Sympathy for the stateless Bajau Laut of Malaysia’s Sabah comes from personal experience
- Being bullied as a youngster changed my opinion on how people view the Bajau Laut community in Sabah’s east coast
As a child, I felt out of place.
My parents were economic migrants – like many of their nursing school cohorts, they left their familiar surroundings in Sabah and moved to neighbouring Brunei to take up lucrative jobs at hospitals in the kingdom.
We were housed in an enclave of foreign staff and their families. It was nice enough, and we lived like any middle class community would.
But my experience as the only Sabah native in my class at an all-boys school was something else.
I was a regular target for the locals, and every time I retaliated, I would be the only one getting caned in the principal’s office for “bad behaviour”.
I never understood why I had a target on my back until a Standard 3 class when I was about 8 years old.
The entire class had to sit during Islamic studies, where the majority Muslim boys would learn about the Prophet’s teachings from the resident ustaz (Islamic teacher) while we non-Muslims learned Jawi script. (I only remember Alif Ya Mim which spells ayam, or chicken in Malay)
As the lesson went on, the ustaz suddenly declared; “and boys, that’s why you don’t become a kafir (disbeliever of Islam) like Joseph.”
It triggered a chilling realisation for a young child wanting to fit in and make friends – I am an unwanted outsider.
The bullying got worse for a while, and I made several more visits to the principal’s office for “bad behaviour”.
By the time I finished primary school, my family decided to move back to Sabah.
Things got better, I found acceptance and made lasting friendships, and whatever happened during my early childhood had become a distant memory.
As a young adult starting as a cub reporter, I interacted with diverse individuals, from all walks of life.
I interviewed poor farmers struggling to make ends meet selling produce at the local fresh markets, spoke to captains of industry and politicians promising a better future for everyone.
But a common complaint that repeatedly came up in my many interactions was the influx of undocumented migrants in the state.
“Just get rid of those pilaks,” was a common refrain among the people I met, using a derogatory term typically aimed at economic migrants from neighbouring Philippines.
Being comfortable where I was, in my home state where I was finally accepted as “one of us”, I began thinking that yes, we should deport all these people and take back our rights as natives.
I did not realise how warped my mindset had become until I was assigned to cover a state-sanctioned operation to tear down what the government publicly described as squatter colonies populated by “illegal immigrants”.
I saw the kind of mistreatment I had faced, amplified exponentially by the fact these people had nowhere else to go
As a young man, I thought it would be exciting to see first-hand how our great defenders would go about their work to save our country from transients.
But what I saw was dozens of families cowering in fear of being arrested. Fathers and mothers pleading for mercy, leaving their homes and belongings, and more importantly, their children, alone.
I saw the kind of mistreatment that I had faced, amplified exponentially by the fact that these people had nowhere else to go.
It made me sick to my stomach. Nearly two decades later, we see this happening again with the Bajau Laut eviction on several islands off Semporna in Sabah’s east coast.
I’m not here to argue about whatever legal or security posturing that the government used as reasons for their crackdown.
I’m not equipped to address the complex issues of statelessness in Sabah, but I am compelled to ask: If we cannot show compassion to our fellow human beings, what does that reveal about our society?
Joseph Sipalan is a correspondent with the Post’s Asia desk.
