It’s 8:58 PM now. In three hours and two minutes, the clock will strike twelve. Fireworks will explode, lighting up the night sky. Phone networks will start to jam up with the volume of mass ‘Selamat Menyambut Hari Kemerdekaan Ke-50′ SMSes. The Jalur Gemilang will be raised at Dataran Merdeka amid patriotic Malaysian citizens cheering ‘Merdeka!’.
I’ve seen sixteen Independence Days come and go in my lifetime. This year will be the seventeenth. Yet somehow, this one is different. With this Hari Merdeka comes bittersweet emotions, coupled with a deeper, newfound understanding of what it means to be a citizen of this country I call my own.
Now, I have never considered myself patriotic in any way, and this blog post in no way intends to be one of those inspirational, ‘bangga Malaysia’ articles laced with nostalgic reminiscing. Heck, I can’t even speak Malay properly, nor do I speak any languages/dialects of the two other main ethnic groups of Malaysia, for what it’s worth. I’ve never stepped foot into a public school, having been home schooled nearly all my schooling life, never read the newspapers until I entered college, and never really bothered much about what was going on with the country, politics-wise and such. Politics was for adults. Complaining about public toilets and lousy transportation and paranoia over mounting rape cases and snatch thefts was for people who have lots to criticize but nothing to contribute. I’m young, I used to think. It’s not like I can do anything anyway.
Somehow in the past eight months that has all changed. In the past few weeks especially, I’ve heard and read things that I’ve had no inkling of before, things stirring and brewing beneath the surface of a country preparing to celebrate fifty years of independence. Stories of injustice and corruption suddenly carry more weight in light of all the new revelations that have been brought to my attention.
When I read this article by Asia Pacific News on how at 50, Malaysia is questioning it’s identity (whether or not we are an Islamic state), an unexpected wave of sadness swept over me. I have come to realize that, like it or not, I am as much a part of this country as any other citizen. And that as a citizen, I have a choice: to care about my country, my rights, and the rights of those who share this home with me. To be aware of what’s going on, so that I can speak out and be a voice for truth, no matter how small a voice I may be.
What difference might it make if one voice decides to speak out, or one small candle decides to burn? Probably not much. But many small voices, united, become one loud voice, just as many small flames, burning together, become one large blazing flame. Will we ever hear that loud voice or see that blazing flame? I don’t know. But I know this: it has begun to matter to me whether I hear the loud voice or see the blazing flame.
I have begun to care.
It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness. -Eleanor Roosevelt
