FEB 19 — This week, lanterns are still hanging.

Red ones, gold ones, some slightly faded at the edges after a few days under the Malaysian sun. Mandarin oranges sit in bowls and boxes at office counters. 

Ang pow packets peek out of handbags and shirt pockets. Lion dance and CNY videos are still making their rounds on WhatsApp.

And today, Ramadan begins.

In many countries, that overlap would demand explanation. It would invite commentary, perhaps even caution. 

Here, it barely registers as unusual. Supermarkets rearrange shelves. Dates appear beside the snacks that were discounted after the festive rush. Someone somewhere buys pineapple tarts and kurma on the same trip.

It only struck me recently that this coincidence, the Chinese New Year falling just days before Ramadan, happens only once every few decades. 

Yet the way we are responding to it feels so normal. No drama. No grand speeches. Just an adjustment of routines.

We often talk about multiculturalism as if it is a policy. A slogan. Something written into constitutions or framed on office walls. 

But real coexistence does not usually look dramatic. It looks like this. Lanterns up while Ramadan bazaars are being set up. 

Chinese families planning their balik kampung journeys while their Muslim neighbours check the moon sighting announcements (or start planning their Raya balik kampung too!)

No one makes a fuss. Everyone understands. That quiet understanding did not arrive overnight. 

It grew slowly, almost invisibly. Many of us grew up attending each other’s open houses without needing instructions. We learned which foods to avoid without being told. 

We knew that certain jokes were not funny. We understood that certain days mattered deeply to others, even if they did not belong on our own calendar.

In some parts of the region, public celebration of Chinese New Year was restricted until not too long ago. In Indonesia, for example, it was only in the year 2000 that such celebrations were officially allowed again in public after decades of limitations. 

History moves differently in different places. Context shapes what feels possible.

Here in Malaysia, we sometimes forget how far we have come. Not because we are perfect. We are not. We have our tensions, our misunderstandings, our sharp political seasons. 

But on the ground, in ordinary neighbourhoods and campuses, people largely get on with living.

At Universiti Malaya, the timing feels almost poetic. Students have just completed their exams and are now in the short break between semesters. 

For once, they can breathe. Some are extending their Chinese New Year visits a little longer. Others are already easing themselves into the rhythm of Ramadan. For them, it is a rare pocket of rest before Semester Two begins.

Lecturers, on the other hand, are surrounded by answer scripts. While students travel and recharge, we read, tally, moderate, and meet submission deadlines that do not pause for festivities. 

The campus is quieter, but not entirely still. One group is recovering. The other is reviewing. And yet, we are all moving through the same season, just from different ends of it.

And that shared ordinariness matters.

Because in a world that is becoming increasingly global, the ability to live alongside people who look different, pray differently, and celebrate differently is no longer just cultural politeness. 

It is a basic life skill. Cities everywhere are becoming mosaics. Migration is constant. Identities are layered. 

The future does not belong to those who can only function among their own. It belongs to those who can remain steady among differences.

The strange thing is, many Malaysians do this without even realising it. We switch languages mid-sentence. We attend weddings of different faiths. We know the difference between Deepavali murukku and Hari Raya kuih, between CNY yee sang and Ramadan bubur lambuk. These are small details, but they build something larger.

They build ease. And ease, in my mind, is hugely underrated. Ease does not mean uniformity, mind you. 

It does not mean the absence of disagreement. It means we are not constantly threatened by difference. It means a lantern and a crescent moon can exist in the same week without competing for space.

So as we move from one festive rhythm into another this week (actually it was Thaipusam just two weeks ago), perhaps the real gratitude is not for the spectacle, but for the seamlessness. 

For the fact that children grow up thinking this overlap is normal. For the fact that supermarkets do not panic when decorations change. 

For the fact that our biggest concerns are traffic jams and assignment deadlines, not whether our neighbour’s celebration threatens our own.

Ordinary harmony may not trend online. It may not make headlines. But it is a quiet achievement. One that has been built through years of shared spaces, small courtesies, and mutual adjustment.

And maybe that is the true measure of maturity.

*Ir Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, the Director of UM Press, and the Principal of Tuanku Bahiyah Residential College, Universiti Malaya. He may be reached at nahrizuladib@um.edu.my 

** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.