Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Malaysia

Write.  Just write.   

This has been my motto for days.  But, come on, should I really need one?  I just got back from Malaysia for chrissake.  I must have something to say.  

The not-so-funny thing is it seems that the more I travel the less I have to say.  And I'm not sure if this is because words don't even begin to paint a fraction of the picture or because I'm simply too lazy to make any attempt... or I don't know, I could just be sick of words.  Talking only gets you so far.  At some point you need to stop talking.  

Seriously, though: Malaysia.  Where do I even begin to begin?  Just go!  Jump on a boat, hijack a plane, grow a pair of wings, sell your spleen.  Do whatever you have to do to experience that place.

If nothing else, Malaysia is proof that there can be harmony in the world, and I am of the opinion that everyone should experience such hopefulness firsthand.  The peaceful convergence of so many historically (and currently) clashing religions is perhaps what fascinates me the most.  Being a predominantly Islamic country with a hefty side of Hinduism and a dash of Buddhism, there is no shortage of glaring cultural differences everywhere you look.  

As a misinformed, fear-filled American, I felt slightly uncomfortable with all the religious expressiveness at first.  It was just so "in your face."  I felt like at any minute it would be like West Side Story (KL style): women in Indian traditional dress would start fighting Muslim women in colorful burkas.  Sikhs would emerge from the shadows and pull switchblades out of their beards, while monks would drop AK-47s from their robes.  The tension was as thick and heavy as the ever-present sweat pouring out of my body.

The tension, of course, was a product of my imagination (and a result of trusting American media sources for far too long).  Kuala Lumpur is a microcosm of what the world could be, what it should be.  It is a fully functional, wonderfully diverse place full of forward-thinking, well-rounded people of every background and every faith you could possibly think of.  

An interesting thing to note about Kuala Lumpur, in particular: no one, and I mean no one, stares at anyone.  Can you say that about anywhere else?  Be honest now.  If you go into a Walgreens in Ypsilanti and you see (God forbid) a Muslim woman in full dress, you would stare, wouldn't you?  And not because you are necessarily judging or anything, but because she is so different from you.  And more than that, she is part of a religious community that you are trained to be fearful of.

But in a place like Malaysia, no one is put under the microscope.  No one is made to feel badly about what they believe or how they choose to express themselves.  No one is made to feel that they are the "inferior minority."  The freedom of the individual is of utmost importance, as it should be.  And perhaps this is what I liked most about Malaysia.  I felt intensely comfortable in my own skin.  And how ironic is that?  In a place where everywhere I looked I saw burkas and saris, I felt the most secure as my western dressed self.  Not a single person looked on at me with disapproving eyes (none that I saw anyway).  I just can't get over it.  I feel so thankful for what a warm embrace that country gave me.  I learned so much from it.

While we're on the subject of differences, I can't quite shake a particular image from my mind.  For every trip I take, I almost always come away with one experience that burns an image or memory so bright into my mind that it's sometimes the only thing I see for days.  The one that has stuck with me from Malaysia was of a young Muslim girl.  She was no more than seventeen or eighteen years old.  We were in the public bathroom of a food court in the middle of bum-f*cking nowhere.  The girl had a beautifully delicate build with the exception of her giant, very pregnant belly.  If that wasn't enough, she was holding what I assumed was her one-year-old baby girl.  The baby was standing naked in the sink and gripping a tattered, yellow bottle.  She had the most striking half-moon eyes, silky black hair, and wore an expression that didn't seem to communicate any discomfort or worry.  Her young mother was casually bathing her with the community soap in what struck me as a fairly filthy bathroom, making sure to scrub between every crease of baby fat.  The odd thing was it came across as a very natural thing with the way the baby just stood there indifferently, as if this was a daily occurrence.  

I would be lying if I said this didn't bother me, but not in the sense that it made me feel sorry for this young woman.  Quite the contrary actually, but I'll get to that later.  It bothered me in the sense that it made me feel like a jerk.  It bothered me in the sense that we whine and complain about how unfair things are, how we didn't get that promotion, how we can't afford that 500 billionth and very latest version of that camera we've been wanting, how we can never seem to take a breath and be thankful for any source of happiness we're lucky to have... and somewhere in this world there is a young, pregnant girl bathing her child in a public restroom.  

And, as I said, the most wonderful thing was you couldn't feel sorry for this girl if you tried.  She would never let you.  The strength in her eyes, the deliberate and vibrant way with which she moved...  It was obvious she wasn't sitting around asking, "Why me?  Why me?" (It's usually the people that have the most who do that.)  No!  This girl didn't have a second to waste on questions.  I would argue that she was okay with the hand she was dealt.  I would argue that because she had to be okay with it.  We have to be okay with it.  

And so, I think what it all comes down to is just accepting things and allowing ourselves to be happy once and for all.  At one point do we start to do that?  Why is it so hard to stop questioning and start living?  The curse of comparison, perhaps?