Memoirs of a Kampung Girl
The elections are over in Malaysia. Sharon, as usual, writes eloquently about how necessary it is to remain united and dedicated to the notion that under our skin, we are sisters and brothers. Read her beautiful essay, prayer I should say, here.
I dedicate this post to all my friends in Malaysia who made my growing up years one which I always look back with a quiet contentment in my heart. And a huge grin on my face. You taught me that friendship had nothing to do with the colour of our skin. Or the strangeness of our names. Or the names of our gods.
The best of who I am today is largely because of the best that was in each of you.
I grew up in rural Malaysia in the 1980s, amidst a riot of colours, a profusion of gods and deities and a diversity of traditions as rich as sticky glutinous rice. As ancient as the noble rainforests and as varied as the babbling of different tongues that tried to erect the Tower of Babel.
It was a time of unquestioned acceptance.
Add to this lively mix, most of…
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