My mom is Chinese and my dad is Malay. I was born in Malaysia in 1964. Five years after that, my mom along with my younger brother and I took a flight to Canada to be with my dad who was on a government scholarship to finish a Bachelor's degree there. From 1969 until 1972, although life was somewhat mundane due to social restrictions and fear of the dangers of strangers in a foreign country, I did enjoy, however, my Kindergarten until Grade 2 schooling in Canada. I would say that the liberal education which I had received was a crucial factor as to who I am today and what fueled my continued inquisitiveness for any kind of knowledge through reading and experiences. The way the lessons were taught in school encouraged me to explore and discover in my learning process, much different to the rote like approach I then had to undergo when I returned home to Malaysia. That will be another story to tell.
When I returned home to my country I was placed in the grade level called Standard Two in a school that was categorized as a mission school, the Methodist Girls' School. I was put in one of the best classes due to my fluency in English. My classmates were curious about this new girl, who looked Malay, yet was speaking English. Before I was even enrolled in school, my mom had drilled me in the Malay language; making me recite the numbers in Malay. She wrote the words on a piece of paper and I had to recite them out loud until I memorized them. I remembered crying as I tried to mouth the words, over and over again, in a language unknown to me wondering why I had to say the numbers in a different language.
On the first day of school, the Malay students crowded around me. They were my first friends. I remember Naziha and Mahfudzah. There were only about five Malay students in that class. This would be the case in all the classes which I attended for all the different schools that I went to throughout my schooling years as I moved from one school to another, following my father as he changed designation in his work as a government officer. Gathering around me, they asked me a question, "Are you Malay or Chinese?"
The class teacher asked me the same question, "Are you Malay or Chinese?" I kept quiet, not knowing what to answer. I was both and I didn't understand why she was asking me this question.
I went home that day and tearfully asked my mom that I was being asked if I was a Malay or Chinese. I felt that either answer would be a betrayal to one of my parents. My mom said, "Just say you are Malaysian". Armed with the answer, I went to school the next day.
Again, the class teacher asked, "Are you Malay or Chinese?". I answered, "Malaysian". She gave me an annoyed, couldn't be bothered look.
As the school day went by, teacher upon teacher came into the classroom for different subject lessons until this one teacher came in and starting speaking in Mandarin and started writing on the board in Chinese. My mom had taught me some Mandarin, but when the teacher came up to me and sternly asked me to get out the textbook which I didn't have, I was taken aback. As soon as she turned around to write on the board, I realized that all the Malay students were no longer in the classroom. Hoping she didn't see me, I ran out of the classroom, down the stairs and to the canteen where I heard students reciting familiar Arabic words that I don't know how and when they came to be familiar in my mind. But they were familiar and I had them in my memory. Curiously I approached the classroom and looked in and saw my Malay classmates inside along with many others.
The teacher looked up and saw me and beckoned me to come in. The class went quiet as I approached her desk. Everyone was looking at me, and when I reached her table, she asked me the question, "Are you Malay or Chinese?" I answered determinedly, "Malaysian." She asked me again, and once again I gave the same answer. She looked at me and softly told me to join the class and my friends immediately gave me space to sit with them on the bench which served as seating for this classroom by the canteen, located furthest from the other classrooms in the main school building.
Later then, I found out that the Malay students were separated to attend Agama (religious) class at the same time the non-Malay students had their Mandarin class. However, we were all together when it came to singing class, where I enthusiastically sang along with the words for all the songs, be it songs like Edelweiss or the occasional hymn.
That day, when I went home, I told my mom what happened at school. She was quiet for a while before she asked me, "Are you ashamed of me being Chinese?" which added more confusion to my young mind that day.
As I grew up and moved from one school to another, the stereotypes of being Chinese or Malay became more and more of a dilemma for me. One was that Malays would not be attending language classes and would undoubtedly attend Islamic religion classes instead. Also, because the best classes consist of the majority of Chinese and a few Malays, it was stereotyped that Chinese students were smarter. In every one of the three major national exams in the Malaysian education system; the primary school exam, the lower secondary school exam and the upper secondary school exam, I had always achieved results that warranted me to be in the best class. I was unawares that segregation would be in play for me from the beginning and another stereotype would be in effect; that Science and Additional Math subjects were not for Malay students.
More on this in my next post.
On the first day of school, the Malay students crowded around me. They were my first friends. I remember Naziha and Mahfudzah. There were only about five Malay students in that class. This would be the case in all the classes which I attended for all the different schools that I went to throughout my schooling years as I moved from one school to another, following my father as he changed designation in his work as a government officer. Gathering around me, they asked me a question, "Are you Malay or Chinese?"
The class teacher asked me the same question, "Are you Malay or Chinese?" I kept quiet, not knowing what to answer. I was both and I didn't understand why she was asking me this question.
I went home that day and tearfully asked my mom that I was being asked if I was a Malay or Chinese. I felt that either answer would be a betrayal to one of my parents. My mom said, "Just say you are Malaysian". Armed with the answer, I went to school the next day.
Again, the class teacher asked, "Are you Malay or Chinese?". I answered, "Malaysian". She gave me an annoyed, couldn't be bothered look.
As the school day went by, teacher upon teacher came into the classroom for different subject lessons until this one teacher came in and starting speaking in Mandarin and started writing on the board in Chinese. My mom had taught me some Mandarin, but when the teacher came up to me and sternly asked me to get out the textbook which I didn't have, I was taken aback. As soon as she turned around to write on the board, I realized that all the Malay students were no longer in the classroom. Hoping she didn't see me, I ran out of the classroom, down the stairs and to the canteen where I heard students reciting familiar Arabic words that I don't know how and when they came to be familiar in my mind. But they were familiar and I had them in my memory. Curiously I approached the classroom and looked in and saw my Malay classmates inside along with many others.
The teacher looked up and saw me and beckoned me to come in. The class went quiet as I approached her desk. Everyone was looking at me, and when I reached her table, she asked me the question, "Are you Malay or Chinese?" I answered determinedly, "Malaysian." She asked me again, and once again I gave the same answer. She looked at me and softly told me to join the class and my friends immediately gave me space to sit with them on the bench which served as seating for this classroom by the canteen, located furthest from the other classrooms in the main school building.
Later then, I found out that the Malay students were separated to attend Agama (religious) class at the same time the non-Malay students had their Mandarin class. However, we were all together when it came to singing class, where I enthusiastically sang along with the words for all the songs, be it songs like Edelweiss or the occasional hymn.
That day, when I went home, I told my mom what happened at school. She was quiet for a while before she asked me, "Are you ashamed of me being Chinese?" which added more confusion to my young mind that day.
As I grew up and moved from one school to another, the stereotypes of being Chinese or Malay became more and more of a dilemma for me. One was that Malays would not be attending language classes and would undoubtedly attend Islamic religion classes instead. Also, because the best classes consist of the majority of Chinese and a few Malays, it was stereotyped that Chinese students were smarter. In every one of the three major national exams in the Malaysian education system; the primary school exam, the lower secondary school exam and the upper secondary school exam, I had always achieved results that warranted me to be in the best class. I was unawares that segregation would be in play for me from the beginning and another stereotype would be in effect; that Science and Additional Math subjects were not for Malay students.
More on this in my next post.
Methodist Girls' School, Ipoh
2 comments:
Thank you for sharing this, Faizah. We Malaysians need more stories like this. I can only imagine what it must be like to be in your shoes going through your early life finding identity in this country where we are obsessed with putting everyone neatly into their race box, and where we are constantly asked what race we are when filling up official and even trivial forms everywhere. I remember there was one time when I purchase a bus ticket via a bus company website and was aghast that I was also required to identify what race I am in the check out process.
I shall look forward to the continuation of this in your future posts.
What a wonderful writing Faizah.... Keep it up because I want to read more. Thank you for sharing your journey with all of us...
Post a Comment