MY late father was a diplomat under Malaysia's Ministry of Foreign Affairs, affectionately known as Wisma Putra — a name synonymous not just with a building, but with the weight of representing a nation abroad.
Now, let me be clear: this is my story. It may not mirror the experiences of every other Wisma child, but I suspect there are echoes of familiarity in our shared journeys.
When I was in primary school, my father was stationed at the Malaysian Embassy in Tokyo.
One day, he brought me to his office. I was placed in front of a stern-looking Second Secretary, handed a stack of forms, and told to sit still. No talking. No wandering. Just fill them out.
Only later did I realise — those "forms" were actually math exams, IQ tests, and who knows what else. No one told me I was being evaluated for something far bigger than just a piece of paper.
You see, I never sat for Malaysia's Standard 5 Assessment Examination (what's now known as UPSR). But MRSM, the famed MARA Junior Science Colleges, still required me to pass an entrance exam.
Some children of diplomats were lucky enough to bypass this step, gaining admission directly. But here's a truth that often gets overlooked: government support for Wisma Putra children ends at age 12, or Standard 6.
After that, the financial reality kicks in. International secondary schools abroad can cost hundreds of thousands of ringgit annually. For regular civil servants like my father, sending their children to MRSM became the only viable option.
Let's dispel a myth: MRSM wasn't a "backdoor entry" for us. For some, it was an abrupt, isolating change. Worst-case scenarios saw children abandoned by relatives who couldn't — or wouldn't — step in. In many ways, we became like modern-day orphans.
I still remember, the Deputy Principal at MRSM Jasin back then, stopping to check on a fellow Wisma child. His pants had split due to a growth spurt. He had sewn them back himself, a quick fold here, a patch there — but they didn't quite fit.
This wasn't a case of poverty in the traditional sense. His father wasn't a high-ranking diplomat — just an administrative officer in the civil service.
Complaining to distant relatives felt futile. Bank transfers from Tokyo to Malaysia? Forget it — this wasn't the age of online banking.
No, I'm not blind to the struggles of children from truly impoverished families, nor am I dismissing the sacrifices made by kids from Sabah and Sarawak.
Every one of us carried our own invisible rucksack of burdens —financial, emotional, cultural. But here's the thing: we carried them.
We endured, we survived. And today, Alhamdulillah, praise be to Allah, we've made it — not unscathed, but certainly unbroken.
Our parents worried we'd return home as "Mat Salleh celup" — pale imitations of Western ideals, detached from our roots. But we didn't.
We speak fluent Bahasa Melayu, often switching seamlessly into regional dialects like Kelantanese or Terengganu with the precision of native tongues.
We stayed grounded in our faith — not as lost souls chasing fleeting trends, nor as misguided zealots clinging to dogma — but as Muslims who understand the balance between tradition and modernity, between global citizenship and local identity.
At MRSM Jasin, I was a Pure Science student. I had the privilege of being taught by extraordinary Physics teachers like Cikgu Shahrome Daud and Cikgu Kassim Bahali (distinguished Astronomer at Ulul Albab Observatory).
I even received awards in several subjects, and represented MRSM Jasin at the Malacca Inter School Science Quiz.
But fate, as it often does, had other plans. I didn't complete my medical degree at UKM (Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia). Call it the UKM Medical hiccup.
For a time, I worked as a Medical Laboratory Technologist specialising in Biochemistry and Microbiology. Then came the 1998 Asian Financial Crisis — a seismic event that shook Malaysia's economy to its core.
The dismissal of Malaysia's Central Bank Governor and the Deputy Prime Minister triggered something in me.
Suddenly, Philosophy, Politics & Economics (PPE) wasn't just an abstract academic field — it became deeply personal. I was drawn into International Political Economy with an almost magnetic pull.
My motivation? I got tired of talking to germs! And here's a confession: my alter ego was a debater/orator ready to spar in ivory towers.
Even now, after years of studying, analysing, and contributing economic commentary to the media, I'll admit — mastery still feels elusive. But that's the thing about crossing disciplines: you're always a little bit of a tourist, a little bit of a local.
And so, my journey from petri dishes to policy papers continues — a story of accidental beginnings, reluctant transitions, and lessons learned across borders, cultures, and disciplines.
* The writer recounts his journey from international schools to MRSM, from microbiology labs to global economics, blending personal resilience with a passion for understanding the world's complexities
The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect those of the New Straits Times