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“Was British colonialism in Malaysia a good thing?” 

This was the prompt I was given in Year 8 history when my teacher, despite my fervent and unequivocal presentation answering a firm ‘no’ to this question, continued to encouragingly say, “There were some positive facets as well…” Though my frustration was palpable, my 14-year-old self struggled to fully articulate how harrowing it was to hear someone, a British woman, no less, attempt to silence me and dismiss the trauma of an entire society who continues to struggle in the wake of a post-colonial hangover.

In hindsight, this situation seemed to be a microcosm of my life and the constant struggle with the duality it held: I was a Malay, hijab-wearing girl attending a predominantly white international school. The art of code-switching was one I had mastered, so much so that, as time progressed, I felt increasingly detached from my Malaysian identity and found myself immersed in the hegemony of British culture. Don’t get me wrong — I absolutely adore the friends that I made in high school and recognise my position of privilege to even be occupying these spaces in the first place where not many women of colour, let alone ones who wear hijabs, existed in this self-contained world. Yet, the opportunities I was offered came at a high cost as I increasingly began to struggle to relate to my old friends in my previous government school and, most regrettably, lost the fluency in my beautiful mother tongue. 

However, it was only when I attended my sixth form college in KYUEM that my detachment became a striking fact; one that made me acutely aware of just how different I was from everyone else. In high school, my melanated skin and hijab distinguished me distinctly and erected barriers of relatability between my peers and me; in college, an opposite reality began to emerge. Suddenly, I was bombarded with questions surrounding my white accent and was sceptically asked “Where are you actually from?”. It was a struggle to ‘click’ with people as, whilst I could make friends, forging deeper connections initially proved to be difficult as the people I met deviated from the friends I grew up with during my formative years. The irony is not lost on me that making friends with the locals in university was a task I found far less daunting than when I had to make friends in the first few months at KY.

As time passed, however, these spaces no longer felt uncomfortable; in fact, I relished in them and my (fumbled) attempts at speaking rempit Malay, eating Kak Ana’s nasi lemak during break (I still dream about Kak Ana’s jiggly yolk in her fried egg), wearing baju kurung on Fridays, and so much more. These all seem trivial, but as someone who has spent the majority of her life occupying white spaces, it was everything. 

The people around me no longer needed a manual to understand my existence in the way that they did in high school: I never had to meekly ask anyone if I could use a corner of a room to pray, instead, there was a whole prayer hall dedicated to us; nor did I feel alienated in wearing my hijab, with the majority of my friends donning it as well — if you were to tell my year eight self that no one would wonder out loud if she showered with that thing on, I genuinely think she would’ve cried fat tears of relief. For this, I have my wonderful friends from college to thank for accepting me without judgment and for showing me the whims and wonders of my Malaysian identity in a way that makes me finally feel a real and true connection.

When I had to leave college, I was devastated and anxious that this aspect of my identity, which had been dormant for so long, would soon be stripped away from me again when I left to study in the UK. Being here now, I realise this is far from the truth. I continue to carry the actions of the people I met in college in everything I do, and when people ask me where I’m from, I proudly tell them that I’m from Malaysia, and secretly shimmy in celebration on behalf of my younger self who used to respond in shame to this same question. At the same time, I cannot deny that the natural inclination and innate relatability I feel towards British culture, a direct product of being a part of the British education system for 11 years of my life, still make up a substantial part of who I am. Whilst I recognise the enormity of the privilege I herald as a result of this, denying this fact would be denying my identity, and I’m no longer ashamed of ‘not being Malaysian enough’. I will continue to speak Malay — loudly and proudly — whilst also speaking English in the accent I adopted in high school. 

For the first time in my life, my two identities no longer feel mutually exclusive; they morph cohesively and fashion the fabrics of who I am. I can finally look at the girl in the mirror and be glad of all her nuances, her in-betweens, and her morphed, wonderfully confusing identity. I can look at her and be proud that she’s found a home within herself.