mostly earnest

Tag: home

  • Why Malta?

    When I was still living in Donegal, I paid 50 euros to see a GP hoping he could write me a prescription for some meds I required. I had all the necessary medical documents from home to verify that I needed these life-saving meds but Ireland’s healthcare decided they won’t recognise these documents. I have been on these meds for the past 6 years with no trouble. What I was seeking was continued care which I was glad to pay out of pocket, no cost to the public. But this just wasn’t an option for a migrant in Ireland.

    In order for them to dispense the meds, I’d have to start from the back of the queue in their system which could mean months, possibly years, before I would even be seen by a specialist. That was out of the question. I do not want and cannot live without these meds.

    I appealed to the GP and he told me he would “study” my case to see if he could help me skip the queue. That was 4 months ago and I still haven’t heard back.

    __
    A question I get a lot now that I’ve left Ireland is “Why Malta?”

    Just a few months ago, I would not have thought about this place. What even is a Malta? My knowledge of this country stretches only as far as their Eurovision entries and that too is recent. In 2021, I was pleasantly surprised by Destiny and her song Je Me Casse, which she performed with great energy and powerful conviction.

    I hadn’t thought of Malta since but when we were trying to figure out where in Europe had housing and access to the kind of healthcare I needed, Malta emerged and was apparently positive on these fronts plus they spoke English. I was so hard done by Ireland, I could not help but feel sceptical about my prospects. If a progressive country like Ireland could not resolve my medical needs then there was no hope elsewhere, let alone Malta – a Mediterranean island nation that you had to pinch zoom a few times to find on a map.

    Our options were limited and we were running out of time. My next dose would be in a few months and we didn’t want to risk waiting any longer for housing or meds to become available. At this point – three months into our time in Ireland – we’d only had one viewing and it was for a tiny one-bedroom flat, two and a half hours away from Dublin. We had immediately agreed to it but then were ghosted by the landlady.

    We thought Malta couldn’t possibly be worse than Ireland so after double-checking with various local grassroots organisations, we bought our tickets and jumped on a plane. Within a week, we secured housing at a central location with fantastic local and Asian food stores, bars and walking distance to the sea.

    The true test arrived when a local friend invited me to go with him to see his family’s GP to ask for the prescription I needed. Again, I had very low expectations. I was prepared to receive some feigned sympathies from the doctor and then be sent on my way with no outcome other than a ludicrously exorbitant bill.

    Instead, she pulled out her prescription pad and started scribbling before I could even finish appealing my case. She took a quick glance at the letters and documents from home and told me not to worry. For the first time, I actually believed it was going to be okay. And all of this for 20 euros that I didn’t even have to pay for because my friend was going to claim it from his insurance. Amazing.

    __
    So, why Malta?

    Because in Malta, doctors take a more collaborative approach with their patients. They trust their patients, especially ones that are already looking for continued care. They don’t discriminate, not against me and not against where my medical docs are from.

    Ireland’s healthcare bureaucracy is not reflective of the people’s values. Despite how strongly I feel about Ireland, her people and how much I loved living just over the border from Derry, it was not reciprocated. I can’t stay in a place that ignores my pleas and would rather see me suffer than provide a simple piece of paper to say I deserve to live.

    The Irish are by far some of the loveliest people I’ve met outside of home, it’s a damn shame that I couldn’t call it my own. Malta may be a second choice but here I have a shot at a dignified life.

  • Waterford

    Our search for housing has unexpectedly led us to Waterford.

    For a fishing village, they’re more known for their blaa (looks like dry bread roll) than for their fish. Come to think of it, they’re not known for their fish at all.

    Waterford city reminds me of Ipoh. The way they never really evolved in design and style past the 90s but then there are also the newer, trendier shops selling vintage clothing, hipster coffee, and trinkets made by local independent brands peppered around the city.

    We got the bus from Dublin and were dropped right at the doorstep of the hotel we were staying at. Making this journey has required the least amount of effort since moving to Ireland and becoming carless people.

    There’s a pub called Tully’s around the corner from our hotel that Nine identified as probably the one to go and where our people would most likely be. We got a table next to a painting made recently by a Ukrainian couple to show their appreciation for Waterford’s hospitality after escaping the war. We also spotted a St. Pauli FC sticker at the bar and felt reassured of our choice.

    Like most small towns in Ireland, there’s little to do. I explored the entire city centre in less than a day. There’s an unusual amount of phone shops in Waterford, selling poorly designed phone cases and made-in-china electronics. I bought what I thought was a genuine Apple magsafe battery pack which of course turned out to be anything but. The prices should’ve been a dead giveaway but because I hadn’t fully grasped the meaning of things in Euros, it didn’t instantly click.

    It’s fine, the batt pack still works.

    Our best find was probably the tuna sandwich I had at an Italian bakery called Berkana.

    Sandwich shops in Ireland are the equivalent of our mamak, there’s no shortage of them. But for a country that mostly subsists on sandwiches, Ireland sure does make some terribly mediocre ones. I’ve not had a single good experience that I was half-expecting to be served the same uninspiring bleached white bread in this place too. It was all I could do not to exclaim in rapture when I took my first bite. Fresh, tasty ingredients and olives in my sandwich. OLIVES.

    Sorry no pictures, I inhaled it in a flash.

  • One For One

    Over a month since I left Malaysia to live in Ireland and still no luck on the housing front.

    Since the time we arrived, we’ve had a grand total of zero viewings. It’s shocking how quickly houses get snatched up as soon as it’s up for let. Nothing ever stays for more than a week on the market.

    Dublin was a lost cause from the get go. For the same price of a room, we could live in a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom semi-detached house anywhere else in Ireland. The drawback of that is a lack of public transport. If you’re lucky, there’s a petrol station that doubles as a diner, post office, and a mini mart within walking distance. If not, you’re left with buses that come by once every two hours to take you to the next town.

    We’re lucky to have friends, who left just a couple of years before and were willing to house us until we found our own.

    They sheltered us, gave us rooms to work in, drawers to fill but most crucially a proof of address. We couldn’t have sort most of our administrative tasks if it weren’t for their generosity.

    //

    In theory, it should be a straight-forward process for me to remain in Ireland with all my papers in order. But KL has conditioned me to never trust the system and to always anticipate fuckery when dealing with pencil-pushers and box-tickers.

    I walked into the Garda station with a thick file of documents ready for any requests they might throw at me. But before the interview even began, Michael, the police officer greeted me with a cheery “Welcome to Ireland!” and I suddenly realised that Malaysia is not normal.

    He gave me 3 years (the maximum for an Irish Residence Permit) and after two weeks I received the physical ID in the mail.

    But even with open arms, Ireland isn’t perfect. The crumbling state of their healthcare system post-Brexit and Covid-19 has made it difficult for me to access the medication I was used to getting back home.

    It is unthinkable, not to mention grossly negligent, that in a first world country, I would be rejected for life-saving meds just because I wasn’t diagnosed here.

    Even with all the documents and papers from back home proving that my medication was necessary, there are long approval times and waiting lists. Many hoops to jump through before I would be considered a spot in their system.

    Fortunately many people came through in my time of crisis and with the help of an auntie who didn’t mind bending the rules a little, we got a hold of some medication to last me a while.

    //

    Some days it feels as if I’ve traded in one trauma for another. The rising living, housing, and energy costs coupled with the inaccessible healthcare makes me wonder if there is no place for me in this world that I can breathe easy.

    Maybe the world is your oyster but life is a compartment plate and you have to choose which freedoms to take and which to sacrifice.

  • Test, Test, One Two Live

    We’ve been looking to move out ever since our housemate got himself a girlfriend. I thought it best we give them some privacy even though it never seemed like they needed it on account of how frequent we HEAR them.

    We decided to test-live at a friend’s place to see if this is where we want to move to next. She doesn’t intend to live in KL anymore and is willing to give up her apartment if we so wanted.

    On the drive in, I passed huge bungalows, some of which looked to me like spaceships. The roads leading to the apartment were narrow and windy. Often times I would be caught off-guard by the dog-walkers and joggers that suddenly appear on my path. Catching their eye, I felt a little like an imposter as if they could tell I didn’t have the social cachet to be in these parts of town.

    But whatever I was feeling before quickly vanished as soon as we arrived. Something about the apartment preexisting the unsavoury luxury around felt like we had historical street cred to be there.

    Our parking spot was narrow but sheltered and close to the building we’re staying at. I climbed three flights of stairs before we reached our friend’s unit. The first thing I noticed was the bright crimson paint on the door. Coloured doors were something I’ve seen only in Europe. When I first arrived in London, I was so enamoured by them, I took photos of these doors and came home with nothing to show for about my trip except a bunch of random stranger’s doors.

    I was immediately taken by the time-stuck of this place. The owner kept most of the original fittings so it felt as if we’ve been transported to a Spanish holiday resort in the 90s. The sink looked out — something you no longer find in modern houses — into a lush, green scape with the city skyline in the distance. I loved the way the light poured in from the kitchen windows illuminating the counters. For a one-bedroom apartment, it felt spacious.

    I took a quick stroll around the rest of the apartment and announced that I was never leaving here.

    It’s my last day here and I am not ready to leave. It’s only been three days but I’ve grown attached. I still haven’t had the opportunity to sit at the balcony to enjoy the morning breeze or take the shortcut to get to the mall next to the building or run around the neighbourhood.

    All I had time for was the pool and even though a bird shat on my head while I was getting ready to go into the water, Nine said it was good luck and probably a sign that something incredible will happen soon. Fingers crossed that it’s calling this place home.