In Canada , we almost take multiculturalism for granted. Going for sushi or butter chicken in Vancouver , with a bunch of your friends, every one of them from different ethnic backgrounds, is simply no big deal; you may not even notice. Maybe it’s because modern-day Canada was built by “immigrants”, so that no one rigid cultural framework emerged, and with a relatively new country came about a new paradigm, but I’m no expert.
Being a multicultural couple from two strong ethnic backgrounds, we’re perhaps more attuned to such things – not in a watchdog sort of way, but we’re always curious to see how everyone in and outside Canada manages (or sadly, sometimes fails) to get along. So how then does a country like Malaysia , known for its diversity, handle its sizable Chinese and Indian populations with such a firm religious and cultural backdrop already in place, where every Malay is by law born a Muslim?
Actually, having given this long preamble, I can tell you now that while we both came to Malaysia to explore this meeting of cultures, Nazma, being learned and worldly, wanted to see and experience the ethnic diversity, while I, being infantile and excited by gross things, had heard about a festival where people pierced themselves with spears and dragged heavy objects tied to hooks embedded in their backs.
Well, we both got thrown into the deep end, right from the get-go.
Thaipusam is a Hindu celebration dedicated to Muragan, son of the god Shiva, and is a time for penance, atonement, and a giving of thanks for prayers answered. Early Tamil settlers in Malaysia began the yearly ritual where now hundreds of thousands of Hindus, Malays, Chinese, and unsuspecting yokels like us flow up the 272 steps to the Batu Caves on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur .
Many devotees bring offerings of milk, but some carry the kavadi, huge shrines on platforms decorated with garlands, tinsel, feathers and paintings of deities. The devotees may carry these shrines on their shoulders, supported by rods that poke into their flesh, or they may pull them on rollers, from an array of steel hooks piercing their back and chest. The devotees claim they feel no pain – that their faith allows them to do astonishing things. Sympathy pains rippled across my unblemished torso.
We had never seen so many people in one place before: reports later said the crowd was a million strong, and we were right in the middle of it. The sun was relentless, ripping through a clamour of white noise from countless voices; the throngs, dress and kavadi bursting with every colour imaginable, stretched out as far as my heat-addled vision could perceive; my shirt was completely soaked through: sweat from my own overworked pores and those of untold others; Nazma clutched vainly to my shoulder as the bodies pressed in from all quarters, moving us inexorably towards the yawning cave.
Everyone else knew why they were here: their singular purpose a crystal of faith; we had to remind ourselves constantly that we were here to witness something extraordinary, our own mantra against the undulating crush of humanity. The entire experience was surreal in the truest sense of the word, even transcendent; what belief wrought on the devotees, the sheer spectacle did for us.
Still, in the middle of all this, we were amazed to see hijab-wearing Malays carrying milk jugs up the steps, and Chinese businessmen coming to give thanks for a prosperous year. This wasn’t an “oddity” particular to one group of people: everyone was present and equal before the towering statue of Lord Murugan.
***
We spent the next few weeks in Malaysia being mistaken for Malaysians, as we wandered through Chinatowns and Little Indias in various cities. Everything we saw told us of a peaceful coexistence, but with a few concessions. Restaurants with food unsuitable for Muslims are usually marked “non-halal”, and beer is available at any 7-11, but only to “non-Muslims”, and with a 200% tax built-in. Malaysia seems to have established the rules and conventions they need, in order to tolerate almost everything.
And yet this potentially homogenising environment hasn’t eroded anyone’s traditions; placed aside one another, each stands out in sharper relief. The latest Malay love stories, Tamil musicals, and Chinese kung-fu epics all share equal billing in the cineplexes. If anything, Malaysian society has only improved universal access to culture, and everyone accepts and partakes. While on the surface the notion of a Chinatown or Little India might seem like ghettoisation, in 21st century Malaysia it’s no more segregationist than putting the cereal and the canned goods in different aisles at the supermarket. It just means that everyone knows where to go to get good char kuay teow (fried noodles) or masala thosai.
In Georgetown on the island of Penang , we met Margaret, a Hakka Chinese woman who spoke five languages, including excellent English, as a necessity – to communicate at school (Malay), at home (Hakka), and with her friends (Cantonese, Mandarin). No one language had trumped any other; multilingualism was a concession freely made, and she was the better person for it.
Margaret told us about a tour of the town’s religious structures, all located on the appropriately named “Street of Harmony”. In the end we woke up too late, so we self-guided and found ourselves at the town’s main mosque, where the Malay at the information office led us around inside. “They believe what they believe – no problem,” he said of the Hindu temple down the street.
On past the Anglican church and the Roman Catholic cathedral, we stopped at the Chinese temple. This was no relic of the old days: still an active place of worship after over 200 years, people were bustling in and out, burning incense and offerings to Buddha and the gods of protection and prosperity. Here an old man, hobbling on his crutch, led us to each of the stations, explaining who it was we were bowing to. “Malays, Tamils, everyone comes to pray to Kuan Ti, but no one knows how to do it properly. That’s why I’m here,” he explained in Cantonese.
We’d seen little move for religious conversion or dominance in the places we’d visited – just an atmosphere of forbearance, respect and education. Peoples, far removed from their countries of origin, had managed to hold fast to their distinctiveness, and still help to create a new homeland.
On our last day in Malaysia, we found ourselves sitting next to three Tamil transgendered prostitutes, in a Malaysian greasy-spoon (we were having lunch; they were having dinner), in the middle of Chinatown, with the call to prayer wafting through the hot noontime streets from the nearby mosque, which was itself built by Bengali settlers. To call the ethnic diversity we’d encountered in Malaysia raucous wouldn’t be quite right, because it all seems to work, but at times like these, it does make you sit up and take notice. If Canada , 200 years from now, enjoys this kind of harmony, with polyglot citizens and diverse places of worship still full of the faithful, the richness and colour of Canadian “culture” will truly be something to be proud of.
