FEBRUARY 4 — West Malaysians, I find, like to stare a lot. It’s disconcerting. That’s why I like visiting Europe—no funny stares. I could walk around with a nose ring and tri-coloured mohawk and be mostly left alone.
I wished that was the case when, a few days ago, I tagged along with a friend who went temple hopping. Today, Feb 4, is li chun, the first day of spring according to the Chinese solar calendar. While some Chinese pray around the Lunar New Year, this one wanted to pray before Feb 4 the “real” start of the Year of the Goat.
You would think temples would be more accommodating but it took a few tries before we found a nice little place: Sun Tao Jing Sheh in PJ Old Town. Though it was more like, “Oh look, a temple’s on the way so let’s try it out.”
Now I don’t offer prayers during solar or lunar Chinese New Year. Besides a tiny bit of Chinese ancestry, I don’t consider myself Chinese. There’s also the matter of my being of an Abrahamic faith.
I believe in the God of Abraham. His followers, I’m not so crazy about. Anyhow, before stumbling on this particular temple, the others were not great experiences. While my friend was asking questions, I was looking around and pretending to be oblivious about being stared at.
Another friend, a rather tanned Sarawakian Chinese, wishes taxi drivers would stop asking her what race she is within the first two minutes. Being tanned, it seems, makes her Malay. “Saya Cina Sarawak!” (I am Chinese Sarawakian!) she would end up yelling in exasperation.
The both of us, we find it rather tiring, this staring at us East Malaysians. We’re not fair enough to be Chinese apparently, not dark enough to be Indian so thus we must be Malay. And you wonder why East Malaysians are a really pissy lot when they come over here.
Dear West Malaysians at bak kut teh stalls, pork-serving brunch places and random houses of worship—stop staring at the funny-looking people with tans.
Sun Tao temple was the only temple where I wasn’t openly gawked at. The sweet, serene nun in attendance acted as though it was perfectly normal for me, this tanned girl in a short dress with hair the colour of white gold, to be there.
She explained things to my friend in pleasant Cantonese (my knowledge of the dialect doesn’t extend beyond ordering food, counting money and swearing) and promptly handed me joss sticks.
I’ll admit I have never held them in my life and stared at the three burning sticks for a bit. “Aiya, just do what I do-la,” my friend said.
So I did. Somewhere I’m sure some follower of the Abrahamic faith is silently berating me for idol worship.
I left the temple without suddenly feeling the urge to be a vegetarian or join a monastic order. But I did, however, feel wistful about why it took going to a Buddhist temple to feel welcome and not out of place. Maybe I’ll visit next li chun and converse with the nice-looking Kuan Yin statue. To be honest, I think she’ll be better company than the Malaysians who won’t stop asking me “Are you Malay or Chinese?”
Buddha and Kuan Yin don’t care, so I don’t see why you should.
* This is the personal opinion of the columnist.
