Where Were You When

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THERE’S a question that often arises when something big happens — a historic moment, a national milestone, a collective high. It usually begins like this: “Where were you when…?”
Most of the time, it’s not about geography. It’s about memory. About anchoring ourselves to something larger. About remembering not just what happened, but how it made us feel.
For me, one such moment was the night of the 1992 Thomas Cup finals.
Malaysia versus Indonesia. Badminton, of course. It was a Saturday, and I was a 17-year-old schoolboy at the Malay College Kuala Kangsar.
I watched it from the common room of our hostel, surrounded by boys in kain pelikat, clutching pillows, Milo mugs and SPM notes, all eyes fixed on a grainy television screen that struggled to keep up with the speed of the shuttle.
We won. We brought the cup home after 25 years. And for a few beautiful hours, everything else faded—prep class, homesickness, SPM trial stress—replaced by a kind of joy that felt bigger than sport. Bigger than school. Something national, something shared.
That moment, and others like it, become personal chapters in a larger story: the story of how we remember Malaysia.
Another such chapter came in May 2018, when Malaysians went to the polls in what would become one of the most significant general elections in our history.
For the first time, the ruling coalition was changed. Not through force, not through upheaval, but through the quiet, determined power of the vote.
People queued in the heat, some for hours. Some travelled across borders, taking buses and flights home just to mark an X on a ballot. There was tension, yes. But there was also something else: hope.
Hope that this country belonged to its people. That we were no longer just passengers, but co-pilots. That power could change hands peacefully. That we, the rakyat, are the ones responsible in deciding the direction of this country moving forward.
You didn’t need to be in Putrajaya or Dataran Merdeka to feel it. You could have been watching from a living room in Penang, or a mamak in Johor Bahru, or a hostel room in Sarawak.
It didn’t matter where you were; because the moment definitely reached you. That’s what makes these memories powerful. They become shared reference points in the timeline of our lives.
Of course, not every Merdeka memory is tied to politics or spectacle. Sometimes, it’s quieter. A flag being raised in your neighbourhood. A conversation over teh tarik about what independence really means.
A late-night drive on empty roads, with patriotic songs playing softly on the radio. These small moments matter too.
Because nationhood is built not just on events, but on experience. It’s not just the milestones we remember; it’s the way they made us feel connected. Even when we were far apart.
And that’s the thread I keep coming back to: our shared experiences.
You and I may have grown up in different towns, spoken different dialects, attended different schools. But the moment the Sidek brothers stepped onto the court, or when the results rolled in after GE14; we were there, in spirit, together.
And yet, these memories, whether personal or collective, are slowly fading.
We live in a time of fast timelines and short attention spans. Moments come and go, swallowed by algorithm and speed.
The things that once glued us together are being replaced by smaller, more personalised stories. Of course they are important, yes, but they are also often disconnected from the whole.
That’s why I believe now, more than ever, we need to start recording our stories. Not for history books, but for each other. For the generations who didn’t grow up with the Thomas Cup, or the Reformasi years, or who never saw a transfer of power that felt truly earned.
It doesn’t have to be big. Just honest. Write about where you were when something mattered. Tell your children what Merdeka meant to your parents. Share with a friend that memory you’ve always carried but never voiced.
Because if we don’t pass these stories on, who will? So this Merdeka, ask someone: “Where were you when…?” and listen carefully. Then share your own.
Memory, like nationhood, lives best when it is passed from hand to hand. 
Ir Dr Nahrizul Adib Kadri is a professor of biomedical engineering at the Faculty of Engineering, and the Principal of Ibnu Sina Residential College, Universiti Malaya.
The views expressed are solely of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of  MMKtT.
- Focus Malaysia.

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