By Jagdesh Singh | Opinion |
In the 80s, growing up in a small town like Sungai Petani, tucked up north in this thin sliver peninsula we call Malaysia, discrimination wasn’t really something blatantly in my face.
My earliest memory of not being allowed to be with my buddies in class because of my race and religion was during my earliest year as a primary school student. We start at Standard One at seven years of age.
Being of mixed parentage, between my Dad’s slightly darker complexion of Punjabi heritage and my Mom’s fairer of Chinese, I turned out to look a lot like a Malay boy. Language wasn’t a problem because I grew up with neighbors of all races in developing Malaysia. I conversed easily in the Kedahan dialect of Malay, and fit right in with a bunch of jovial and very friendly Malay boys from Day One in school.
My first week in school was exhilarating, making so many new friends at rapid pace, the non-stop discovery of new games during recess and during class made me fall on love with school. I was part of a gang!
One fine day, not more than 5 days in my new schooling adventure, a kind gentle man walks into the classroom, and directs the Chinese boys to line up and walk in file into another classroom next door. Then, he does the same for the Indians. I couldn’t be bothered at the least.
You see, I was told by my father and my uncles that I was a Punjabi Sikh boy and that we were distinctly different from the South Indians Hindus. So, in my 7 year old conditioned mind, I wasn’t Indian, and for sure I wasn’t Chinese.
After the last non Malay Muslim boy left the classroom, the Ustaz then proceeds to begin his class, which was early Muslim education. His voice suddenly transformed to a bellowing deep one, “I shall now test if any of you can recite the Bismillah!”, he says in Kedahan Malay. Like any new teacher that week that walked into our classroom with their introductions, I figured that’s something I’ll learn very soon. The concept of tests and quizzes was still very alien to me.
He points to my buddy sitting next to me, who receives an approving nod after reciting the Bismillah. That’s when the pin dropped. Maybe I am supposed to know this. When the Ustaz then turned his sharp eyes on me with a confident smile, I froze.
“Well boy, what are you waiting for? Recite to me the Bismillah. I haven’t got the whole day.”
I measly shook my head, eyes wide opened, racking my head to say something that might resemble what the boy next to me said 2 minutes ago.
“What do you mean you don’t know the Bismillah, boy? You’re 7 years old. You should know this by now!” He lightly hits me with the board duster on my forehead and beckons me to give it another try. Meanwhile, the boys sitting around me start giggling from the reaction of the Ustaz, which did seem comedic at that time.
I smiled sheepishly, and shrugged my shoulders. This time, the duster hit my head a little harder. But not inflicting any physical pain. The emotional pain from embarrassment was obvious on my face though. Finally, at that moment, my buddy next to me stood up so bravely and says loudly, “But he’s not Muslim, Ustaz! He’s a Singh, but no head bun on his head!”
This time, it was the Ustaz’ turn to look a little pained. The realization that there was a mix-up dawned on him pretty quick. But he needed to know why the mix-up, because his confused reaction was, “Why didn’t you follow the Indian boys just now?”
I always smile when recalling this episode in my life. There is no doubt the humor in classic mix-ups and the errors in judgement that ensues. But I also remember how I felt being no more with the gang of friends, playing with them, laughing with them. I had to be separated from them because of who I was, and it did make me want to be a Muslim, even for the briefest of time, to be back with the gang.
I’m very sure many of us, at some point in our lives, have experienced being in the minority. Even if you were part of the majority race in any country, there would be times you’d feel being in a minority because of other things that make you unique. The degree of discrimination while being part of a minority differs, sometimes life altering for some of us. Because the higher the degree of discrimination poses the harder the challenging experiences.
We always want to be part of that gang that we feel so very comfortable with, having built relationships with others in that community. When we get discriminated and not be treated as an equal with the rest in the community, outcasted because of something that makes us unique, there is pain and discomfort. The question “Why can’t I be with them or have what they have or enjoy what they are?” will ring loudly in our heads. Sometimes longer than most times.
The more we experience discrimination, the more we can empathize with others who are going through other forms of discrimination. That is why most minorities like us can understand the pain of being a female in a male dominated world, or a physically impaired person trying to survive in a world designed for people with perfect bodies, or as a Muslim in an Islamaphobic world, or as a Gay in a conservative world that treats them as pariahs.
Our most basic right as a human in God’s earth is to be treated equally with all other humans, no matter my creed, race, religion and now, sexual orientation. Discrimination in any form that starves any humans of this basic right should be dealt with like how we’ve been fighting discrimination generations before us. Through education and awareness, with empathy and relatedness.
Until today, I still know how to recite the Bismillah, thanks to that Ustaz and my buddy who sat next to me.
Jagdesh Singh, a Kuala Lumpur-based executive with a US multinational company, is a father of three girls who are as opinionated as their mother
* This is the opinion of the writer, organisation or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Asia Samachar.
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