瑟丽娜：什么时候，连吃东西都变成一种冒犯？

对许多人来说，斋戒听起来像是一种剥夺。

不能吃，不能喝，长时间忍耐，需要极大的自律。

但对像我们这样在马来西亚长大、尤其是在学生时代就经历过斋戒的人来说，斋戒从来不仅仅是“不能做什么”。它更关乎围绕著斋戒所发生的一切——欢笑、友谊，以及人们彼此之间那些细腻而安静的尊重。

我在槟城的青草巷修道院女子中学成长。那是一所多元种族的学校，而多元对我们来说，并不是需要分析的课题——它只是我们的日常生活方式。

当斋戒月来临时，总会有一些微妙的变化。

食堂依然照常开放，生活也一如往常。我们的非穆斯林朋友照样吃、喝、聊天、抱怨功课，一切如常。

而这，完全没有问题。

这一点，我至今仍然深有感触：非穆斯林在穆斯林斋戒期间，绝不应该因为在他们面前进食或喝水而感到不自在。这并不是斋戒月对他人的要求。斋戒是一种个人的修行，而不是对他人的约束。

在学校时，我们对此有著本能的理解。

有些朋友会照常吃东西，一边吃一边与我们聊天；有些则出于体贴，会稍微低调一点；还有一些，则会很“戏剧性”地宣布：“今天我要跟你们一起斋戒！”

在一所女子学校，这种场面自然少不了一点“戏感”。

到了课间休息时，总会有人靠著墙，一脸后悔地说：“我后悔了。”

还有人望著食堂，低声哀叹：“为什么今天的咖喱角味道这么香？”

接著，就开始“谈判”了：

“可以喝水吗？”
“不可以。”
“喝一点点可以吗？”
“不可以。”
“好吧……我试到中午12点。”

我们会笑著鼓励她们。如果她们中途“破戒”，我们也只是轻松地说一句：“没关系，明天再试。”

没有批评，没有压力。
只有友谊。

重要的从来不是她们是否完成了斋戒，而是她们愿意去理解。更重要的是，那些没有斋戒的人，也从不会被要求为了我们而改变他们的行为。

我们一起坐著，一起聊天，生活照常进行。

这，就是我心中最自然的尊重。

最近，我再次想起这些校园时光。我们青草巷修道院女中的几位老同学——一共七人——难得相聚。本来是农历新年的聚会，但因为正值斋戒月，这场聚会变成了一场开斋聚餐。

当中只有我一位马来人，以及一位与穆斯林结婚后改信伊斯兰的华裔朋友。其他朋友依旧是她们自己——一样吵闹、一样风趣——围坐在桌旁，和我们一起等待开斋时刻。

那是一顿很简单的晚餐，没有盛大的场面，也没有任何形式。

但当昏礼时刻（maghrib）来临时，美好的一幕发生了。

大家都安静下来。

椰枣被递到彼此手中，水杯轻轻举起。即使没有斋戒的人，也一同参与那一刻的宁静，只因为尊重。

随后，几乎立刻，喧闹又回来了。

故事、笑声、学生时代的回忆——谁坐在哪里，谁曾经被罚，谁抄过谁的功课。

有人突然说：“诶，你们还记得当年跟你一起斋戒吗？”

那一刻，我们仿佛又回到了校园，重新成为那些和口渴与意志力“谈判”的少女。

然而，话题随后转向了更严肃的方向。

一位朋友分享了她在职场上的经历。一名非穆斯林同事，在斋戒月期间，于办公室茶水间安静地吃饭——没有喧哗，也没有不敬。

却因此被指责。

我们都沉默了。

因为，那不是我们记忆中的马来西亚。

也不是我们成长的方式。

过去，尊重是双向的，也是自然的。穆斯林斋戒，是我们的责任；非穆斯林照常生活，不会因为简单地吃一顿饭而担心冒犯我们。

我们从不要求世界为我们停下脚步。

更不会希望朋友因为吃饭这样基本的事情而感到不自在。

作为一名穆斯林女性，我清楚知道斋戒对我的要求。它关乎自律、耐心与谦卑；它不仅是控制饥饿，更是控制自我、情绪与评判。

而这份修行的一部分，正是理解：我的斋戒，只属于我自己。

我不应将它强加于他人。

如果说有什么改变，那应该是让我更具同理心，而不是更苛求他人。

那晚与老同学的相聚，让我再次意识到，我们成长过程中所珍视的价值，其实并不复杂。

我们懂得在不多想的情况下彼此尊重；
我们明白，善意可以是安静的；
我们知道，共处并不需要彼此相同。

今年，农历新年与斋戒月的重叠，仿佛带有某种象征意义。一个充满庆祝与丰盛，另一个强调反思与克制。

然而，当我们围坐在同一张桌子前——一起开斋、一起欢笑、一起回忆、一起思考——我意识到，这两个节日其实都扎根于相同的价值。

感恩。
尊重。
社群。

或许，问题并不在于这些价值是否仍然存在。

而是在于，我们是否还选择去实践它们。

因为，如果七位来自不同背景、不同信仰的老同学，仍然可以坐在一起，彼此尊重、彼此包容，还能像从前一样开怀大笑……

那么，我们记忆中的那个马来西亚，其实并没有消失。

它一直都在。

只是等待我们，重新走回去。

瑟丽娜《什么时候，连吃东西都变成一种冒犯？》原文：When did eating become offensive?
 
Fasting, for many people, sounds like deprivation.

No food. No drink. Long hours. Discipline.

But for those of us who grew up fasting in Malaysia, especially as schoolchildren, Ramadan was never just about what we could not do. It was about everything that happened around it — the laughter, the friendships, and the quiet ways people showed respect for one another.

I grew up at Convent Green Lane, an all-girls school where diversity was not something we analysed — it was simply how we lived.
And when Ramadan came, something subtle would shift.
The canteen was still open. Life carried on as usual. Our non-Muslim friends ate, drank, laughed, and complained about homework like any other day.

And that was perfectly okay.

This is something I feel strongly about, especially today: non-Muslims should never feel uncomfortable eating or drinking in front of Muslims who are fasting. That is not what Ramadan asks of others. Fasting is an act of personal discipline, not a public imposition.
Back in school, we understood this instinctively.

Some friends would continue eating as normal, chatting away while we sat with them. Others, out of kindness, would be a little more discreet. And then there were those who, quite dramatically, would decide, “Today I fast with you.”
At an all-girls school, this came with its own flair.

By recess, someone would be leaning against the wall, declaring, “I regret my decision.” Another would stare longingly at the canteen, whispering, “Why the curry puff smell so strong today?”
And then came the negotiations.

“Water can or not?”
“No.”
“Just a bit?”
“No.”
“Okay… I try until 12pm.”

We would laugh, encourage them, and if they “broke fast” early, we would simply say, “Never mind, tomorrow try again.”
No judgment. No pressure.
Just friendship.

What mattered was not whether they completed the fast. It was that they wanted to understand. And just as importantly, those who did not fast were never made to feel like they had to change their behaviour for us.

We sat together. We talked. Life continued.

That, to me, was respect in its most natural form.

Recently, I was reminded of those school days. A few of us from Convent Green Lane — seven in total — managed to gather for a small reunion. It was meant to be a Chinese New Year catch-up, but because it was Ramadan, it became something else.

An iftar.

There I was, the only Malay in the group, alongside one of my Chinese friends who had converted to Islam after marrying a Muslim. The rest of our friends — still very much themselves, still as loud and funny as ever — gathered around the table, waiting with us.

It was a simple meal. No grand setting. No formalities.

But when maghrib came, something beautiful happened. Everyone paused.

Dates were passed around. Water glasses were lifted. And even those who were not fasting joined in that quiet moment of stillness, out of respect.

Then, almost immediately after, the noise returned.

Stories, laughter, old school memories. Who sat where in class. Who got into trouble. Who used to copy homework from whom.
At one point, someone said, “Eh, remember last time we tried fasting with you?”

And just like that, we were back in Convent Green Lane — teenagers again, negotiating with thirst and willpower. 

But the conversation took a more serious turn.

One of my friends shared a recent experience at her workplace. A colleague of hers — a non-Muslim — had been criticised for eating in the office pantry during Ramadan. Not loudly. Not disrespectfully. Just quietly having her meal.

And yet, she was condemned.

We all paused.

Because that was not the Malaysia we remembered.

That was not how we grew up.

Back then, respect was mutual and intuitive. Muslims fasted because it was our responsibility. Non-Muslims lived their lives normally, without fear of offending us simply by eating.

We did not expect the world to pause for us.

And we certainly did not want our friends to feel uncomfortable for doing something as basic as having a meal.
As a Muslim woman, I know what fasting requires of me. It is about discipline, patience, humility. It is about controlling not just hunger, but also ego, anger, and judgment.

And part of that discipline is this: understanding that my fast is mine.

It is not for me to impose on others.

If anything, Ramadan should make me more empathetic — not more demanding.

That evening with my school friends reminded me that the values we grew up with were never complicated.

We knew how to respect each other without overthinking it.
We knew that kindness could be quiet.
We knew that sharing space did not require sameness.

Chinese New Year and Ramadan overlapped this year in a way that felt almost symbolic. One filled with celebration and abundance, the other with reflection and restraint.

And yet, sitting around that table — breaking fast together, laughing about the past, reflecting on the present — I realised that both seasons are anchored in the same values.

Gratitude.
Respect.
Community.

Maybe the question is not whether those values still exist.
Maybe the question is whether we are still choosing to live them.

Because if seven school friends — from different backgrounds, different beliefs — can sit together, honour each other’s practices, and still laugh like nothing has changed…

Then perhaps the Malaysia we remember is not lost.

It is still there.

Waiting for us to return to it.

本文观点，不代表《东方日报》立场。