Cooler Lumpur [Malaysia]
It's taken two full years of me living here to finally warm up to Kuala Lumpur enough to set foot outside of my comfort zone... and into my comfort zone. I know, it's complicated. I can't tell you enough how complex it is to have spent most of your formative adult years in a place like Saudi, and then uproot yourself to continue life in a less confusing environment (in this case, Malaysia).
For two years, I stayed within the confines of my new home and workplace, which were both thankfully in the same 3-mile radius, presumably to acclimate and become "normal". For the most part, this meant learning to stand on my own two feet – living alone, doing my own chores, finding ways to feed myself, living on a budget, really just the basics. I couldn't afford to spend time on hobbies and my interests, I soon discovered, as all my energy was directed towards "not being in Jeddah".
Who knew that took so much effort?
I continue to see everything through the broken-eyeglasses of a Jeddawi. I thought this would change in a few months, but I've come to realize that maybe it's something I won't rid myself of, at least not for a long while.
What's happened instead is that I've added one more layer of foreign culture on to my already truffled personality. I am also now a Malaysian expatriate.
This past weekend, I attended Day 2 of "The Cooler Lumpur Festival: Dangerous Ideas", a 3-day series of conversations, panel discussions and workshops held and attended by KL's own group of writers, thought leaders and artists.
I enjoyed it immensely, having been absent from any kind of creative stimulation exercises since I moved out of Jeddah, and it was nice to have a look at KL's version of "my people". I may mean that in a complimentary and at the same time self-deprecating way, because here is what we are: a bunch of privileged, middle-class pre- and post-hipster pseudo-intellectuals who enjoy getting together, laughing and having conversations about our sufferings over gourmet street food and cigarettes.
That is to say, that is precisely why I felt so at home at the Festival. After all, in Jeddah, this was my circle and this is what we did: our "underground" everything – open mic nights, workshops, hangouts, parties all held at private residences or restaurants that would not invite the attention of the religious police and/or the conservative majority public. We had this unspoken rule of not publicizing any of our activities on the internet and social media, and only bringing along others who were "cool" (meaning non-judgmental) and knew the bounds of our privacy.
Being at The Cooler Lumpur Festival, which was held at different venues in Publika, a middle-class mall with boutiques and quaint eateries for the young and the expatriate, I envied them this freedom. There were brochures everywhere about this event, hashtags, corporate sponsors, smoking areas, all out in the open. Every once in a while, I'd hear attendees joke about "treading lightly" and avoiding making any statements that would result in their arrest, and I'd feel a twinge of "I know that feelz bro" in what I imagined was a much, much realer way.
"Oh, but how lucky you all are," I hissed at them in my mind. "Our struggle in Jeddah was real."
I can't completely say I wasn't just being competitive, too. Jeddah winz all the awardz.
What's so scary about fear?
The first panel discussion I attended was called "What Would You Write About If You Weren't Afraid?", and you can imagine how this one really spoke to me. The panelists were legit, at least to me: writer and blogger Marina Mahathir (who also happens to be the daughter of former and 4th Malaysian Prime Minister Tun Mahathir Muhammad), Indian novelist Ira Trivedi, Burmese journalist Letyar Tun and Malaysian journalist Eddin Khoo.
The discussion circled around both "real" and "unreal" fears that writers face, especially those that come from restrictive backgrounds like ours. What would I write if I weren't so afraid? I'd write the truth. What am I so scared of? I'm scared of being "found out" by people who would hurt me and my family for telling the truth. This line of thinking of course inevitably trails into all the questions a writer would ask – is that an imagined fear? Would anyone really try to hurt you? Are you saying something so significant that it would warrant the attention of the authorities? Are you worth throwing into jail unfairly? Are you just being arrogant? Is anyone even really reading you? Are you even a real writer?
Or are you just scared that you would be writing about something so important (to you) and it turns out no one is willing to read it? Are you scared that maybe not even the authorities think you're important enough to silence?
It's a real mindfuck. I've had these thoughts about my blogging and online-sharing since I first started years (decades!) ago, and I've written about it before.
Dat Food Culture, tho.
Another discussion I walked into was "Rojak: Crossing the Cultural Boundaries of Food", panelled by Malaysian restaurant entrepreneur Benjamin Yong, American travel writer John Krich, lecturer Dr Gaik Khoo and filmmaker Zan Azlee.
It was a fun romp through the various Malaysian-heavy cultural nuances of eating that I could relate to because I've been here for a while now, and because I can draw so many similarities to it with my own Maranao and sometimes Jeddawi background.
For instance, have you ever noticed how every culture thinks that the truism "Others eat to live, we live to eat" only applies to them and no one else? "Yes, yes," any group of people might say, "food is a huge part of every culture, but with us it's different, we overdo it."
Every culture overdoes it, you guys. Except maybe the French. Both Saudis and Maranaos have this practice of consuming and serving food in excess, always, or else it's not worth it. All or nothing! they proclaim. Filipinos do the same, I've observed, but at a much more "respectful" scale – with less excess.
Food is almost certainly always the best way to immerse oneself in a new culture. It's so interesting to see the history of a people through the way they eat and prepare meals. I've been raised in the simplicity (but bulk) of Saudi meals and how long it takes to prepare each dish (an hour or two on average), the painful spiciness and chilli overload of Maranao food (if you don't eat spicy food, it means you are devil-spawn), and the brisk and practicality of Filipino food (which can be prepared in 15 minutes).
I'm no foodie, but I can appreciate the differences and the similarities, and their interconnectedness to history and the country's peoples.
Banned Books
I also enjoyed the panel discussion "Ban This Book!" with British author Ian McDonald, Singaporean playwright Ovidia Yu, American Humanities Professor Sarah Churchwell and journalist Sharmilla Ganesan.
They talked about how impossible it has become to ban books in this day and age (thanks for all the things, Internet!), and how banning a book exposes a market's existence (where it was once thought there wasn't one). A book ban can also help refine a reader's taste – when you know the lengths you would go to acquire a banned book – but it can also just be noise-making, elevating a book to heights that it would normally not reach were it not for the added publicity of a ban.
I thought this was connected to that first panel discussion on writing fears, and it also reminded me of that Saudi book Banat Al-Riyadh (Girls of Riyadh) that was the subject of much attention and fanfare and banning. (It was so incredibly meh to me.)
More than anything, book bans reflect our values as a society, and magnifies those things that perhaps we don't want to be paid attention to.
I went to three other panels, and wanted to go to tens more, but I didn't have the time or the energy. I was way too overwhelmed by finally doing something in KL that did not involve my having to "survive the real world" – I truly had my guard down the entire time and only then realized that I'd been holding it up with both hands since I left Jeddah.
And now, I don't know why I ever did.
For two years, I stayed within the confines of my new home and workplace, which were both thankfully in the same 3-mile radius, presumably to acclimate and become "normal". For the most part, this meant learning to stand on my own two feet – living alone, doing my own chores, finding ways to feed myself, living on a budget, really just the basics. I couldn't afford to spend time on hobbies and my interests, I soon discovered, as all my energy was directed towards "not being in Jeddah".
Who knew that took so much effort?
I continue to see everything through the broken-eyeglasses of a Jeddawi. I thought this would change in a few months, but I've come to realize that maybe it's something I won't rid myself of, at least not for a long while.
What's happened instead is that I've added one more layer of foreign culture on to my already truffled personality. I am also now a Malaysian expatriate.
This past weekend, I attended Day 2 of "The Cooler Lumpur Festival: Dangerous Ideas", a 3-day series of conversations, panel discussions and workshops held and attended by KL's own group of writers, thought leaders and artists.
I enjoyed it immensely, having been absent from any kind of creative stimulation exercises since I moved out of Jeddah, and it was nice to have a look at KL's version of "my people". I may mean that in a complimentary and at the same time self-deprecating way, because here is what we are: a bunch of privileged, middle-class pre- and post-hipster pseudo-intellectuals who enjoy getting together, laughing and having conversations about our sufferings over gourmet street food and cigarettes.
That is to say, that is precisely why I felt so at home at the Festival. After all, in Jeddah, this was my circle and this is what we did: our "underground" everything – open mic nights, workshops, hangouts, parties all held at private residences or restaurants that would not invite the attention of the religious police and/or the conservative majority public. We had this unspoken rule of not publicizing any of our activities on the internet and social media, and only bringing along others who were "cool" (meaning non-judgmental) and knew the bounds of our privacy.
Being at The Cooler Lumpur Festival, which was held at different venues in Publika, a middle-class mall with boutiques and quaint eateries for the young and the expatriate, I envied them this freedom. There were brochures everywhere about this event, hashtags, corporate sponsors, smoking areas, all out in the open. Every once in a while, I'd hear attendees joke about "treading lightly" and avoiding making any statements that would result in their arrest, and I'd feel a twinge of "I know that feelz bro" in what I imagined was a much, much realer way.
"Oh, but how lucky you all are," I hissed at them in my mind. "Our struggle in Jeddah was real."
I can't completely say I wasn't just being competitive, too. Jeddah winz all the awardz.
What's so scary about fear?
The first panel discussion I attended was called "What Would You Write About If You Weren't Afraid?", and you can imagine how this one really spoke to me. The panelists were legit, at least to me: writer and blogger Marina Mahathir (who also happens to be the daughter of former and 4th Malaysian Prime Minister Tun Mahathir Muhammad), Indian novelist Ira Trivedi, Burmese journalist Letyar Tun and Malaysian journalist Eddin Khoo.
The discussion circled around both "real" and "unreal" fears that writers face, especially those that come from restrictive backgrounds like ours. What would I write if I weren't so afraid? I'd write the truth. What am I so scared of? I'm scared of being "found out" by people who would hurt me and my family for telling the truth. This line of thinking of course inevitably trails into all the questions a writer would ask – is that an imagined fear? Would anyone really try to hurt you? Are you saying something so significant that it would warrant the attention of the authorities? Are you worth throwing into jail unfairly? Are you just being arrogant? Is anyone even really reading you? Are you even a real writer?
Or are you just scared that you would be writing about something so important (to you) and it turns out no one is willing to read it? Are you scared that maybe not even the authorities think you're important enough to silence?
It's a real mindfuck. I've had these thoughts about my blogging and online-sharing since I first started years (decades!) ago, and I've written about it before.
Dat Food Culture, tho.
Another discussion I walked into was "Rojak: Crossing the Cultural Boundaries of Food", panelled by Malaysian restaurant entrepreneur Benjamin Yong, American travel writer John Krich, lecturer Dr Gaik Khoo and filmmaker Zan Azlee.
It was a fun romp through the various Malaysian-heavy cultural nuances of eating that I could relate to because I've been here for a while now, and because I can draw so many similarities to it with my own Maranao and sometimes Jeddawi background.
For instance, have you ever noticed how every culture thinks that the truism "Others eat to live, we live to eat" only applies to them and no one else? "Yes, yes," any group of people might say, "food is a huge part of every culture, but with us it's different, we overdo it."
Every culture overdoes it, you guys. Except maybe the French. Both Saudis and Maranaos have this practice of consuming and serving food in excess, always, or else it's not worth it. All or nothing! they proclaim. Filipinos do the same, I've observed, but at a much more "respectful" scale – with less excess.
Food is almost certainly always the best way to immerse oneself in a new culture. It's so interesting to see the history of a people through the way they eat and prepare meals. I've been raised in the simplicity (but bulk) of Saudi meals and how long it takes to prepare each dish (an hour or two on average), the painful spiciness and chilli overload of Maranao food (if you don't eat spicy food, it means you are devil-spawn), and the brisk and practicality of Filipino food (which can be prepared in 15 minutes).
I'm no foodie, but I can appreciate the differences and the similarities, and their interconnectedness to history and the country's peoples.
Banned Books
I also enjoyed the panel discussion "Ban This Book!" with British author Ian McDonald, Singaporean playwright Ovidia Yu, American Humanities Professor Sarah Churchwell and journalist Sharmilla Ganesan.
They talked about how impossible it has become to ban books in this day and age (thanks for all the things, Internet!), and how banning a book exposes a market's existence (where it was once thought there wasn't one). A book ban can also help refine a reader's taste – when you know the lengths you would go to acquire a banned book – but it can also just be noise-making, elevating a book to heights that it would normally not reach were it not for the added publicity of a ban.
I thought this was connected to that first panel discussion on writing fears, and it also reminded me of that Saudi book Banat Al-Riyadh (Girls of Riyadh) that was the subject of much attention and fanfare and banning. (It was so incredibly meh to me.)
More than anything, book bans reflect our values as a society, and magnifies those things that perhaps we don't want to be paid attention to.
I went to three other panels, and wanted to go to tens more, but I didn't have the time or the energy. I was way too overwhelmed by finally doing something in KL that did not involve my having to "survive the real world" – I truly had my guard down the entire time and only then realized that I'd been holding it up with both hands since I left Jeddah.
And now, I don't know why I ever did.
 |
| A horror short story performed at midnight at "Bump in The Night!" |
This was not what I had in mind when I read the word "dangerous". I was thinking something more... Violent.
ReplyDeleteHaha CH, I save the real violence for elsewhere. :P
ReplyDelete