National Service. It’s been hell.

You’ve heard the stories. How about another?

The first thing that hit me like first love was the racial divide. The Chinese mix with Chinese, Malays with Malays, Indians with Indians. We were asked several times to line up according to race (Malays here, Chinese here, Indians here, Dan Lain-Lain here) in order to distribute the races equally when it came to sorting us into classes, companies, and dorms. There are Wakil Bangsa (race representative) members for feedback about the food we have in the canteen. We are to see our respective Wakil Bangsa if we have any comments or complaints. The basketball team has a race quota: two Malays, two Chinese, and, if I’m not mistaken, room for one Dan Lain-Lain. The week before we were due to return home for holiday, they picked a representative from each race and announced that if we had any questions regarding the traveling arrangements we could talk to our Wakil Bangsa. It’s a rule, written and hung on the walls of our classrooms, that we should respect members of other races and religions.

Last week a fight broke out in Dorm One. Four Malay and three Chinese boys had decided to settle their differences by force. The cops came in. The trainers, teachers, and camp commandant were visibly agitated. They assembled the camp and told us repeatedly that it was not a racial issue, that it was an isolated case involving individuals, and that in an NS camp race didn’t matter as we were all Bangsa Malaysia. They went on this note for some time, so much so that it became clear they were exacerbating a wound they were desperately trying to cover up. That night the air quivered with tension. The Chinese gathered. The leader of the pack promised swift retaliation should any of his Chinese brethren suffer. They whispered, cast dark glances at the Malays, and were prepared to leap into action that very night. The deep distrust between the races bubbled and frothed but remained in the pot. Nothing happened. There was no racial retribution that day or during the days that followed.

A friend of mine missed roll call one night because he wasn’t well. When the head of his dorm reported it to the trainers, they didn’t even bother to inquire about what he was down with, they only wanted to know his race. The following day he was sent to the medic. He had dengue.

As it was with our races, the trainers displayed the same diligence when it came to sorting us by religion. We were told to stand here, there, or here according to our religion. The Malays stood on one side, all Muslim obviously, no questions asked. The non-Malays stood another side, then were divided by Buddhists, Hindus, Christians. All the Buddhists were Chinese. All the Hindus were Indian. I stood alone as the only Christian. Half the camp stared. Their eyes made my neck burn.

The Muslims are told, reminded, and scolded on a daily basis to attend the surau. A trainer once gave the Muslims a verbal lashing for talking during his friendly reminder. He quickly turned sour and launched into an angry lecture about the duties of orang Islam. The rest of us non-orang Islam were excused from the lecture, but we had to sit through it anyway. Another time, we were told that should any Malay be caught outside the surau when he was supposed to be inside, his whole dorm would be punished. They haven’t succeeded in catching any truants yet.

Every morning we wake up at 5.30am because the Muslims rise to go to the surau. By 6.30am we’re out on the padang kawad to raise the flags. We sing Negaraku and the Khidmat Negara theme song. We recite the Rukun Negara. Then there’s an Islamic prayer. For Muslims only. The non-Muslims are excused, excused to the extent that we don’t have to hold up our hands in prayer. We still have to go through with it every morning because Malaysia is, after all, an Islamic country.

To their credit, the trainers have been remarkably conscientious in getting the non-Muslims to their temples or churches. I was surprised to discover they were ready to take me to church even if I was the only trainee in the bus. One trainer told us that everyone had a religion. No, he corrected himself, everyone should have a religion. If you didn’t have a religion, you might as well climb up a building and jump. What was the use of living? And so, if you had a religion, you’d better do as your religion dictated. If you’re Buddhist, go to the temple. Hindu, go to the temple. Muslim, go to the surau. Christian, go to church. We nodded. One can’t argue with such logic.

Race, religion, and language are a Holy Trinity. They exist as three distinct individuals and yet are one mysterious, inseparable whole. Being a Malay means Islam and Bahasa Melayu. Being an Indian means Hinduism and Tamil. And so on and so forth. As a Chinese who isn’t a Buddhist but a Christian, and as a Chinese who cannot speak a word of Chinese, I’ve distinguished myself as an unholy aberration. To meet someone who doesn’t fit into any of your stereotypes is quite an experience. Your view of the world and its inhabitants are challenged to move to broader horizons, but you don’t like change. None of us do. It’s easier to dismiss an anomaly as an exception to the rule and proceed to treat said anomaly accordingly. I’ve been questioned more times than I care to remember whether I’m really Chinese. Are my parents Chinese? Why can’t I speak the language of my kin? Oh dear, oh dear. When I reply that I’m anak Malaysia, not anak Cina, so far their only response has been a blank look and an open mouth.

The racist logic that ties all Chinese to the Chinese language, and all Indians to saris, and all Malays to Islam, is a fantastic elephant in the room. Ask around and many will tell you, with a world-weary sigh, that that’s how it is. It’s a fact of life. That’s how the cookie crumbles and you’d better get with the program. Slapping RACE and RELIGION on people’s foreheads is a perfectly acceptable practice. We’ll have our own little China Towns. We’ll go to our temples. You bumiputeras can do what you want. Just leave us alone. This mentality is born in schools, nurtured in homes, and finally comes of age in a National Service camp. The trainers and teachers tell us that we are Bangsa Malaysia, one race, that the blood that runs in our veins is Malaysian blood. With their lips they say as much. With their hands they draw the lines that divide again and again. Given enough time they get so that when they see racism they call it integration. After a while, that’s all that they can see.

In case you didn’t know, the National Service logo, the three red flames rising out of Malaysia’s crescent and star, is supposed to symbolize the three races united under one flag. It’s incredible. I can’t imagine a more fitting logo.

I haven’t spilled all the beans. The worst is yet to come.

And I have another one and a half months to go.