SOUTH Indian poet Bharathiyar once said, Tamilan endre solluda, thalai nimirnthe nilluda (With your head held high, proudly proclaim that you are a Tamilian).
Today, however, mentioning that you are Tamil − or Indian, as we are often broadly grouped together − does not always inspire pride.
Sometimes, it comes with prejudice.
There was a news report several years ago about a couple who had their booking for a property in Bentong, Pahang, cancelled after the agent found out the boyfriend was Indian.
His Chinese girlfriend had originally made the reservation and the agent only learnt about the boyfriend’s ethnicity when he called to get more details.
This bigotry has only gotten worse.
A few months ago, the non-profit organisation Architects of Diversity (AOD) released “Room Rental Discrimination Volume 1: The Klang Valley Report”, the first quantitative study of racial discrimination in Malaysia’s room rental market.
Using data from room rental listing platform iBilik, the study measured how frequently landlords and agents use the platform’s built-in race preference function to filter out prospective tenants by race. The numbers are not pretty.
Indian renters face the most severe exclusion – 31.7% of all listings in the Klang Valley explicitly exclude them, compared to 7.6% for Malay renters and 3.9% for Chinese renters.
The disparity between racial groups is stark. While 96.1% of listings are open to Chinese renters and 92.4% to Malay renters, only 68.3% of listings accept Indian renters.
According to AOD, this discrimination is due to many landlords having a negative perception of Malaysian Indians; that they are loud, rowdy and do not make good tenants.
But before demanding an end to discrimination, perhaps we should also ask ourselves an uncomfortable question: how did we get here?
Are stereotypes about Indians being troublemakers and drunkards entirely baseless? Or have the actions of some unfairly shaped perceptions of the wider community?
Recently, I went on a trip to Port Dickson, Negri Sembilan, with my family and we checked into a hotel with a private pool, facing the sea. It was a good break and the children enjoyed themselves.
In the evening, we strolled along the beach, the soft breeze on our faces, enjoying a quiet evening as we watched the sunset.
More people began gathering at the beach, including those who were renting some of the private properties nearby.
But the peace did not last.
The quiet evening was disrupted when residents at one of the private properties used speakers to blast Tamil songs, in total disregard for others.
This was followed by rambling speeches, celebrating their stay.
It was becoming too loud and we, along with many others at the beach, left as the sound of waves was drowned out by the latest Kollywood hits.
To our horror, the loud music and speeches continued well past dinner time and into the wee hours of the morning, disrupting our sleep.
Our room was not very close to the source of the noise.
I can only imagine how much worse it was for guests staying closer – families with young children or those who had paid for a peaceful retreat, only to find themselves amid a din.
As a fellow Tamilian, I felt ashamed to see such behaviour and total disregard for the comfort of others.
This was no longer about music, culture or celebration. It was about consideration for others, especially in a public space.
With behaviour like this, can we blame the negative perceptions others have of us?
If Bharathiyar were alive today and witnessed this scene, I wonder whether he would still tell us to hold our heads high – or remind us that pride must also come with responsibility.
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