F i gh t i ng F i s h J u l i a M e r i c a n
Aisya and I bought Cody the first day we were allowed out of the house, as a symbol of our resilience. We were best friends, two art graduates with good CVs and nice degrees, finding ourselves unemployed and depressingly broke when the pandemic hit. We bought him to cheer ourselves up. He’s a fighting fish, and lives in a bubble-shaped glass bowl in our bathroom. Two weeks after the first RMCO, we drove up to Cameron Highlands for a cuti-cuti Malaysia to get out of our self-pitying funk. Aisya used to go to the highlands all the time, and on our drive up, she talked without stopping about the lush greenery, the strawberry popsicles, the feeling of having momentarily escaped civilisation and returned to a Malaysia that felt simpler, less terrifying somehow. Not quite so fast. When we arrived, the highlands weren’t exactly what Aisya had promised. The air was crisp and cool, and bright red flowers hung on the trees like jewellery, but this portrait of calm was spoilt by the construction buildings spearing their ugly heads through the trees. All around, the buzz of drills and cars pierced the air like a neoliberal scream. It was the gentrifying sound of natural beauty
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