I was recently in Yangon, Myanmar for a storytelling training course and I had the privilege of encountering some of the most wonderful people in my life.
My workshop was held in a heritage building undergoing renovation – there was no air-conditioning or modern toilet system. Working under such conditions was tough, especially with people who spoke very little English. Each training session became somewhat tedious after a while with us having to pause every sentence or two for the translated version.
At the end of each session, we travelled back to our hotel on foot, beating the traffic which was even worse than Penang’s and Kuala Lumpur’s combined.
On my first day back to the hotel from training, I was surprised to find my soiled clothes all washed and ironed neatly. Not having requested for any laundry service, I looked for the housekeeping lady on my floor, seeking an explanation. Finding her in the storeroom, I quickly made it clear that I did not ask for my clothes to be cleaned.
“No laundry. I wash,” she said in her very limited English.
Not wanting to create a scene, I took out my purse and asked how much I owed her.
“Laundry expensive. I do for you,” she repeated herself.
I passed her 1000 kyats but she refused to accept it, leaving me confused.
The next day, once again, I found my room cleaned and my clothes washed, dried and ironed. Intrigued, I asked my German co-trainers if they too had their clothes washed as well – to my surprise, they claimed it was untouched. They then also began wondering what was so special about my clothes that made the housekeeping lady want to wash it.
Early the next morning, on my way out of the hotel with my colleagues, I bumped into the housekeeping lady and decided to properly thank her for her kind help.
“Chay-zoo-par,” I thanked her in her local language and gave her a hug.
In return, she gave me a big kiss on my cheek! It was odd, funny and endearing altogether. My colleagues had a big laugh about the incident, chiding that the housekeeping lady must have had a big crush on me. Upon our return to the hotel that very same day, they validated that theory when they found their clothes washed and dried just like mine.
“We are getting special treatment because she now recognises us as your friend, Fa.”
Every morning during my stay there, the housekeeping lady waited to greet me. She sat in her corner, waiting, and when I walked out of my room heading towards the stairs, she would run after me to greet and tell me how nice I looked. Her gestures were really sweet and I felt very blessed but I was deeply intrigued all the same.
We’ve come to expect the special treatment Asians give Europeans, but for an Asian to ignore Europeans and treat a fellow Asian with so much love and respect is, if I may dare say, quite unheard of.
I never got to ask the housekeeping lady why she found me special but I think I know the reason now – it was because I was Malaysian.
Throughout my time in Yangon, I found myself chatting with many Myanmar people – taxi drivers, waiters, journalists, security guards, people on the street. They all shared one common trait – their faces lit up whenever I said I was from Malaysia.
“My friend working in Malaysia. Two years he is there. He is very happy. Live here in Myanmar very difficult, everything expensive. Job difficult and pay very little. Working one day in Malaysia is like three day work here in Myanmar,” explained a young Myanmar designer as he continued to portray Malaysia as a haven for many of his people.
Everyone I met in Yangon seemed to know at least one person close to them who was in Malaysia, making a living. Hearing their stories, I realised these people had a good impression of our country, holding it close to their hearts. There was no talk of Malaysians discriminating against foreign workers, no fears about unjust employers, unfair treatment or aggressive authorities. Everything about Malaysia was rosy.
It is funny how in a matter of days, my perception about Myanmar and its people changed too. I now see Myanmar as a nation with a big heart, a work in progress, so to speak.
The people of Myanmar just want to rebuild their country, equip themselves with knowledge and skills – and Malaysia is assisting them to do precisely that. Many households have a roof over their heads, comfortable beds to sleep in and food on their table – paid with the money sent by a working son or brother in Malaysia. A great number of children are going to schools and universities in Yangon – their education sponsored by family members working in Malaysia.
As we grumble back home at the sight of foreign workers, we fail to realise that the whole nation here is rebuilding itself with their help. Honestly, I have never felt so proud and honoured to be a Malaysian.
My remaining days in Yangon passed pretty smoothly. Somehow the deafening noise, the horrendous traffic, the stifling heat, the unfamiliar smells, the crushing crowds – they did not seem to bother me anymore.
I have so much love for Myanmar and its people now just as they have for me and Malaysia.