mostly earnest

Tag: migration

  • 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.

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    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.

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    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.

  • Malta: First Impressions

    Weather. The mediterranean climate is a welcome change for someone whose been cursing the cold since I arrived in Ireland. At 18°, people are bundled up in puffer jackets, scarfs and hats. Ireland has conditioned me well. I only needed two layers. Too cold for the Maltese, warm enough for flies.

    People. It’s probably unfair to compare to the Irish. This is not to say Maltese people aren’t friendly. I’ve had the opportunity of meeting some lovely and helpful locals while I was there. But the friendliness of Irish people are unparalleled. Nothing like I’ve ever experienced in all my travels.

    Architecture. Nothing but beige as far as the eye can see. Primarily because their buildings and pavements are constructed with limestone. In some of the older buildings, there are wooden window frames which screened the window space completely known as the Maltese balcony. They are usually painted in bright primary colours. Malta also has several fascinating fortresses and megalithic temples. We had the pleasure of attending a gig in one of these old forts. It was magical.

    Landscape. I can’t believe I’m saying this, I truly have come a long way but sadly there are no mountains or rivers in Malta. It’s completely forest free. The beige is eye-pleasing to look at but after a while, you do begin yearning for some greenery. Even so there are postcard-perfect coastal cliffs and plenty of clear blue waters but hiking for me is still preferable to swimming in the ocean any day.

    Transport. There are cars everywhere. Streets are narrow, a result of limited space on the island so there are no special lanes for buses or cyclists. Speaking of cyclists, I asked a local if cycling was a thing and they told me in the most matter of fact way that I will certainly die if I tried. Drivers in Malta are notorious for fast and reckless driving. Although the congestion is nowhere as bad as Kuala Lumpur, drivers it seems are twice as impatient. There were a lot of gesturing and sudden breaking in the cabs that I took. Speaking of cabs, they have a Grab/Uber equivalent called Bolt and they are always only 1-2mins away. It’s mostly walkable if you’re in a central location. If not, there are buses but I’ve been spoiled by the convenience of Bolt so I can’t confirm their reliability.

    Food. Probably not a priority for most but Malta has an array of Japanese restaurants. Back home, we get Japanese takeout at least twice a week. Since moving to Ireland, apart from Dublin, that routine has largely come to a halt. Malta does have a decent variety of food. The best things I ate were a seafood pasta from an Italian restaurant and a vegan hotdog from a random cafe in the capital. We also had a really impressive meal, specifically the Caribbean Tataki dish at a South American restaurant for Nine’s birthday.

    Language. When I first heard spoken Maltese, I was blown away at the complexity. If you’re not paying close attention, you’d think you’re hearing Italian but to the trained ear, it is more like Arabic with interspersions of English, French and Italian sounding words. It’s a beautiful language, possibly quite tricky to learn. But definitely not as impossible as Irish.

  • 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.

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    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.

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    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.

  • Leaving MY

    The question I get asked a lot lately is how do I feel about leaving Malaysia. The problem with the question is that it assumes I have an equal choice in the matter.

    In the day to day, the reasons for leaving are not obvious. We are a dual-income household living in a bougie part of town, we can afford food deliveries, buy nice things and go on holidays. We have good jobs and derive great fulfilment from the work we do. We have a tight group of friends — people we really enjoy spending time with — and also a strong sense of community. We are considered by all accounts, quite comfortable.

    Yet what people don’t see is the heightened anxiety of continuously living in a country that is run by a fascist, bigoted, police-state government. The fear that I am only one police roadblock away from harassment. The fear that the medical privilege I depend on to survive would suddenly be clamped down. The fear that at any moment we could be separated because her freedom of movement is tied to her employment. The fear that we will be denied ‘next of kin’ privileges because our union is unrecognised. The fear that any liberties we might enjoy now is short-lived and highly dependant on who is in power.

    If there is any chance for us to live a more dignified life not dictated by the whims and fancies of people in uniform, should we not take it? If it means I get to live my truth and have the state recognise my existence and our love, shouldn’t we go? Can I really say I don’t want to leave if my survival, our happiness, and our lives depended on it?

    The truth is I want to leave but I wish I didn’t have to.