AUGUST 28 — From my office window at the Faculty of Engineering, Universiti Malaya, I can see the lake. The Varsity Lake, or Tasik Varsiti.
On most days, it’s quiet. Not silent, but calm. A soft breeze across the water. Joggers passing by in gentle rhythm. Someone stretching under a tree. A few students in colourful kayaks, laughing as they drift just out of sync with each other. There’s always movement, but it never feels rushed.
Every now and then, something stands out. A group of students gathered in a circle, holding balloons. A birthday, perhaps. Or a farewell. Once, I saw two students performing what looked like a mock awards ceremony, complete with cardboard trophies and exaggerated bows. And on many days around convocation season, you’ll see students in their robes standing tall, grinning, trying to hold their mortarboards just right while their friends and parents shuffle around with camera phones and wide, exhausted smiles.
It’s easy to miss these things if you don’t look closely. But that’s the thing about this view. It teaches you how to notice the little things. Of emotions and expressions.
You see, we often think of Merdeka in grand terms. The waving of flags. The echo of parades. The retelling of struggles and sacrifices in past tense. And rightly so too, because history matters. Very much so, if I must add. But from this window, I see another version of Merdeka. Not loud. Not choreographed. Just people, and mostly young people, using their freedom to live.
Air Force planes perform aerial manoeuvres for the 2024 National Day parade in Putrajaya, on August 31, 2024. — Bernama
Because that, too, is independence. To walk without fear. To laugh without permission. To gather. To pause. To celebrate the small things. To imagine a future without always needing to explain it.
These are everyday freedoms. The kind we don’t always think about until they’re threatened or taken away. But here, in the stillness between lectures and deadlines and exams, they’re alive.
This lake wasn’t always here. Long ago, it was just an unused piece of land; unnoticed. Now it’s a centre of gravity. Students come here not just to exercise or unwind, but to be reminded that they are part of something larger than a timetable, a final year thesis, or a CGPA.
And maybe that’s what I love most about this view: the way it holds both the ordinary and the extraordinary at once.
I think of the young man jogging at 6 p.m. in his worn orientation week t-shirt, earbuds in, determined but clearly tired. Of the group of girls sitting in a circle under the tree, each one holding a paper plate and a slice of Secret Recipe cake. Of the kayakers, learning awkwardly how to steer forward together.
I think of how each of them carries their own version of Malaysia. A Malaysia that’s not always easy. Not always fair. Not yet perfect. But still theirs.
There’s a kind of beauty that only reveals itself when you slow down. And I think that’s the kind of Merdeka we need to hold onto. Not just the one written in history books, but the one written in daily life. Our lives.
Whether in moments of care, in simple joys, or in shared spaces.
Because every country has its lakes. Its parks. Its windows. But not every country allows this kind of life to unfold — free, unthreatened, quietly joyful. It’s not perfect, of course. No place is. But to live in a country where you can kayak with friends, take graduation photos with your parents, or sit quietly by the water with your thoughts… that’s something worth seeing.
Khaled Hosseini once wrote in The Kite Runner, “I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day…” It wasn’t a day marked by banners or songs — just a moment that turned quietly but changed everything. And I believe the same is true of us as a nation. Sometimes it’s not the loud milestones that shape us, but the quiet in-between: the afternoons by the lake, the walks to the bus stop, the casual conversations that slowly form our understanding of what this country means to us.
If you ever ask me what Merdeka looks like, I might still think of that black-and-white footage of the late Tunku Abdul Rahman shouting “Merdeka!” at the stadium. But I’ll also think of the girl in a light blue tudung taking a selfie by the lake, with her friends and families in tow, and smiling into the back of her phone, eyes closed dreamily.
Or of the two students high-fiving each other after finishing a 5km run around Bukit Cinta. Or of the parents in their 60s, trying not to cry as their youngest son poses in a robe he wasn’t sure he’d ever wear.
This, too, is Merdeka.
So wherever you are this month, whether walking, waiting, or working; let’s take a moment. Look out your window. Look again. The story is there, in the street, in the breeze, in the background. You just have to slow down enough to see it.
* Ir Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the Principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya. He may be reached at [email protected]
** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.
