This story is about a M’sian woman who left her sleepy small-town campus for city life in KL, only to discover that survival there came with hunger, exhaustion, and the quiet kindness of strangers.
When I got my acceptance letter into university, I thought I was about to enter the best chapter of my life. Like many small-town kids, I pictured myself in a city campus where life only began after sunset, picturing crowded mamaks, 24-hour kopitiams, friends cramming assignments at Starbucks while pretending to study.
Instead, I was sent to Merbok, Kedah.
Merbok, the Town That Slept by 9PM
Merbok wasn’t a city. It wasn’t even a bustling town. It was… quiet. Too quiet. By 9pm, the shops closed, the roads emptied, and it felt like the whole place collectively went to sleep. The loudest sounds at night were crickets, the occasional gecko on the wall, and sometimes the whir of my old fan trying its best to cool down my small rented room.
At first, I hated it. I felt like life was happening elsewhere, while I was stuck in a sleepy town. But Merbok taught me something valuable. It taught me how to survive on very little.
Living there was affordable. With my PTPTN, I could eat decently without much worry. RM5 nasi campur with two lauk, RM7 if I felt like adding ayam goreng. Sometimes, I could even afford a cold Milo ais and still have enough leftover to last the week. Life was boring, but it was manageable.
What Merbok lacked in excitement, it made up for in affordability. And in that sense, I was surviving just fine.
The Big Shift: KL Branch
Halfway through my studies, I was transferred to the KL branch. At the time, I was thrilled. Finally, the city life I had always dreamed about. No more quiet streets, no more pasar malam being the highlight of the week. I thought, This is it. Now my uni life can really begin.
But what I didn’t expect was how brutal KL could be when you’re broke.
The same PTPTN allowance that kept me comfortable in Kedah felt like a cruel joke in KL. Meals that used to cost RM6 now easily went up to RM10 or more. Even chap fan, which I thought would be my budget savior, drained my wallet faster. Imagine this – RM9 for rice, two veggies, and one meat, and the portion was half the size of what I used to get in Merbok.
At first, I brushed it off, thinking I just needed to “adjust.” But the reality sank in fast. KL wasn’t forgiving. If you didn’t have extra income, you sank and I sank deep.
Nights of Biskut Kering
One particular week still sticks in my memory. I had less than RM20 left in my account, with three days to go before my next allowance came in. In Merbok, RM20 would have been enough to survive. In KL, it was barely enough for two proper meals.
So there I was, sitting in my rented room with nothing but a packet of biskut kering. I dipped it into warm water to soften it before eating, pretending it was something more than what it was. That was my dinner.
I wasn’t from a B40 family. I came from M40 – a category that sounds “comfortable” on paper but in reality means being stuck in between. Not poor enough for zakat, scholarships, or sponsorships. Not rich enough for my parents to hand me extra pocket money. I had PTPTN, and that was it.
That in-betweenness was its own kind of punishment. Because while I was eating biscuits for dinner, I saw other students living almost lavishly. Some had multiple sources of financial aid, some had zakat, and others simply had family money. I’d watch them casually buying new iPhones or eating out at cafés every week, while I was counting coins at the bottom of my pencil case just to afford a meal.
Odd Jobs & Exhaustion
To survive, I worked odd jobs. I waited tables at restaurants, picked up shifts at events, and even helped at a printing shop near campus. It wasn’t glamorous at all.
There were days I’d come back past midnight after a long shift, exhausted, smelling like fried oil and sweat. I’d collapse onto my bed, only to wake up a few hours later for an 8am lecture. Sometimes I’d sit in class half-asleep, praying the lecturer wouldn’t call my name.
It felt like I was living a double life – student by day, tired worker by night. I didn’t have the luxury of “just focusing on my studies” the way some of my peers did. Survival required me to work. And work drained me to the point I could barely focus on studying.
But I didn’t have a choice.
Quiet Kindness
Sometimes, though, kindness found me.
There was a makcik kantin who noticed me loitering near her stall a few times without buying anything. One day, she simply slid a plate of rice and lauk towards me and said, “Makanlah, tak apa.”
I’ll never forget that moment. The mixture of shame and gratitude sat heavy in my chest. To be pitied wasn’t something I wanted. However, to be fed, when you had nothing, was something I couldn’t refuse.
Those small acts of kindness carried me through the worst of it.
Falling Through the Cracks
The hardest part of that period wasn’t just the hunger or the exhaustion. It was the unfairness.
Being in M40 meant falling through the cracks. On paper, we were “comfortable,” but in reality, I was dipping dry biscuits in warm water just to fill my stomach. Meanwhile, some B40 students, flush with aid and zakat, were living like kings – splurging on gadgets, eating out, and buying things I couldn’t dream of affording.
It made me wonder if the system really saw us for who we were, or just the boxes we ticked on a form.
What I Carry With Me Now
Fast forward to today, I’m working full-time. Those days of scraping coins, juggling jobs, and eating biskut kering are behind me.
But they shaped me. They taught me resilience, resourcefulness, and humility. They taught me how to endure hunger, yes – but also how to appreciate the smallest kindness, like a plate of rice from a canteen auntie who saw my struggle.
And yet, I don’t see my story as unique. I know so many other students went through the same thing. Maybe some are still going through it right now. Which is why I hope the way we approve financial aid changes – not just based on neat categories like B40, M40, T20, but on the broader picture of who actually needs help.
Because surviving on biscuits isn’t something a student should have to go through.
Merbok taught me how to live simply. KL taught me how to struggle. And somewhere in between, I learned that surviving isn’t the same as living.
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