I have just returned from a three-week holiday in France and I am presently living in Ethiopia. For the past few years, I have been living in and out of Malaysia, often traveling for job purposes as well as leisure. The more I travel, the more I realise that I don't belong anywhere. The term "citizens of the world" doesn't really convince me as such anymore.

For a start, being a descendant of Chinese immigrants, it has been pretty difficult for me to swallow words like, "Jangan mencabar kesabaran Umno" (Do not test the patience of Umno), "Do not question the NEP", etc.

I do have strong political views about this, not only because they are contradictory to fundamental human rights principles, but also because I have been a direct victim of racial discrimination when I was in secondary school. From that moment onwards, I can honestly tell you that I have stopped feeling like a true Malaysian. It was a disappointing revelation.

Perhaps, it was also one of the main reasons which has driven me out of the country so many times. I thought I could find a place where I would finally belong and my "yellowness" would actually blend in.

My travel has taken me from living in the United Kingdom for four years, one year in Timor Leste, two years in Afghanistan, several months in France and the United States of America and now five months in Ethiopia.

When I first arrived in Britain, I was delirious with happiness and excitement. It was the first time that I had ventured so far away from Malaysia. I must confess that I had the occasional homesickness, but mainly for my family, friends and also nasi lemak. It wasn't because I thought Malaysia is the best place on earth and I could never live without it. I felt mighty proud of myself for being able to travel that far to sit in the same lecture hall with other fellow students from all over the world.

Not doing it the 'right way'

For a prolonged period, I really felt that all of us, Brits, Yankees, Canadians, Nigerians, Pakistanis, Chinese, Spanish, Italianos, Indians, Japanese, Malaysians, etc. were the same and equal. We had all been given the equal opportunity to have a good education and also to rise up to our fullest potential. Everything would be based solely on merits with no preferential treatment whatsoever. However, during the one year that I was living with a bunch of Brits, it sort of woke me up from my reverie or should I say navet?

Coming from a developing country did not earn me the equal respect I deserved. I would often find myself in disagreements and debates with my fellow British housemates, even over the most mundane and inconsequential things. I was often told off that I was not doing the dishes the "right way" but in my opinion, what they really meant was the British way.

Most of them did not believe that I could be factually right just because I am from a developing country and they would rather believe their fellow countrymen and women than seeking and accepting the truth. After so many years of independence from the British, the colonialism spirit hasn't really changed that much.

For one, I detested the fact that my housemates thought that the British way was superior to the Chinese way. That, I was made to feel like an uncivilized and ignorant person. For what is worth, when I finally packed my bags and came back after four years, I felt smug for discovering that the Brits are not that superior after all. What we lack, we compensate with our culture of humility, generosity, hospitality and sincerity. All four characteristics which were almost absent from my housemates when I was living there.

Then I had the privilege of spending three months in New York while doing an internship with the United Nations Headquarters. It was one of the most memorable times of my life as I had the opportunity to meet so many interns from different parts of the world. It was mind blowing just knowing how many of them could speak more than five languages, while I settled for just three. It was indeed a humbling experience to meet and work with top-notch intellectuals, professionals and policy makers. Even the secretaries were top-niveau.

I was hungry for a social life in New York, especially when I was living at the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Life couldn't be better than this. I can't remember how but I managed to hook up with a bunch of Malaysian expatriates, little did I know that they were in a completely different league. While my ambitions and aspirations were to help change the world, theirs were how to strike it rich and retire by the age of 40 in some exotic Caribbean islands.

While I am still struggling with my career, I'm sure some of them are already looking for properties at the Bahamas. Most of them were highly qualified professionals either working for the Wall Street or some multi-million dollar American corporations.

These Malaysians had big dreams and they were in an elite class of their own, enjoying champagne in every meal, shopping at Park Avenue and driving imported cars. As for me, I was beginning to feel like Cinderella. It was getting hard to keep up because when I looked at them, I realized that this is not the kind of life I am ready for. The bottom line was, I didn't belong.

My first dbut in the kind of lifestyle that I am living now was in Timor Leste, working as a volunteer for the UN. In all respect, I did enjoy my mission immensely despite the common difficulties all aid worker faces in post-conflict countries. But of course, by the end of my mission, there was nothing left to keep me there.

So was Afghanistan. It was so easy to feel lonely and isolated in both countries. People were kind there but I was always looked at as the foreigner who came to "rescue" them or rather at most time, to tell them what to do. Besides, most mission junkies (as many of us are called at that time) know full well that lasting friendships during a mission are hard to come by. Once it ends, you just pack your suitcase and leave. Adios! Sayonara! Au revoir! If you are lucky enough, you will meet again in another mission.

Language of love

The only thing which might hold you back is if you fall in love and eventually marry a local girl or boy. In Afghanistan, this did not happen to me but I did get married to a Frenchman and we finally left the country together.

It was then the beginning of yet another long journey of trying to find my own place in this world. Although I am married to a Frenchman, there is nothing French about me at all, except that I love eating croissants and even then, they are not really French. The Austrians just could not be bothered to take up a case against them. If they were Americans, that would be another case altogether since they "invented" the Freedom Fries.

My husband has asked me several times to take up French citizenship which means I have to disown mine. He knows about the whole affirmative action and discrimination hoo-hah in Malaysia. But you know, will I feel more at home in France than in Malaysia? Whether I like it or not, I am borne in Malaysia and to ask me to give up my citizenship for a reason such as marriage, I could not do it. I am not going to disown my country because I am married to a foreigner.

My ultimate handicap is my inability to speak the language of love. It was not that I refuse to learn the language but there was something which was holding me back from trying hard.

In all the occasions which we had been in France together, I always ended up crying my heart out, screaming at my husband and contemplating divorce in my head. As we all know, the French love their language and probably think that it is disloyal to speak any other language, which explains why they are still possibly one of the monolinguals left.

When we met up with my husband's friends and family, I felt isolated, small, handicapped and lost. It felt almost as if all of a sudden I didn't exist anymore or I had the sudden miraculous ability to become invisible. The French have this ability of ignoring your presence completely. They have no discomfort of chatting animatedly and laughing uproariously in the presence of a non-French speaking person, without making the effort to translate or at least to make the person feel welcomed or wanted in the company.

So there I was, sitting hour after hour during meals, feeling even smaller and more insignificant by the minute. My husband would make the occasional effort to translate for me but be rest assured that after a couple of aperitifs, I would be adorned with my invisible cloak. I no longer existed.

Apparently, other Francophiles are not being spared either. A French Canadian friend of ours was once told by a Parisien to "speak in English, please" because his French was incomprehensible. There is this mysterious phenomenon of the French being so proud of their language or perhaps being so afraid of learning another language.

They can be highly critical of their government and fellow French countrymen/women, but they can never bring themselves to learn another language. Every single foreign movie is dubbed in French and it is almost a mission impossible to find French movies with English sub-titles in France.

Hence, maybe it is easier to understand my reluctance in learning French. It was my pride and ego which were stopping me from flirting with the language. Whenever I am reminded of how small I am made to feel by the French and also the fact that I speak three languages already while they don't, I kind of tell myself, "Why should I learn their f**king language? For once, they should learn that France is not the only country in the world!"

Part 2 will be published on Tuesday

LIM KA EA believes that traveling and writing help her to learn about herself and others. She hopes that while the world becomes smaller, our hearts and minds will become bigger. She is also in a quest to find the one and only food which can rightly be claimed as Malaysian food.