When home doesn’t feel like home
How does one console a fellow Malaysian who gives up a good life abroad to return to his motherland only to be treated badly because of his race?
Fa Abdul, Free Malaysia Today
I met a very interesting guy during my trip to Ipoh recently – Johnny, a Perakian, who has travelled the world but chose to return home to live in Ipoh. Accompanied by a Facebook friend whom I had the privilege to meet for the very first time – Nasron, we decided to grab supper with Johnny at the corner of Jalan Raja Ekram.
Johnny had a lot of tales to share about his experience living in different places around the globe. But one story which caught my attention was of him and his family watching the news on CNN about the war in the Middle East and being reminded of home when the strains of the azan was heard in the background. It’s funny, while most of us in Malaysia complain about the loud azan prayers disturbing our serenity, a Malaysian in a foreign land found himself actually missing it.
Food was another big dilemma for Johnny. As he sipped his Kopi ‘O’, Johnny told me how he craved for Nasi Lemak when he was stationed in Ireland. His cravings were not limited to food alone. He found himself craving to come home. He craved to be among those people of different races, ethnicity and religions whom he considered family – so he did precisely that.
While many of us would give anything to be paid to travel the world and live in a foreign land and earn an income in foreign currency, Johnny returned home and started a food business in the heart of Ipoh.
“It’s not easy being in the F&B industry. It is hard work. You don’t really get to separate your personal life and business. Like today, it’s a Sunday and still I had to finish work at my shop before joining you for a late coffee,” Johnny tells me as he orders his second mug of Kopi ‘O’.
I was intrigued as I felt some sense of uneasiness in his tone. As I studied his face, I caught him taking a few glimpses around the café we were seated at.
“Nice deco, eh? Very artistic,” I said.
“Looks as if a bunch of boys got together and decided to paint and decorate the place by themselves,” chided Nasron, who himself just returned home after spending years in Bandung.
I turned around to study the place, “Well, it is simple and quite different from most franchised places. But yeah, I agree more could have been done if they were up for it.”
Johnny smiled. I knew there was a story coming soon.
“You know, those are actually against the rules,” said Johnny pointing at the pieces of zinc placed at the walls around the café. “According to the city council, kopitiams or cafés with an open concept or not fully air-conditioned, must have five feet of tiles covering the dining area walls.”
Nasron and I turned to our left and right and saw no tiles on the wall.
“The kitchen walls need to be fully covered with tiles, and shelves in the cooking area must be made of stainless steel but I bet they don’t have that either,” Johnny continued.
“Are you sure, Johnny?” I had to confirm this new piece of information.
“I am in the F&B industry, I know. Everything needs to be in order because the city council officers do conduct inspections at times,” he said just as his second mug of Kopi ‘O’ arrived.
“But I see no tiles here,” I said, looking at Nasron and Johnny.
Johnny smiled, “It’s a Malay shop.”
I could sense bitterness in his smile.
