I stepped off the plane with my new flight bag in hand. Trailing behind my older sister and mother, I’d expected to be greeted by the overwhelming heat of the climate people had warned me about but instead, we stepped straight into a cool tunnel. The heat had been blasted out by the strong air conditioning. From trains swiftly transporting passengers from gate to gate to the flurry of cleaners furiously scrubbing the floors, it was clear that this was a bid to prove to new arrivals that Malaysia is a modern and desirable place to stay.

I wasn’t here to experience another slick airport. I was here to experience the real Malaysia, the home of my ancestors. The moment I stepped out of the airport and truly felt Malaysia on my skin was the moment I felt at home.

The humid air embraced me like the welcoming hug I’d craved for when I first stepped off the plane. I may have had to wait a little longer than expected for this moment, but a walk through passport control in the sterile airport was nothing compared to the decade I had to wait to travel to my ancestral home.

Taxi drivers swarmed around us, bidding for our western currency until one man agreed to use a taxi metre rather than bespoke prices for us ‘foreigners.’

That was it. The moment I realised that I was a foreigner in both the UK and in Malaysia.

This started me on my journey to finding home in myself.