I took time to read the newspapers yesterday, as with every 31st August that passes by.
I guess that’s the most significant thing I do every Merdeka besides watching the parade on TV—I read the Malay newspaper.

And…the beautiful pieces of writing, the way authentic and genuine emotions pour out…they put my previous blog entry to shame. I am tempted to delete it, but…. after all, it was a valid and honest entry.

No, I am not crazy about my country. Err, don’t look so disapproving, ok?

I guess the only time I ever felt the significance of being Malaysian was during my short stint in Greece. Then, I was representing Malaysia.

It was the only time I ever treasured the existence of Bahasa Melayu. We could shout practically anything and no one would be able to understand us—except perhaps, the Indonesians. We could talk in public, with a sense of confidentiality. I liked that kind of feeling—having an identity, having something special non-Malaysians do not.

When the plane touched down in Kuala Lumpur after the 12 hour flight, familiar scenes came into sight. This is the lanscape, this is my country, I wanted to exclaim. Strange. It was the only time I felt such a great appreciation of the green kelapa sawit trees—trees are really not so green in Greece.

I don’t feel particularly proud about being a Malaysian. I don’t even know if I will serve in my country the day I graduate from university, whatever profession I choose. My thoughts flutter off for a little while to those doctors serving in the GHs. Low pay. Backward conditions. Insane workload. I guess those that stick to the GHs anyway (even though they can escape) are those who truly serve Malaysians out of a meek and loving heart. That is a great sacrifice few would make.

I don’t know if I love my country that much.

But, know what? Malaysia is home, and no matter how we feel towards it, home is always in our hearts.