Rashutherein Maléah - a young man's journey from the margins to the Capital

Photo credit: Zeek Ashraf

Growing up on a small island (which I’d rather not name, since I’m not a very well-liked person in the community) left me with a strong resentment toward tight-knit communities where everyone knows each other, and are, in a way, almost incestuous, since everyone is somehow related to everyone else. That kind of closeness never felt comforting to me; it felt suffocating, like there was no space to just exist without being watched, talked about, or quietly judged. It’s the kind of environment where even the smallest thing you do somehow becomes public knowledge by the end of the day. It’s honestly amusing to me when people romanticise the idea of moving to an island, mostly due to the fact that most people from Malé see living on an island through rose-tinted lenses; who wouldn’t love retreating to a small place full of community without knowing much about the reality they’re choosing to live in amirite? To me it felt like living in a kind of personal hell - slow, repetitive, and impossible to escape, like being stuck in a never-ending loop you didn’t choose. I know I can’t completely dismiss it, since there are people in Malé dealing with their own version of that same suffocation, just in a different form. But alas, each to their own experience. There’d be people on the islands who’d detest life in the city the same way I detest life on the islands, and that is completely OK.

Still, I can’t help but question why anyone would willingly give up the convenience and opportunities right in front of them just because they grew up in the city. Why trade your freedom of expression for a place where you’re constantly under scrutiny, surrounded by people who all know each other? Why put yourself in a position to be judged and gossiped about by a “kanmathee auntie” who’ll inevitably spread (most of the time, misleading) stories about you across the island? It’s not just harmless gossip: it sticks, it shapes how people see you, and sometimes it becomes the version of you that everyone believes, whether it’s true or not. And yeah, this kind of thing happens in Malé too, but it feels way less intense, probably because it’s full of unfamiliar faces who honestly don’t give two shits about whatever you’re doing. It sounds bad, but it can actually feel really freeing when you’ve come from a place where everyone cares a little more than they should.

Photo credit: Zeek Ashraf

Ever since I moved to Malé, I feel like I’ve become way less afraid to express myself. Back on my island, I always felt like a bird in a cage, constantly aware of people watching and judging me, even when I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It wasn’t always direct either; sometimes it was just looks, whispers, or the way conversations would suddenly shift whenever I walked by a certain house or neighbourhood. That’s just how small communities are: everyone knows everyone, and for someone like me, it got really anxiety-inducing over time. Some people deal with it just fine with that “I don’t give a fuck” mindset, which I genuinely do respect, but I couldn’t do that. It’s really hard to ignore the fact that someone might be talking about me in such a disgraceful and untrue manner.

Also, I’ve always used fashion as a way to express myself, and I’ve always leaned toward a more alternative style, but where I’m from, that alone was enough for people to act like I’d committed a sin I could never atone for. It’s crazy how something as simple as the way you dress can make people feel entitled to judge your character. Every outfit felt like something was missing because there was always this pressure to tone it down, to blend in with the normies, to not stand out too much. And when you don’t, people notice, and it’s not in a good way. Since moving to the Male’, that pressure finally feels like it’s off my shoulders. I don’t get weird looks when I go out anymore, and if anyone says anything about how I dress, it’s usually something nice. Even a random compliment from a stranger can feel extremely validating, especially when you’re not used to being seen in a positive way for just being yourself. It’s like a small reminder that maybe there was never anything wrong with me to begin with; I was just in the wrong environment.

It’s also been so much easier to meet people who are actually into the same things as me. Being in a bigger city just means more chances to find people who “match my freak” when it comes to music, fashion, and just the media you consume in general. I met most of my current friends through social media and that web just kept growing larger by the day, meeting people through people, on campus, and it’s really nice to talk about something you’ve hidden about yourself for the longest time with people who actually get you. I love just sitting under a bridge or somewhere while listening to music that no one else really found interesting back in my hometown with a friend who actually likes it and just engaging in deep conversation with them. You’re not limited to the same small circle of people you grew up around anymore, you get to branch out, explore, and find your own kind of community. Back in my island, I always felt like the black sheep, like I didn’t fit in anywhere no matter how hard I tried. Here, it feels different. The connections I’ve made feel more genuine, like they’re based on who I actually am rather than who I’m expected to be.

Photo credit: Author

I also really appreciate how accessible and developed Malé is, even though I know that’s super unfair to smaller islands and very much intentional (but that’s a whole other conversation). But I’m grateful I get to experience that privilege now. Before I moved, anything more serious than a fever basically meant you had to travel to Malé for treatment because most island hospitals don’t have the right doctors or equipment. That alone says a lot about how uneven things are between Malé and small islands. I’ve never had to deal with that personally, but I’ve seen so many friends and relatives go through it, and it’s stressful, expensive, and honestly kind of scary. No one should have to leave their home just to access basic healthcare. What frustrates me even more is how most islands don’t have proper access to therapy, especially when we’re all clearly going through a mental health crisis. It’s honestly upsetting to see young people struggling with no real support or resources, just expected to deal with everything on their own. And realistically, no one is moving to Malé just to see a therapist. 

Malé is also way better when it comes to education, even though places like Villa College and MNU are starting to expand to other islands. Their best resources are unsurprisingly still located in the Malé campus. Schools here also offer way more IGCSE subjects, like art, which I would’ve killed to have studied instead of science when I was doing my O’ levels. On some islands, they even have “combined streams,” where they mix science and business subjects, which basically forces students to study things they might not care about at all. That just adds unnecessary stress, especially for students trying to do well and figure out their future at the same time. No one who wants to go into something like medical engineering should be stuck studying accounting, it just doesn’t make sense. Growing up in Malé is a privilege people take for granted because it’s all they’ve ever known.

Photo credit: Zeek Ashraf

But at the same time, I know that living in Malé isn’t all great either. The economy is horrible. Everyone is broke. And because of that, everyone’s kind of stressed and sad all the time. It’s incredibly difficult to find a stable job that actually pays enough, especially if you have responsibilities beyond just yourself. People don’t want to risk being unemployed, so they just stick with whatever they have, even if it’s barely enough to survive. And on top of that, everything is so expensive that even basic living feels overwhelming. I’m also not a huge fan of how overcrowded Malé is, it’s literally a concrete hell floating in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Like I said earlier, people move here because they don’t have access to proper resources back on their islands, which is completely fair, but it makes the city feel packed, noisy, and sometimes suffocating in its own way. It’s a different kind of suffocation compared to back when I lived on my island, but it’s still there. Space feels limited, and sometimes it feels like the city is struggling to keep up with the number of people depending on it.

Honestly, a lot of these issues could be improved if development was spread out more evenly across the country. If the government put as much effort into developing the islands as they do into Malé, people wouldn’t feel forced to move here just to have access to basic opportunities. Healthcare, education, mental health services. These shouldn’t all be centralized in one place. People should be able to live where they’re from without feeling like they’re sacrificing their future or their wellbeing. It would make things a lot more balanced and take some of the pressure off the city too.

Photo credit: Zeek Ashraf

At the end of the day, I don’t think one lifestyle is completely better than the other, it really depends on the person, because I do get that living in Malé isn’t everyone's cup of tea, and vice versa with living on an island. But personally, moving to Malé gave me something I knew that I was missing for the longest time ever: the freedom to just be myself without constantly feeling watched or judged. And once you experience that kind of freedom, it’s really hard to even imagine wanting to go back to my dear hometown.