In light of recent school bullying cases, IRL received a submission from a Malaysian woman who says her school years were defined not by nostalgia, but by bullying, isolation, and survival.
I was an acne-faced, chubby teenager from the kampung of Kuala Kangsar, Perak, living with relatives in what was then the “big city” of Subang Jaya in 1993. I never fit the image of what “normal” was supposed to be.
People often recall school days with a smile, saying, “Best time of my life.” They talk about school trips, crushes, laughter in the canteen, dreading morning assembly, and exam stress.
Good for them.
For me, such memories are a foreign language. Secondary school wasn’t fun. There is no nostalgia, nothing to smile about. My “tender” high school years were marked by bullying, trauma, and mental anguish.
Daily humiliation
I had a different accent and never felt comfortable in my uniform. I was the kampung girl, new to the city and its ways, unaware of the things everyone else took for granted. That made me the easiest target.
It began with shouted insults — my name twisted into singsong mockery. Other times it was sudden, sharp acts: my bag shoved off the desk, a chair pulled away at the last second. The “little tricks” that drew laughter from everyone but me.
Day after day, they piled on — one small cruelty after another. I learned to expect the slurs and “practical jokes,” bracing myself for the onslaught, always hoping a day might pass without incident. It never did.
Recess was no rest
The loneliest part of my day was recess. There were friend groups, I’d watch enviously, clustered together sharing nasi lemak and roti canai or mee goreng. Maybe sharing a chocolate bar or teh tarik.
I was there with my bekal and water bottle at the far end of the table, hiding behind a textbook, pretending to study or do homework. I still don’t know what I was hoping would happen — hoping they would ignore me, hoping they would befriend me. But I settled on not being bullied, not being victimized, and being ignored.
The truth was, I had no one to sit with. No one wanted me there.
The bullying escalated
The bullying sharpened, grew teeth, and bit a little bit harder every day. My books were shoved onto the floor. Notes calling me names were “accidentally” dropped for me to find and read. Ugly caricatures were sketched for me to “find” on the blackboard. My belongings and books would “disappear” and reappear at the end of the school day.
At home, I locked myself in my room. I tried to drown the daily pain in my head with music and homework. I took up writing and art to silence the mocking laughter that echoed in my head, and in my dreams when asleep. I knew no peace or rest, as the next day would bring more of the same to endure.
The teachers watched
I wish I could say the teachers noticed, stepped in, and protected me. They saw it, ignored it, and left me to suffer. They watched me get pushed and punched. They heard the cruel, cutting remarks that filled classrooms with laughter, yet let it continue. A few times, they laughed with my tormentors.
That silence was tacit approval — that bullying me was just “budak-budak main kasar sikit.”
And that was worse than the bullying itself. It confirmed what I came to believe: the adults didn’t think I was worth protecting. I internalized that hurt, and it festered into rage.
The breaking point
It was Monday, a week before my SPM exams. Someone hid my school bag. Then, someone else threw my bekal in the trash. A third left the usual insulting notes for me to find.
When I reached into the dustbin, I found my pencil case in the trash too.
The classroom exploded in sharp, deliberate, merciless laughter as their pre-exam “tension break.”
The teacher? Said nothing, and coughed out a laugh.
Blinding rage
It was too many things in one day and also one day too many. That day broke me. I remember my fist connecting with the nose of one boy who was standing too close and laughing. Three steps, a blood-covered fist raised, and a girl earned a bruised eye and face.
I got three or four hits on once-laughing faces, now screaming in fear. Some were knocked off their feet, others staggered, but I injured all of them.
Apparently, it took the teacher and two “classmates” to restrain me as I clawed, scratched, punched, kicked, and bit anyone. It was the first time in the history of my Sekolah Menengah Kebangsaan that a female student was suspended for fighting.
A fresh start
I wasn’t expelled because my parents pulled me out before that could happen. I spent a year in therapy and being home-schooled before I was enrolled in another school. I developed a resting bitch face that made people squeeze against the wall when I walked by. My mother says that my eyes echoed a “terrifying inner rage.”
I was infamous and ostracized from the moment I crossed the threshold to repeat my final year. I didn’t care, didn’t make friends. I was polite.
I didn’t raise my hand in class. I just attended class and turned in my homework. No teacher would make prolonged eye contact either.
I stayed out of the canteen entirely. I carried everything, everywhere, all the time. I found a quiet corner behind the surau and would spend recess there, with my snack in throwaway wrapping and a book.
But invisibility isn’t freedom. It’s another kind of prison. You stop existing, even to yourself. By the time I graduated high school, I was carrying bad memories that had warped my perspective of myself, a scorn for “teachers,” and anyone my age.
Zaman sekolah dulu
People say “zaman sekolah dulu” was the best time of their life. They laugh, swap old class photos, and share stories of crushes and funny things. What happened to me wasn’t “just teasing” or harmless fun. It was bullying — systematic, relentless, and cruel — that gifted me emotional trauma, psychological scars, and anger management issues.
But time and therapy give distance, and distance gives clarity. The scars mark my survival.
I am no longer trapped in a classroom. Therapy has helped me release a lot of anger and hate, and feel normal emotions again.
Healing isn’t neat or fast or able to erase what happened. But I have learned to live alongside my scars, not underneath them.
I now have a small circle of friends I can laugh with. I can enjoy the peace of a quiet walk and silence, instead of expecting an ambush.
I still have no patience for pranks or practical jokes.
Silence is dangerous
Silence protects bullies. Silence lets cruelty thrive. Silence leaves broken victims who believe they deserve it.
I can’t rewrite my school days. I will always carry the scars. But remember that your life, your story does not end in those classrooms.
My rage is still there, smouldering. But it pales in the discovery of light places — which are mine, which I chose to find. The moments in my future are mine to make both gentle and joyful. You can too.
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