Being an Anak Malaysia means having a name that bridges two worlds.
My siblings and I were born Chinese Hakka, but we grew up with Malay names given by our kampung neighbours. My eldest sister is called Ah Moy because she loved reading and always stayed home. My second sister was a crybaby, so the old folks called her Katak (frog), and her nickname is Ah Tak. My eldest brother is Ahmad, the second is Ali. My third sister is Ah Kiah (short for Rokiah). I am Ah Ti (short for Yati). And my youngest sister is Ah Man.
Our father was affectionately called Taukeh by the villagers. Being the boss of the blacksmith shop and our mother was Taukeh Neo. These names were never forced. They were given with love, acceptance, and a sense of belonging. That is the Malaysia I grew up in where your identity was not defined by your race. But rather by your place in the community.
Being an Anak Malaysia means playing together, laughing together, and learning together.
We loved playing “masak-masak” or pretend cooking. A boy and a girl would act as parents, while the rest became children. We would gather small seeds, leaves, flowers, and rocks that looked like meat or fish. Together, we would "cook" over a small fire, then we would “eat” our creations. Sometimes we fought but the oldest among us would always restore peace.
We also loved fishing. We would cut bamboo rods, buy fishing lines and hooks from the sundry shop, and head to the river at dusk. That was the best time when the fish came out to feed. We caught ikan geli, ikan haruan, and ikan sepat. We would bring them home for our mother to cook in spicy gulai lemak cili api, served with kangkung (water spinach) sambal belacan and steaming hot rice. It was the simplest meal and the most delicious. Kangkung grew abundantly at the drain opposite our house.
Being an Anak Malaysia means being able to trust each other.
In those days, we don’t pay immediately at the sundry shop. My father had a credit book with the shop owner, a small pocket-sized "555" exercise book. Every time my mother or any of us bought something whether it was fish hooks, cooking oil, snacks or a bottle of cold drink. The shop owner would jot it down in that little notebook. At the end of each month, my father would go to the shop, the shop owner would tally everything, and my father would pay cash in full amount. No arguments. No suspicion. Just trust.
That was the Malaysia I knew. A handshake was as good as a contract. Your word was your bond. Whether you were Chinese, Malay, or Indian, business was built on trust and trust was built on years of knowing each other. The shop owner knew my father would pay, and my father knew the shop owner would never cheat him. That trust was the invisible thread that held our community together.
Today, that kind of trust feels rare. But when I remember that small "555" notebook, I am reminded that being Malaysian has always been about believing in each other even without a receipt, even without a signature.
Being an Anak Malaysia means carrying our culture with us, even when we leave.
When my father grew old and had a serious motorcycle accident in year 2004. The landlords refused to buy over our house when my dad moved to KL to stay with us. The landlords then forced us to either “carry” the house away or demolish our childhood home. It was heartbreaking, but we had to tear down the house and sell off its contents. My father had built that house with his hard-earned money along with a small blacksmith workshop beside it. We lived there from 1966 until the early 2000s. My father passed away in 2012.
Now, whenever we pass through Kandang, all that remains is an empty plot of land. My heart aches knowing we couldn't preserve it for the next generation.
Being an Anak Malaysia means that food and love will always bring us together.
Today, I live in a city where neighbours barely know each other. But I still carry on my mother's tradition. I share food with my neighbours. When they enjoy my cooking, my heart swells. Because food is not just about taste. It is comfort. It is care. It is connection.
“Satu talam, seribu rasa” that is the magic of Malaysia. Every bite is not just delicious on the tongue, but a reflection of unity that lives in the heart. When we share our food, we are building bridges of love between races and religions. We celebrate our differences as strength, not division.
A Merdeka Wish for My Beloved Malaysia.
As we celebrate Merdeka and Malaysia Day, my heart is filled with gratitude for the country that raised me. Malaysia gave me a childhood where I could be Hakka, Chinese, and Malaysian all at once. Without ever feeling torn. It gave me neighbours who became family, friends who became brothers and sisters, and a kampung that taught me the true meaning of muhibbah.
My hope for Malaysia is simple but deep. That we never lose this spirit of togetherness. That we continue to share our food, our stories, and our hearts with one another. That our children and grandchildren will also grow up in a Malaysia where race is not a barrier, but a beautiful tapestry of flavours, colours, and cultures.
May we always remember that we are stronger together. May we keep our traditions alive while embracing others. May our differences never divide us, but always enrich us.
Selamat Hari Merdeka dan Selamat Malaysia Day.
Kita semua adalah anak Malaysia. Satu bangsa, satu negara, satu hati.
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Chin Yl (chin8122@gmail.com) is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
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