To Dwell in Possibility: September 2012

20 Minutes in Thailand

Successfully crossing the border

Yesterday it was off to Thailand with Sara and Ilaria (the other exchange students in my chapter. Dari Italy!), the chapter president, his son, and another AFS volunteer. We had to leave the country to get a new tourist visa for Malaysia because our student visas haven't been approved yet and our initial tourist visas were about to expire.

Driving there was a very LONG car ride, around 5 hours. There was so much jam (traffic).Couple that with a still slightly sick American and you've got a recipe for disaster. Except...

LOOK WHAT I FOUND

I had a very nutritious lunch of Skittles, chocolate and iced tea. Green Skittles are apple flavored here, not lime. Go figure. After feeling slightly miserable for about an hour, my prescriptions finally kicked in. I was laughing with the others in no time.
Rather hyped up on sugar, we were practically bouncing around the car and I have this strange feeling the adults were more excited about finally arriving than we were...

Buh-bye Malaysia!

Hello Thailand!

Our time in Thailand was very short. Initially the plan was to buy some cashews and then leave, but Ilaria and I wanted something to show for our time in a foreign country, so we convinced the volunteer to take us to some touristy shop to buy a souvenir.
Even though we were there for a short time, it was amazing how different Thailand felt. Even though Malaysia is literally within walking distance, I was shocked by the foreign-ness. The buildings were taller, voices louder, smells stronger. (Not always good smells. Where we were had a certain odor to it.) Things were a bit chaotic there. Karaoke bars, strip clubs, and lounges lined the streets. Vendors called after us to buy their rice, buy their satay, buy their everything. Ilaria and I received many stares and hellos from slightly sketchy men, but our AFS volunteer turned bodyguard kept us safe.
The picture I got of Thailand was a very distorted one. It's not right to form my opinion of a country based on a few crowded streets. That would be like someone judging the US after only visiting one neighborhood in NY. Each country has its well-kept beautiful secrets, small villages tucked away from busy city streets, and each country has its not-so-pretty side. From what I've heard, Thailand has a culture just as beautiful culture as Malaysia and I definitely want to go back to see the real Thailand. Among other reasons, it is the birthplace of my brothers and I want to visit to learn about their heritage.
Finally, Ilaria and I found a suitably tourist-y shop and bought our obligatory I ♥ Thailand shirts. I also bought a shirt that said something in Thai... No one in the shop knew what it said either as they were Malaysians, but I was assured that it wasn't anything vulgar. Purchases in tow, we headed back across the border.
Thailand smiled at us and slowly grew smaller through the rear window of the car. With our freshly stamped passports secured, we settled down for a rather long car ride full of singing (in Italian and English), sleeping, and eating more food. Our 20 minutes in Thailand became only a memory as we drove away, a memory and a promise to go back.

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, by Hannah

This Beautiful Country

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, by Hannah

Baju Baju Baju

Clothing in Malayisa, like most everything else here depends a lot on people's ethnicity.
Day to day wear is similar to the US.. Teen fashion in particular is very similar, and shops like Forever 21, Cotton On, and Abercrombie are popular here as well. A typical outfit would be jeans and a t-shirt or nicer blouse.\ The Chinese and Indians tend to show more skin; the Malays generally cover up a bit more, wearing mostly long sleeves and long pants. Some Malays wear the tudung (headscarf) but this is a personal choice and there are no laws that require Muslims, or non-Muslims to wear it. Some people, especially in the older generation, still wear traditional clothing all the time, see below for what this looks like.
Around the house is a different story. Most people go home, change out of their school uniform, and put on comfy lounge-wear type clothes. At first, I'd always put on jeans after school, but they aren't comfortable at all. So now I keep it casual in comfy clothes.
Actually, now I usually just end up wearing my pajamas around the house during the daytime...Comfy, indeed.
Traditional wear is where things get really interesting. This varies drastically from race to race, so I'll break it up that way. (Please enjoy my modeling as well...)

Malay

For women, traditional clothing is usually the baju kurung or baju kebaya. The baju kurung is a knee length loose-fitting dress with long sleeves. Underneath is a floor length skirt. These come in a wide variety of colors and patterns, and some include embellishments like sequins, beading, or sparkles (no complaint on my part...) Yes, this outfit is rather hot! Most people usually push up the sleeves to their elbows, a necessity while cooking or else your baju kurung will be up to its elbows in smelly fish juice or sticky coconut milk.

Baju kebaya is a shorter blouse with a similar long skirt. The blouse is usually tighter than the flowiness of the kurung. Finally, we have the baju kebarung, which is an ankle length dress with long sleeves.

The material for these outfits varies from set to set. Silk, cotton, and polyester are the most common as they are rather lightweight.

Some people wear the tudung with this outfit as well. The tudung style also varies, some people wear the longer style which extends to the waist, while others wear tudungs that just cover the chest and shoulders. Tudungs can be very gorgeous, some of the materials, colors, and embroidery I've seen on them are so intricate and well-crafted.

For men, traditional dress is the baju melayu. This is a colorful silk suit with fabric wrapped around the area from the navel to the knees. Worn with this is the songkok, a hat that is usually black or another dark color.

Pictures:

Me and others in baju kurung, me in tudung

my friend Rachael in baju kebaya

Me and my LP's sister in baju kurung

Men in baju melayu. Found this pic on google and I'm still cracking up

Indian

The Indian traditional attire in Malaysia is very similar to the Indian attire in India. In fact, a lot of the material that shops use here is imported from India.

Many women wear the saree. This is a blouse that covers the chest, a petticoat, and a swath of fabric that is draped around the body. Many sarees are beautifully embellished and handmade. Sarees are literally folded around the body in some sort of pleated matter, a skill that Indian women make look so easy but has me confused in about 5 seconds.

Punjabi suits are also very popular. These are knee length dresses with pants worn underneath. Some punjabi have long sleeves, some short, and others are tank top style. Usually a scarf or shawl is worn in a variety of different ways. Again, they are beautifully vibrant. Walking into a Hindu temple is like walking into a rainbow with all the different colors and fabrics.

There are also other types of dress for women. Pattu Pavadai, a shirt and long skirt are common for younger girls along with Ghagra Choli, a skirt and blouse set that is almost like a modified sari.

With the Indian dress, accessorizing is key. A penjabi or saree is not complete without tons of sparkly bangles, shiny earrings, and gold necklaces. Many Indian women (and one 15 year old YES scholar cough cough) have their noses pierced and have special nose rings for nice occasions.

Most men usually just wear a nice silk shirt and slacks. I haven't encountered this yet, but the traditional Indian menswear is called the kurta. It's a cotton knee length shirt and pants that tie around the waist and ankles.

Pictures:

Pattu Pavadai

bling-bling

blang-blang

fancy punjabi

bangles!

Chinese

-Thanks to Rachael for this info, she's staying with a Chinese family-

For women, the traditional dress is called Cheongsam. It is a short silk dress that usually hits around the knees. The neckline is similar to that of a turtleneck, it has a high collar and ties across the front of the chest. Usually there is a slit in the collar. It is usually short-sleeved or sleeveless. Seems to be a common theme here: the colors of the dress are vibrant. Usually there is embroidery on the dress. Originally, most of the dresses were red with embroidered dragons or peacocks, but designs have changed over time.

Men usually wear a top that resembles the cheongsam. It has similar ties in the front. They usually wear nice pants and some sort of sandals.

I've only stayed with a Chinese family for one night so I haven't had much exposure to this yet! If anyone wants to add something to this, feel free!

Pictures:

Cheongsam

Menswear

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, by Hannah

Roti Canai and Rainy Days

There are few things I love more than sleepy Sunday mornings. Waking up shortly before noon to the pitter-patter of rain on the rooftop, laying in bed, enjoying the calm for a bit before finally stumbling into consciousness. Warm showers, fluffy towels. Heading to the kitchen to see who else is awake. Steam from the just brewed, just poured tea filling your nose, fingers wrapped around the mug, taking in the warmth. Warmth of the tea and warmth of a host mother’s smile. Sipping it in slowly, savoring the freshness, the heat spreading to your fingertips. Breakfast. Eat. Makan. Sometimes roti canai, sometimes nasi lemak. Others it’s breakfast left on the table by busy people. Sometimes it’s lingering at the table, stirring words into coffee, dunking a biscuit into a story. It’s always warm and nourishing. Food for the stomach and the heart: laughing host sisters, mewing cats, ruffled hair. Trying to speak Malay, trying to speak English. Realizing language doesn’t matter when it comes to family. Breakfast is a time for family and food.

Rain. Pouring rain. They don’t have rain like this in the States. Skies are ripped viciously open to unleash their tears. They set forth a stream of unconsciousness, rainy day feelings. Rain in the city: grey sidewalks and grey clouds and grey people with gray expressions. Rain in the country: tilted head back, dancing between the drops, laughing as the drip drops hit your face. Spots of color: bright umbrellas and yellow rainboots splashing in all the puddles. Rain in Malaysia means jam. Cars lined up with grim drivers honking their horns. Rain in Malaysia means being at home. Rushing to shut the windows. Watching the backyard flood, the gutter around the yard turning into an angry moat. Rain in Malaysia means a time where it’s cold. It breaks down the wall of heat, cuts through the humidity. It washes the world clean, if only for an instant. It’s the silence after the storm. Silence penetrated only by the rush of the wind or the last drops clinging to a roof and finally letting go. It’s the smell of the air. Rain is an hour of cleansing in a sun-kissed world.

Just kind of rambling about life here. More quality posts are on the way.

Until then enjoy this picture of the sky before a storm at Cameron Highlands

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, by Hannah

11 Years Later- How Living in a Primarily Muslim Country Has Changed My Views of the World

Everyone in the older generation can say that they clearly remember where they were, what they were doing and who they were with when JFK was assassinated, when Neil Armstrong took his first steps on the moon, and when the Berlin wall came down. But as for the younger generation, my generation, we do not have any of those memories. To many of us, JFK is just an airport, Neil Armstrong is confused with the bicyclist, and the Berlin wall is no more than a piece of history we file away in the back of our minds, left to settle with other dates that we mindlessly spit out onto paper when exam time arrives, no thought to the impact it had on our world.

But we have our own memories. Events that shape our world. On September 11, 2001, I was 4 years old. Parts of that morning are startlingly memorable for me, spots of clarity in a pre-schooler’s world of sandboxes, play-dates, and stuffed animals. That day started as so many others had before it. I was sitting in our blue recliner in my pajamas, watching the Today Show. My mom had gone to do something or other upstairs, leaving me to watch the morning news report. I remember seeing flames on the TV screen, my New York City on fire. At 4 years old, the 5 boroughs were no stranger to me, my father working in Manhattan and various friends and family scattered around the rest of the island.

“Mama!” I yelled up the staircase, “Mommy, come quick!” Her footsteps followed with little haste. 4 year-old me was notorious for making an empty sippy-cup seem like the end of the world. She walked towards me, and stopped dead in her tracks.

“Hannah, honey, what are you watching? Did you change the channel and find a scary movie?” Although her voice was soothing, there was a tone to it that told me she was trying to tell herself that the horrific scene on the screen before us was only a movie, just Hollywood’s special effects showcased in the latest film. Her eyes took in the headlines, the raw footage, the camera’s shakiness as the city she once called home filled with smoke. She sank slowly into the chair beside me, as she took in the scene. “Your father…” she whispered, “His office building... Right there…”

And that’s when the panic set in.

2001 was in that disconnected time when cell phones were rare and exotic, much like a tropical bird or Venezuelan restaurant. After seeing the scenes on the tv that she’ll never be able to unsee, my mom perched herself at the kitchen table. She wrapped the curly phone cord around her fingers and dialed. Again and again. At first, busy signals. Then nothing. The plane crash had knocked out power in my father’s office building, the building directly next to the World Trade Center. My mom tried to stay calm for me, but also for herself. Despite her attempts, her smiles and reassuring words were all transparent and I could tell that this morning would not be like all the others, no morning spent watching Sesame Street, no walking down the street to get pizza and go to the park. After a good hour of unanswered calls, my mom told me to get dressed. Like every other Tuesday, we were going to Bible Study.

At the church, the elder ladies smothered my mom with hugs and promises that things would be okay. Though their children were long past grown, motherly instincts have a way of sticking around and surfacing when people need them most. In times of tragedy, we turn to routine, cling to the things that remind us that life was once normal. In that room, filled with blue-haired ladies and Bibles, I remember thinking that maybe things would be okay. Maybe. A word filled with hope, but also some fear and always uncertainty.

After Bible study, my mother and I returned to our tiny condo. We tried to act natural, drinking cocoa and watching the news, but the house seemed missing something, father’s things serving as a reminder of all the unanswered questions and unknowns. The phone finally rang. I don’t know what my dad said or discussed in that call. The only thing was that he was safe. It’s strange how things work out sometimes. The day my dad had jury duty was the day all the windows in his office were blown apart, such a bothersome thing may just have saved his life. Others have these stories too, these miracles. My friend Tom’s dad called in sick that day, the day where everyone else in his fire department died. So many have these stories, but so many don’t.

In the days that passed, life went on. The tv was always tuned to NBC, the latest story of bravery, or of tragedy, or of unrequited human cruelty streaming across the bottom of the screen. In those days, our country united. We were the United States of America; we were one people, one eye weeping for all the victims of 9-11, one jumbled nation trying to pick itself on the ground and decide how and if to rebuild.

At 4 years old, my number one asked question was, “Why?” It was as easy for me to ask “Why did they blow up New York?” as it was to ask why the sky was blue. At 4 years old, I’m not sure if my parents knew how to put it. They tried to put it into words I would understand, bad men doing bad things, but at 4 years old, I struggled to still find the why.

TV reports and documentaries and newspapers and magazines about that day fall into a blur in my head. Pictures of bearded men in turbans and the word “Muslim” stuck out to me. This Muslim thing was foreign to me then, a mysterious religion where women hid their hair and prayed a lot and didn’t eat bacon. I connected these pictures, these people with bad. With fear. At 4 years old, I was more than content to package up 9-11 as an entire religion that was against our country. I associated hijab with hate, and Muslim with murder. Those answers were simple, and I held on to them as life gravitated towards a new normal..

It is our job to realize not only the importance
of how we view others, but how others view us

It is easy to say that our worlds were flipped upside down that day. My dad’s office building was inaccessible for months and our living room became his new office for a while. Thousands mourned their loved ones; sisters, brothers, friends. Relationships grew stronger as people learned to accept and move on. But some didn’t move on; some couldn’t. As the death toll rose, so did our fear. And with fear comes blame. In times of tragedy, it is so easy to place the fault on an unrealistic target. Thousands of American Muslims suddenly became the enemy. They were viewed as less than human, considered evil for actions they had no part in. As the years past, I’d like to say that my views changed entirely, but a part of me still hung onto those childhood conclusions. Just as some harbor a fear of the dark from their earliest years, I held onto a belief that being Muslim was a bad thing for many years. There were so many like me, not just adolescents remembering a day in their childhood, but adults too. There still are. Headlines reflect this. Arguments over proposed mosques near Ground Zero, murder of innocent Muslims, people being unnecessarily searched in airports because of their hijab or beards. For a nation that prides itself on being the land of the free and the home of the brave, it seems as if freedom applies only to those that we can accept as normal, and fear sets in around those who aren’t. It’s been said a million times before, but does “We the People” mean all the people? Growing up in a primarily Caucasian suburb, sometimes “We the People” seems to mean “We the White Christians.”

In April 2012, my world flipped upside down again. I won 3 full scholarships to study abroad in countries all over the world. Suddenly, Venezuela, Germany, and Malaysia became possible future homes. I’ve always wanted to study abroad, but deciding where to go was incredibly difficult. Germany promised bratwurst and Oktoberfest, Venezuela was an invitation for tamales and tango, and Malaysia? Malaysia was the one country I never thought I’d end up in. I never expected to get that scholarship and especially not to that country. Wikipedia searches introduced me to a land that is known for its unique blend of culture, a land rich with history and heat. A land where Islam is the official religion, though others can practice their own religion freely. I’m half proud to say that my view on Muslims has changed as I’ve reached my teen years. But only half, because at the back of my mind there was still that lingering what if, that part of my childhood that stuck in my brain. Nevertheless, I chose Malaysia. I knew it would be different, really different. And the differences would teach me more than a book, or a movie, or even a vacation there ever could. So 35 hours of orientations, 4 conference calls, one Department of State visit, and 3 long flights later, there I was in Malaysia. Actually, here I am.

I’ve been in Malaysia for a little over 2 months now, and I have 9 months left here. I attend a local high school and live with a Malaysian family. The culture shock I experienced here was crazy. Everything here is louder, more colorful and so alive. Walk down the street and you can see a mosque, Hindu temple, Buddhist temple, and church all within a couple blocks of each other. Malaysia is a country where different races exist together in peace, where being of a different ethnicity doesn’t determine your friends or dreams. I hear the call to prayer forming a harmony with the Buddhist chants, mixing with the smell of Hindu incense, forming a sort of magic in the humid air. Each day here is a learning experience, and my favorite teachers are my host family.

My host family consists of some of the most amazing people I have ever met. I have a host mother and father, a younger and older sister, and a younger brother. We live in a decent-sized house; have three cats and a pet monkey. Both of my host parents work a lot and are very dedicated to their jobs. My host family is Muslim.

I wasn’t sure how to feel when I got that news. Part of me was nervous that my very American views and ways would be seen as immodest, immoral or even wrong, but another part of me was filled with excitement at the chance to learn about a life that I would’ve never experience had I remained in the US this year.

The first few days with this family were surprisingly free of the typical glaring awkwardness that exchange students feel in a new family. Being with a new family is not only forming relationships with new people; it is also having to adapt to a new routine. It is a different shower, kitchen, bedroom, it’s not being able to sleep because you can’t figure out how to turn on the air conditioning, it’s staying up until your host parents come home because not only is the TV in a different language, but there doesn’t seem to be a power button anywhere on the screen or remote. It’s putting 100% faith in complete strangers that they will care for you, accept you, and deal with the times where homesickness hits and it hurts so bad you can’t move.

They hug me and tell me everything’s okay as if I’m they’re daughter. As if we were natural family. They opened their hearts to me and I love what I have found. Just because they’re Muslim doesn’t make them automatically one hundred percent different than me. I’ve learned a lot. Not only about what being Muslim means to my family, but what being in a Muslim family means to me.

I’ve shared so many unique experiences with them. I fasted 5 days for Ramadhan, which made me appreciate the consequent holiday of Eid-Al Fitri (known as Hari Raya in Malaysia) so much more. I’ve seen my family pray and although I haven’t been in a mosque yet, I plan on going to one. I’ve worn the hijab and have been told I look Bosnian when doing so. But I’ve also learned how we’re the same. About how much they remind me of my own family. I’ve been to the movies, gone to the mall, been swimming, eaten pizza, KFC, and McDonald’s (all halal!), attended school, had sleepovers, shared clothes, sung karaoke, danced and watched all sorts of TV shows with my host family. In school, I talk to Muslim girls about which band member they think is the cutest or which Olympic swimmer looks the best shirtless.

My point here is that besides religion, what is the difference between Muslims and everyone else in the world? Why did we foot the blame on them when most of them have never thought even for a second about hurting another person, let alone bringing our entire country to its knees? Maybe they were an easy target. A lot of people, myself included before my time abroad, have little to no exposure to Muslim culture. They see a woman wearing the headscarf, but they don’t see the personal choice she is making to honor and respect her God. They see people fasting from dawn until dusk, but have no idea what that’s like. They don’t know the dry feeling of not drinking for 12 hours, or the hunger pains, but above that they don’t realize that these feelings let people experience what those who lack experience on a daily basis.

This lack of exposure leads to misunderstandings, ignorance and a false sense of insecurity. People’s hearts may beat faster when they see a man in a turban at their boarding gate. What people’s hearts fail to see is the man that may be a brother or a father. Perhaps he too just finished drinking overpriced airport coffee and just wants to have a smooth flight. More than likely, he is just as uncomfortable with being stared at as a person is staring at him. He is a human being like the rest of us, 46 chromosomes, 2 eyes, one mouth and one heart. Imagining someone looking at my host father like that makes me feel ill. How could they possibly judge and decide this wonderful man is to be feared based on his religion? Do we judge Christians for praying or singing hymns? For wearing cross necklaces or hanging rosary beads in their cars? Probably not. So why are we so quick to challenge or fear something, simply because it’s different?

When people ask me if Americans hate Muslims, I’m never sure what to say. The textbook is of course not, we accept them for who they are. The real answer is that some Americans do. Harbored feelings of anger and resentment have turned some away from a people and religion that deserve no such blame to carry. With all the shootings and violence in media, I’m sure some of the perpetrators must have been religious. Yet there are no headlines about the ways of Christianity being questioned, or the entire Protestant community being called out for what one of their members has done. A religion may define a person, but it is wrong for one person to define an entire religion.

So thankful for these amazing people!
(Can you tell which one is me?)

Finding a place to belong in this family has changed my perspective beyond compare. It’s erased the childhood fears and replaced them with an appreciation for a religion and way of life that is different than the one I practice. It’s amazing how 2 months have changed my outlook on so much and there isn’t a part of me that wishes more Americans could learn what I have, could experience these events that are shaping me to be an improved version of myself. The opportunity I have been given is one that has broken down walls in my head, and helped me find a set of people that I wholeheartedly care about. Despite our differences in religions, appearance, apparel and beliefs, we are a family. A second family that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

The scholarship I’m on is the Kennedy-Lugar YES Abroad scholarship. It was created after 9-11 to send students from countries with a significant Muslim population to live in the US for up to one year. Funded by the State Department (your taxes at work), the YES Program sent 850 students into the US this year. When the program was first starting, many students asked why not send Americans abroad? In 2009, their questions were recognized, the first class of 35 YES Abroad students spent years or semesters in countries all around the world. I am a member of the third YES Abroad class. This year 53 of us went to 9 different countries for one year. Morocco, Oman, Malaysia, Thailand, Bosnia and Herzegovina, India, Ghana, Turkey and Indonesia. These are not the countries of a typical high school exchange, but then again we are not your typical exchange students. Our applications included essays, pictures, academic information and an In-Person Selection Event in Denver. We are all in our respective countries because we strongly believe in the mission of YES, to increase cultural awareness and sharing through youth ambassadors. We are giving up our year for the future. Many of us are missing prom, sweet sixteens, weddings, graduations in order to be where we are. We’ve flown halfway around the world, leaving a familiar life, family and friends behind in order to change the way we see the world and the way the world sees the United States. As teenagers, we believe in an America that understands and appreciates its different religions and races.

Writing this was the first time I’ve come face to face with the stereotypes I didn’t realize I was making when I was younger. I am forever grateful to my natural family, to the State Department, and to my host family for supporting me in this year. Exchange is often referred to as a catalyst for change in someone’s character and opinions, and that has proven absolutely true. It’s hard to measure the effectiveness of programs like this in statistics, but sitting here writing this next to my Muslim family, I am at home; I am happy. And that shows more than any percentage or pie chart could ever say.

The 11^th anniversary of 9-11 is today. 9-11 will be an event that will forever define our generation, but it is up to us how so. We can be considered the age group that hates Muslims, or we can be the group that learned to love in the midst of tragedy.

107 comments

, by Hannah

Ohana Means Family

It is so crazy that it's September! Today also marks exactly 2 months in this country which is equally crazy and twice as unbelievable.
It's been a month of change, both internally and among my surroundings. I guess the most glaringly obvious change around me is that I've switched host families. I am lucky enough to be spending the rest of the year with my Raya family! I'm really excited about this since the bond we struck up was almost instant. I'm very thankful to my first host family for hosting me, things didn't work out as well as hoped and it made sense for me to leave.They weren't bad people or anything like that, our connection was simply not as successful as hoped. I'm also thankful to AFS for letting me stay with this family, as I know it was difficult to process the new information.
Although it's hard to get accustomed to a new family's routine and customs, I'm so glad I'm here. This family is a great fit for me... And they have internet!
This family is Malay and Muslim; it's really neat seeing how living with a family of a different race in the same country makes for a really different experience. I have two sisters and a brother, but the older sister doesn't live at home as she is studying. The other siblings are younger than me, 13 and 11 and although we're still shy around each other, I know we will warm up eventually. My host parents are both really involved with their jobs. They work a lot, but so does my family in the US, so I'm used to it. I'm still settling in and getting used to everything in the family, but so far so good.
Family pictures!

on Hari Raya

Umi and me!

At an open house

When I said it's been a month of change, I wasn't kidding. Sights that used to seem so foreign, (hibiscus, driving on the other side of the ride, clouds settling on the green mountains in the horizon) don't even cause me to blink now. The never-ending heat doesn't seem so unbearable now, and eating without using hands has suddenly become strange and unfamiliar. It's second nature to salam and first nature to be constantly eating.

I guess this is the period of surface adjustment, the time in exchange where you've mastered and understand the visible parts of a culture. Malaysia seems to be more familiar and comfortable with each day that passes, and despite the few cringe-inducing awkward moments or cultural mishaps, I'm starting to feel at home here. It's a strange position, a bizarre middle ground, feeling more adapted than a tourist but not yet at the point where one feels like a normal Malaysian teen. It's straddling the line between guest and resident, the invisible point where culture shock ends and cultural assimilation begins. It's knowing that this country is yours to explore for another 10 months, but not knowing where to begin.

The title of my post is a Lilo and Stitch quote. "Ohana means family, family means no one left behind or forgotten." For those who don't know the story, Lilo finds an alien, Stitch, and wants to take him in as a family member. She is raised by her sister after a car crash leaves her an orphan. Like Stitch, I find myself in a new situation, but I too have been taken in. AFS stresses that every host family is a gift, they come in all shapes and sizes, and are willing to let total strangers live in their house for a year until they too become part of the family. Ohana means family, and family means people that care for you, no matter how far away you are from the people that raised you.