Chapter 26: Lina — “Eighteen and Elsewhere”
Intro
Eighteen is a strange age. You’re old enough to sign your own forms but still feel like you need permission to breathe. You start getting called “adult” while still Googling how taxes work. You think you know who you are until the city tells you otherwise. Every week, something new explodes inside you: excitement, dread, shame, wonder. Everything feels urgent. Everything is confusing. It’s an age of stark contradictions, where the line between childhood naivety and adult responsibility blurs, making every decision feel monumental and every mistake a profound lesson in humility.
In the Klang Valley, that confusion multiplies, compounded by the sheer pace and diversity of urban life. It’s a place that tests your values before you’ve even named them. Here, being religious isn’t protection. Being polite isn’t safety. Even being smart doesn’t guarantee anything. The city doesn’t care where you came from, but it also never lets you forget it. Some students come here to party. Some vanish into NGO work. Some sit cross-legged at religious circles every Thursday night, eyes closed, whispering ayat after ayat into the noise. Others drift, perform, rebel, retreat. No matter one’s background pious or non-pious, poor or rich everyone faces their own set of trials. You say you don’t want to be a hypocrite. But what does that even mean? Is it hypocrisy to be polite to people you don’t like? Is it wrong to wear a tudung on campus but take it off on Instagram? Is it fake to be “nice” when you’re breaking down inside? At eighteen, you're not wicked. You're just young. Dumb. Curious. And sometimes you make mistakes that teach you exactly how naive you were, forcing you to confront what it truly means to navigate an unscripted life.
Part 1: Landing Without Instructions
Lina's arrival in Subang Jaya smelled like concrete and stale air-conditioning. The monorail had hissed its way to the USJ station twenty minutes late, and she had barely figured out how to reload her Touch 'n Go card using a kiosk that scolded her in four languages. The city had rules—unspoken ones—and she was already breaking most of them. Leaving Mukah behind, a place defined by its rivers, sago ovens, and community, Lina, a Kenyah from Kampung Narub, near Dalat, whose father was a pepper farmer and mother sold kuih, stepped into a world vastly different from her B40 family's humble beginnings.
She stood now under the looming facade of SEGi College Subang Jaya, a twelve-storey stack of glass and steel wedged between the 3K Sports Complex and an ocean of car horns. The building shimmered in the morning heat like it had something to prove. Boasting over 200,000 sq ft of learning spaces, including broadcasting, photography, and videography studios perfect for her Mass Communication track, the campus was impressive, yet overwhelming. Her plastic folder, pinched tightly under one arm, was already damp with sweat. Inside: photocopies of her SPM results, her acceptance letter, and her mother’s last-minute bank transfer receipt. RM750. All they could manage.
The registration counter on Level 2 smelled like printer toner and impatience. A boy with bleached hair was arguing with his mother in Mandarin. A girl in a tudung was crying silently while texting. Lina shifted her weight. Her turn.
“You’re enrolling in Foundation in Arts?” the admin assistant asked without looking up.
“Yes, mass comm track,” Lina said, clearing her throat.
Tap-tap. Click. Pause.
“No PTPTN for foundation, you know that?”
Lina blinked. “Sorry?”
The woman turned the monitor toward her. “You need to pay the registration fee first. RM1,200. If not, we can’t activate your student portal.” Lina’s throat tightened. “I thought—” “Only diploma and degree.” Silence stretched. Then: “You can do monthly installments. Go to Student Finance, Level 3.”
It wasn’t rude. It was routine. She wasn’t special here. She found the finance office by following a trail of lost-looking teenagers and tensed-up parents. The staff behind the glass walls spoke in quiet, clipped tones. Lina explained her situation. The officer nodded, handed her a form. SEGi offered a Foundation Scholarship Scheme (F.S.S) for Foundation in Arts students, allowing them to spread tuition fees over 12 months at a fixed rate of RM 360 per month, which would later be credited towards her chosen degree. However, an upfront payment was still required.
Installments. RM400 now. Another RM400 next month. RM400 again. No late payments.
“Working student?”
Lina nodded. “Weekend job. I’ll find one.”
The officer barely blinked. “Good. You’ll need it.”
Freshers’ Week came like a flood. SPARK workshop. Library system briefings. Campus tour led by a senior who looked like he belonged on a Netflix poster. Everyone spoke fast. Everyone looked ready. Everyone had opinions about the mamak stalls around the corner. The Freshers’ Fair in the student lounge on Level 6, one of SEGi's on-site amenities, was a blur of booths: Theatre Club, Broadcast Society, Model United Nations, E-Sports, Social Entrepreneurship Circle. Lina signed her name on six lists without really knowing why, diving into the vibrant campus life with its over 50 clubs and societies and 500 annual events.
Someone asked where she was from.
“Mukah.”
They tilted their head. “Where?”
“Sarawak.”
Pause. “Ohhh! Orang Ulu?”
“Kenyah.”
They lit up. “Say something in your language!” Lina smiled tightly. She wanted to disappear, a private person thrust into the spotlight due to her unique roots.
Saturday, she met Danny, who was attending Cabin Crew Cadet training with MAS, and Alin, who was studying at UniKL MIAT. They gathered in front of the iconic KLCC Twin Towers, snapping a selfie to mark their reunion. The fountain was loud. The sunlight bounced off everything. Knowing KLCC didn't have a McDonald's, they decided to take the covered walkway from the KLCC Convention Centre, a 30-40 minute stroll, to Bukit Bintang. Along the way, they caught up, shared stories of their new lives, and discussed the challenges of adapting to the city.
Once in Bukit Bintang, they sought out a famous shawarma place, settling into its bustling atmosphere. While waiting for their food, they initiated a video call, bringing Ruqayyah, currently undergoing pilot cadet training in Singapore, and Idris, at CFS Gambang, into their circle. They had bonded previously during a holiday job at KFC Mukah, where they shared their aviation dreams.
They talked about assignments. Cursed food prices. Danny pulled out a budget spreadsheet that looked more detailed than their syllabus.
Lina said nothing for a while. Then: “I almost didn’t register.”
They looked at her.
“Fees. My mom borrowed from her boss. I’ll be working weekends.”
Danny whistled. “We can start a band. I’ll sing. Ruqayyah plays triangle.”
“I do not play triangle,” she deadpanned from her end of the call.
Lina smiled. Then laughed. For now, it was enough.
Part 2: The Class Code
Summary: Lina thrives in her Intercultural Communication class at first, but the constant pressure to perform begins to drain her. Her creativity—once a joy—starts to feel like an obligation. She stays back during break, facing burnout alone.
“…so when people ask me what culture is, I always say it’s not what’s in the textbooks. It’s how long you wait before picking up your fork. It’s whether you knock before entering someone’s house, or if you just shout ‘Oi!’ from the gate.”
Lina stopped speaking. The lecture hall was quiet — not stunned quiet, but thoughtful. The lecturer, a woman in a flowy batik shawl who called herself Miss Jay, smiled as she adjusted her glasses.
“Well said. You’ve just summed up the unspoken rules of culture. Anyone want to build on Lina’s point?”
A boy in the third row started mumbling something about cultural sensitivity in online gaming, and the attention shifted. Lina sat down, quietly exhaling. Her hands were slightly sweaty. She hadn’t planned on speaking that day. Miss Jay had opened the floor with a question: “What is culture to you?” Everyone had hesitated. She had spoken. And now people were looking at her differently. Her natural talent for storytelling and voice, cultivated since her days at SMK Three Rivers, shone through.
By the second week of class, she had been asked to voice over a social studies video project, to emcee an online webinar for Communication Theory, and to help with captions for a debate team’s Instagram post.
“You’re good at this,” said Arjun, her desk partner. “Like… media just fits you.” She smiled but said nothing. That night, she opened her laptop to record the voice-over draft. The lines were badly written, full of jargon and clichés. She rewrote them. Then rewrote them again. At 11:43 p.m., she played her own voice back. She hated it. The joy she once found in creating, in being the scriptwriter and narrator for projects like the Pustaka Miri Short Video Contest, now felt like a heavy burden.
Miss Jay introduced their midterm project the following week: a three-minute short video on miscommunication across cultures. “Be funny, be personal, be real,” she said. “Don’t just Google stereotypes and call it research.” Lina wanted to tell a story about something that had happened to her in Form 4 — a moment when a teacher had confused her Kenyah name with her religion, assuming she was Muslim, and how awkwardly she had laughed it off. But she didn’t. Her group decided to do a basic skit about slang misunderstandings. It was safe. Easy. Forgettable. She didn’t push back.
During breaks, classmates now turned to her with expectation. “You can MC the closing, right?” “Write the caption?” “Edit this?” Her name was floating now — attached to “creative,” “voice,” “comms.” She tried to keep smiling. Tried to stay helpful. But when she opened her script file that weekend, the page stayed blank for over an hour. She wrote a single sentence: “We live in the space between what we say and what we mean.” Then she deleted it.
When the semester break arrived, the group chat buzzed with updates. “Back to Kota Bharu!” “Balik Sabah!” “Can’t wait to makan at home!” “Penang road trip!” Lina typed: “Staying in Klang. Got backlog to clear. Enjoy your breaks, guys!” No one asked why. The hostel kitchen was quiet that week. She reheated instant porridge and sat by the window, watching pigeons hop across the ledge. Her laptop was open. Her assignment tab was blinking. She watched it blink. Then she closed the screen. Outside, somewhere down the hall, someone played music on their phone — too loud, too cheerful. Lina lay back on the bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, her voice echoing in her head from that first day in class. It’s how long you wait before picking up your fork. She didn’t feel like eating anything at all.
Part 3: Work, Wires, and Wings
Summary: Lina stays in Klang Valley during break, juggling part-time modelling, NGO work, and language apps. Through quiet effort and small wins, she begins reshaping her identity—less curated, more grounded.
The photo studio smelled like burnt ring lights and foundation powder. Lina stood near a white backdrop, wearing a loose beige blouse she didn’t choose and makeup that made her look shinier than she felt. The photographer’s assistant adjusted the reflector again. The stylist told her, “More chin up. Smile, but soft. You have that exotic look—don’t waste it.” She smiled. Soft. Click. Flash. Click. It wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t her. Two hours later, she walked out with RM180 in a brown envelope. The pay wasn’t bad. Better than minimum wage. Enough to buy groceries and settle her hostel Wi-Fi fee for the month. Still, on the train ride back, she rubbed her face until the foundation came off on her fingers. This part-time modeling was a necessary hustle, a way to ensure she could keep up with her monthly installments for the Foundation in Arts program.
The NGO workshop came unexpectedly. SEGi’s Creative Society posted a last-minute invite for volunteers — storytelling for refugee teens, hosted by a partner org in Puchong. Lina clicked “Interested” without thinking. When the time came, she almost didn’t go. The classroom was cramped, humid, and full of nervous energy. The teens, mostly Rohingya and Afghan kids between 12 and 16, sat in mismatched chairs with old composition books. Lina was paired with a 14-year-old named Sarah who barely spoke above a whisper.
“We’re writing a poem,” Lina said gently. “About anything. You can write in Malay. Or English. Or mix.” Sarah looked at her. Then nodded. They worked in slow bursts. One line. Then silence. Then another. An hour passed. By the end, Sarah stood in front of the room and read:
“I don’t know where I came from,
but I remember my mother’s cooking.
I don’t know what comes next,
but I remember how to listen.”
Lina clapped the loudest. In that moment, the quiet power of shared storytelling, something deeply ingrained in her Kenyah heritage, felt more authentic than any stage performance.
She downloaded Duolingo at midnight. Part out of boredom. Part out of guilt. Mandarin. She only knew a few words — mostly food names and hostel slang. But now she pushed through lessons while brushing her teeth or waiting for nasi lemak at the mamak downstairs. 你好。你好吗？(Wǒ hěn hǎo.) It gave her a rhythm. A reason to wake up. She added English idioms too — not because she didn’t know them, but because she wanted to know how they translated. Sometimes, she rewrote them in Kenyah, just to see if they still made sense.
The semester ended with less fanfare than she’d imagined. No group photos. No farewell party. Just final uploads to SPARK, a few late-night goodbyes on Discord, and a quiet evening walk through the SEGi corridors. On the student lounge couch, someone had left a broken headset. She fixed the wire with tape, left it on the table. Outside, the sky was clouded. Rain threatened but didn’t fall. Lina stood at the building’s edge, looking down at the traffic. The cars moved like ants. Lights blinked red, yellow, green — a system working, despite the noise. She adjusted her tote bag and whispered to no one in particular, “Okay. Let’s see what’s next.” She wasn’t polished. But she was still here. Her foundation year, though challenging, had been a crucial step towards her dream of becoming a mass communication or aviation journalist.
Footnote
Foundation in Mass Communication programs at private universities in Malaysia often share several characteristics. Unlike some diploma or degree programs, many foundation courses, including those for Mass Communication, typically do not qualify for PTPTN (National Higher Education Fund Corporation) loans. This often necessitates students to explore alternative payment structures, such as monthly installment plans offered directly by the institutions, or to secure private funding.
While Mass Communication may appear as a less expensive field on paper compared to, say, engineering or medicine, it can entail significant hidden expenses. Students often need to invest in a better laptop for video and photo editing, specialized software, and potentially equipment for practical projects. Participation in competitions, organizing events, or even transportation for fieldwork can add to the financial burden.
In terms of facilities, private universities vary widely. Some institutions might boast state-of-the-art broadcasting studios, soundproofed music labs, or advanced photography equipment, as seen at SEGi Subang Jaya with its culinary arts labs, music studios, and broadcasting studios. However, access to these premium facilities might be limited, or the overall tuition fees could be substantially higher. Students often need to weigh the benefits of advanced facilities against the overall cost and accessibility for their specific needs. Ultimately, the choice of institution often comes down to a balance between academic offerings, financial feasibility, and the practical resources available to support the demands of a communication-intensive course.
