MARCH 9 — It was an ordinary night, the kind where airport announcements blended into the hum of travellers, where goodbyes were hurried and hopeful. Then, just like that, Malaysia Airlines Flight MH370 vanished. A plane full of souls, gone without a trace. What followed was the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t just belong to families but to an entire country.
I was at KLIA shortly after the disappearance, camera in hand, documenting history as it unfolded. You could feel it in the air — the eerie silence that replaced the usual airport bustle. Grief, confusion, and hope clashed like storm clouds. Volunteers handed out water bottles with trembling hands. Strangers became pillars for one another. Journalists hunched over their laptops, churning out updates as their eyes grew red from exhaustion. Everywhere, people were looking for something — answers, survivors, closure.
Malaysia is no stranger to making things disappear. Money, buildings, even whole politicians. But this? This was different. This was a wound we all felt, an unanswered question that gnawed at us, a tragedy that held the world’s gaze.
The world speculated, conspiracies swirled, and the search spanned oceans. — Picture courtesy of Abbi Kanthasamy
Yet, amid the sorrow, something remarkable happened. Malaysians did what Malaysians do best — they stood together. It didn’t matter if you were Malay, Chinese, Indian, or any of the beautiful shades in between. Mosques held special prayers. Temples lit Vilakus and churches lit candles. The kampungs and the cities whispered the same words: May they come home.
The world speculated, conspiracies swirled, and the search spanned oceans. But here in Malaysia, people didn’t care about theories; they cared about families, about the ones left behind. At KLIA, grief counsellors became lifelines. Strangers hugged without hesitation. I saw it through my lens — people holding each other, wiping away tears, waiting together for news that never came.
Of course, Malaysia being Malaysia, even tragedy couldn’t completely suppress its signature absurdity. Enter Raja Bomoh, the self-proclaimed shaman with his coconuts, bamboo binoculars, and mystical carpet, chanting incantations in a desperate (and deeply theatrical) attempt to locate the missing plane. There he stood, at KLIA, waving coconuts over his head like a man determined to single-handedly solve modern aviation mysteries. It was bizarre, it was ridiculous — and in the darkest moments, it made us laugh.
And we needed that laugh. We needed something — anything — to break the tension, to remind us that even in sorrow, we could still be human.
Eleven years have passed. The questions remain. But what I choose to remember is not just the loss, but the unity. How people showed up for one another. How, in a country often divided by politics and race, Malaysia became a single heartbeat in those moments.
I saw it through my lens — people holding each other, wiping away tears, waiting together for news that never came. — Picture courtesy of Abbi Kanthasamy
Tragedy tests nations. MH370 tested Malaysia. And in that test, Malaysians did what they do best — they grieved together, prayed together, and when they needed to, even laughed together.
I was not born here, but I live here. I was an outsider watching through my camera lens, capturing history as it happened. And what I saw was something I will never forget — a nation in mourning, a nation in hope, a nation standing together.
These photographs are my witness to that moment. This is the Malaysia that I shall always remember and love.
* This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.
