I WAS thinking of writing about a not-so-mundane topic earlier. The month of Ramadan not only centres on religious obligations, traditions and rituals but also captures the observance of food.
An interesting conversation on food and identity came up, this time looking at how food is shared by refugees and immigrant communities in cities such as Kuala Lumpur.
The taken-for-granted assumption that food is neutral and as natural as waking up every day is sometimes misplaced, especially in a multi-ethnic country such as Malaysia.
On the first day of Ramadan, I received a surprise food delivery from Mohamad (not a real name), 26, my ex-postgrad student.
Mohamad’s mother prepared kouyteav sachko (mee Champa), a Cambodian soup dish for my iftar-cum-dinner.
To begin, Mohamad’s parents were refugees from Siem Reap, Cambodia in the 1970s.
Together with hundreds of thousands of people from Cambodia and Vietnam they fled their homeland and resettled in Malaysia when the Communists spread their political control.
According to historical and ethnographic materials, about 250,000 Cambodians and Vietnamese people (sometimes referred to as the “boat people”) arrived in droves.
Fear of persecution and unjust death dominated the psychological landscape of those who escaped this sad history in this part of Southeast Asia.
Out of that number, about 10,000 were accepted in Malaysia and some received permanent resident status.
Malaysia is home to 183,790 refugees and asylum seekers from more than fifty countries.
From the 1970s through the 1980s, Malaysia received refugees and asylum seekers from the Philippines, Burma, Vietnam and Cambodia.
At present, there could even be more refugees and asylum seekers coming our way because Malaysia is assessed through the lens of peaceful refuge, political stability and its perceived “moderate” streak of Islam.
Metropolitan cities such as Kuala Lumpur, Penang or Petaling Jaya, which offer a wide variety of food in restaurants and kopitiams, either in high-end places or hawker’s paradise, provides a glimpse of those who reside in the neighbourhood.
These places demonstrate a colourful array of food, all inspired by the different cuisines of multi-ethnic communities present in the country.
For instance, in Kota Kinabalu, East Malaysia the Handicraft Market (actually, this is more popularly known as Pasar Filipin [Filipino Market]) demonstrates the deep connection between people and the place.
Before the turn of the millennium, the market was a non-descript location that looked drab and dim at night.
A few friends of mine were a bit sceptical to even venture inside out of fear of the unknown.
In recent times, market visitation has been identified as one highlight of Sabah’s tourism business.
In fact, the market’s popularity is a consequence of a shift in perspective in how the State views refugees and immigrant communities.
True to form, once refugees are given a space to live, work or study, like us, they could be productive members, contribute to the economy, socially transmit their food traditions and produce a more dynamic (read: tasty, flavourful, colourful) culinary ecosystem.
I don’t skip visiting the Filipino market when I am in town since this is the only place where I could feast on fresh seaweeds (lato and guso), grilled fish, lobster, shrimp and squid.
Both types of seaweeds are special because they remind me of my childhood when my mother would prepare this as a local salad almost every day. Back then, too, they were cheap and readily available.
The market, where local residents draw their daily food supply from vegetables to fish and meat and dry seafood stuff, is the best indicator of how food-secure local communities are, especially when direct producers and farmers come to sell their produce and participate in the marketing enterprise.
Both domestic tourists from outside Sabah and international tourists flock to the market to try the local food array and this is where you truly observe the close connection between the food, the people and their identity, indelibly marked, even in the way they arrange their goods around the table.
In Kuala Lumpur, a similar market where the participation of immigrants/migrants and refugees is observable is Pasar Chowkit.
Blending the local crowd of food service providers are from Indonesia, Bangladesh, India and Pakistan.
One formidable section of the market is the cafe which basically offers mostly Indonesian cuisine: mee soto, bakso, gado-gado and Javanese sweets and crackers.
Contrast the local market in any part of Sarawak.
The array of agricultural and jungle produce marks the diverse ethnic food variety in everyone’s home kitchen.
Wild ferns, mushrooms, bamboo shoots and tubers, and exquisite fruits such as the golden yellow durian and empalang provide a flavourful combination of one’s favourite ethnic dishes.
With a population of barely three million in the vast state of Sarawak, the market food products demonstrate a very dynamic plethora of sumptuous hard-to-miss cuisines which may vary from one district, geography or ethnicity.
Popular dishes such as ayam pansoh, Sarawak laksa, kolo mee, garlic-fried midin fern, bamboo clams with local green leaves or, my favourite, cangkuk manis with whipped egg add to the list of never-to-be-missed-if-you-are-in-Sarawak mode making up heaven’s festive decor.
Food is an extension of one’s self. It reflects one’s culture, identity, and class.
Food carries a lot of meaning: who prepares it, any available local ingredients, how it is prepared, who consumes it and how is it shared.
The culinary ecosystem of big towns and cities often mirrors diverse representations of ethnic communities.
Malaysian cities are adorned with a myriad of food outlets but, very often, we are remiss of its significance though we are preoccupied with associating people with religion, race and politics.
We tend to forget that people’s identities can also be viewed through the lens of food.
Given the myriad of ethnic communities in the country, probably, the next time we sample new food dishes from the vast shores, we may be reminded of how these influence our sense of taste, food choices and, most importantly, the face behind the food and the circumstances of why they are in our country.
My former student’s kouyteav sachko (mee Champa) is not just any other mee soup.
In it is one person’s constant reminder of his/her identity heightened in its unique ingredients, taste and flavour and presented vis-a-vis other types of mee soup available in restaurants, kopitiams, hawkers’ stalls or at home.
The writer is a research fellow at the Ungku Aziz Centre for Development Studies, Universiti Malaya. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
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