Yellow

You might not change something, but sowing the seeds, giving that initial shove, is always important.

By ‘Malaysian’ in NYC

So one Saturday morning I – along with a bunch of other disgruntled Malaysians – jumped into the disgruntled Malaysians’ bandwagon and rode off to the congregation of yellow shirts. Actually it was a bus, and we almost missed it because we woke up late. It was a Saturday, after all.

Yet there was nothing cavalier about going to this… event, of sorts. Among the inappropriate jokes and nervous laughter was the underlying fear that I should not be there, because in all honesty, I shouldn’t. It comes with having something to lose, something major and if not life, future-threatening. So, between talking and criticizing and nursing the resultant papercut from folding multilingual pamphlets detailing our cause, was the terror, the selfishness of wanting to satisfy my curiosity, the discontent that I should be afraid to be a citizen of a country loved but messed up somewhere.

The weather was a bit to the warm side, a good weather for banner-waving, I suppose. We arrived at Mount Doom after a long and sweaty trek that did nothing to assuage our anxiety. There wasn’t much at Mount Doom either to stoke our anxiety, because it was a Saturday and it was probably closed anyway, if the blacked-out blinds and closed windows were anything to go by. Then again, it was in the morning, and a Saturday, and by the smatterings of our yet-incomplete yellow congregation, Mount Doom of our project was probably quiet due to the oft commented-on Malaysian timing.

We were greeted by the organizer in all his yellow magnificence. He had placards, in yellow, and a paperbagful of yellow finery, should we need some yellow to express our cause. We must have looked like a loose bouquet of sunflowers, with all the yellow. Passer-bys stared accusingly at us, probably because of all the bright royal yellow we were wearing. Or perhaps because we were blocking the sidewalk with our Malaysian loitering-around-lepaking skills that were specially honed and cultivated in the sidewalks of our beloved homeland.

Let’s take a little time here to contemplate, as we allow the tide of Malaysian timing to sweep in the trickle of yellow that would bulk up our loose bouquet into a cheerful congregation of warrior sunflowers. What makes a young, disgruntled Malaysian join a protest? Curiosity seems to be a trend. What’s this about? What do Malaysians do at a protest? Do the others who would turn up really care about the cause, or is it mere curiosity as well, or is it that Malaysian desire to get together and do stuff that sprouts kenduris and open houses and gotong-royongs? Someone told me that, ‘It doesn’t matter anymore,’ the eight demands we have. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the tide of getting together to do something has swept it all away, whipped us up into an entity united in frustration. Maybe it still does, to validate our need to protest. I think it does, and I pray we do not lose sight of that.

I could not gauge or fathom everyone’s purpose for coming here, but I was convinced that my presence would serve well to add bulk to the cause. Malaysians of many shades of yellow soon arrived. Some were students, full of hope for the future. Some were old and wizened by years and fed up with the nonsense they attest to have received from the government. Some came with their families all decked in yellow. The mass of yellow grew, if not into a sea, into an excited, chatty congregation of anxious sunflowers. I thought it would have done me well to talk, to ask, why why why, why are you all here, what do you stand for? But there was the fear, of being found out or of seeding the gossip that would lead to my discovery. And so I just listened to the chatter.

What kind of person goes to a protest? The disgruntled and the discontent? The angry and malicious? The down-trodden and oppressed? It was the everyday person you meet in school, the other person you saw today, the people who have read the nonsense and bothered to think for a while, ‘there is something not quite right here’. It is the Malaysian who have listened and thought and decided that his or her mere attendance is enough to support a cause every other rational person has kept in his or her heart. There were no talks of ‘burn this’, ‘overthrow that’, ‘death to the infidels’ or ‘let’s destroy the government’. There were conversations of ‘where are you from in Malaysia, do you know so-and-so, my aunt lives there in Malaysia, I used to live there, the food there is good.’ ‘Something isn’t right and we know you’re messing things up’. They were disgruntled. There was discontent. There didn’t seem to be a murderous desire to set fire to everything or throw rocks. There was solidarity in nationality, in food, and in the feeling that there has been injustice and those who were supposed to dispense said justice were not doing their jobs.

The congregation reached its desired bulk, and off we went a-marching down the path of discontent. From Mount Doom we arrived at designated venue of protest. I don’t know if I could call it a protest. We waved banners and cars honked if they supported us. We had a banner for that and all. We cheer and waved and sang our national anthem. We love our country. We just don’t like the people who are doing a terrible job at running it.

We walked back. Some spoke. We dispersed. Each yellow going their separate ways with perhaps new friends, and with the satisfaction of being there. I scurried away into obscurity with the hopes that my anonimity is preserved. Being there among the ranks, to show support, to see for myself what goes on and who does what, is good enough for me. Will this bring any change? Some say no, some say of course, some think it doesn’t matter anymore. Some go away with the burning desire to do better, to pursue this course. Some come back with sagely advice and catharses. What did I bring back with me? Fear is real, and it does not make you a coward to be afraid. Curiosity is dangerous, and so is the desire to know of which we youths are known to heed and to embrace unprepared. You might not change something, but sowing the seeds, giving that initial shove, is always important. Malaysians love food no matter where they are. Yellow is a good colour to be spotted in.

I’m still terrified, but as of now, I’m glad I went.