The Man Who Can't be Moved

Sometimes, people tell me “I don’t understand how you can love Malaysia. It’s so [insert negative expressions/profanities/frustrated screams here]!”

And I would smile, thinking to myself, “I don’t know either. But if you love something, you don’t need a reason, because no reason is sufficient anyway.”

Yes, I do love Malaysia. And no, I have never stepped out of this country. I have not seen the rounder moons in foreign lands, nor have I rolled on the greener pastures on the other side. I have never witnessed how clean, well-managed, exhilarating, or liberating other country is. Neither have I enjoyed the freedom, the respect, the tranquility, the romance and the opportunities that they promised.

But you don’t have to caress a thousand different lovers to know who you belong with. Sometimes, you just know. Sometimes, you are just happy and you can’t explain it – as the best kind of happiness often is.

That is not to say I am a Malaysian without complaints. In fact, complaining about everything is what makes being a Malaysian fun. It’s our national identity. It’s both our root, and our route. I once tried to imagine what it would be like if suddenly, our government becomes perfectly brilliant, and our country runs without a glitch, and the rakyat all live happily ever after together with equal respect and equal opportunity… and I shuddered at the thought. That’s not Malaysia lah. That’s a Matrix plot.

But today, I had a tiny idea of why I love my country.

Malaysia always has the ability to tug the strings of my heart, play a note, and keep me completely hooked.

I was driving to Roya’s house, a neighbourhood that has joined many others to plant guard houses and gates in the name of security and peace (i.e. the robbers roam free while the righteous lock themselves up – did I mention that I also love Malaysians for our logic?).

As I turned the corner, I was expecting the usual old but enthusiastic Pak Guard, who would painstakingly double-confirm the street and number of the house I’m visiting, only to repeat the wrong house number back at me. And I would always nod with a smile, and wait patiently for him to grin widely while handing me the visitor’s pass, which he always does.

However, reaching the guard house today, the first thing I noticed was the wide open barrier. My Pak Guard was not guarding the peace and upholding the sanctity of the SS18 streets. He was doing something far holier.

My Pak Guard was praying.

Arms held at eye level and palms opened heavenward, Pak Guard’s wizened eyes were transfixed towards the endless sky, while the soothing morning sunlight shone on his face. The glimmer of divinity, reflected on this simple, devoted being wearing a humble khaki uniform and standing in front of a modest, tiny guard house.

Feet on the brakes, I stared. I wanted to cry.

But my Pak Guard, with all the solemnity of a Man of God, interrupted my melancholic moment with a curt wave of the hand, signaling me to pass. His gazes never broke from his Higher Power; his lips never stopped mouthing the inaudible prayer.

I stepped on the accelerator, and mentally kicked myself for not having a camera, or the free hand to snap the picture perfect moment.

But frankly, I wouldn’t have the courage to capture such a sacred episode. I had neither the right, nor the skill to do justice to that magical instant.

The funny thing is, a picture could tell a thousand words, but some stories are best told in much less.

The funnier thing is, while we complain and vent, a security guard found the reason to praise God.

And maybe, I've found my answer.