How I Ended Up Living In Malaysia As A Teacher Volunteer
The transformative journey teaching abroad
It was a cold night in February when, using one of the iMacs in the basement printing room, I discovered that Harvard University’s Office of Career Services offered a summer grant to cover the costs of internship and volunteering opportunities abroad.
With only a few hours before the deadline, I browsed organizations with whom Harvard Clubs around the world had connections.
All I needed in the application was the name of a hosting organization. I found three places that attracted me for their focus on education: in Colombia, in Finland, and one in Malaysia.
During my last spring break I went to Finland which schools lead in the world’s ranking of academics, having plans for a semester at the University of Helsinki. During the past year, I also visited Colombia twice. And I toured over the Atlantic region as a pilgrimage to Shakira’s homeland and to Gabriel García Márquez’s own Macondo.
In contrast, I knew nothing about Malaysia outside of its capital, but I ventured to try my luck and applied to the international fund. I was convinced that a summer in Asia would be life changing.
Dignity for Children Foundation is a nonprofit school that serves the urban poor in Kuala Lumpur. It is home to hundreds of local and foreign students. Myanmar, Pakistan, Somalia, are some of the countries from where refugee students come from. Grounded in Christian values, the school restores dignity to the refugee, stateless, poor children, and their families.
My volunteering lasted eight weeks between June and July. I arrived at KLIA airport on a flight from Ho Chi Minh City. As I exited the doors at the airport, I was hit with humid, tropical heat.
I downloaded Grab, the local version of Uber. It was late at night, and the ride from the airport to the school was about an hour on the highway.
Seeing the Petronas Towers — the iconic and tallest twin-tower building in the world — at night as we crossed downtown made my new reality sink in.
The volunteer coordinator met me at the school and gave me a plastic card key to enter the building and find my room on the fifth floor of a boulevard of stores.
My route to Malaysia was, to say at least, unusual. I had flown nine thousand miles from California with stops in Hawaii, Tokyo, Singapore, Vientiane, Phnom Penh, and Ho Chi Minh City.
There’s a twelve-hour difference between Kuala Lumpur and Chile. When I called home it was the middle of the day there, for me it was almost over.
My room was very humble. There were two beds with thin mattresses, a comforter and a pillow. No bedsheets.
Bathroom, washing machine, and refrigerator all were shared with Suhaila, a thirty-something mother and her twelve-year-ols daughter, refugees from Palestine. She volunteered at the school in exchange for the room and daily meals. Madonna, her daughter, was a quiet blue-eyed, blonde girl I saw often hanging around in the living room area where the fan was on all day and night to give some relief from the heat.
The first morning, I was greeted by cockroaches in the bathroom. I hadn’t even showered yet and I was already sweating. Once downstairs, I headed to a mamak, a local restaurant that serves a mix of Indian and Malay food. My first breakfast consisted of roti canai, a piece of round fried bread, and teh tarik, Malaysia’s iconic tea with condensed milk.
Once at the shool, a small Indian lady, there to clean, greeted me, “Good morning cigku” — meaning teacher in Malay.
Walking through the school, I was surprised by the diversity: Indian, Malay, Chinese. That classrooms would expand the meaning of the word diversity even more.
On the fourth floor, I met with the head of the secondary department who explained how the school system worked and arranged the subject I was going to teach: 8th grad social studies.
I was very excited to meet the students, so she took me on a tour. We visited preschool, middle school, and secondary classrooms. As part of the secondary team, I worked alongside other young teachers who became my best friends in Malaysia, with whom I traveled and hung out.
To this day, I am still in touch with them.
Fast-forward to December, I was finishing up my semester abroad in Egypt, studying Egyptology at The American University in Cairo, and I was making plans to return to Malaysia.
Living in Kuala Lumpur was such a transformative experience that I was hungry for more.
Instead of returning to Cambridge for the spring semester, I contacted my supervisor at Dignity school about the possibility of returning as a full-time, year-long volunteer.
After a few Zoom meetings, I was on my way back to Malaysia for an entire year of teaching.
I flew from Cairo to Moscow on Aeroflot, Russia’s national airline. There, I had a full day to tour a rainy Christmas-themed Red Square before flying to Seoul. Another three days in Korea, then off to Taipei on Korean Air. After another two days, my flight to Malaysia departed with destination Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia’s Borneo island region.
My fifth and last connection to Kuala Lumpur felt like returning home.
It was December 30th and school was closed for the holidays. So I sayed at a hostel downtown for a few days before moving in. The evening of the last day of the year was humid. The kaki pants and white shirt I wore to celebrate New Years clung to me. But I was beginning to get adjusted to the tropical climate again.
I walked to the Petronas to observe and celebrate New Years Eve. Fireworks were few and dissappointing. Later I learned that in this part of the world the Chinese New Year — which happens only a few weeks later — is an incredibly more celebrated date than the Western New Years. I ended up at an Arab coffee shop downtown, drinking tea with mint until four in the morning.
My room was was the same I had stayed at the prior summer. Everything was familiar: the fan in the living room, the AC in my room, the washing machine, the empty fridge, the flat bed of thin sponge, the closet with all doors broken, the mirror in the hall.
I was expecting Orang Asli, indigenous students to stay in the room next door, but they were still on school break and wouldn’t return until the end of January.
That year, my commitment with the school was thorough. As a full-time teacher, I was co-assigned homeroom teacher of a 10th grade, as well as a social studies teacher for 8th graders.
New faces, old faces, greeting and being greeted every morning by any and all students who ran into me in the hallways or even at the local mamak nearby created a sense of belonging in me. I felt part of the community of the school.
My story of how I had gotten there was vastly different from that of my students, who most of the times, took the most heartbreaking journeys out of their countries of origin. Nevertheless, I felt that my strict upbringing and rearing with socioeconomic disadvantages provided an experience that made it easy to empathize with the struggles of my students and their families.
Moreover, the Christian values upon which the school is founded resonated with my faith. I was struck by the harmony of the different cultures, forms of living, languages, religions, traditions, and beliefs that students and teachers represented.
Most of the administrative workers and teachers were Chinese-Malay, Most, if not all, were Christian. There were, of course, Indian teachers and staff, and some Malay staff.
All of them were some of the kindest individuals I have been able to work with.
The vision of the school that everybody deserves an opportunity to quality education isn’t a nice cliché. Malaysia has a very strict migration policy. In fact, along with ten other nations, Malaysia did not sign the 1951 Refugee Convention or its 1967 protocol. Its refusal to adhere to protecting refugees and asylum seekers makes them unprotected, without regulations for access to work, health, and education.
In this last aspect, it means that thousands of refugee children aren’t allowed to study in public schools, and private education is a crucial need they cannot afford.
Dignity for Children Foundation bridges this gap and offers a pay-what-you-can education, with most students on scholarship.
Dignity is a school for the underprivileged, urban, poor. This includes refugee, asylum seekers, undocumented, stateless, and local students.
Not every student arrives at the expected level of learning according to their age. While education is conducted entirely in English, many students are not proficient in the language.
That is why, at the high school level they offer two different tracks: an academic track leading to a high school diploma, with prospects of continuing education at the tertiary level, and a skills track, for those who struggle more in academics and English, where the focus is on mastering the language and learning a skill they could leverage for a job after graduation.
Some of the skills workshops and school enterprises, which are open to the public, include hair salon, sewing, wood, cafe, and gardening. More recently, they realized the vision of a hands-on and personal growth education at a school-owned farm in Pahang, where students live in community, preparing their own food, taking their own time for study and workshops, and learning farming skills.
One of the things I struggled with during my stay was sleep. The Malaysian sun is up from, roughly, 6 AM to 6 PM. But the heat makes it hard to function.
To help with that, several times a day I got iced coffees from the mamak in a plastic bag, wrapped with string and a straw stuck into it. The kopi ais of powdered Nescafé infused me with the energy to keep up with the heat exhaustion. But by the end of the day, my body was still so caffinated that it made it hard to fall asleep at a decent time and I’d get maybe five hours a night. I would have to rely on naps after school finished in the afternoon to make up for my lack of sleep.
After a little over a month of classes, in March 2020, COVID hit. Face masks went mandatory, and any form of physical socialization was discouraged.
Teaching moved online. The future was uncertain. My tourist visa which only allowed thirty days of stay was expiring soon. Once a month I would travel abroad and come back to reset my days on my new entry. Many expats in Malaysia decided to return to their home countries.
Most airlines stopped service to Kuala Lumpur, and those who didn’t cancelled flights last minute. It was an odyssey returning to Chile.
Despite the fear of death in case of contagion, I didn’t want to leave.
Thankfully, the government of Malaysia eventually allowed those of us who had overstayed our visas to remain in the country as long as the pandemic continued.
Malaysia was one of the leading countries in compliance with health protocols.
I felt safe staying.
On the other hand, in Chile, many people still believed that the virus was fake news and wore no protection whatsoever.
Being isolated was tough. I had very reduced contact with my co-teachers, spending most of the time isolated in my room.
After morning classes, I’d go downstairs for lunch at the school’s kitchen to eat rice, tofu, veggies, and some form of fish, or to a nearby KFC. In the afternoons, my ritual included placing an order of sweet baked croissants from the nearby gas station, while I would run for a to-go ice coffee fix downstairs at the mamak.
With my once (tea time) ready, I indulged, watching Korean dramas on Netflix. As always, I called home late in the night.
Japanese was for dinner, or mee goreng — fried noodles, mamak style — downstairs. On Saturdays, I would go grocery shopping at the nearby store. I mostly got oranges, grapefruit, bananas, blueberries, and a small jar of condensed milk. For Sunday breakfast, I’d get McDonald’s — egg and cheese muffin with hash browns. Some days I ventured on the thirty-minute walk to the closest Starbucks for a frap promo.
Home felt really far away. Without flights, only a few connecting options to return — London, Qatar — , the time difference, and the restrictions to go anywhere and to socializing, the situation began to take its toll.
I let my hair and beard grow to a disgusting state. Since I didn’t have to be present for class online, I barely showered. The room was strewn with take-out disposables. The AC sometimes didn’t work and ‘d habe to find somewhere cool.
A nearby coffee shop in Sentul called Three Little Birds served as my haven from the heat. Despite the regulations of wearing mask when not actively drinking or eating, the cafe made me feel comfortable and at home.
Unfortunately, I could not find a community of Chileans or Latinos in Kuala Lumpur. I missed my dog to the bone. I cried looking at pictures of my furry companion. I missed my mom and spending the afternoons talking over sharing a cup of tea.
My mind was full of what ifs concerning my family or me getting sick. I was also running out of funds.
The school gave me a small stipend with which I bought edibles every week. They also provided me with food packages including cereals, fish cans, and other basic supplies. I felt blessed, but at the same time I saw myself in such need. I was living with the bare minimum. My dad tried sending me wire transfers. But the three times he tried it didn’t work for some reason.
Stil, I enjoyed taking the MRT train downtown and to explore the different ethnic neighborhoods. Leaving my room became a difficult task, but whenever I managed it, my experience was enriched by people-watching and sociologically studying people.
In August, my work stopped. Dignity had abruptly decided to end the academic year early. Interstate travel in Malaysia resumed. I did a cost-benefit analysis and came to the conclusion that moving to Langkawi Island was my best option.
Rent was cheaper than in Kuala Lumpur. I’d spend the same in food. And I would be able to enjoy the island and its beaches. For almost four weeks, a boutique hostel that cost less than five dollars per night was my new home. Most days were spent exploring the island and beaches by scooter, drinking ice coffee at the beach, painting with oil pastels, and walking under the sun. It was beautiful.
at an old theater in Kuah, the island’s capital, I even got to watch the new version of Mulan.
While non-stop job hunting, I came across a job to teach English as a volunteer with a basic stipend and housing.
The only issue — the job was in Teluk Intan in the countryside in the state of Perak. But since I had no other offers, I applied. A phone interview later, I was headed back to Kuala Lumpur.
Teluk Intan’s population was mostly Chinese. An extremely thin lady who ran the English program at the Chinese school there, picked me up.
For breakfast, we stopped at a McDonald’s on the side of the highway. In our get-to-know-you conversation, I felt the job sounded too good to be true. I was weary of anything suspicious.
Passing fields and fields of palm trees — I’ve never seen greener — , we were welcomed by a middle-of-nowhere vibe In Teluk Intan. My co-teacher, I learned, was from Yemen. He already lived in the house. A third teacher, British, had resigned and was leaving that same day.
There was no time to prepare lessons, and curricula had to be differentiated by grade level, but the challenge of the job was the students.
The school taught all classes in Chinese. I was supposed to run multiple English conversational workshops every day, from beginning to end, as a supplement to the English classes to improve the students’ speaking skills.
If students had been cooperative, things would have been much different, but they weren’t. The forty-something students in each class could not care less about learning English. They were the naughtiest.
A select group of those sitting in the very front row would participate in class, but the rest of the class was either sleeping or playing games. I had access to a laptop and projectors were in every classroom, so I tried to used media. I saw no interest. The only thing they wanted was to watch YouTube music videos.
Their dream didn’t involve visiting, traveling, or studying in an English-speaking country, but going to China.
I spent four months living in Teluk Intan, famous only for its clock tower. As a countryside town, there were few spots that I found comfortable to relax or work. The scarcity of known businesses and brands made my stay hard.
I had to venture into ordering in Chinese-only restaurants. The house had a bicycle. One of the pedals was missing, but that did’t matter to me. I rode it to buy lunch or dinner at one of the food stalls in the main square.
To save money, I cook at home. Coffee with oats for breakfast, or whenever I was hungry for a snack. Fruits were expensive. I was hungry all day because I ate so little. Sometimes I’d get a bao at the mamak closest to the school or a popsicle when classes finished.
If my room in Dignity was shoddy, my room in Teluk Intan was worse. The mattress was dirty and stained. There were no bedsheets, only a shabby comforter. The in-room bathroom consisted of a shower over a squat toilet. I had to learn to properly use it, Asian style.
Not all was mediocre. The few shirts I’d bought in the Petaling Street market in Kuala Lumpur’s chinatown before moving into the country stayed clean in a portable plastic closet.
Lacking a kettle, I prepared the Italian mocha pot to boil water. A big mug of powdered Nescafé accompanied the sticky and sad-looking instant oats.
On days with spare time, I walked fifteen minutes to the nearest Chinese kopitiam — coffee shop in Hokkien language — , for a bao and iced coffee as breakfast. An English teacher colleague from the school, picked us up every day. If there was time, we would stop at a kopitiam near the school for breakfast.
A five ringgit lunch was served at school in a small plastic container, consisting of rice, egg, veggies, and some protein like tofu. Before the afternoon block, I’d indulge in an iced coffee from a tiny coffee shop inside the school, for only ten ringgit. I drank coffee all day long; it was the only way to stay awake under the almost 40°C that hit every day. Classrooms didn’t have AC, and though the concrete repelled some of the heat, I sweat all day, uncomfortable in my long pants and shirts.
Though we were wearing face masks in class, a new outbreak in the town made us go back to online classes, and interstate travel was banned again.
Those were the saddest classes I’ve ever taught. Nobody turned their camera on, and nobody participated. I wasn’t even sure that the students were there on the the other side of the screen. I just fulfilled my job and taught.
I felt utterly stymied. Teaching English at that school felt like arguing with a wall.
In December, the academic year finished and interstate travel was once again permitted, so I made my way back to Kuala Lumpur. This time, I wanted to go home. I knew I had to. I could’ve search for another volunteer opportunity, but I was exhausted.
Even with my help, it took three days, spent in a hotel, for my dad to find me a cheap plane ticket. I went back to Dignity to say goodbye. Then a last trip to the Petronas and, finally, KLIA airport.
I arrived in Cile via Qatar and Brazil. It was a long trip, and a year, difficult in many ways. But my year in Malaysia has been the single most important experience of my life.
