MARCH 2 — I kind of know what it’s like being an immigrant.
My dad started his long career as an oilman in Brunei Darussalam, which although was practically next door to my home state of Sabah, still required a passport to gain passage because, well, it’s another country.
So very soon after I was born, my parents packed the family and moved to the oil-rich Sultanate, where I finished my primary education.
I suppose it would be fair to say that my 11 years there were eventful. When I was in kindergarten, a bunch of nurses came to my school to do a check-up on all the kids.
Things were going quite well for the most part. It didn’t bother me that they pricked my finger for a blood test, or when they measured my height and weight.
And then the nurse who was taking my details pulled out a book filled with colourful circles inside colourful circles. She showed me one and asked what I saw.
Errr... colourful circles?
She was shocked. She flipped a page, and asked if I saw an eight. Nothing. She flipped to yet another page, and again nothing.
She cast me a look with eyes that are usually reserved for a puppy you can’t save. She shook her head, said nothing more and wrapped up the session.
A few years later when I was in Standard Three, I experienced something that would stay with me for a very long time.
It was during Jawi class (which was a compulsory subject in Brunei), but instead of focussing on teaching the language, the ustaz decided to turn it into a religious class for the predominantly Brunei Malay boys.
I honestly wasn’t bothered about what he was saying, since I was still grappling with how to properly write my alifs and bas and tas.
And then he just had to say it. “Boys, you must all be good Muslims. Don’t be a kafir like Joseph.”
Right. Pick on the lone seven-year-old Kadazan kid (I started school a year early).
I really didn’t know how to react to that, what with having my teacher affix such a label on me for no reason. Suffice to say, the Malay kids took that as a signal that I was fair game and started picking on me.
Which led to me introducing a kid’s head to my chair. And a history of regular corporal punishment by the school principal, Father John Mclory.
A few years later, my family decided to move back to my mum’s hometown while my dad remained in Brunei to earn a living. Things were good, I made lots of friends, went to college, came back and eventually got a job as a cub reporter.
I had forgotten about that distasteful episode, just as I was no longer a gross minority. I was a son of the soil.
In the several years I worked as a journalist in my home state, I had the opportunity to cover raids on illegal immigrant slums, did stories on crime and court cases where the “evil” Filipino “aliens” were said to be responsible for making the state unsafe.
And then there were, of course, stories I wrote on the infamous “Projek IC”, and the thousand-and-one claimants to the now defunct Sulu Sultanate. I started calling illegal immigrant Flipinos the derogatory term “pilak”, just like all my friends.
I felt angry at how my state was turning out. I felt entitled to my “rights” as a son of Sabah.
I... was no different than my Jawi teacher and my classmates, who looked at me as less than them.
Every person has their reasons for deciding to earn a living beyond the shores of their home. My father did it to provide a life for his family that was far better than the poverty that he grew up in.
Sure, the illegal immigrants in Sabah may not have gone through the proper channels, but they are mostly dirt poor and had to risk life and limb just to travel from the South Philippines to get to Sabah’s shores. All to get a life that is far better than the poverty that they grew up in.
I’m not closing an eye to whatever illegal activity that is perpetrated by anyone. But it is by no means an excuse to derogate your fellow man.
You can’t choose your race, gender, sexual orientation or family that you are born to. Neither can you (I) change the fact that you (I) am colour blind.
You can, however, choose not to be a damn racist.
And after years of being reminded of my colour “deficiency”, I was vindicated last week.
The dress is BLUE AND BLACK, just as I saw it.
So there.
* This is the personal opinion of the columnist.
