Malaysian Airlines Flight 94(Zoya Gesina) Malaysia Airlines Flight 94.

Tall palm trees lined the highway on either side as it spanned the entire length of the Malaysian Peninsula, from the Singaporean border at the south to the Thailand border at the north. The cool temperature inside my father-in-law’s air-conditioned Nissan Serena belied the steamy reality outside. The mercury was climbing relentlessly into the mid-nineties Fahrenheit, or mid-thirties Celsius. The date was August 28, 2007, three days before Malaysia’s fiftieth Independence anniversary, and national flags, resembling those of the United States, were being flown everywhere. The entire nation was preparing to celebrate. There was an atmosphere of sadness, rather than celebration, in the minivan; however, as the road sign indicated that we were approaching our destination, the Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Not only was our four-hour drive coming to an end, but also my husband’s and my three-month stay in his native country.

A beautiful, modern-looking building appeared in the distance, under the blue-white azure of the sky. KLIA, as it is known locally, had been built in 1998. We proceeded into the International Departures terminal. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon, some two-and-a half hours before our plane was scheduled to take off. The roof of the building was light brown in color, and resembled the canopy of the trees in a jungle. The idea behind the airport’s design was reflected in the slogan “An airport in the jungle, a jungle in the airport”. The terminal was amazingly quiet, and one could hardly hear the planes taking off outside. Travelers from all over the world were exploring the numerous shops and performing their prayers in the specially designated rooms. There was no feeling of rush, unlike other airports we had been to, such as the O’Hare International in Chicago.

Several members of my husband’s large, tight-knit family were seeing us off. There were my in-laws, his maternal grandmother, two aunts, and one uncle. My father-in-law escorted us to the Malaysian Airlines ticket counter to check in for our flight, while scanning the terminal somewhat nervously for my brothers-in-law, who had promised to come and say goodbye. My husband is the third of four children, and the youngest son. His younger sister, a student at the Sultan Idris University of Education, had classes that day, and could not come. At last, my brothers-in-law walked into the terminal. The oldest, a phlegmatic, introverted shopkeeper, was leading the group, while his beautiful five-year-old daughter skipped alongside him. His wife, a schoolteacher, was carrying their ten-month-old baby girl. My middle brother-in-law, a gregarious computer specialist working for the IBM, was accompanied by his wife, also a computer specialist, and their two children, an inquisitive, precocious five-year-old daughter and a cute, slightly built three-year-old son.
My oldest brother-in-law had brought along some photos for us to take home. I perused them, laughing at the pleasant memories they evoked. There were two pictures from our recent trip to the IKEA store in Kuala Lumpur, the largest branch in Asia. On one of them, my husband was holding his baby niece in a small, transparent white plastic crate that his brother had purchased. She was sitting up, with her head and shoulders out of the crate, looking very interested in what was happening around her and exploring the world with her tiny black eyes. All the shoppers would look at her, laugh, and comment on how cute she was. On another photo, the two of us were posing behind our nieces on a floor sample bed.

My husband, in the meantime, was capturing our last hours in Malaysia with his SLR camera, which he tends to carry everywhere he goes, being an amateur photographer. These images are still fresh in my mind, nearly two years later. There was one of his nieces, running around the terminal, wearing the denim jumper we had bought for her, and a red shirt. There was the baby, first held by her grandfather, then by one of the grandaunts. There were images of my mother-in-law and the aunts, three sisters, all amazing women.

Absorbed in my thoughts, I had not noticed how the time had passed. Our flight, number 94, was called. My father-in-law suggested that we start saying good-bye to everyone. We would not be seeing them for the next two years or so. The United States, where we were pursuing our degrees, seemed like another planet. The most difficult, the most painful part of saying goodbye was that to my mother-in-law, as she had become a second mother to me. A strong person, she had been fighting back tears for hours, if not days, and at that moment, she finally allowed herself to cry. I joined in as well, as it was unbearable to watch. My husband’s grandmother, the strongest woman I have ever known, also wept, to my shock. The little ones were somewhat young to fully comprehend just how far away we were departing. I told one of the older nieces that I was going far, far away, and all I got was: “Okay!” I might have laughed, had it not been so sad. The poor innocent child thought I was going no farther away than her grandparents’ village, or some other short distance. I embraced my husband’s aunts, two beautiful, wonderful middle-aged women. As I said good-bye to his uncle, I tried to make light of the situation by joking that the scene resembled that from a Bollywood film. He laughed, and told me it was all right to cry. Finally, I touched my forehead to my father-in-law’s right hand, a custom of respect among some Asian peoples, including Malays. My husband followed suit, and rushed to board the plane. Watching his mother and grandmother cry was as painful for him as it was for me.

The relatives walked us to the escalator. They would not be allowed beyond that point. We posed for one last picture, taken by my husband’s friend, an engineer working at KLIA. Pulling and pushing our carry-on luggage, we waved for one last time, and proceeded toward the escalator, running into another student from the University of Minnesota, which both of us attended. She was saying good-bye to her own family, with her little sister crying miserably. Having reached the lower level, we boarded the Aerotrain, the airport shuttle that would take us to the satellite terminal, where our gate was located.
The guard at the gate took one look at my blue passport and my ticket, and asked:
“Going home?”
“Yes”---I said. “I got married in Malaysia, and now, we are going back.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. My husband is right over there”---I pointed behind me.
“Oh, a Malaysian?”—The guard seemed pleasantly surprised.

I looked out the window. The weather had changed drastically since our arrival at the airport. The brilliant tropical sun was completely screened by thick, gray-black clouds. The sky accurately reflected our emotions at the moment. My eyes were still red from crying, but I tried to be cheerful, as I chatted with a Canadian woman who was returning home after teaching English in Indonesia for seven months. The line to board our plane had stretched across the small waiting room. Our Boeing 747-400 was fully booked that day. We walked through the gate, entering the plane, and looked for our seats. As usual, we found ourselves right by the wing.

The plane slowly pulled away from the gate and taxied onto the long runway. We settled in for a four-hour flight to Taipei, where we would refuel for a twelve-hour haul to Los Angeles. The engines began to rotate more and more rapidly, the noise rising from somewhat audible to a deafening, high-pitched roar. The plane moved relentlessly forward and, at last, broke away from the ground. Within minutes, we could no longer see anything besides the South China Sea and the clouds. I knew we had cleared Malaysia’s airspace. Good-bye, the country I had grown to love in the three months I had been staying there. Good-bye, year-round heat and friendly people. Good-bye, my new family…

Epilogue.
That day, I could never have imagined that this would be the last time I was seeing my father-in-law, despite his ill health. The man who had become like the father I never had, passed away on March 16, 2009, two months before our next planned visit to Malaysia. Only hours earlier, he had spoken on the phone to my husband, finding out the good news of his third son’s acceptance into the PhD program. He was a happy, proud father. My husband never heard his voice again. My father-in-law died with a smile on his lips, rejoicing at his children’s accomplishments. His oldest two sons were settled down and married with children. My middle brother-in-law was blessed with a third child, this time a little girl, in addition to his son and daughter, in December 2008, three months before her grandfather’s death. My husband had gone further than his two brothers in education, and was looking forward to starting his PhD program. My sister-in-law was engaged to a man she loved and her wedding date was set for May 2009. My father-in-law had accomplished all his goals, and all his dreams had come true, except giving his only daughter away in marriage and seeing grandchildren from his youngest two children. His passing caused unspeakable grief to his wife of thirty-six years, his sons and daughter in Malaysia, and my husband and me, who were too far away to see him off on his final journey.

Every night turns to a day, and every day gives way to a night. Everyone who is living must die one day. Ayah (Malay word for father) will remain alive in our memories. I am honored to have been his daughter-in-law, and having had his presence at our wedding in Malaysia. I am also glad I agreed to follow Malay wedding customs, as this pleased him. That way, he felt that he had done his duty in giving his son a ceremony worthy of praise. He was a respected man in his village, at work with Malaysia airlines, and in his loving family, and so he shall remain for as long as we are alive, Allah willing.

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