瑟丽娜：当布料成为争议

争议，竟然从一块布开始，似乎总是如此。

几周前，我在社交媒体上发布了一张照片——身穿旗袍出席农历新年活动。那是一件深红色、剪裁合身却端庄得体的旗袍。穿上它，人会不自觉地挺直背脊。对我而言，它简单、喜庆、充满节日气氛。

评论很快涌入。有温暖的祝福，有善意的疑问，也有尖锐的质疑：

“你为什么这样穿？”
“身为马来穆斯林女性，这样合适吗？”
“你是在扮演别人吗？”

我一条一条读完。

起初，我笑了。毕竟马来西亚人最不缺的，就是意见。但笑过之后，我意识到更深层的情绪正在浮现——一件衣服，突然被赋予了身份焦虑的象征意义。

这让我停下来思考。

坦白说，我并不是为了“表态”而穿旗袍。那天，我是去选区参加农历新年庆典。身边的女士们打扮得优雅得体，叔叔们整理著西装外套，小孩穿著亮色丝绸衣服，手里拿著橘子奔跑。

我穿旗袍，只因为我想“和他们一起庆祝”，而不是“站在一旁观看”。这两者是有差别的。

当非马来族朋友在开斋节开放门户穿上马来传统服装时，没有人感到不安；当华人朋友穿上马来传统男装、系上沙槟（短沙笼），与我们合影时，我们会笑著夸赞：“哇，看起来像甘榜男孩了！”

那是真心的。当印度朋友在马来婚礼上穿宋吉或可峇雅，我们不会指责他们假装成马来人。我们理解那是尊重，是参与，是一种诚意。

那么，为什么当“欣赏的方向”改变时，反应也随之不同？或许我们需要诚实地面对一个事实：文化与宗教并不等同。它们确实交织、互相影响，但它们不是连体婴。

穿上传统服饰，不会改变信仰。参与节庆，不会稀释价值。加入庆祝，并不意味著放弃身份。在我的选区，农历新年并不是抽像的符号。它不仅是舞狮与鞭炮，而是拜访坚持要我多吃几块糕点的长者，是市场里小贩热情地喊著“YB，来来来！”，是家庭打扫房屋、准备团圆饭、谈论新一年希望的样子。

“希望”——这一点，其实非常熟悉。

在基层社会，多元并非理论，而是日常。是邻居交换柑橘，是马来家庭一起捞生，是华人朋友在斋戒月陪穆斯林同事禁食，是孩子们自然地说著多种语言，却从不怀疑自己是否“不够纯粹”。

孩子们明白一件我们成年人常常复杂化的事情——参与，不等于背叛。参与，是共同体。

当我参与时，我并没有走出自己的身份，而是更深入我所相信的马来西亚——一个在彼此喜悦时刻出现的国家。

真正让我注意的，不是批评本身，而是背后的恐惧。那是一种对身份流失的焦虑，仿佛只要界线稍微模糊，我们就会消失。但身份并不会因为分享喜悦而瓦解。恰恰相反，它会更加清晰。我知道我是谁，我信仰什么，我的价值观是什么。一件旗袍不会改变这一切。

事实上，马来西亚人早已在日常生活中互相借鉴。我们尝试彼此的语言——有时发音不准，却充满笑声；我们品尝彼此的食物，从不迟疑；我们参加不同文化的婚礼，在安静观察中学习礼仪。

我们的生活，本来就交织在一起。我记得一位年长的华人阿姨在拜年时替我整理衣领，半开玩笑地说：“YB，你今天看起来比我还华人。”

我们相视而笑。她的语气里没有不安，只有温暖。庆祝，本该如此——慷慨、开放。

我不希望代表一个与我保持文化距离的选区。我希望真正走进人群，以诚意参与，而不是作为旁观者。是的，有时候，这意味著穿上一件旗袍。

如果我们的身份如此脆弱，以至于一块丝绸就能将它拆解，那么问题或许不在布料。

马来西亚不是一间间彼此隔离的房间，而是一座共同的家。在共同的家里，我们会庆祝彼此的节日，学习彼此的习俗，尝试彼此的色彩。不是为了抹去自己，而是为了更好地理解对方。

如果这引发讨论，也许那正是我们早该展开的对话。毕竟，一个连分享喜悦都感到害怕的国家，究竟要走向哪里？

瑟丽娜《当布料成为争议》原文：When Fabric Becomes Controversial
 
The backlash started with fabric.

It always does.

A few weeks ago, I posted a photo of myself wearing a cheongsam for Chinese New Year. It was elegant, deep red, fitted but respectful, the kind of piece that makes you stand a little straighter. I thought it was simple — festive, appreciative, joyful.
The comments came quickly.

Some were warm. Some were confused. And some were sharp.

“Why are you dressing like that?”
“As a Malay Muslim woman, is this appropriate?”
“Are you trying to be something you’re not?”

I read them all.

At first, I laughed. Because if there is one thing Malaysians are very consistent about, it is having opinions. But beneath the humour, there was something more interesting happening. A piece of cloth had suddenly become a symbol of identity anxiety.

And that made me pause.

Here’s the candid truth: I did not wear the cheongsam to make a statement. I wore it because I was attending a Chinese New Year celebration in my constituency, surrounded by women who had dressed beautifully, uncles proudly adjusting their jackets, children in bright silk outfits running around with oranges in their hands. I wore it because I wanted to celebrate with them, not beside them.

There is a difference.

No one seems alarmed when non-Malays wear baju kurung to Hari Raya open houses. No one panics when Chinese friends put on baju Melayu, complete with sampin, and take photos with us after Friday prayers. We smile. We say they look handsome. We tell them, “Wah, you look like kampung boy already.”

And we mean it affectionately.

When Indian friends wear songket or kebaya at Malay weddings, we do not accuse them of pretending to be Malay. We celebrate the gesture. We appreciate the effort. We understand that participation is a sign of respect.

So why does the direction of appreciation sometimes matter?

This is where we need to be honest with ourselves. Culture is not the same as religion. The two intersect, yes. They influence each other. But they are not identical twins.

Wearing a traditional outfit does not alter one’s faith. Appreciating a festival does not dilute belief. Joining a celebration does not require surrendering identity.

Chinese New Year in my constituency is not abstract. It is not just lion dances and firecrackers. It is visiting elderly residents who insist I eat more kuih than I planned to. It is standing in markets where stall owners greet me with a cheerful “YB, lai lai lai!” It is watching families clean their homes, prepare reunion dinners, and speak about hope for the year ahead.

Hope. That part feels very familiar.

On the ground, diversity is not theoretical. It is ordinary. It is neighbours exchanging mandarin oranges. It is Malay families enjoying yee sang. It is Chinese friends fasting alongside Muslim colleagues during Ramadan. It is children who grow up speaking multiple languages without ever questioning whether that makes them less authentic.
Children understand something we adults complicate: participation is not betrayal.

It is community.

When I participate, I am not stepping outside myself. I am stepping deeper into the Malaysia I believe in — one where we show up for each other’s moments of joy.

What struck me about the criticism was not anger, but fear. A quiet fear that identity must be guarded tightly, that appreciation might somehow lead to erosion. That if we blur the lines even slightly, we might disappear.

But identity does not disappear because we celebrate alongside others. If anything, it becomes clearer. I know who I am. I know what I believe. I know the values that guide my life and my work. None of that changes because I join my constituents in welcoming a new year.

In fact, I often think about how natural it has become for Malaysians to borrow from one another in everyday life. We speak each other’s languages — sometimes imperfectly, often hilariously. We eat each other’s food without hesitation. We attend weddings across cultures and learn the rituals by observing quietly and respectfully.

We already live intertwined lives.

I remember one elderly auntie during a Chinese New Year visit who adjusted my collar and said, half-jokingly, “YB, you look more Chinese than me today.” We both laughed. There was no insecurity in her voice. Only warmth.

That moment stayed with me. Because that is what celebration should feel like — generous.

The truth is, I do not want to represent a constituency where I remain culturally distant. I want to be present. To celebrate with sincerity. To show up not as an outsider observing, but as a fellow Malaysian sharing the moment.

And yes, sometimes that means wearing a cheongsam.

If our identities are so fragile that a piece of silk can unravel them, then perhaps the problem is not the fabric.

Malaysia is not a collection of separate rooms. It is a shared home. And in a shared home, you celebrate each other’s festivals. You learn each other’s customs. You try on each other’s colours.

Not to erase yourself — but to understand one another better.And if that invites debate, then perhaps that conversation is long overdue.

After all, what kind of country are we building if we are afraid of sharing joy?

本文观点，不代表《东方日报》立场。