by Dr Rahim Said
We all have our old-school groups. The ones you grew up with, shared nasi lemak at recess, did homework with, played soccer in the fields, and swore lifelong brotherhood with before MCE arrived like a tidal wave.
I belong to two such groups from my school days in Kedah. One is made up of old boys who stayed put in rural Kedah, most retired, living simple, predictable lives, anchored to the rhythm of padi harvests and kampung gossip.
The other group lives in Kuala Lumpur, equally retired, but city-bred, plugged into urban trends, weekend brunches, Spotify playlists, and European holidays.
We all grew up together — but today, we couldn’t be more different in the way we think, live, and even talk. Somewhere between Form 5 and retirement, the river forked.
Why did this happen?
The Rural-Urban Split Is a Global Story
It turns out, what happened to my schoolmates isn’t unique. Sociologists like Everett Lee have long explained that people migrate because of “push and pull” factors.
Rural areas like Kedah may have limited job opportunities and educational resources, while cities like Kuala Lumpur offer brighter lights, bigger paycheques, and more choices.
Those who left had to adapt to a fast-paced, cosmopolitan lifestyle. They picked up new habits, values, and perspectives. City life has a way of remoulding you — whether you like it or not.
Meanwhile, those who stayed behind found contentment in the familiar. They built their lives around old social circles, local customs, and the trusted certainties of kampung life. Their values remain rooted in tradition and community.
Cosmopolitan vs Kampung Mindset
Urban folk tend to become more individualistic, achievement-driven, and open to new ideas. They adopt what social scientists call cosmopolitan values — tolerance, diversity, and global awareness.
Those in rural areas, meanwhile, lean towards what’s called localism — prioritising the familiar, valuing tradition, and maintaining strong social cohesion. Not better or worse, just different.
I see it in our chat groups. One group discusses the weather, padi prices, and which stall in town has the best laksa today. The other debates are fiscal policy, holiday plans in Hokkaido, and whether AI will take over journalism.
Why the Gap Keeps Widening
Over time, the absence of shared experiences reinforces these differences. Sociologists describe something called urbanormativity — where cities see themselves as the cultural standard and, often unintentionally, marginalise rural perspectives. Or where urban dwellers feel that urban life is the default, normal, or superior way of living, while rural life is seen as abnormal, backwards, or less desirable.
Even language changes. The city group drops phrases like “NFT” and “Netflix binge,” while the kampung group jokes about who just bought a new kapcai or how the village council misplaced the Ramadan bazaar budget again.
These aren’t superficial differences. They reflect two entirely different ways of making sense of the world.
The Power of Place Attachment
Research also tells us that people who remain in rural areas tend to have a strong place attachment — a deep connection to home and the land. Those who leave, by necessity, form new networks and identities.
This divergence creates what Patrick Carr and Maria Kefalas, in their study of rural America, called Achievers (those who leave), Stayers (those who remain), and Returners (those who go, then come home).
In our Kedah group, most are Stayers. In KL, Achievers left and built urban lives. A few straddle both worlds, like myself, dropping Hokkien jokes in a Bukit Bintang café while fondly recalling kampung jokes and childhood mischief.
Bridging the Divide
The danger isn’t that one group is better than the other — it’s that we risk losing empathy for each other. City folk can easily dismiss kampung dwellers as narrow-minded or out of touch. Kampung folk, in turn, might see urbanites as arrogant or forgetting their roots.
Both perceptions are unfair. Both worlds offer wisdom, resilience, and lessons that the other could use.
In these polarised times — in Malaysia as much as anywhere — perhaps it’s time to remember that we all come from the same classroom, same makan stall, and same mischief-filled school corridors.
The rivers of life may have forked, but they still flow from the same well.
WE