A humorous look at Malaysians’ quirky lift behaviour – from “close button” assassins to door-holding heroes – and the silent social battles inside elevators.
THERE are wars fought loudly – elections, football rivalries and the never-ending national debate over why durians suddenly cost as much as a small appliance.
Then there is the current conflict in the Middle East – yes, that one. The one that appears on every news bulletin and suddenly turns everyone into a geopolitical expert during teh tarik sessions.
I will not go into the details of that war. Entire libraries have already been written and WhatsApp uncles have produced enough voice notes to last three lifetimes. But I will say this: my doa go out to all the victims caught in the middle of it.
And then there are wars fought in silence – inside lifts. Yes, darling: offices, flats, malls – these metal boxes of forced intimacy where Malaysians, otherwise civilised and polite, suddenly transform into strategic survivalists with questionable morals and itchy “close” fingers. Let’s break it down.
The “close button” assassin
You know this one – they see you and make eye contact. You are clearly power-walking, your tote bag bouncing like you are late for a board meeting or a wedding. And what do they do? Press “close”. Immediately the doors slide shut with the cold indifference of a rejected Shopee voucher.
Here’s the thing: in most modern lifts, the “close” button doesn’t even work instantly; it’s more emotional support than functional mechanism. But that doesn’t stop Malaysians from pressing it like they are launching a NASA rocket. Why? Control. Power. A tiny thrill in an otherwise mundane Tuesday. The “close button” enthusiast will say, “Aiya, I didn’t see you”. You saw me, Leha. Don’t lie.
The pretend-not-to-see sprinter
Equally iconic. You are approaching the lift lobby; the doors are open. Someone inside has clearly seen you in the reflective panel.
Instead of holding the door, they stare straight ahead, suddenly fascinated by the emergency capacity sign: “Maximum load 1,000kg”.
Yes, while your conscience is currently weighing 999kg.
Then – ting! – doors close. They avoid eye contact like they owe you money. This species thrives in office buildings, especially before 9am, when caffeine hasn’t yet restored humanity.
The button-mashing DJ
Ah yes. You enter the lift and press Level 8. Before the doors even fully close, someone else presses Level 8 – again. And again. Sometimes, enthusiastically, three times.
Why? Is the lift confused? Is it going to change its mind? No, my dear. This is not Grab cancellation policy; it’s already going to Level 8. You don’t need to remix the request like you’re headlining at Zouk.
The human-sardine philosopher
Peak hour – 8.30am. Everyone smells faintly of ambition and fabric softener. The lift is clearly full. We all know it’s full. The red overload light is basically preparing to scream, and yet from the back, someone says, “Can squeeze-lah”. Can squeeze where exactly? Into the fourth dimension?
There is always that one optimistic Malaysian who believes physics is optional – we compress, rotate shoulders and suddenly someone’s laptop bag is emotionally intimate with your ribs. And when the lift beeps angrily? Everyone looks at everyone else. Nobody moves. Collective denial. A masterpiece.
The silent-stare-contest champion
Inside a lift, eye contact becomes a social experiment. Do you look down at your phone? Stare at the floor numbers like it’s live theatre? Examine the ceiling as though searching for divine guidance?
Malaysians have perfected the art of looking everywhere except at each other. The most powerful move? The subtle reflection glance in the mirror panel. We see you seeing us. Don’t play.
The door-block hero
Now, let’s give credit where it’s due. There exists a rare and noble creature – the one who holds the door. They stretch their arm out dramatically, risking personal-finger injury, and shout: “Hold, hold, hold!”
These are the unsung heroes of our vertical journeys – no cape, no medal, just basic decency and strong reflexes. May their teh tarik always be perfectly frothy.
The exit-block villain
But every hero has a nemesis – the person who stands directly in front of the door and doesn’t move when people need to exit. The lift opens and you are trying to leave. They just stand there, like a decorative pillar.
My dear, lifts operate on simple logic: people exit first, then re-enter. This is not a Black Friday sale at Mid Valley. Spatial awareness, please.
The sudden small-talk gambler
Occasionally – and this is rare – someone attempts a conversation. “Hot today, ah?”
Inside a metal box of trapped body heat. What do you expect me to say? “No, feels like Genting Highlands”?
Most Malaysians respond with the polite half-smile. Conversation terminatedat Level 5.
Why are we like this? Because lifts compress more than bodies; they also compress social rules.
In Malaysia, we pride ourselves on being courteous – holding doors, saying sorry even when it’s not our fault, queueing for nasi lemak like civilised citizens. But inside lifts? It’s every person for themselves – a microcosm of society, played out between Ground Floor and Level 12.
Final word from Level G
Perhaps the true test of character isn’t how you behave in meetings; it is how you behave in lifts.
Do you:
press “close” like you’re racing destiny?
pretend not to see someone sprinting? or
hold the door, risking mild inconvenience for the greater good?
Because one day, my friend, you will be the one running – and somewhere, someone’s thumb will hover over that “close” button. Choose wisely.
Azura Abas is the executive editor of theSun.
Comments: letters@thesundaily.com