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Dengan wadah fizikal seperti piring hitam juga, kita kembali bertenang-tenang dengan masa, keluar menjelajah, bertemu orang, dan akhirnya merasa memiliki muzik. Source: Unsplash Seperti membaca novel atau puisi, mendengar muzik adalah suatu pengalaman yang sangat peribadi. Kita menghadam lalu mentafsirkan apa sahaja muzik atau lagu yang tertuang ke lubang telinga kita dengan cara berbeza. Ambil misalnya lagu Senja Nan Merah nyanyian Awie dan Ziana Zain. Saya kurang pasti kisah berkasih-kasihan apa yang ingin disampaikan M. Nasir dan Loloq sewaktu menggubahnya. Namun, lagu tersebut cukup untuk mengingatkan saya kepada hidupan pada suatu zaman yang saya kira paling menarik di Malaysia. Kerana itu, ketika usia remaja, saya sudah cukup senang kalau sekadar bersendirian di bilik tidur, memutarkan lagu-lagu kegemaran. Tidak banyak yang boleh diharapkan di Kelantan pada tahun 2000-an. Konsert atau pesta muzik tiada atau tidak sesering di tempat-tempat lain. Acara keramaian sedemikian sudah tidak mudah untuk dianjurkan. Untung orang masih boleh ke warung-warung karaoke untuk berdendang. Jarang-jarang, ada persembahan dikir barat yang boleh saya kunjungi dengan tiket seringgit. Di situ—di padang dan di celah-celah kebun getah—muzik lebih memainkan peranan sosialnya. Orang kampung berkerumun mendengarkan suara Zaidi Buluh Perindu, Megat Nordin, dan Jen Endoro memecah sunyi malam. Maka, dalam segala keterbatasan, dengan radio (tepatnya stereo kereta), saya lebih banyak mencipta khayalan-khayalan sendiri. Melalui muzik dan lagu-lagu, saya meneroka ke pelbagai kenyataan baharu lewat rentak dan irama yang datangnya dari pelbagai tempat. Pada waktu itu, banyak dari Amerika dan beberapa dari Eropah. Sesekali, saya juga menjejak alam baharu secara lebih perlahan dengan muzik-muzik pop dan balada Melayu tempatan. Ternyata, muzik bukan sekadar menghibur. Melalui muzik juga saya belajar memahami sekeliling. *** Saya kira, pengalaman mendengarkan muzik kurang lebih begitu ketika orang belum lagi memutarkan lagu secara digital seperti hari ini. Pada hari ini, mencari dan mendengar lagu sudah menjadi terlalu mudah dengan adanya Youtube atau Spotify. Kita tinggal menaip nama lagu dan menekan butang “main” sahaja. Mendengar muzik dan lagu juga terlalu mudah sehingga boleh dimainkan atau dihentikan pada bila-bila masa tidak mengira tempat. Sewaktu remaja, saya tidak pernah berpeluang untuk mendekati piring hitam—wadah mendengar muzik terawal dan masih ada sehingga ke hari ini. Harganya mahal, alat pemainnya juga saya tidak ada. Jadi, muzik yang saya dengar umumnya keluar dari kaset ataupun cakera padat (CD). Harganya jauh lebih murah dan lebih tersedia. Tidak ada cara lain lagi sehinggalah pada waktu-waktu terkemudian ketika lagu-lagu boleh dimuat turun dengan percuma dalam bentuk mp3. Namun, mendengar lagu lewat wadah-wadah fizikal seperti itu, kita menjadi lebih terpaku di kerusi, hadir di hadapan muzik, dan turut serta dalam sebuah kerja penciptaan. Hal ini yang tidak dapat diberikan oleh wadah digital, setidak-tidaknya kepada saya. Bagi saya, mendengar muzik di telefon bimbit telah menghilangkan banyak proses yang dilalui oleh seseorang pendengar muzik lewat wadah fizikal. Kerana terlalu mudah, mungkin kita sudah jarang sekali duduk memegang, merenung, dan berbual-berbual tentang penyanyi-penyanyi atau karya-karya yang kita dengar. Muzik, lewat bentuk fizikal, menuntut usaha dan perhatian yang lebih. Manakan tidak, seluruh prosesnya boleh dikatakan manual dan renyah. Saya perlu menunggu berbulan-bulan hanya untuk membeli sekeping album yang tidak banyak jualnya di pekan-pekan terdekat. Selalu juga, saya dan teman-teman menukar dengar kaset dan CD kepunyaan kami. Hanya pada ketika itu suatu pengalaman yang sebelumnya bersifat peribadi menjadi sosial. Kami mencipta dunia, minat, dan bertutur dengan bahasa yang dikongsi bersama. *** Mungkin kerana wabak atau mungkin juga tidak. Namun, sejak kebelakangan ini, orang mulai kembali ke wadah fizikal. Jualan kaset, CD, dan piring hitam khususnya semakin laku di pasaran. Di Amerika sahaja, menurut satu laporan yang dipetik oleh majalah The Atlantic , selain daripada minat orang terhadap lagu-lagu lama (70-an dan 80-an) yang semakin meningkat, piring hitam juga dikatakan menjadi wadah fizikal yang paling banyak dibeli. Tidak pelik kalau gejala sedemikian terjadi kerana orang mungkin sedang mengalami kepenatan digital. Di komputer atau di telefon pintar, bunyi dan rupa bercampur aduk dalam ruang yang sama, beradu untuk meraih perhatian. Orang juga mungkin sudah semakin penat bergantung kepada mesin algoritma dalam memilih dan menentukan selera mendengar atau melihat. Saya tidak terkecuali dalam pasaran ini. Kerana tidak pernah mencuba piring hitam, saya ikut terjun bersama. Bagi saya, suara garau penyanyi jazz seperti Billie Holiday, atau bunyi trompet Chet Baker misalnya hanya sesuai di atas piring hitam. Namun, lebih daripada sekadar ikut berenang bersama arus, ada hal lain yang turut mendorong: keinginan untuk mendengar dengan lebih tekun dan menyumbang dengan lebih dekat kepada proses penghasilan sesuatu produk yang saya hadam. Seperti kaset dan CD, wadah muzik yang paling tua itu menawarkan peluang ini. Dengan piring hitam, kita mendengar dan mampu “menyentuh” muzik melalui alur-alur halus yang tergores panjang. Memang proses mendengarkan muzik dan lagu mengikut gaya lama ini perlahan dan renyah. Namun, kita diajarkan untuk lebih menghargai keseluruhan proses penciptaan muzik, baik dari penghasilan lagu, kerja-kerja penerbitan, sehinggalah kepada sampai ke telinga pendengar. Dengan wadah fizikal seperti piring hitam juga, kita kembali bertenang-tenang dengan masa, keluar menjelajah, bertemu orang, dan akhirnya merasa memiliki muzik. * Esei ini pertama kali diterbitkan di Suara Nadi , 11 Mac 2022.

Bandar menghidangkan rupa dan rasa kuih-muihnya sendiri. Namun, menjamah kuih-muih di kampung, saya merasa seperti benar-benar mencecap “air tangan”. Source: Unsplash Sewaktu kecil, saya tidak pernah teruja dengan Ramadan. Buat saya, bulan untuk masyarakat beragama Islam menahan lapar dan dahaga dari pagi sampai petang itu hanyalah membawa kepenatan. Tidak banyak yang boleh dilakukan kalau perut kosong. Jika tidak ke sekolah, saya hanya terperap di rumah, dan menghabiskan waktu dengan menonton TV atau mendengar radio. Saya juga perlu sentiasa berwaspada dengan tingkah-laku. Ayah selalu berpesan untuk tidak berbuat itu atau ini kalau tidak mahu puasa terbatal. Ramadan membuat saya terasa terikat dan terbatas. Kerana itu, saya lebih ternanti-nanti waktu petangnya, ketika masa untuk berbuka puasa tersisa beberapa jam sahaja lagi, dan orang mula berpusu-pusu ke bazar Ramadan. Di bazar, Ramadan memang menjadi seperti sebuah pesta yang berlanjutan selama satu bulan. Selain masjid dan surau, bazar menjadi tempat untuk orang bertemu dan bertegur sapa setelah seharian dengan ibadah puasa masing-masing. Di situ, dengan mengikut jejak pelbagai aroma yang menggiurkan, kita berjalan dalam kerumunan orang, menuju ke tujuan yang satu: makanan. Hanya makanan dan kuih-muih di bazar yang menyuntik semangat saya untuk menghabiskan puasa. Apatah lagi kalau bazar-bazar Ramadan di Kelantan. Memilih kuih-muih di bazar di negeri itu terasa seperti menjala ikan sungai di sawah padi yang digenang air ketika musim tengkujuh. Bermacam-macam kuih yang jarang ditemui, tersedia dan hanya tinggal untuk dibungkus pulang. Malah, saya pertama kali mengenal kuih-muih manis Kelantan seperti tahi itik, jala mas, puteri mandi, dan nekbat sira kerana berkat bazar Ramadan. Sejak dari dahulu, negeri Cik Siti Wan Kembang itu memang sudah terkenal sebagai syurga kuih-muih. Mungkin salah satu alasannya adalah kerana orang Kelantan sudah lama bertalian dengan orang-orang di daerah Patani di selatan Thailand. Resipi kuih-muih banyak menyeberang sempadan Sungai Golok, diperturunkan dan diuji cuba oleh masyarakat dari kedua-dua wilayah. Jauh ke arah timur pula, orang Kelantan dan Terengganu bertukar-tukar rasa makanan untuk memperkayakan satu sama lain. Maka, kuih-muih Melayu Kelantan adalah kosmopolitan pada rasa dan bentuknya. Sama seperti Pulau Pinang. Percampuran budaya yang malah lebih rencam di negeri ini turut berbekas pada makanan dan kuih-muih. Kita tahu bahawa, kerana para pedagang dari India dan Timur Tengah pada dahulu kala, maka kita pada hari ini boleh menikmati makanan-makanan seperti samosa dan murtabak. Begitu juga pengaruh kebudayaan Cina serta Nyonya yang akhirnya berhujung dengan kuih-muih seperti kuih talam, seri muka, kochi, kuih lapis, bingka, dan sebagainya. Pulau Pinang juga turut beruntung dengan segala yang ditinggalkan oleh bekas penjajah Inggeris. Kerana keterbukaannya, di bazar-bazar Ramadan, kita senang sahaja bertemu dengan kuih-muih atau kek seperti tiramisu, brownies, macaron, donat ataupun cheese cake. Yang jelas, setiap masyarakat menawarkan kelainan dalam makanan dan kuih-muihnya, sesuai dengan persekitaran budaya masing-masing. Proses pertukaran, peminjaman, pemasukan atau pengecualian senantiasa terjadi dalam kerja penciptaan makanan. Malahan, kita tidak lagi terlalu menghiraukan persoalan keaslian sesuatu makanan apabila berhadapan dengan hakikat perkahwinan budaya seperti ini. Makanan dan kuih-muih, selagi boleh dikecap lidah dan tidak ditolak perut, kekal dalam pertandingan mempertahankan kemandirian. Namun, saya kira, keanekaan rasa dan bentuk kuih dan masakan tidak hanya bergantung kepada interaksi yang terus-menerus terjadi antara pelbagai kebudayaan. Ia turut dipengaruhi oleh ruang atau kadangkala, geografi. Malah bagi saya, ruang bukan sekadar berpengaruh terhadap keragaman kuih, tetapi turut menentukan cara penyediaan, serta kualiti sesuatu kuih atau masakan. Mungkin kerana itu saya lebih gemar untuk menikmati kuih-muih dari halaman sendiri. Dengan kata lain, saya lebih memilih kuih dari kampung berbanding bandar. Jadi, di Kelantan dan Terengganu, tidak pelik jika minuman seperti tuak atau nira menjadi minuman khas setiap kali berbuka puasa. Alasannya, paling mudah, kerana kedua-duanya adalah negeri berpantai, dan pokok kelapa serta nipah berderetan di tepi jalan atau di belakang rumah. Kerana ruang juga, kuih akok masih boleh dibakar dan diperap menggunakan api dan asap daripada sabut kelapa, bukan ketuhar elektrik, seperti umumnya akok bandar. Atas alasan yang sama, tapai masih boleh dibungkus dengan daun pokok getah atau pisang, bukannya bekas plastik. Nenek dan ibu saya setidak-tidaknya masih meneruskan tradisi itu. Tidak berlebihan kalau dikatakan bahawa ruang yang memungkinkan mereka meneruskan tradisi. Di belakang rumah, tanah yang tidak berpagar itu adalah tempat pokok dan tanaman kembali berbakti. Mereka tidak semestinya perlu ke pasar kerana sebakul daun getah ataupun pisang. Memeram tapai berhari-hari atau membakar ayam percik juga menjadi lebih mudah dengan adanya dapur dian—dapur luar tempat perempuan berpantang dan kerja-kerja memasak skala besar dilakukan. Hakikatnya, kampung tidak hanya menawarkan lebih banyak ruang fizikal, tetapi—lewat cara hidup “kekampungan”— ia turut memberi ruang dan keleluasaan dalam bentuk waktu. Ramuan sudah tentunya penting. Tetapi dalam kerja menghasilkan kuih-muih Melayu—baik Kelantan atau tidak—keleluasaan atau kelapangan juga mustahak. Prosesnya renyah dan memakan masa yang lama. Jadi tidak selalunya orang mempunyai waktu dan sanggup untuk menyingsing lengan baju, duduk memarut kelapa, dan menunggu semata-mata untuk sepinggan kuih. Ambil kuih lompat tikam, kuih Kelantan dengan gabungan pulut merah, tepung hijau, kepala santan, dan air gula melaka, misalnya. Bukan sahaja memasaknya memerlukan kemahiran menyukat dan kuali jenis tembaga, menyantapnya sahaja perlu duduk berhidang. Untung orang kampung yang umumnya bekerja sendiri, waktu-waktu lapang yang ada boleh digunakan untuk bermain-main dengan senduk dan periuk. Di kampung, kita mengenali kuih-muih bukan sekadar makanan untuk mengenyangkan perut. Lebih daripada itu, ia turut hadir sebagai pengikat hubungan antara masyarakat. Kehidupan kampung masih banyak memberi peluang untuk orang bergilir-gilir menghasilkan kuih, kemudian dibawa untuk bermoreh di surau dan masjid selepas berbuka puasa. Selalu juga kuih-muih menjadi persembahan dalam upacara-upacara kesyukuran seperti menyambut hari jadi, berkhatam Quran, malah kadangkala untuk berubat orang sakit. Ia memiliki sisi adatnya. Tidak ada apa yang kurangnya dengan berpuasa dan menjejak bazar-bazar Ramadan di bandar. Setelah dewasa, hidup di tanah sempit dan padat seperti ini, jarang-jarang saya tetap menapak ke bazar. Bandar menghidangkan rupa dan rasa kuih-muihnya sendiri. Namun, menjamah kuih-muih di kampung, saya merasa seperti benar-benar mencecap “air tangan”. *Esei ini pertama kali diterbitakan di Suara Nadi , 8 April 2022.

Traditions such as Reog embody the fluidity of culture that moved freely across the Nusantara archipelago long before the advent of the modern nation state. Singa Barong. Courtesy of PUSAKA, Photo by Ahmad Fikri Anwar. In Indonesia’s kabupaten (regency) of Ponorogo, people tell the story of the mythical battle between their king, Kelono Sewandono and the magical lion-like creature called Singa Barong. King Kelono reigned the Bantarangin, a kingdom believed to be part of the ancient Ponorogo.In the vast repertory of Javanese epic dance masks, the king is depicted as red-skinned with prominent eyes, wearing a gold-coloured crown and carrying pecut samandiman , a decorated whip in his hand. King Kelono set out on a journey to the kingdom of Kediri, reigned over by a beautiful princess named Puteri Songgo Langit, admired by Javanese kings and nobles throughout the land. On his journey to seek the hand of the princess, he was attacked by Singa Barong, a guardian of the forest that surrounds the Kediri kingdom. An arduous battle ensues between the black-clad warok warriors of King Kelono and the lion and peacock army of Singa Barong. King Kelono’s troops eventually tame the Singa Barong, and he finally encounters Puteri Songgo Langit. Puteri Songgo Langit agrees to marry him but on one condition: he must present her with a new dance performance that has never been showcased to the public before. King Kelono impressed the princess with the Reog dance, which enacts the battle and his journey to reach her. Many versions of the origins of the Reog dance exist. Different Reog groups and masters have their own interpretation of the story, contextualised and appropriated according to their sensibility and social climate. Today, the dance continues to be performed on festive days, for weddings and coming of age ceremonies. Driving into the kabupaten , one is greeted by the statues of the virile warok and his alluring boy-lover gemblak , two characters prominent in the Reog dance. Reog has become an iconic cultural identity of the people of Ponorogo, and registered as one of Indonesia’s intangible cultural heritage traditions. In January 2022, Indonesia’s Coordinating Minister for Human Development and Culture, Muhadjir Effendy, supported the proposal for the art to be recognised by UNESCO as a Masterpiece of Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. But this episode sparked another cultural dispute between Indonesia and Malaysia, the home of many Javanese migrants and several Reog groups. A Majestic Dance King Kelono Sewandono created the Reog dance based on his journey to Kediri. In another version of the story, Reog became a central element in the struggle of Ki Ageng Kutu, a servant who fought against the ruler of the kingdom of Kertabhumi in the 15th century. Living in exile, Ki Ageng, used the Reog dance as the medium to spread his political message against the corrupt king. *This is an excerpt. Read the full article in Penang Monthly , August 2022 issue (free with registration).

Bangsawan reflected the fluidity of Malayan identities. It went beyond today’s fixed ethnic-based affiliation and challenged the notion of insular, rigid, and ethnically homogenous identity. Photo by: Leiden University Libraries. The arrival of the British to Southeast Asia in the 19th and early 20th centuries had brought a significant change to the political, economic, and cultural contours in Malaya. The Straits settlements of Singapore, Malacca, and Penang were developed as harbours for import and export of products, particularly spices, and established as administrative as well as judicial capitals for the British. The establishment of Penang as a free port in 1786 had increased the number of incoming vessels from 85 to 3569 by 1802, and the population in the capital city George Town had also risen to 10,000 by 1792 (Nordin, 2007). Immigrants came from all corners of the world — there were Chinese, Europeans, Arabs, Indian, and the Malays from surrounding islands such as Sumatra, Riau, Borneo, the Southern Philippines, and Southern Thailand. While most worked in the nutmeg and clove plantations and trading forest products such as rattan, aromatic wood, rice, poultry, gold dust, tin, and salt, others made their living as stage entertainers. Travelling from Europe, India, and China to perform music and theatre in the cities around the world, such performers were well celebrated by culturally and linguistically diverse populations of George Town. The port city had become an arena for cultural contestations, negotiations, and adaptation among the communities, as well as against the colonial construct of Malayan identities. For the locals, the arrival of cultural elements from overseas in the form of music and performing arts had enriched their culture and given them more choices of entertainment. While the traditional performing arts and rituals such as Mek Mulung, Menora , and Wayang Kulit remained the leading form of entertainment for the rural Malay population in mainland Kedah, the Malays of Penang Island celebrated a more modern form of entertainment. Among the many itinerant music and theatre groups that shaped the course of Malaya’s modern music and theatre industry were the Victorian Theatrical Company and the Elphinstone Company from Gujerat, India. Highly influenced by the western tradition of stage performance, this Parsi theatre troupe staged Indianized versions of Shakespeare’s plays and the Arabian Nights for local communities. It was soon adapted and appropriated particularly by the Jawi Peranakan and the Malays as part of their performing art repertoire. The localised version of Parsi theatre was known as Wayang Parsi Tiruan , Komedi Melayu , and Bangsawan . The last of these terms remains in use until today. The term Bangsawan is derived from the Malay term for “nobility” which refers to the lead character in Bangsawan . A theatrical performance that encompasses music, dance, and drama, Bangsawan marked the transition from traditional Malay theatre to modern Malay theatre. Unlike many Malay traditional performing arts, the musical instruments in Bangsawan are mostly western. Its music, dance, costumes, and props vary depending on the stories being staged. Many scholars note that Bangsawan featured both traditional and modern elements. For example, the ritualistic “ buka panggung ” ceremony, essential in many Malay traditional arts was also practiced in Bangsawan but was later dropped from the performance (Samsuddin, 2007). The Birth of Bangsawan in Penang Although the Bangsawan theatre had become a regional phenomenon by 1900s, with every state in Malaya having its own Bangsawan stage, it was Penang that served as the birthplace of the Bangsawan theatre. According to Tan Sooi Beng, one of the leading authorities on the performing arts in Southeast Asia, the earliest Bangsawan troupe was the Pushi Indera Bangsawan or The Royal Malay Opera, formed by a Jawi Peranakan named Mamat Pushi in Penang in 1885 (Tan, 2022). They were also known as The Impress Victoria Jawi Peranakan Theatrical Company. *This is an excerpt. Read the full article in Penang Monthly , October 2022 issue (free with registration).

Kenduri is a feast of ceremony and commemoration for the inner life of the individual and the community. A woman wrapping sireh pinang for the semah angin healing ritual. Photo by: Putra Othman @ PUSAKA Since time immemorial, human beings have given precedence to the commemoration of special occasions—be it as individuals or communities. We commemorate and celebrate the universal human experiences of love, joy, success, sacrifice, as well as mark occasions of pain, sadness, and sorrow. It is one of the many ways we instil meaning to our lives and preserve our personal and collective memories. In Kelantanese Malay society, coming-of-age celebrations such as birthdays, the coronation of the Sultan, berkhatan (circumcision), or commemorating a guru in menamat (recitation of the Holy Qur’an from the beginning to the end) is often done with a kenduri , a feasting ceremony. In Kelantan, the term kenduri is used interchangeably with bekwoh , a Kelantanese way of pronouncing the English term “big work.” By whatever name we call it, the process of preparing food for kenduri or bekwoh requires gotong-royong or collective work. In the kampung, to participate in a kenduri entails responsibility, perceived both as adat (tradition) and adab (manners), and failing to accept an invitation to a kenduri may cause terasa hati (offence). However, for ceremonies, one is not supposed to serve everyday food such as ikan masin, ikan singgang, or budu. Back in the day, villagers would cross the Kelantan-Thai border or make their way to the jungle to gather special cooking ingredients. Even now, the price of beras pulut (glutinous rice) in the Patani district is much cheaper than the wet markets of Kota Bharu. Villagers would also borrow special cooking utensils such as kuali , periuk , pinggan , mangkuk and dulang from wealthier relatives or neighbours. Legend has it that Puteri Sa’adong, a queen of Kelantan who resided in Kampung Bukit Marak, grew upset and vanished to Gunung Reng because villagers borrowed her cooking utensils but never returned them. For Kelantanese, kenduri refers to both the gotong-royong and the dishes or offerings served in the dulang (dowry tray). Kenduri is a way to commemorate the living and the dead, as well as ritual offering to cure illnesses related to body and soul—the seen and the unseen. It is sometimes held to menghalalkan ilmu (to bless the transmission of knowledge) from teachers and elders to students. Kenduri is also done to mengikat perjanjian (make a pact) with the penunggu (spirit guardian) before starting an initiative, for example opening a piece of land or building a new house. For some, kenduri is a way to remember one’s lineage. The Inner Winds and Spirit Kelantanese have maintained their strong relationship with nature and their ancestors since before the arrival of Islam. In a traditional Kelantanese village, almost every aspect of life begins and ends with ceremonies. Many of these ceremonies are intertwined with the traditional performing arts. Examples of traditional Kelantanese arts and rituals that are still present to this day are main puteri , mak yong, manora, sembah guru, semah angin , puja pantai , perlimau , as well as menamat . Enveloping these rituals are the concepts angin and semangat deeply rooted in the Kelantanese worldview. Carol Laderman, an American anthropologist who studied Malay shamanistic performance in the 1980s, referred to angin as ‘inner wind’, which is related in some ways to the Western concept of temperament. * This is an excerpt. Read the full article in Penang Monthly , December 2022 issue (free with registration).

Although the infectious rhythms of dikir-dangdut are no longer ubiquitous on the streets of Kelantan, they still resonate through the subterranean channels of the virtual realm. Source: Penang Monthly, originally from ajriya © 123RF.com. Rosalinda kept her head down and her eyes fixed on the floor as she walked out of the Gua Musang Lower Syariah Court in June 2014. Hot on her heels was a throng of journalists from local newspapers bombarding her with questions and cameramen jostling to get her close-up. Among them was a Sinar Harian photo-journalist who managed to capture a shot of her wearing a turquoise scarf, fumbling around in her handbag. The next day, the newspaper published her photo in a brief report with a headline that read “ Penyanyi dikir barat didenda RM1,000 ” (Dikir barat singer fined RM1,000). A month earlier, in May, Rosalinda had been pulled off the stage by religious authorities at a small festival in Padang Perumahan Felda Aring Enam, Gua Musang, Kelantan. The 23 year-old Kelantanese singer was accused of dressing indecently while performing at the festival. She had shared the stage with Kajol, a transgender and a fellow singer known for her melodious high-pitched voice. She, too, was found guilty by the court for “dressing like a woman”: dyed-hair, wearing red lipstick, a bra, earrings, and carrying a handbag. Kajol served a six-week prison sentence and was fined RM1000. Rosalinda and Kajol are well-known singers of “dikir-dangdut”, a popular folk music genre in Kelantan. Whether blaring from speakers at the night market and food stalls or hummed on the lips of young lovers, dikir-dangdut spices up mundane everyday life in Kelantan. Also known as “dangdut Kelantan”, “dikir moden” or simply “dangdut”, the genre is a song-based music with raunchy lyrics, upbeat rhythms, mischievous attitudes, and suggestive dance gestures. Dikir-dangdut is dominated by Kelantanese female singers who project a flirtatious and seductive public image. The Emergence of Dikir-Dangdut Dikir-dangdut owes its origin to the dikir barat—the only singing musical form in Kelantan that bridges traditional and popular genres. In live performances, dikir-dangdut usually shares a stage with dikir barat ( see Penang Monthly July 2022 issue ), borrowing its instrumentation and musical patterns. *This is an excerpt. Read the full article in Penang Monthly , April 2023 issue (free with registration).

The role of the current curatorial team is to make sure that GTLF remains relevant and speaks to the needs of our literary community. Photo by Dario Fernandez Ruz In late 2019, I received a text message from Pauline Fan, the director of the George Town Literary Festival (GTLF). She had just concluded the 9th edition of Malaysia’s largest literary festival held in Penang. Pauline and I have known each other for several years mainly through our essays and translations. Her earliest work of translation that I read was her Malay translation of the German philosopher Immanuel Kant’s classic text Was ist Aufklarung . She most recently published Luka Kenangan , translations of selected poems by a Romanian-born German-language poet, Paul Celan. In her message, Pauline asked me to help her to curate the festival, with a focus on expanding the Malay language programme. Previously, I had been involved in GTLF as a moderator, but I knew that curation was a different matter altogether. I was hesitant at first to take up her invitation, but after some persuasion, I accepted. For the next three years, from 2020-2022, I was part of the curatorial team for GTLF. I met Pauline again in KL recently and we had a discussion on this year’s curatorial direction for GTLF. Pauline is now busy curating the 13th edition of GTLF. This year, she is accompanied by festival curator, Adriana Nordin Manan, and two guest curators, M. Navin and Florence Kuek. The curatorial team is supported, as always, by the festival producers, PCEB. GTLF has been an important vessel for Pauline’s literary vision—connecting local and international writers, introducing new works, catalysing important conversations within the Malaysian literary scene, and on literature in translation. As I came in as a curator during the Covid-19 pandemic, many questions arose at the time about the relevance of literary festivals in the world. Now we sat down to reminisce about our three-year journey and experience of making GTLF both during the pandemic and post-pandemic. The pandemic years brought a sense of hopelessness—literary festivals seemed doomed as cross-border travel was restricted. Across the world, literary festivals were faced with an existential crisis, throwing into sharp relief questions of relevance, survival, and ways of adapting. However, some literary festivals decided to turn to digital platforms, opening possibilities of reaching new audiences. Some even drew higher numbers of literary enthusiasts online than they had in physical form. The Hay Festival—known as one of the “big three” literary festivals alongside Edinburgh and Cheltenham—doubled their number of visitors online compared to their pre-pandemic edition in 2019. Soon after the reopening, literary festivals re-emerged from the impact, and began rethinking what it means to be a literary festival, reconfiguring ways of making a comeback in society. *This is an excerpt. Read the full article in Penang Monthly , August 2023 issue (Free with registration).

The craft of poetry can draw upon the power of age-old incantation—language that strikes at the essence of where we come from, who we are, and who we want to become. My relationship with poetry has always been mercurial, fluctuating, and ambivalent. I don’t indulge in poetry as religiously as I do in essays, personal stories, and any other form of literary non-fiction. Poetry finds me occasionally, most of the time by chance. I first encountered the works of Romanian poet, Paul Celan when I was offered to edit a collection of his poems that were being translated into Malay. It required persuasion and a long, intense reading with the translator for me to be able to appreciate the depth of the imagery and language of the great holocaust poet. It could be the tenor of the contemporary poetry I’ve encountered so far that fails to capture me—they tend to be somewhat superficial, riddled with cliches, and at times didactic. They come and go without leaving a significant impression. It could also be that I was trained as a social scientist, where the world was presented to me as a rational, logical, and objective entity. In the hands of both worlds, I found that language has lost its magic. What, then, does poetry have to offer in a disenchanted world? As part of my work as a writer looking at the political dynamic and power relations between the state and art and cultural communities in rural Southeast Asia, I embarked on a research project in Kelantan, composing stories on Kelantanese traditional performing arts— mak yong , wayang kulit, menora, dikir barat, and the age-old healing ritual of main puteri. For more than five years, I found myself enmeshed in both the private and public life of a community who refers to themselves as orang mene/permainan or those who are involved in the traditional Kelantanese performance scene. For the most part, it was an act of balik kampung  (returning home), paying homage to my lineage, and understanding the land from the perspective of a writer who had distanced himself from his home state for almost two decades. Looking at the less visible margin of Kelantan, I was interested to understand how traditional music and ritual performances that trace their roots to various civilisations such as Islam and Hindu-Buddhism, have evolved as part of Kelantanese life. What makes these traditions so resilient amidst the growing religious conservatism in the state of Kelantan?   Encountering Jampi   Throughout my research, the traditional performing arts offered more than just music, dance, intricate costumes, and kenduri (ritual offerings) but also poetry or rather “spoken poetry” manifesting itself in the form of doa, mantra, incantations, and jampi . They are recited in archaic Kelantanese Malay language at the start and end of ceremonies such as coming of age, graduation, as well as healing ritual and passed down orally through generations with many modifications. It wasn’t until I met a tok puteri  (shaman) that I understood how language and storytelling have been integral to the people in the Southeast Asian region, not only for entertainment, but also to heal psychological illness. * This article is an excerpt. Read the full article in Penang Monthly , December 2023 issue (Free with regisration).

It tells of the cultural richness of the Javanese-Malay community in the country, marks one of the ways in which Islam took root in Nusantara, and reflects the celebratory nature of Malaysian society. Courtesy of PUSAKA, photo by Cheryl Hoffmann Almost every week, in Kampung Parit Madirono, Pontian, Johor, a group of twelve men congregate in a balai raya or a surau . Donning baju Melayu and samping cloth, they sit in a circle with each of them holding a kompang , a single-headed frame drum. At the centre of the circle, a man sits with a jidur , a large double headed cylindrical drum, ready with a mallet hammer stick in his hand. Two to three copies of Arabic scripted kitab (book) are laid open on wooden rehals (book stands) in front of them. Soon, they begin singing selawat in chorus, followed by the interlocking beats of the kompang . This group calls themselves Persatuan Kompang Kampung Parit Madirono, led by Mahni Jais, a forty-eight-year-old man, who traces his lineage from Java like many others in the village. As a young man, Mahni began learning the art of kompang from the master Misron Sadiman, whose late father founded the group before Independence. Occasionally, the group carries their percussion around the state, performing in social festivities such as maulidul rasul (the birth of Prophet Muhammad), berkhatan (circumcision), childbirth, and weddings. They also regularly train the younger generation of performers in their community and hold workshops for kompang groups from other parts of Johor. In such events, the performance could go up to three hours. But at times, the cadenced crescendo of kompang rhythms reverberates from dusk to midnight. For the public unfamiliar with the kompang tradition, this group is just another kompang group playing frame drums to enliven social events. But for kompang practitioners, this group are the custodians of a particular style of kompang known as Kompang Jidor , one of the older kompang traditions practised only in Johor. From the Middle East to Nusantara The introduction of kompang into the Malay musical repertoire possibly began as early as the 9th century, concurrent to the introduction of Islam in Nusantara. Muslim traders from the Arab world sailed to the Malay Archipelago to sell their goods. To attract customers, these Muslim traders played dufuf , a single-headed frame drum with a variety of percussive additions such as bells, rings, cymbals, and metal discs, believed to be one of world’s oldest musical instruments. It is said that when the Prophet Muhammad completed his Hegira and arrived in Medina in 622 AD, girls of the tribe of Najjar greeted him by singing and playing dufuf . Arabian women also played the instrument in the Battle of Uhud in 625 AD to strengthen the spirit of the warriors. * This is an excerpt. Read the full article in Penang Monthly , November 2022 issue (free with registration).

It is not a remnant of feudalism or a mark of fatalism, but an expression of a community deeply rooted in its sensibility and culture. Tok Dalang Pok Wi. Source: Putra Othman @ PUSAKA. In the 60’s and 70’s, almost everyone in the small town of Kota Bharu knew who Mat Zin Korea was. He was born and spent most of his childhood in Kampung Padang Bemban, a small farming village 12 kilometres to the east of Kota Bharu. At the age of fourteen, unable to stand the routine and strict discipline at school, he dropped out of Maktab Sultan Ismail and found himself falling deep into the notorious Kelantan underworld. Mat Zin was a famous gang leader, his reputation spread through the peninsula, across the straits to Singapore, and over the border to Thailand. He reigned over Wakaf Che Yeh, collecting protection money from petty traders at the night market. According to the locals, he wouldn’t step out of his house without a golok (machete) or kapak kecil (small axe) or a pistol tucked under his shirt. For many, Mat Zin Korea was a sort of gedebe —a tough, brutish, and fiery Kelantanese man valued and loved by the community despite his impulsive temperament. He often became ensnared in gang fights, but was always ready to protect the poor and vulnerable. In 1972, Mat Zin suddenly disappeared. The speculation was that the infamous gang leader was murdered by his rival and his remains were nowhere to be found. But it turned out that he went to live in seclusion to study religion, and eventually built his own religious school. Surrounded by his family, students, and followers, he died in 2018 at the age of 73. Other than local and international celebrities, it was local gedebes like Mat Zin Korea whom young boys like me in 90’s Kelantan aspired to be. There was a sense of primordial respect, prestige, and heroism brimming within the boys growing up to become men in a wild and harsh environment like Kelantan. In the coastal areas, young men spent most of their days catching fish, while towards the greener inland areas, farming was the main source of livelihood. Towns like Kota Bharu offered an escape from the mundane life of the kampung, opportunities to get involved in trade, and earn an honest living. School was the only hope for those who dreamt about moving out of the cocoon and climbing up the social ladder. It was a place where one could work towards changing their destiny and aspired to be future corporate leaders and government officers. Yet, despite the bright future that school had to offer, it was also a place where kids organised, braced themselves for the viciousness of adulthood, and primed themselves to become a gedebe —an informal leader and protector of the community. One way to do so was by becoming a gang member and starting regular fights with each other, eventually gaining greater influence and followings. Understanding Gedebe The concept of gedebe is unique to Kelantan and the Patani region in Thailand. It is a term of respect given to someone—mainly Kelantanese men—who is fearless, rugged, and fierce. The Malay word samseng or thug doesn’t quite capture the meaning of gedebe . While samseng usually carries a negative connotation, gedebe is more ambiguous, encompassing both negative and positive traits . A gedebe has usually possesses an air of authority, an extensive network of ‘connections’, and oozes charisma that opens up unofficial channels of getting official things done. The word gedebe is probably rooted in tok nebeng , a term which originated from Patani, Thailand and was introduced in Kelantan in the 1860s. It refers to a leadership role that is equivalent to today’s penghulu or village leader. A tok nebeng was appointed by the sultan to serve as intermediary between the sultan and the subjects. In the past, the tok nebeng or penghulu was a respected and well-loved figure among villagers due to his ambiguous authority. He resolved conflicts, meddled in household issues, and assured the security and wellbeing of his village. *This is an excerpt. Read the full article in Penang Monthly , February 2023 issue (free with registration).