Chinessness in Malaysia

🧠 Why Don’t You Speak Mandarin at Home?

I recently watched a short reel where someone asked her father, “Why didn’t you ask us to learn Mandarin?” He replied, “Because we are Hokkien (lang).”

That struck a chord with me. I completely understood what he meant.

People often assume that Malaysian Chinese (Follows the standard adjective-noun pattern in British English) speak Mandarin at home. But in reality, many of us speak Hokkien, Cantonese, Hakka, Teochew, or other dialects. We’re not a monolith — and historically, we never were.

🏠 My Household: Hokkien and Malay

In many Malaysian Chinese households, including my own, language use is more complex than people assume. I grew up speaking both Hokkien and Malay at home — Malay being the national language that shapes how we engage with school, institutions, and society. For some, Malay is the first language they speak fluently due to early schooling and social exposure. This nuance is often overlooked in discussions that narrowly focus on a single ‘mother tongues.’

According to the UN definition, a mother tongue is the language first learned at home. But many of us no longer use the dialects of our grandparents — and instead, we embrace languages that are useful in schools and job markets. When people complain about jobs requiring Mandarin, it’s complicated.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t even have a mother tongue anymore — just fragments of several.

🧭 A Legacy of Labels

During British colonial rule in Malaya, ethnic communities were administratively categorized: “Malay,” “Chinese,” “Indian,” and “Others.” These broad labels were imposed to simplify governance — but they erased a lot of nuance.

The “Chinese” category grouped people from different southern Ming or Qing dynasties regions — Hokkien, Cantonese, Hakka, Teochew, and others — who spoke mutually unintelligible dialects. It would be like lumping Minangkabau, Javanese, and Bugis into one group just because they came from the same region.

Most of our ancestors came to this land before Malaysia even existed. When they migrated, the concept of “China” as a modern country didn’t exist either. They referred to their ancestral homeland as 唐山 (Tong San) — not “China.”

Yet as modern geopolitics shifted, and especially with the rise of China, the term “Chinese” began to take on new meanings — both internally and externally. Sometimes, people confuse Malaysian Chinese with citizens of China, which is historically inaccurate and emotionally disorienting.

🔁 From Dialects to Mandarin: Why the Shift?

Many people don’t realize that Mandarin wasn’t traditionally spoken in most Malaysian Chinese homes. It was a school language, a lingua franca among dialect groups, but rarely a home language for older generations.

After the May 13 racial riots in 1969, the Chinese community sought ways to unite internally — and Mandarin was promoted as a unifying language through Chinese-medium schools.

This shift wasn’t about rejecting dialects, but about survival and cohesion.

As a result, many younger generations today only speak Mandarin and have lost the dialects of their grandparents.

For someone like me, who grew up speaking Hokkien and Malay — and didn’t enjoy Mandarin classes — this change felt forced. I didn’t resent the language itself, but I struggled with how it was positioned as the “default” for all Chinese people.

🧨 What’s in a Name?

As a kid, I remember someone shouting at me: “Go back to Tong San!” Later, it became “Go back to China.”

That small shift in words reflected a much bigger shift in perception — and in politics. “Tong San” was how our ancestors thought of their homeland — a distant cultural memory. “China” on the other hand, is often used today as a geopolitical label — sometimes with suspicion or hostility.

It reminded me that language carries more than meaning — it carries memory, power, and politics.

🧩 Labels, Race, and Belonging

Sometimes I wonder why we’re so defensive about our labels.

Is it because Chinese vernacular schools are criticized?

Is it because politicians use race as a distraction from class inequality?

Or is it because we’re constantly asked to prove our loyalty — to prove that we belong?

In Malaysia, race is officially recorded, legally recognized, and institutionally embedded — from education and language policy to identity documents. It’s hard not to feel like you’re always being sorted, questioned, or boxed in.

And yet, in practice, most of us live in multilingual, multicultural realities. I grew up with Malay as much as Hokkien. Others grow up with Tamil and English. Our real lives are far messier and richer than the categories we’re slotted into.

🌍 Different Countries, Different Conversations

When I studied in France, I learned that talking about race or ethnicity was often taboo. One time, I asked a Mexican friend about his ethnicity — and he was surprised, even uncomfortable. I didn’t understand at the time that in many Western countries, it’s considered inappropriate or even offensive to mention race.

In Malaysia, it’s the opposite. Race is always present. It’s printed on forms. It shapes public debates. It’s embedded in the way people talk about schools, jobs, even food. This isn’t to say Malaysia is backward — but it shows just how different our reference points are.

🌱 Final Thought

I didn’t choose to be labeled “Chinese.”

I didn’t choose to live in a system that sorts us into groups — even when our lives don’t fit the boxes.

I didn’t resent the language itself, but I struggled with how it was positioned as the “default” or “authentic” Chinese language.

In truth, dialects like Hokkien are older and often closer to historical Chinese than Mandarin is.

The complexity often gets erased in mainstream narratives — especially those shaped by politics, education policy, or even pop culture.

But I did choose to understand where these labels came from, and how they affect us. And I hope more of us will begin telling stories that reflect our full, complicated, multilingual, deeply Malaysian realities — without fear.

📝 Remarks

• “Malaysian Chinese” is used throughout this article as it is the more common term in local Malaysian media, scholarship, and everyday identity discourse. It follows the standard adjective–noun structure in British English, which Malaysia adopts (e.g., Malaysian Indian, Malaysian Muslim).

• “Ming” and “Qing” dynasties, as well as the term “Tong San” (唐山), are used to reflect how many Chinese-descended families in Malaysia historically referred to their ancestral origins — often more culturally than politically. The term “China”, in contrast, is used today with modern statehood in mind, which was not the framework our ancestors identified with when they migrated.

• The film Snow in Midsummer (2023), directed by Chong Keat Aun, offers a thoughtful example of how we can face the past with honesty and empathy. Despite early concerns over censorship, the film was approved for screening in Malaysia — not to provoke division, but to acknowledge pain, honour memory, and move forward as a nation. I deeply appreciate this approach: history should not be forgotten, but neither should it be used to fuel hate.