Community Board: Muddy River Misfit

I have a love-hate relationship with KL and the greater Malaysia that I know little of. I love to hate it, often with so much fervour that my family will exclude me from their nightly political diatribes. I complain, I rant, roll my eyes in dissatisfaction, send drinks back, send food back, curse like a trucker at mean drivers, and constantly lug around a crestfallen look when I’m at home. It’s almost a running joke and not a particularly good one. A close friend (who chose to live in England) recently asked me if every sentence I said started with, “Well…in New York…” Indeed, even here in the hallowed walls of KLue (a company resplendent with much Malaysiana and global dynamism that it should be bottled and sold at BN meetings), I’m made fun of. Because, most of my sentences do start with “Well… in New York…”

People keep saying, “You think it’s easy in the white man’s country?” Though it may soon be a black man’s country and that is precisely why I crave life there. There is no race. Everybody is a New Yorker, until someone asks you where you’re from. (Disclaimer: I can only speak for New York City and its boroughs, the rest of America is a story I cannot tell and have no interest in.) In contrast, in Malaysia – however hard we try – things are all about race. About MalayChineseIndian. Since the March election, the commas and spaces between these three words may have been removed but they’re still in use nevertheless. The idea of the “one Malaysian” is bandied about in reverent terms. But it’s not sincere. Perhaps it’s because of developmental policies, perhaps because no blood was spilt, or because a consolidated Other was not created and struggled against during the independence “movement”. Yes, there was the Hartal and all the injustice that followed and thank god that it has been brought to attention but can a veritable nationalism be built without struggle, without blood, without the creation of a nationalist consciousness and a sustainable civil society?

We have a massive flagpole with the Jalur Gemilang flying strong. But it would seem that there is not enough pathos. I draw allusion to the immortalisation of the Tiranga (the Indian flag with its saffron for its Hindus, its green for its Muslims and its white for its secular idealism) in the Indian subconsciouness, the arrogance of the Union Jack and, the absolute pride/jingoism of the Stars and Stripes. These flags are vital and idiosyncratic – statements of a nation. In a way, our flag seems to have been assembled from an assortment of other flags. Nothing seems to be organic. Sometimes, this is reflected in our pop culture. Our theatre is hardly localised, the vernacular theatre is marginalised to respective races, English theatre is getting more organic but seems to prefer adapting Western plays rather than creating local stories. Our TV is a farce, with rehashed foreign reality TV programmes with judges aping their American counterparts and very badly at that. Our films are getting there but I think that we’re far yet from being able to rest on our laurels. Yes, there are pockets of bona fide talent, but is that enough? Where are the Mak Yong mixes? Why is Hujan not well known enough? Why do we pay millions of dollars to hear foreign DJs play electro not even question why local DJs do not use local influences in their music? It’s almost as if we’re scared of our vernacular, our culture… or are we just embarrassed? Wouldn’t it be a great day if a P Ramlee mix played in Canto-pop clubs, Bhangra resonated through Zouk and T3 rapped their way through Brickfields? And wouldn’t it be great if nobody reacted to it?

Yes, I complain a lot. But there’s still so much that I love about it because it has shaped who I am. The smelly bylanes. Old makcik who smile with their nasi lemak, the hustle of a Chinese cornershop, little bits of Chow Kit, Masjid India and Kampong bahru where time stood still and its smells of Asia. I like our malls for their glossy anonymity and quagmires of carparks. I love post-rain Kl nights that are steamy, sensual and mottled. I like Bukit Ceylon, mixing colonial arrogance with hawker, street-y KL and remnants of its vice-ridden past. I like Maggi goreng, salt of the earth food out of a packet. I like the little pockets of beatnik and underground expression that we have in film, music and art. I like bartering with drug addicts who charge you for parking on the road. I like that you can park on the road. And then there is all the other things that makes me pine for somewhere else, anywhere but here. Things have changed but let’s not stop changing. I leave soon, a little guilty, a little happy and a lot scared. So, yes, I’m yet another defector. Good riddance, you might say. But I know this country and its people are embedded in my blood and it is what makes me survive, outside.

TEXT Priya Narayanan