Animal Farm

Singer of the Portuguese minority in Melaka

It’s easy to forget how advantaged we are to come from the Western hemisphere. This privilege becomes increasingly evident when traveling around the globe. I was to take part in an international workshop on climate change adaptation and risk reduction in Melaka, Malaysia last week. Prior to my departure I was advised to check whether I needed an entrance visa. For Swiss citizens, and most other Western nations, there is a no-visa policy for tourism up to 3 months. I was relieved: one less thing to worry about prior to a trip.

My flight from Hanoi to Kuala Lumpur went well: on time with no surprises. After exiting the aircraft, I followed the flow of passengers through the terminal corridors, leading to the immigration hall. The queue choices were slim amounting to a “Malaysian citizens” section and “Other nationalities”. The entire process seemed very well organized with orderly lines and a significant amount of immigration officers on duty. However, for the first time in my life I was faced with an particularly long line mostly populated by poor labor immigrants visibly coming to Malaysia in search for a livelihood.

Ninety-nine percent of them were men dressed in old and scruffy clothes, some carrying nothing but a simple backpack or plastic bags stuffed with a few personal belongings. Only two of them had their wives with them, the kids visibly undernourished and a sick infant crying and coughing. By their facial features and way of dress, I assumed they were from Afghanistan or Pakistan. My observations were correct: they were all vigilantly holding their Pakistani passports, careful not to misplace them. Their passport is their ticket into a new country, to new hope and to a new beginning.

Melaka Chinese night market delights

My heart winced. It was the first time I was faced with such a situation. I felt uneasy and embarrassed at myself as my first reaction when I saw this group of migrant workers was: “goodness, this is going to take a while!”. When I looked around me, there was another Western couple, probably from Australia, with equally alarmed looks on their faces, transpiring unease and a hint of repulsion. I began to look around and wonder why this was such a normal reaction of the “privileged”. What happened to me and to others like me to condition us to look at poor bearded Muslims from a position of superiority while doing nothing to hide the surfacing grimace marking our faces? A sense of guilt and disgust overcame my feelings. I couldn’t understand how I had become so conditioned to have such an automated reaction to these poor migrant workers, obviously struggling to make a living to feed their families.

Getting through immigration took each Pakistani over 8 minutes on average as they were clearly being thoroughly questioned and carefully scrutinized by the immigration officials. Over an hour later it was finally my turn. The officer keeping order made me step ahead of the Pakistani family and led me to the next available counter. The immigration officer gave only a slight glance at me and my Swiss passport, wrote something down and stamped my immigration card and passport. In less than a minute I was officially in Malaysia.

I walked confidently towards the airport’s exit with only one thing floating through my head, George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”. We are not all equal and should be reminded of our privilege to have been born on the right side of the globe. I made a note to myself to work on my reactions and not to allow underlying prejudices and stereotypes to take the best of me.