The haze is back in Malaysia, bringing familiar routines of masks, air purifiers and closed windows – but clean air should not be treated as a seasonal luxury.
THERE is a particular smell that tells you the haze is back. You step outside in the morning, still half asleep, expecting the usual Malaysian combination of heat, humidity and someone frying something delicious nearby. Instead, you smell smoke.
You look up and there it is. That familiar grey blanket hanging over everything. The hills disappear. Buildings a few kilometres away suddenly look like they have been erased.
Even the sun seems to have given up, appearing as a weak orange ball through a sky that looks like it needs a good wash.
Yes, Malaysia. The haze is back – again. And the most Malaysian thing about it is that we are almost getting used to it.
We check the API. We buy masks. We shut the windows. We switch on the air purifier. We complain in the family WhatsApp group. We send each other screenshots of the air quality reading.
Then, we carry on. Because what else are we supposed to do? Every haze season comes with the same familiar routine. Fires, dry weather, open burning, peatlands, smoke drifting across the Straits of Malacca.
Authorities monitor the readings and issue advisories. Statements are made. Fingers are pointed.
Meanwhile, ordinary people are just trying to breathe. And you can actually feel the haze before you see it.
First comes that dry, scratchy feeling at the back of your throat. Then the little cough. Then the watery eyes. Then the headache that arrives uninvited and decides to stay.
Walk into a pharmacy during haze season and you will see the same survival kit everywhere: N95 masks, eye drops, saline spray and throat lozenges.
We may not know each other but there is an instant connection. A knowing look. You also kena haze-ah?
That, unfortunately, is our version of national solidarity. Not winning a football match, a medal or a record-breaking achievement. Just all of us suffering together.
At home, the windows stay shut. Laundry becomes a strategic operation. You put your clothes outside thinking, “Okay, the air doesn’t look too bad”.
One hour later, you bring them in and wonder why your freshly washed clothes smell like someone had a barbecue in your wardrobe.
And the air purifier? Once upon a time, that was something you bought because you were slightly paranoid about indoor air quality. Now, it feels like part of the furniture.
For parents, the haze season comes with another headache – the children are stuck indoors, playgrounds sit empty, bicycles stay parked and football practice gets cancelled.
Suddenly, a perfectly healthy child with enough energy to power a small city is expected to entertain himself inside the house. Good luck.
Parents become amateur environmental analysts overnight.
“What’s the API?”
“120.”
“Is that bad?”
“Hmm… maybe, don’t go outside.”
Then you check again 20 minutes later. Okay. Definitely don’t go outside.
And somewhere in the house, your child is staring out of the window, wondering why the sky has disappeared. That part gets to me. Because clean air should not feel like a luxury and clear skies should not be something we appreciate only because they have temporarily returned.
And while those of us who can stay indoors complain about cancelled plans and smelly laundry, there are Malaysians who cannot simply shut the door and wait it out.
Delivery riders are still out there. Construction workers are still working. Hawkers are still standing over hot woks. Traffic police are still on the roads. Cleaners, security guards, roadside workers and countless others still have to breathe whatever the rest of us are trying desperately to keep outside.
We talk a lot about Malaysian resilience. We wear it almost like a badge – we tahan, adjust and make do. But sometimes, I wonder whether we have confused resilience with having no choice.
We shouldn’t have to be endlessly resilient about things that should be prevented in the first place.
Still, we do what Malaysians do best. We make jokes and within hours, the memes arrive.
“Why travel to Cameron Highlands when the fog has come to you?”
Someone will share a photo of the skyline and say it looks like London. Someone else will recommend some grandmother’s magical tea that apparently cures everything from a sore throat to a broken heart.
And we laugh. Because sometimes humour is the only thing we have when the problem feels too big for us.
Eventually, the rain will come, the wind will change and the grey will lift. And one morning, we will walk outside and suddenly realise we can see the hills again. The sky will be blue. The trees will look impossibly green. And we will take that first deep breath and think… ahhh. Finally.
Then the air purifiers will go quiet, the masks will disappear into drawers and the windows will open again. Life will return to normal… until next year. And that is the part I find most depressing. Not that the haze comes but that we already know how this story ends. We just don’t know why we keep accepting the next chapter.
For now, though, I’ll shut the windows, check the API, make myself a cup of chrysanthemum tea and wait for the blue sky to return. Because apparently, in Malaysia, even something as basic as breathing clean air comes with a season.
And honestly? That shouldn’t be normal.
Hashini Kavishtri Kannan is the news editor at theSun.
Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
