Sympathy for the stateless Bajau Laut of Malaysia’s Sabah comes from personal experience

As a child, I felt out of place.

My parents were economic migrants – like many of their nursing school cohorts, they left their familiar surroundings in Sabah and moved to neighbouring Brunei to take up lucrative jobs at hospitals in the kingdom.

We were housed in an enclave of foreign staff and their families. It was nice enough, and we lived like any middle class community would.

But my experience as the only Sabah native in my class at an all-boys school was something else.

I was a regular target for the locals, and every time I retaliated, I would be the only one getting caned in the principal’s office for “bad behaviour”.

I never understood why I had a target on my back until a Standard 3 class when I was about 8 years old.

The entire class had to sit during Islamic studies, where the majority Muslim boys would learn about the Prophet’s teachings from the resident ustaz (Islamic teacher) while we non-Muslims learned Jawi script. (I only remember Alif Ya Mim which spells ayam, or chicken in Malay)

As the lesson went on, the ustaz suddenly declared; “and boys, that’s why you don’t become a kafir (disbeliever of Islam) like Joseph.”

It triggered a chilling realisation for a young child wanting to fit in and make friends – I am an unwanted outsider.

The bullying got worse for a while, and I made several more visits to the principal’s office for “bad behaviour”.

By the time I finished primary school, my family decided to move back to Sabah.

Things got better, I found acceptance and made lasting friendships, and whatever happened during my early childhood had become a distant memory.

As a young adult starting as a cub reporter, I interacted with diverse individuals, from all walks of life.

I interviewed poor farmers struggling to make