, love, love. It is a genuine feeling, a feeling such as this cannot be eradicated, they can only be repress, and to deny this feeling is to commit the biggest sin of all.

I’d be honest, I don’t like how parents raised their kids thinking they are different than any other family. I don’t like the fact how people think they are a separate race, when in fact they are the same. Human, Malaysian. I am angrier when parents warned their children not to trust kids that had different beliefs than them, when in fact, it is all the same, the same basic logic. The act of kindness, and compassion.

This is not me, this is not Malaysia. My people are not separated. My people should be one, they should in hopes abandoned and abhorred the idea of different races. They are not in a country where there is only one single face, there are in me, in Malaysia, where instead of just a face, its face(s). Beautiful faces, for beautiful people.

I am ashamed when they rather call themselves Malays, instead of Malaysians. When they rather call themselves Chineses, instead of Malaysians. When they rather call themselves Indians, instead of Malaysians.

Were they too ashamed, if I could asked them. Were they weak? No! I know they are not, they are strong, and smart, and beautiful people.

BEAUTIFUL! BEAUTIFUL! BEAUTIFUL! SMART! SMART! STRONG! STRONG! THEY ARE MALAYSIAN! MALAYSIAN!

I will repeat and repeat, over and over again, till the idea planted itself strong in their heads. To the point when they are asked, who are they, instead of thinking their names, their beautiful names, or even the color of their skin, they would say, “I am Malaysian.” To the point it is not forced, when they meet a friendly foreign face, they would introduce themselves as such, “I am Malaysian.” To the point how they know that they are more than what they think they are.

The truth in the matter of fact is, being Malaysian is more than speaking a language, and more than simple a title. Being Malaysian meant you have a country to call home, it meant you have an identity, it meant that you are always welcomed, it meant that you are never alone in a world so big, it could swallow you up if you are not strong enough, but fret not, you’re a Malaysian, you are strong, you will not be swallowed up.

I am Malaysia. And my people are Malaysians.

- Renito Unto