Malaysian Quotes

Manglish is the Malaysian form of English. It’s superior to Singlish when you’re in Malaysia and inferior when you’re in Singapore. It’s known for its love for Malay, Cantonese, Tamil, Mandarin, and Hokkien. Occasionally, there are English terms, too. It’s different from Indian English, which is spoken with a punchy tone, or British English, which is an endangered language in London. A key distinction between Manglish and Singlish is Manglish’s recognition of Tamil words. Singlish denies the existence of inferior Tamil words.

If you write about the Asian culture, be accurate between what is the difference between Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Malaysian, Thai, Taiwanese, Indonesian, and many individual Asian countries' cultures. While there are many similarities, the differences in cultures will set your novel apart from what is an authentic portrayal to what is a westernized version. - Kailin Gow on Asian Portrayals through Literature and Media

THE BOUNTY In her kitchen, she saw many things she would like to eat. On the counter, there was a bunch of new bananas, yellow as a Van Gogh chair, and two apples, pristine. The cabinet was open and she saw a box of crackers, a new box of cereal, a tube of curved chips. She felt overwhelmed, seeing all of the food there, that it was all hers. And there was more in the refrigerator! There were juices, half a melon, a dozen bagels, salmon, a steak, yogurt in a dozen colors. It would take her a week to eat all of this food. She does not deserve this, she thought. It really isn't fair, she thought. You're correct, God said, and then struck dead 65,000 Malaysians.

They don't respect you, they don't respect our flag, they don't respect our King and they don't respect your parents. If you allow this to happen, then you are cowards. You must teach them what being Malaysian is all about.

The trains [in a country] contain the essential paraphernalia of the culture: Thai trains have the shower jar with the glazed dragon on its side, Ceylonese ones the car reserved for Buddhist monks, Indian ones a vegetarian kitchen and six classes, Iranian ones prayer mats, Malaysian ones a noodle stall, Vietnamese ones bulletproof glass on the locomotive, and on every carriage of a Russian train there is a samovar. The railway bazaar with its gadgets and passengers represented the society so completely that to board it was to be challenged by the national character. At times it was like a leisurely seminar, but I also felt on some occasions that it was like being jailed and then assaulted by the monstrously typical.

Congratulations, now you know the single reason why the world is the way it is. You see the problem right away—everything we do requires cooperation in groups larger than a hundred and fifty. Governments. Corporations. Society as a whole. And we are physically incapable of handling it. So every moment of the day we urgently try to separate everyone on earth into two groups—those inside the sphere of sympathy and those outside. Black versus white, liberal versus conservative, Muslim versus Christian, Lakers fan versus Celtics fan. With us, or against us. Infected versus clean. “We simplify tens of millions of individuals down into simplistic stereotypes, so that they hold the space of only one individual in our limited available memory slots. And here is the key—those who lie outside the circle are not human. We lack the capacity to recognize them as such. This is why you feel worse about your girlfriend cutting her finger than you do about an earthquake in Afghanistan that kills a hundred thousand people. This is what makes genocide possible. This is what makes it possible for a CEO to sign off on a policy that will poison a river in Malaysia and create ten thousand deformed infants. Because of this limitation in the mental hardware, those Malaysians may as well be ants.

In clear-cutting, he said, you clear away the natural forest, or what the industrial forester calls "weed trees," and plant all one species of tree in neat straight functional rows like corn, sorghum, sugar beets or any other practical farm crop. You then dump on chemical fertilizers to replace the washed-away humus, inject the seedlings with growth-forcing hormones, surround your plot with deer repellants and raise a uniform crop of trees, all identical. When the trees reach a certain prespecified height (not maturity; that takes too long) you send in a fleet of tree-harvesting machines and cut the fuckers down. All of them. Then burn the slash, and harrow, seed, fertilize all over again, round and round and round again, faster and faster, tighter and tighter until, like the fabled Malaysian Concentric Bird which flies in ever-smaller circles, you disappear up your own asshole.

I spent most of my seventh grade summer dehydrated, green-tongued, and smelling like a Malaysian whorehouse.

Kuala Lumpur had a certain something… There was a sense of freedom perhaps, of anarchy even, that Singapore so sorely lacked. Perhaps it was the lack of deference to authority, the physical space, the ability to take a step back and enjoy a moment of quite that lent Kuala Lumpur its atmosphere. Singaporeans were always adding to the list of reasons each one kept to hand, in case they met a Malaysian, of why it was so much better on the island than the peninsula. They ranged from law and order to cleanliness, from clean government to good schools, and always ended on the strength of the Singaporean economy. But in the end, the Malaysian would nod as if to agree to the points made – and then shrug to indicate that they probably wouldn’t trade passports, not really. And if pressed for a reason they would fall back on that old chestnut which somehow seemed to capture everything that was wrong about Singapore – but your government bans chewing gum. The nanny state and the police state all rolled into one.

Even a child would think twice before touching a hot kettle once burned, but in Malaysia, we simply make new plans, and repeat the same old mistakes. The MSC, E- Village, and the Paya Indah Wetlands.

As I write this, it is nine o’clock in the morning. In the two hours since I got out of bed I have showered in water heated by North Sea gas, shaved using an American razor running on electricity made from British coal, eaten a slice of bread made from French wheat, spread with New Zealand butter and Spanish marmalade, then brewed a cup of tea using leaves grown in Sri Lanka, dressed myself in clothes of Indian cotton and Australian wool, with shoes of Chinese leather and Malaysian rubber, and read a newspaper made from Finnish wood pulp and Chinese ink.

By linking something to race or religion, politicians distract Malaysians from the core issue while also garnering support from those whose identities depend heavily on their racial or religious identities - meaning most Malaysians.

Sister, you Malaysians always ask the same thing, she smiled. Islam is international and your sisters come in all colors. The important thing is that we pray to the same God. Why are our styles of praying, clothing, hijab, ablution so important to you?”.

Do you always wear Malaysian imitations of Brooks Brothers blue oxford button-downs, Mr. Laney?" Laney had looked down at his shirt, or tried to. "Malaysia?" "The stitch-count's dead on, but they still haven't mastered the thread-tension." "Oh." "Never mind. A little prototypic nerd chic could actually lend a certain frisson, around here. You could lose the tie, though. Definitely lose the tie. And keep a collection of felt-tipped pens in your pocket. Unchewed, please. Plus one of those fat flat highlighters, in a really nasty fluorescent shade." "Are you joking?" "Probably, Mr. Laney. May I call you Colin?" "Yes." She never did call him "Colin," then or ever. "You'll find that humor is essential at Slitscan, Laney. A necessary survival tool. You'll find the type that's most viable here is fairly oblique." "How do you mean, Ms. Torrance?" "Kathy. I mean difficult to quote effectively in a memo. Or a court of law.

Picture the Bay of Bengal as an expanse of tropical water: still and blue in the calm of the January winter, or raging and turbid with silt at the peak of the summer rains. Picture it in two dimensions on a map, overlaid with a web of shipping channels and telegraph cables and inscribed with lines of distance. Now imagine the sea as a mental map: as a family tree of cousins, uncles, sisters, sons, connected by letters and journeys and stories. Think of it as a sea of debt, bound by advances and loans and obligations. Picture the Bay of Bengal even where it is absent — deep in the Malaysian jungle, where Hindu shrines sprout from the landscape as if washed up by the sea, left behind.

In a world that has essentially turned away from racism, it is shocking to me that the color of the skin of the bakery owners should still matter to anyone.

cinta itu seperti mimpi yang tak pernah bisa kita kendalikan.

OMNICTIONARIAN96: Nah, man. I’ve been up since six, expanding the article on this Malaysian pop singer.

The trouble with Malaysia is that too many people like to tell others what the trouble with Malaysia is. This includes me of course.

Malaysians don't like to read. If you're reading this, you must not be liking it, or not Malaysian.

The trouble with Malaysia is, we don't act like we have that kind of power.

That night the Salt Fish Girl came back looking exhausted and dishevelled. A Malaysian girl who worked at her factory had been stricken with hysteria, had gone to the toilet and begun screaming and tearing at her hair. She had been working at the factory for nearly three years and was half blind and bored out of her wits with the tedious repetitiveness of the work. Her hysteria had provoked others, until half the women in the factory were screaming and howling and throwing themselves against the walls in sheer frustration with the dreariness of their toil and the damage it was exacting from their once young bodies and once bright faces.

The Ridyadh Bodkin and the Kuala Lumpur Mushroom are positive Meccas for all kinds of daredevils-of this much I'm sure. Decadent Saudi princes pilot microlights through huge holes in their facades, while Malaysian spider men scale them using giant suckers in lieu of crampons. All these activities serve to demonstrate is that modernist megaliths have completely suborned the role of natural features in providing us with the essential and vertiginous perspective we require to comprehend accurately our ant-like status.

If you're not lazy, you're not Malay, If you're don't cheat, you're not Chinese, If you're don't drink. you're not Indian To my friend I say, I'm Chinese but I'm no cheat, My friend's Indian but he's no drunk, Another is Malay but he's no slob, Chinese, Indian Malay or Others, We are who we make ourselves to be, Not the stereotypes we're out to be. But if we don't buck the trend, We'll forever be stamped.

Yes, the media is biased. And yes, elections in Malaysia are really more a test of each party's organisation, machinery, and the number of flags and posters it can put up than a contest of ideas, manifestos and positions on issues - all facts that give plenty of advantage to the incumbent.

The trouble with Malaysia is we are subconsciously trying to erase our past. The history beyond the prescribed narrative of The Alliance achieving Merdeka and Tunku calling out "Merdeka" seven times are often undiscussed - or worse, considered untrue and disrespectful - within the mainstream.

It is fascinating that Baghdad had more than 100 public libraries in the year 891, Cordoba had 70 public libraries at the end of 10th century, while the royal library of Caliph al-‘Aziz, in the year 988, of the Fatimids in Cairo perhaps had more than 100,000 volumes collection arranged in classified order.

We dedicate this book to the 239 people who lost their lives on MH370 on March 8, 2014, on a flight from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing. One of our purposes in writing the book was, in some small way to convey the human stories from the tragedy. We hope we have done this without adding upset to the terrible toll relatives and friends are already facing. Our other, more important task was to pursue the truth about what exactly happened. That is one small contribution we feel we can make to this whole terrible affair.

Yes, the elections aren't free and fair. Yes, the 'first past the post' system, coupled with delineation of constituencies and gerrymandering, is a problem.

Police work was rarely complicated. Locked-door mysteries and multiple suspects were the stuff of fiction. Usually, the person last heard threatening to kill someone who was later found dead was the murderer.

The trouble with Malaysia, however, is that whenever someone criticises the administration of the country, argues against the government's policies, exposes wrongdoing, marches on the street in protest, ridicules government officials, questions accepted truths and sacred cows, or holds opinions outside of mainstream - in other words, exercises his basic right and responsibilities as a citizen - he is branded as unpatriotic, pro-opposition or, worse, asked to leave the country.

Asians of their generation were not tactile. Affection was expressed, if at all, through food. To make an effort over dinner, to have a few extra dishes, to remember what someone liked best and serve it piping hot - that was the way to show family feeling.

The trains in any country contain the essential paraphernalia of the culture: Thai trains have the shower jar with the glazed dragon on its side, Singhalese ones the car reserved for Buddhist monks, Indian ones a vegetarian kitchen and six classes, Iranian ones prayer mats, Malaysian ones a noodle stall, Vietnamese ones bulletproof glass on the locomotive, and on every carriage of a Russian train there is a samovar. The railway bazaar, with its gadgets and passengers, represented the society so completely that to board it was to be challenged by the national character.

Surviving in the jungle for any length of time was near impossible. Cuts turned to gangrene. Scratches became infected. Leeches latched on in a bloodthirsty frenzy. Clothes and shoes rotted in the intense humidity. Rainstorms washed away strength. Food was scarce. And there was always the threat of centipedes and cobras to make each step forward an adventure.

Once, we were artists. Pure! But we, all of us, we became a distraction, compromised for the sake of fame, comfort, the approval of strangers. We spend our lives pursuing something as empty as `relevance' and they use our fear of losing it to corral us. Dirty Malaysian money. Saudi money. We'll take it all. What went wrong? We sing and dance not to entertain but to distract people from the crushing gears of a capitalist machine that has no ideals save for greed and violence. And let's not kid ourselves, Hollywood is the best PR firm the gunmakers ever had. What a sick culture." "But what about artistic beauty?" asked Cameron Diaz. "When you can perceive beauty there's no excuse for serving ugliness. For aiding cons, inflaming desires, promising everything and delivering nothing. It doesn't matter what you put on TV because people are so frightened and lonely they'll watch it just to hear human voices and feel like they're not alone. They're so beaten down all they need is a soccer tournament every four years and they stay in their place. This is not a society. This is a system of soul-murder. And history will not be kind to us for our complicity, because we know better. The executives"—he nodded Maoishly to the Disney team —"they can say they were serving their god Mammon, but we artists can't. We're all East German playwrights now, complicit with the regime! And there will come a time of judgment. We're destroying the planet. This cannot last.

The judgment, handed down by Judge Ian Chin of the Sarawak High Court, demonstrated astonishing independence from the Malaysian government. Chin knew the price of that independence. After a much-maligned judgment against a politician belonging to the ruling Barisan National government in 1998, he had been verbally threatened by Prime Minister Mahathir Mohamad, and then enrolled in a five-day boot camp with other judges for “re-educational” purposes. While there, the primacy of the government’s interests was hammered into the judicial civil servants.3 Crushing the independence of the courts was done systematically under Mahathir. In 1988, the autocratic Premier had arbitrarily dismissed the country’s top judge, Lord President Salleh Abas, thereby keeping the remaining judges on a short lead.4 Even today, in 2014, Malaysia’s judges still have difficulty ruling independently when government interests are at stake.

But should we garner the courage and moral will to reject once and for all the fallacy of racial difference for the ideological conceit that it is, what will be the premise of our new national history, our new national story? Where will the frontiers of the new Malaysia be? And what will the new Malaysia look like? None of us can answer these questions for certain, for any national narrative is forever a work in progress. Nations are constructs, based on the collective imagination and imaginary of their citizens. But as a nation in the making and under construction, we should at least have the courage to admit that some of our earlier premises were wrong (if not dangerous) and that the time has come to reinvent ourselves with some degree of hindsight and collective wisdom. One of the first steps that has to be taken is to recognise and accept that much of what we have been told as the first generation of postcolonial Malaysians was false, and that these instrumental fictions were tools to mentally bind us.

Because after all,” Bob said, “any wealth gained by a person beyond what he can produce by his own labor must have come at the expense of nature or at the expense of another person. Look around. Look at our house, our car, our bank accounts, our clothes, our eating habits, our appliances. Could the physical labor of one family and its immediate ancestors and their one billionth of the country’s renewable resources have produced all this? It takes a long time to build a house from nothing; it takes a lot of calories to transport yourself from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh. Even if you’re not rich, you’re living in the red. Indebted to Malaysian textile workers and Korean circuit assemblers and Haitian sugarcane cutters who live six to a room. Indebted to a bank, indebted to the earth from which you’ve withdrawn oil and coal and natural gas that no one can ever put back. Indebted to the hundred square yards of landfill that will bear the burden of your own personal waste for ten thousand years. Indebted to the air and water, indebted by proxy to Japanese and German bond investors. Indebted to the great-grandchildren who’ll be paying for your conveniences when you’re dead: who’ll be living six to a room, contemplating their skin cancers, and knowing, like you don’t, how long it takes to get from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh when you’re living in the black.

The only point that everyone I spoke with in Rome agrees upon is that Armando al Pantheon is one of the city's last true trattorie. Given the location, Claudio and his family could have gone the way of the rest of the neighborhood a long time ago and mailed it in with a handful of fresh mozzarella and prosciutto. But he's chosen the opposite path, an unwavering dedication to the details- the extra steps that make the oxtail more succulent, the pasta more perfectly toothsome, the artichokes and favas and squash blossoms more poetic in their expression of the Roman seasons. "I experiment in my own small ways. I want to make something new, but I also want my guests to think of their mothers and grandmothers. I want them to taste their infancy, to taste their memories. Like that great scene in Ratatouille." I didn't grow up on amatriciana and offal, but when I eat them here, they taste like a memory I never knew I had. I keep coming back. For the cacio e pepe, which sings that salty-spicy duet with unrivaled clarity, thanks to the depth charge of toasted Malaysian peppercorns Claudio employs. For his coda alla vaccinara, as Roman as the Colosseum, a masterpiece of quinto quarto cookery: the oxtail cooked to the point of collapse, bathed in a tomato sauce with a gentle green undertow of celery, one of Rome's unsung heroes. For the vegetables: one day a crostini of stewed favas and pork cheek, the next a tumble of bitter puntarelle greens bound in a bracing anchovy vinaigrette. And always the artichokes. If Roman artichokes are drugs, Claudio's are pure poppy, a vegetable so deeply addictive that I find myself thinking about it at the most inappropriate times. Whether fried into a crisp, juicy flower or braised into tender, melting submission, it makes you wonder what the rest of the world is doing with their thistles.

I was most pleasantly surprised, with this chart, to see a Yod pointing at the Moon. After all, what other planet influences changeable behaviour and creates a strong magnetic pull? I am tempted to say that the problem of the Bermuda Triangle has been solved: it was the Moon all along! But it is obviously more complicated than that. For one thing, there is a theory that there is an energy vortex operating through the earth, with a corresponding ‘problem’ area on the other side of the world, based near the west coast of Australia in the Indian Ocean. I noticed when I was looking at my Atlas that these trouble spots are on, or near, the Tropic of Cancer in the north, and the Tropic of Capricorn in the south. Being that these circles are the northern-most and southern-most positions of the Sun as it passes over the earth at the summer and winter solstices, there must be a residue of magnetic energy along those lines. To create a vortex, another energy line must be intersecting each tropical line at a right angle (90°). We can see this energy line on the chart: the Pluto-Midheaven opposition would be operating at full strength, as the critical degree is within 45’ of true (meaning, that the difference between the position of Pluto and the Midheaven, directly overhead, is almost exactly 180°). Because Mars is conjunct to Pluto, also opposite to the Midheaven, stormy weather, previously noted in this book, was raging: a potent combination.

Don't fight, don't struggle. Just shut up and work.

Tako je Mahathir za tih nekoliko mjeseci izrekao, i još će ih izricati, mnogo gorkih riječi nezadovoljstva onim što je želio, a nije uspio da promijeni. A za one koji smatraju da su mu prevelike ambicije imao je jednostavan odgovor: "Nemam ja nikakvu veliku ambiciju", kaže. "Ja sam smrtan. Što god mogu učiniti što je dobro za bilo koje vrijeme, ja ću to učiniti. Nisam ja sebi postavio nikakav cilj. Za mene je zadovoljstvo kad vidim da se sve ono čega sam se latio ostvaruje praktično pred mojim očima. Ne težim ja tome da se ikada spominjem. Ne brinem se šta ljudi pričaju o meni. Ja samo mislim o onome što sam ostvario od onoga što sam bio u stanju uraditi. To je korist od posjedovanja autoriteta: biti u stanju uraditi stvari.

Te poruke su navele Farisha da razmišlja u svojim kategorijama: "Da mi muslimani, poslije petnaest vjekova civilizacijskog napretka, izgleda još nismo u stanju da mislimo o Sveopćem Dobročinitelju Bogu, Koji je Milostiv i Koji prašta. Ne možemo si pomoći a da ne zamislimo kako je Bog nasilan, gotovo zao entitet, koji rutinski gura svoje potčinjene u ključale jame Pakla, tako da će vječno biti mučeni. Kakva ironija je to, kad uzmemo u obzir da praktično svaku važniju stvar koju muslimani čine u svakodnevnom životu počinju sa: "U ime Allaha, Sveopćeg Dobročinitelja, Milostivog." Je li islam uvijek bio ovakav? Odgovor je, na sreću, jednostavan - nije!" " Hajrudin Somun, "Mahathirove dileme

As Low amassed his art collection, he paid no heed to the 60 percent of Malaysian households who lived on less than $1,600 a month.

Durban has the largest Indian population outside of India! The Afro-Indian Culture that ensued has become a strong influence on the people of South Africa who have adopted many of the Indian traditions. This is especially true of how food is prepared! Of course rice is the preferred carb and considered a stable with most meals. An Indian curry stew is an exciting taste treat. Relatively simple to make, fresh garlic and ginger pulp are lightly fried along with chilies, onions and a zesty curry powder. Added to this are chopped tomatoes and finally the meat, seafood or vegetable of your choice. After slow simmering, the spicy stew is served with steamed rice and perhaps a hot and spicy chili sauce condiment called a sambal. Sweet and sour condiments called chutney are made of unripe mangoes, raisins, limes, sliced bananas and other fruit.. Of course Major Grey's Chutney can be bought ready-made and is considered by many as the best of all chutneys. Many of the curried foods thought of as Indian are actually of Indonesian origin and are also popular on the Malaysian Peninsular and in many other eastern countries.

dam·i·an·a   n. a small shrub native to Mexico whose leaves are used in herbal medicine and in the production of a liqueur. It is reputed to possess aphrodisiac qualities.  Turnera diffusa, family Turneraceae.  American Spanish. Dam·i·et·ta   the eastern branch of the Nile delta. Arabic name DUMYAT.  a port at the mouth of this delta; pop. 113,000. Linked entries: DUMYAT da·min·o·zide   n. a growth retardant sprayed on vegetables and fruit, esp. apples, to enhance the quality of the crop. In the U.S., the application of daminozide is now restricted to ornamental plants due to the potential health risks of consuming the chemical.  Chem. formula: C6H12N2O3. dam·mar (also dam·ar)   n. resin obtained from any of a number of tropical and mainly Indo-Malaysian trees, used to make varnish.  The resin is obtained from trees in the families Araucariaceae (genus Agathis), Dipterocarpaceae (genera Hopea, Shorea, and Vatica), and Burseraceae (genus Canarium).  late 17th cent.: from Malay damar 'resin'. dam·mit   exclam. used to express anger and frustration.  mid 19th cent.: alteration of damn it. damn   v. [trans.] (in Christian belief) (of God) condemn (a person) to suffer eternal punishment in hell:

if there are competing hypotheses, the one which requires the fewest assumptions should be selected.

How best to portray the story of Lydia---a woman who has mixed Japanese, Malaysian, and English heritage, and who is a vampire, a creature inherently half-demon, half-human---who is constantly trying to resist the temptation of her nature? I designed many versions of this cover; some depicted Lydia, while others focused on specific details from the story, like bite marks, or a pig whose blood she drinks in order to stave off her cravings for human blood. In the end, though, the most powerful visual was not one of Lydia herself, but of the novel's antagonist. Because Lydia is an artist, it felt fitting to use a painting on the cover, but it needed to be a piece that spoke to the story on multiple levels. Caravaggio's Boy with a Basket of Fruit felt just right; the sidelong glance peering back at the viewer, the lush basket filled with food that Lydia can never eat, not to mention Caravaggio's own less-than-pristine reputation, not dissimilar to our antagonist's. The final touch: a perfectly-placed crack in the canvas---or is it a bite mark?

Another day, a photographer for a Malaysian zine came into the office to shoot me for a feature on badass women of the Malaysian diaspora. My boss literally chased the photographer out the door, then told me I was threatening to “misrepresent the company’s brand.

My mother looked glamorous in comparison to the others. Many of them hid their lumpy bodies with baggy clothing. A couple of the Asian moms who didn’t speak English very well hunched over shyly, as if they didn’t want to be seen. But my mother sat with her back yardstick-straight and commanded the room, looking radiant even in her high-waisted jeans and T-shirt. Her shoulders and arms were muscled from the hours of tennis she played every morning, and a perfectly round perm hovered around her head like a halo. Her voice was strange—high-pitched, warbly, and tinted with a strong Malaysian-British accent. I could hear it splintering across the cabin.

Though dark, they could feel it, something behind them, chasing them, and it wasn’t going to stop. They heard it, the sound of it moving so fast that they worried their feet wouldn’t be able to run any faster.

He paused as he heard wailing floating outside. He pictured a frail woman in distress, but the person itself was nowhere to be seen. It faded after a minute as if it were just passing by.

He paused as he heard wailing floating outside. He pictured a frail woman in distress, but the person itself was nowhere to be seen. It faded after a minute as if it were just passing by.

Adli skimmed through the book and studied the letters smudged in dark brownish-red ink. “This isn’t what I think it is?” “Blood,” said Zurin as she picked out a bone from her fish. “How do you know?” asked Joe. “Come on,” she said. “No witch would write with a red pen just for the fun of it.” “So…it’s…blood,” said Adam. “Do I want to ask whose specifically?

The rims around her eyes burned red, glistening in the candlelight. Her dress was the only thing normal about her, black with flowery prints, but a closer look and you’d notice the frayed edges stopping at her ankles.

You got to face it,” Zurin told him. “He’s gone.” “He has to be here somewhere.” “You think all the people who encounter her survive?” She laughed bitterly. “For all we know he’s dead.” Joe scoffed. “Sweetheart, everybody thought you were dead.

Blood trickled onto her dress, but she didn’t mind. It took a while before her horrific appearance transformed into what it used to be. Her skin, though still pale, became smoother, every chapped corner fading away along with its veiny texture. It was all gone, disappearing with the pain.

The last thing she ate was a protein bar at six, right before she set out on the road. So when she saw a familiar red Proton Iswara driving forward she thought she was hallucinating, until it parked near the tent and out came Danial. Adira stood as he jogged forward. “What,” she began, “are you doing here?” “Looking for the best clubs in town.

When the tall one laughed the others echoed. He was caught off guard when Adira twisted his arm, causing him to scream. She twisted it again and brought him to the ground. “You know where she is, don’t you?” she said. “I thought cops weren’t supposed to harm people!” “Yeah, well, I’m not a cop.

A strange sound captured his full attention. It was faint, and he felt it odd, as though it didn’t belong in the music of the jungle. He looked at Fatin who was also trying to make sense of it. It drew closer until it was loud enough for them to hear, someone humming, a woman’s voice. It came nearer until it was right beside them. Aman had to make sure it wasn’t Fatin.

Aman folded his arms and stubbornly stood his ground. After a while, he finally sat down, but his scowl wouldn’t go away. “This is nice,” Adli murmured. “It’s kind of like having a picnic, you know? Speaking of picnics, I could really use a bowl of ais kacang right now. And nasi lemak. With chicken rendang. What about you guys? What do you want?” “Freedom,” Joe answered. “A cigarette,” Zurin replied.

Leaves travelled down to her head and lap. For a moment she felt relaxed until her nose caught an unbearable stench. Gagging, she glanced around. Branches creaked against each other above her as the wind grew stronger. She looked up at the tree. A pop of blue stuck out between the leaves, a pair of hands draped over long twisty branches.

You saw her, didn’t you?” Fatimah said. Adira felt her body freeze. She blinked, and for a second she saw the young woman on the street, long black hair, black dress. “The victims’ souls,” Fatimah went on, “are already hers once they step foot into her home.

Zurin…Zurin!” The longer time passed, the more troubled it sounded, like someone miserably shouting in pain. Then she saw it. Nadia by the trees. Nadia waving at her. “Over here!” Nadia called. Her voice was soft as a whisper, and though far away it sounded as if she were speaking right next to her.

He turned around, expecting to see Fatin. There was nothing but tall barks in his view. He walked further and about three minutes in he heard scuffling. He whirled around. “Fatin?” The owls answered instead. He scanned the trees, looking up, down and around. “Aman,” she whispered, but it wasn’t Fatin.

A soft humming flowed into the room. She stiffened. Laughter accompanied the song, a sweet little melody. Her chest stung like it had been punched. She coughed her throat dry until she tasted metal in her mouth. Drops of blood splattered onto the floor. She dropped to her knees and fell on her side. The light fixture on the ceiling was no more than a blurry image.

The door to Joe’s room slowly opened. It was dark inside, but the light from the corridor was enough to see a body hiding in the shadows. Anger bubbled up inside him. “Come out,” he ordered. She stood there, unmoving, with only her dirty feet showing in the light. “Come on!” he shouted. She stepped back, heading deeper into the shadows until she was no longer seen. He slammed the door wide open and turned on the light. The only thing he found was Joe’s bed, his guitar and a pile of dirty laundry on the floor.

Her body went still at the snapping of twigs. One snap, two snaps. She paid attention to the sound getting closer until it was directly behind her back. Three snaps. She looked to find Chinda in her tattered black dress.

Prince of Wales still lies, her huge 44,000-ton bulk turned upside down by the violence of the enemy, nearly 40 fathoms deep off the Malaysian coast. Here, in all its concentrated, solemn vastness, an official war grave, is a solid, enduring relic of Britain’s final days as a great industrial, economic and naval power. At 745 feet long and 105 feet wide, she contains centuries of shipbuilding and fighting experience, now dead, scattered, disbanded, forgotten or lost, thousands of tons of steel from blast furnaces, mills and forges long demolished, made with coal from mines long ago closed and sealed, and dug and smelted and hammered by an industrial working class now vanished. Every intricate part of her was made according to the traditional measurements of England, feet, inches, pounds and hundredweight. These are now abandoned in favour of the metric system which was used by our enemies in that war and which would have been imposed upon us had we been defeated. But in this matter, as in so many others, we have made a conquest of ourselves. Somewhere in her barnacled ruins is the cabin where Churchill slept, the cinema where he watched That Hamilton Woman with tears in his eyes, the bridge from which he waved so cheerfully, and perhaps the rotted fragments of the hymn book from which he so lustily sang ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea’ and ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers!’, beside his ally and supposed friend, the president of the United States.

Love was dancing in the water. Love was having a slushie contest and making sand art for each other. Love was seeing her cry and wiping her tears and fears away. Love took the shape of June. Not a feeling, not a high, not a phase—but a person. A home.

I have long found bats to be one of the more fascinating creatures our animal kingdom has to offer. From the dog-sized Malaysian flying foxes down to the adorable and puffy Honduran white bats, they intrigue me to no end.

Former slaves and natives. Eskimos and Hiroshima people, Amazonian Indians and Chiapas Indians and Chilean Indians and American Indians and Indian Indians. Australian aborigines, Guatemalans and Colombians and Brazilians and Argentineans, Nigerians, Burmese, Angolans, Peruvians, Ecuadorians, Bolivians, Afghans, Cambodians, Rwan-dans, Filipinos, Indonesians, Liberians, Borneoans, Papua New Guineans, South Africans, Iraqis, Iranians, Turks, Armenians, Palestinians, French Guyanese, Dutch Guyanese, Surinamese, Sierra Leonese, Malagasys, Senegalese, Maldivians, Sri Lankans, Malaysians, Kenyans, Panamanians, Mexicans, Haitians, Dominicans, Costa Ricans, Congoans, Mauritanians, Marshall Islanders, Tahitians, Gabonese, Beninese, Malians, Jamaicans, Botswanans, Burundians, Sudanese, Eritreans, Uruguayans, Nicaraguans, Ugandans, Ivory Coastians, Zambians, Guinea-Bissauans, Cameroonians, Laotians, Zaireans coming at you screaming colonialism, screaming slavery, screaming mining companies screaming banana companies oil companies screaming CIA spy among the missionaries screaming it was Kissinger who killed their father and why don’t you forgive third-world debt; Lumumba, they shouted, and Allende; on the other side, Pinochet, they said, Mobutu; contaminated milk from Nestle, they said; Agent Orange; dirty dealings by Xerox. World Bank, UN, IMF, everything run by white people. Every day in the papers another thing! Nestle and Xerox were fine upstanding companies, the backbone of the economy, and Kissinger was at least a patriot. The United States was a young country built on the finest principles, and how could it possibly owe so many bills? Enough was enough. Business was business. Your bread might as well be left unbuttered were the butter to be spread so thin. The fittest one wins and gets the butter.

Shirt" The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes— The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers— Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers To wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader, The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit And feel and its clean smell have satisfied Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone, The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

It’s not that the Davenports had never had black people around their house before, or even a Chinese guy once, but never a Malaysian who looked Chinese to some and Indian to others, fancied himself black at times, and wanted to be the next Lenny Bruce Lee; a preppy black football player who sounded like the president and read Plato in Latin; and a white woman who occasionally claimed to be Native American. They were like an overconstructed novel, each representative of some cul-de-sac of idiolect and stereotype, missing only a handicapped person—No! At Berkeley we say handi-capable person—and a Jew and a Hispanic, and an Asian not of the subcontinent, Louis always said.

The prime minister was provoked by what he considered to be unfriendly or inept coverage, or both, over many months. He concluded that the editors had lost control of the newsroom. . .What was probably the last straw for him was coverage of Israeli president Chaim Herzog's visit. When the Foreign Ministry announced the visit, fury flared across the Causeway. The Malaysian prime minister, Dr Mahathir Mohamad, recalled his high commissioner to Singapore and demanded the visit be cancelled. For Singapore to do so after the visit was announced would inflict serious damage on its sovereignty. Demonstrations erupted in many parts of Malaysia, and at the Malaysian end of the Causeway more than 100 demonstrators tried to stop a Singapore-bound train. Singapore flags were burnt. There were threats to cut off the water supply from Johor. Malaysia saw the visit as an insult. It did not recognise Israel, and had expected Singapore to be sensitive to its feelings. Singapore, however, could not refuse the Israeli request for its head of state to make a stopover visit in Singapore, the tail end of his three-week tour of Australia, New Zealand, Fiji and the Philippines, the first visit to this part of the world by an Israeli leader. Singapore could hardly forget the crucial assistance Israel had provided the Singapore Armed Forces in the early days of independence, when other friendly countries like Egypt and India had declined to help. What angered Lee Kuan Yew was our coverage of the Malaysian reactions to the visit. He felt it was grossly inadequate. . .Coverage in the Malaysian English press was restrained, but in their Malay press, Singapore was condemned in inflammatory language, and accused of being Israel's Trojan horse in Southeast Asia. A threat to target Singapore Airlines was prominently reported. . .And by depriving Singaporeans of the full flavour of what the Malaysian Malay media was reporting, an opportunity was lost to educate them about the harsh reality of life in the region, with two large Muslim-majority neighbours.

Millions of Nepalese have swelled the armies of cheap mobile labour that drive the global economy, serving in Indian brothels, Thai and Malaysian sweatshops, the mansions of oil sheikhs in the Gulf, and, most recently, the war zones of Iraq. Many more have migrated internally, often from the hills to the subtropical Tarai region on the long border with India. The Tarai produces most of the country's food and cash crops and accommodates half of its population. On its flat alluvial land, where malaria was only recently eradicated, the Buddha was born twenty-five hundred years ago; it is also where a generation of displaced Nepalese began to dream of revolution.

Singapore had taken a much more, well, Singaporean approach to the problem of hippies than the Malaysians had. They’d let them in, but only if they got a haircut.

I justified my decision to take the bus by the fact that hippies had never spent much time in Malaysia either. To put it bluntly, they weren’t welcome. An official government regulation at the time banned hippies from staying in the country. It read: If you are dressed in shabby, dirty, or indecent clothes, living in temporary or makeshift shelters you will be deemed a hippie. On being deemed a hippie, your visit pass will be cancelled and you will be ordered to leave Malaysia within 24 hours, failing which you will be prosecuted under immigration laws. Furthermore, you will not be permitted to enter Malaysian again.

during the summer of 1989, the two sides sat down at a hotel in Hawaii and struck a truce. The Malaysians would keep quiet about hydrogenation, while the ASA would stop its efforts to lobby officials in Washington against tropical oils as well as any publicity efforts aimed at portraying palm oil as a saturated fat.

Among Chinese Singaporeans and Malaysians, many hold the belief that when Admiral Cheng Ho landed in Nanyang, he relieved himself in the jungle, and the steaming puddle of shit and piss evolved into the durian tree. To put it less elegantly, the mounds of flesh inside the durian resemble a row of little turds, resting neatly in a boat-shaped husk.

The trains in any country contain the essential paraphernalia of the culture: Thai trains have the shower jar with the glazed dragon on its side, Ceylonese ones the car reserved for Buddhist monks Indian ones a vegetarian kitchen and six classes Iranian ones prayer mats, Malaysian ones a noodle stall, Vietnamese ones bulletproof glass on the locomotive, and on every carriage of a Russian train there is a samovar.

The Indonesians had been told that the Malaysian masses would welcome their Indonesian brothers with open arms and that it was only their leaders and the British who believed in Malaysia. What followed was a debacle. Four planeloads of troops were involved in the “liberation.” One plane failed to get off the ground in Indonesia. A second plane crashed in the Straits of Melaka. A third dropped its troops in the wrong place. Stragglers from this plane flagged down a passing vehicle, and the Malaysian driver took his “liberators” to the nearest police station. The only commandos who were dropped on target were quickly rounded up by Commonwealth troops.

Give them an inch, and they take the whole playing field and then change the rules of the game to make sure it is only they who ever get to win. Above all, you cannot beat the Islamists at the long game. When it comes to sheer endurance they will always have the edge. The very definition of moderation is knowing when to stop. What all the Islamists have in common is that they never let up for a second. To quibble with Islam, or, more precisely, with what the Islamists define as Islam, has become the equivalent of advocating that the age of consent be abolished in a full session of the U.S. Senate. Once the Islamists take charge, all arguments must be carefully couched in Islamic terms. Such support as secular movements once enjoyed go up—at least publicly—in smoke. In August 2011, Malaysian activist Norhayati Kaprawi, the director of a documentary about the new stricter women’s dress codes in her country, said some women she interviewed had refused to show their faces in her film. They did so not on religious grounds, but because they feared reprisals. Malaysia is a country living in fear of the radical Islamists, she said. “If you don’t follow the mainstream you will be lynched,” she said, adding that people who hold more progressive or alternative views “don’t dare to speak up in public.”36

Tukul tangkal balik pintu, budak nakal memang macam tu

HERE’S ANOTHER ANGLE to the quid pro quo between woke nonprofits and corporations. Remember those massive settlements that companies like Goldman pay for violating laws, like the $5 billion in fines it paid for that Malaysian scandal I talked about in the Chapter 1? Well, here’s a second part of the scam—the settlement money that’s supposed to go to taxpayers ends up in the pockets of left-wing nonprofits

The city’s 25-cent hourly wages were only a tenth of American wages but were among the highest in Asia. In the mid-1960s, Taiwanese workers made 19 cents an hour, Malaysians 15 cents, Singaporeans 11 cents, and South Koreans only a dime.

The Tuna Fish is served. Malaysian House Wear Company.

ED issues notice to NDTV, Prannoy Roy, wife Radhika and Vikram Chandra for Rs.4369 cr. Foreign Exchange Management Act (FEMA) violations with help of Chidambaram. This also includes the 40 million dollars routed to NDTV by Malaysian firm Maxis’s subsidiary Astro, the accused in the Aircel- Maxis scam. According to Income Tax Commissioner S K Srivastava’s complaint to CBI, this 40 million dollar was the bribe received by Chidambaram from Maxis for the illegal Foreign Investment Promotion Board (FIPB) clearance of

There is now also a substantial body of reliable information on Russian disinformation operations directed into Europe to alter attitudes to the conflict in Ukraine. Common themes identified by the special EU cell that is monitoring this disinformation activity include the allegation that Ukraine is to be invited to join the EU and NATO, that Ukraine was responsible for downing the Malaysian airliner MH17, that there are fascist roots to the government in Kiev, that COVID-19 was covert bio-warfare by the US against China, and that NATO is planning aggression against Russia.15 Germany has

Events in Ukraine took an unexpected and tragic turn in early 2014, when a confrontation between the protesters and government forces violently disrupted the festive, almost street-party atmosphere of the earlier protests. In full view of television cameras, riot police and government snipers used live ammunition, wounding and killing dozens of pro-European demonstrators in February 2014. The images shocked the world. So did the Russian annexation of the Crimea in March 2014 and, later that spring, Moscow’s campaign of hybrid warfare in the Donbas region of eastern Ukraine. In July, the downing by pro-Russian separatists of a Malaysian airliner with almost three hundred people on board turned the Russo-Ukrainian conflict into a truly international one. The developments in Ukraine had a major impact on European and world affairs, causing politicians to speak of a “battle for the future of Europe” and a return of the Cold War in the very part of the world where it had allegedly ended in 1991.

Best in Malaysia is a product and service review site that serves as the trusted source for all things Malaysian. The company was founded with the intent of providing quality, trustworthy reviews of products and services to help its readers make informed decisions about what they buy.

exaggerate - it was a fairy tale. Rich

In Japan, there is no question of the existence of ishin-denshin, a mutual understanding that arises through unspoken communication.  The word itself means “what the mind knows, the heart transmits” and suggests the same esoteric heart transmission as is found in Tibetan Buddhism.  There, the true understanding of the nature of reality cannot be communicated in words, and the understanding must instead be transmitted from the heart of the master to the student.  In Original Wisdom, Robert Wolff described the uncanny knowledge of Malaysian aboriginal tribes.  But in these cultures, psychic ability is not a goal to be strived after.  Instead, it is merely a fact of living.

Billions of dollars in Malaysian government money, raised with the help of Goldman Sachs, has disappeared into a byzantine labyrinth of bank accounts, offshore companies, and other complex financial structures.

I’m still waiting for that Hollywood movie which shows two guys on a bike slowly moving towards an old lady, then when they’re near enough they grab her handbag, leave her fallen on the road, and they speed away. I’ve never seen that before and I think I know why: Only Malaysian thieves resort to shit like this.

The Malays were originally immigrants from Melanesia, possibly via Southern China. The word 'Malay' denotes a man of this race, whether he lives in Malaya or not. A 'Malayan' or 'Malaysian' refers to a person's domicile or citizenship and he may be of any race e.g. a Malayan Chinese.

The deal seemed favorable to Tanjong, especially given that its power-sale agreement with the Malaysian state would soon run out, handing the government leverage to achieve a bargain price. Lazard believed the whole deal smelled of political corruption. It was common in Malaysia for the government to award sweetheart deals to companies in return for kickbacks and political financing; that was what Lazard thought was going on, and so it pulled out. With no other choice, Goldman instead became an adviser to 1MDB on the purchase, as well as helping the fund raise the capital. The bank provided a valuation range that justified 1MDB paying $2.7 billion for the plants. Leissner was at his most charming as he tried to cajole members of 1MDB’s board of directors to accept Goldman’s terms for selling the bonds. Sitting opposite the Goldman banker in a room at the fund’s downtown Kuala Lumpur offices, just a few weeks after Leissner’s meeting in Abu Dhabi, some of the board members looked skeptical. Goldman was preparing to launch what it internally dubbed Project Magnolia, a plan to sell $1.75 billion in ten-year bonds for the 1MDB fund. But some board members were alarmed by what Leissner had informed them: Goldman would likely make $190 million from its part in the deal, or 11 percent of the bond’s value. This was an outrageous sum, even more than Goldman had made on the Sarawak transaction the year before, and way above the normal fee of $1 million for such work. The banker defended Goldman’s profit by pointing out that 1MDB would make big returns in a future IPO of the power assets, all without putting down any money of its own. “Look at your number, not at our number,” he said cajolingly.

Five months later, Goldman launched Project Maximus, buying another $1.75 billion in bonds to finance 1MDB’s acquisition of power plants from the Malaysian casino-and-plantations conglomerate Genting Group. Again, the fund paid a high price, and, like Tanjong, Genting made payments to a Najib-linked charity. This time, $790.3 million disappeared into the look-alike Aabar. David Ryan, president of Goldman’s Asia operations, argued to lower the fee on the second bond, given how easy it had been to sell the first round. But he was overruled by senior executives, including Gary Cohn. While Goldman was working on the deal, Ryan was effectively sidelined; the bank brought in a veteran banker, Mark Schwartz, a proponent of the 1MDB business, as chairman in Asia, a post senior to Ryan’s. Goldman earned a little less than the first deal, making $114 million—still an enormous windfall. For bringing in the business, Leissner was paid a salary and bonuses in 2012 of more than $10 million, making him one of the bank’s top-remunerated employees. But that was just the tip of the iceberg. Unknown to his bosses at Goldman, and three months after the first bond, millions of dollars began to flow into a British Virgin Islands shell company controlled by Leissner, some of which he shared with Roger Ng, according to Department of Justice filings. Millions of dollars more moved through Leissner’s shell company to pay bribes to 1MDB officials. Over the next two years, more than $200 million in 1MDB money, raised by Goldman, would flow through accounts controlled by Leissner and his relatives. He could have taken his hefty Goldman salary and disavowed knowledge of the bribery carried out by Low and others. Perhaps he would have gotten away with it, as many Wall Street bankers do in countries far from headquarters. But he decided to take a risk by becoming a direct accomplice in the fraud, rather than just greasing its wheels. He had seen the kind of life Low was leading, and he must have thought that a mere $10 million wasn’t going to cut it, not if he wanted to buy super yachts and host parties himself. Soon he would be doing just that.

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Even those who would never go back to Malaysia and would never want to, or those who went back and found they could not abide what Malaysia had become in their absence, would have in their hearts a place of that name, attached to their memories of childhood and youth. If home was where the heart was, Malaysian hearts were everywhere.